The English Teacher

As the teacher stood before the classroom for the first time, there was no indication that he was the one who would be the compass guiding so many of the students forward through the maze of education toward enlightenment and helping each gain the essential skills of reasoned thought. Certainly, his reputation as the English teacher hinted at the unique experience that awaited, but there also were the eloquent detractors saying that other teachers provided a more fruitful experience and that this teacher’s reputation was built upon exaggeration. In the end, the truth was in the individual's progress and the outcome.

The teacher was not impressive visually. His small physical stature, thinning black hair and not-new suit and tie did not telegraph the intelligent passion and wit that would be displayed as one lesson followed the next throughout the year. Similarly, the students, having just awoken from the summer vacation in which their minds were put to little use other than the search for pleasure and entertainment, to the casual observer were not perched on the precipice of knowledge and exponential mental expansion. But, to the teacher, each student was fertile ground and he was the gardener granted the privilege (some would say the job, but to him it was much more than employment) to delicately plant the seeds, to nurture the seedlings with care, and to foster their growth into whatever plants would result.

At the outset, the teacher proceeded slowly and with guarded optimism knowing that sharing his entire plan and fully describing the path that stretched ahead could be counterproductive. Rather, he gave but a glimpse of the galaxy that was in their sky and described them as transient meteors that were being given the chance to gain a degree of control over their orbits. Those words elicited raised eyebrows from the students and internal questions about whether they had wandered into a science class by mistake. The verbal syllabus that followed assured the students that they were indeed in English I. The words that floated by enumerated the way stations along the road . . . Dickens, Shakespeare, Austen, Fitzgerald, Conrad, Golding, Crane, and their works A Tale of Two Cities, Macbeth, Hamlet, King Lear, Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, Lord Jim, Lord of the Flies and The Red Badge of Courage . . . but, although there was a ring of familiarity for some, for most the names and titles could have been in a foreign language. Then there was the teacher’s promise that was in the native tongue of the students . . . writing, grammar and diagramming. Like The Tale of Two Cities, the year would prove to me the best of times and the worst of times.

What followed were the teacher’s questions – “Are you ready to learn? Are you ready to challenge yourselves? Are you ready to be internally transformed? Are you ready to overcome the discomfort that comes as part of change? Thankfully, the questions were rhetorical for they were met with resounding silence. Yet, the teacher had seen the deer in the headlights response before and knew that the vulnerabilities of the nascent learners could be utilized to develop the passionate and intelligent graduates that he hoped to help develop.

And so, the teacher utilized all of the tricks of his trade teaching to each student according to the student’s needs and setting expectations for each student according to the student’s abilities. The teacher taught intelligently with a combination and balance of passion and compassion, seriousness and giddiness, urging and coercing. He taught with a crisp clarity and impelling style. He introduced the essential skills of analysis and refinement of ideas, the art of clear, concise written expression, and the ways to expand one’s self intellectually. He rarely, if ever, used his position or superior knowledge to dominate the classroom or to diminish the individual.

The teacher enjoyed the daily experiences and did not want to be alone in that enjoyment, and thus he viewed himself and the students as part of a bonded effort. He taught the students to recognize and appreciate the symbolism and the allusions, the subtleness of appearance versus reality, the fallibility of both characters and writers, the tensions within the text and that the text created in the reader, the balance between the rational and the irrational. During the year, even the occasional observer could recognize the creation of beginning thought and rational discourse as the teacher challenged the students to stretch beyond their self-imposed limits.

In the end, as he bid the class farewell, the teacher knew that although some were further along the path than others, each was well beyond the starting point and was closer to whatever endpoint awaited each. And, as he did every year after he watched the last of the students leave the classroom for the start of another summer, he sat back in his chair, lifted his feet onto his desk exposing the holes in his soles, reached down into his ever present well-worn leather briefcase, removed a tattered copy of Mr. Chips and, with a knowing Cheshire cat smile on his face, started once again with Chapter 1 and thought to himself, “all will be well”.

This entry was inspired by my high school English teacher, Dan Daly, who taught and inspired students for many years, and I was fortunate to be in his class for two years. In addition to teaching us English as described above, Mr. Daly was a role model for us and when I later taught grade school and middle school English, I often thought of Mr. Daly. For me, he was the special one who moves a student forward, beyond expectations, and for that, I am thankful. I also am thankful for Mr. Daly making detentions so enjoyable, and explaining to some of us (boys) that Little Red Riding Hood really is a sexual allegory.

The Proposal – Based On A True Story

On a warm April afternoon in 1980, the tumblers were set in motion with a simple envelope entitled “Deb - #1” left in Debbie’s green nylon running bag in her first grade classroom at the Heath School and the enclosed card – “Unable to run with you today. Meet me at home at 4:30 – not before and not after”. The number on the envelope and the message in the card were just enough to raise suspicion and take the first step along the road of suspense, but not enough to raise concern or prediction of what awaited.

In fact, the plan had been in process from almost the first date when we shared fortune cookies at the end of our Chinese meal. My fortune was “There will be no troubles in your home that you cannot overcome together”. Being bold and already confident of the relationship path, for it had started long before with a developing friendship, I placed the fortune in my wallet and said to Debbie, “The next time you see this fortune will be a special evening”. On a later date, we shared an equally meaningful fortune and I made the same prediction. Other than those two times, I don’t think that the fortunes were ever mentioned again, but I knew that they were with me at all times.

As time passed, Debbie and I shared many adventures and, unbeknownst to her, I saved something from many of the special occasions from concert tickets to theater programs to invitations and thank you notes, and I kept mental notes of all that we did, which was not as difficult then since our relationship was new and, as of that April date, less than two years old. Those remembrances, both the tangible and intangible, had been reviewed and organized throughout the end of March as my plan was in the late preparation stage and I was lucky that even then Debbie accepted my later than her hours, and that she never checked to see what I was doing after her bedtime.

Having left school promptly after having deposited the first envelope, I rushed home to clean, decorate and layout the numerous cards that I had prepared, to make the final calls reconfirming the arrangements, and to change and leave the apartment before the appointed time for Debbie’s arrival. Although I was not present for Debbie’s entry and adventure, I knew what would take place and have heard on many occasions what in fact occurred.

Debbie opened the front door, heard the music playing and called out my name, but, of course, she did not get a response. What did await her was an apartment filled with beautiful roses in every room and the next envelope in clear sight. Each envelope was numbered, I believe that there were eight in the apartment, and contained very specific directions. The first undoubtedly instructed Debbie to open each card in order, to follow the directions within the cards, and then to proceed to the next card.

The instructions were clear –
“Do not call anyone but just go along, all will be fine and your enjoyment is promised” - this was to be an evening just for the two of us;
“Be ready at 7:00 p.m. at which point you will be picked up by a cab that had been prepaid and has the directions – a bit more anticipation and suspense, but for what – a play, an\ special event or something more;
“Go to the refrigerator where you will find a treat for you immediate enjoyment” – and there waited champagne, a chilled glass, cheese and crackers, just something to sustain her through the adventure;
“Run a warm bath, the bubble formula is ready, disrobe, soak and enjoy the treats” - and there awaited the necessary ingredients for a luxurious calming bath – calming in the face of the unknown;
“Rest some more on the bed” – although I knew that probably would not be possible;
“Dress in the outfit that I have left for you” - it was one of my favorites;
“Remember to listen for the cab and, just in case the cab driver is not clear on the instructions, there is another envelope with both directions and the cab fare” – but still, I did not tell Debbie where she was going.

The cab driver needed both the directions and the fare, so even the best laid plans require some redundancy for protection – especially in the days before cell phones! The cab brought Debbie to the appointed destination – The Ritz – where I awaited her entry. In Debbie style, she entered looking radiantly beautiful, and also shaking with tears that must have been flowing for some time for her make-up was running. She looked at me with that wonderful smile and asked, “What is this all about?”. I asked her to trust me and join me for a glass of wine. Our waiter, with whom I had become friendly, took Debbie’s order, a white wine, and smiled at her with that “I know what is in store, but you don’t”.

The waiter returned carrying a silver platter on which there were two glasses of white wine and two fortune cookies. Now, Debbie was even more confused and tearful. I toasted Debbie and she toasted me for the wonderful surprises in our lives. I then asked her to open the fortune cookies, for I already knew their contents. Earlier in the week, I had journeyed to Chinatown where I had a bakery re-inset the fortunes that I had been carrying into new cookies. As Debbie crumbled the cookies and read the fortunes, I reminded her of my previous promises that if she ever got the fortunes again, it would be a special night. Debbie looked at me and into me, but still was not sure what this all meant.

After we drank our wine and re-saved the fortunes, I asked Debbie to walk with me a few blocks to the banks of the Charles River. On the way, we stopped at my car where I retrieved a box and a book, and then we continued along the way holding hands and talking. Upon our arrival at the Charles, we sat on a park bench with a beautiful view of the river and the neon sign for Electronic Corporation of America. I handed Debbie the book and asked her to read it page by page. She held the book in her shaking hands turning from one page to the next. This was the book for which I had been saving for more than a year and which I had put together over the prior two weeks. Its contents held the remembrances, actual items where they were available and key words where memory had to suffice.

When Debbie turned to the final page on which I had written, she found the simple words “I Love You!!! Will You Marry Me!!!”. By now, Debbie was crying and I was both excited and nervous, for I had never thought about the possibility that Debbie would not say yes, but in those fleeting seconds, I wondered. I handed Debbie a pen and asked her to put her answer in the book. To this day, I am thankful that the answer was quick and unequivocal - “Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!”.

With that, I handed Debbie the box and asked her to open it. The contents were simple – some tissue paper and a brass hand held bell. Debbie looked at me in a quizzical way and asked, “What is this”. I reply, “Just shake it, just shake it”, and so she did. But still, she asked “What is this”, and I answered, “It is your engagement ring”.

What followed was more typical – the calls to parents (from a pay phone), a dinner at one of our favorite Italian restaurants (I had made reservations at three establishments), and home for a celebratory evening together. The next day we ventured out in search of an engagement ring – the kind that Debbie could wear on her finger, much better than carrying around a brass bell!

Life's Story

The facial wrinkles were shared by the newborn and the nonagenarian as they forged a delicate alliance in which they studied each other in the attempt to comprehend the life that was to come and the life that had been lived. The infant wanted to absorb the life that stood before it with all of its tonal complexities, but its mind still in its simplistic state had the structures but not the tools to understand. Yet, the elder attempted to meld his mind through the infant’s piercing eyes so that his story would be passed to this next generation.

His story was one of passages from the shadowing beginnings of his birth onto the sweet ship of his youth, through the perilous tumultuous times of adulthood in which the balmy calm always gave way to the dark waters of the storm driven seas, and finally, as a survivor of life, accomplished through the social compact under which he lived, through the learned lessons of reconciliation, restraint and diplomacy, and of cooperation and mutual respect.

He ached to translate his life and vision with a luminous clarity and coherency, to share his intellectual and moral standards, to tell of his migrations and exiles, to describe the scenes and shenanigans, to warn of the darkness lurking at the fringes and the light awaiting over the horizon, to share the times of isolated disarray and acrimony, and the times of elaborate ideals and experiments in utopia.

He prayed for the time and ability to shape the emotional swirls of the infant into complex inner contours, to play a pivotal role, to assist the infant in comprehending the mixtures of experiences that awaited, the sharing and the bickering, the predictable and the shocking, the bountiful and the famine, the exciting and the tedious, the shared praised and malicious gossip, the knowing and the doubt, the respectful and the irreverent, the peacefully complete and the notoriously factious, the aloneness and the oneness.

He hoped to tell of a life well lived rather than squandered, being a loner and a part of the flock, periods of linear progressions and periods of fragmentation, ideals discovered and ideals lost, ideological coherency and incoherency, a steady path and watershed moments, the concrete and the symbolic, the feverish and the temperate, the evolution and revolutions.

His profound desire was to be a gifted storyteller, but as hard as he tried to will his life stories into the infant, the stories remained within, and so it was that the infant would have to learn the lessons of life through living.

Inspired by a family event at which there was a newborn and a 91 year old; the rest is just my imagination. In addition, in an effort to experiment with writing and expand my writing vocabulary, I wrote down words and phrases from the book I currently am reading, Promised Land, and specifically, its first chapter on The Plymouth Plantation.

Snowy Countryside

Snow covers the countryside with a monochrome shawl
Protecting the life below
That with the spring's warmth will blossom forth
In an abundance of multi-textured hues.

The blanc du blanc shimmers with a rippling breathing vibrance
That belies its inherent sterility
For it is only with the transformation from frozen flakes to water droplets
That the moisture will nurture the regeneration of life.

The Promised Land

In the light of the morning sun
In the dusk that precedes the night
On the horizon where land and sky meld
Awaits the Promised Land

In the lapping of the waters
In the whistling of the breezes
In the rustling of the fields
Is the voice of the Promised Land

In the cry of the newborn
In the smiles and giggles of the infant
In the first steps of the toddler
Is the hope of the Promised Land

In the words of the prophets
From every walk of life and age
In the cries of people for freedom
Are the footsteps to the Promised Land

In the extraordinary sacrifices of the ordinary
In the raging fire of hope that burns within
In the unending pursuit of justice
Is the promise of the Promised Land

In the dreams of our ancestors
In the prayers of our children
In the actions of our lives
Is the path to the Promised Land

The Promised Land
Always just beyond our grasp
Always just a step away
Always awaiting us
Always calling us forward
The Promised Land

The foregoing was inspired by the book "Promises Land" that I currently am reading and an NPR interview with its author.

Truth is a Grain of Sand

Truth is a grain of sand
Being shifted about
By wind and waves
Always in transition.

Truth is a beam of light
Being split into the spectrum
By glassy prisms
Always changing.

Truth is clay
Being shaped and reshaped
By the hands of sculptor
Always pliable.

Truth is a wooden log
Being slowly consumed
By a burning fire
Always disappearing.

Truth is a drop of mercury
Being impossible to hold
By one's fingers
Always slipping away.

Truth is water
Being converted
By heat and cold
Always transforming.

Truth is a feather
Being pushed through the air
By the breezes and winds
Always moving.

Truth is a thought
Being created in the mind
By the person of the day
Always evolving

Truth is a mirage
Being created on the horizon
By the heated atmosphere
Always vanishing.

Truth is always
In Transition
Changing
Pliable
Disappearing
Slipping Away
Transforming
Moving
Evolving
Vanishing

Snow Days

The gentle chirp of the alarm clock stirs me from my nightly death to my morning rebirth.

The warmth of the bed temporarily imprisoning as the caterpillar is held captive within its cocoon until it emerges as a transformed butterfly though I leave my blanket-built cocoon the same recognizable figure that voluntarily entered the night before.

The sun has not yet risen, but the screen glows casting its light around the room as the day’s news, sports and weather reports begin.

Moving gingerly across the screen’s bottom blue band is the information I seek. To some it is the “school closings” while to me it is “who gets to sleep in”.

I float away for a moment remembering the snow days of my youth spent at home building snowmen and then warming with hot red tomato soup into which crumbled saltine crackers would float while the rouge of the once vine hanging vegetables was absorbed and brittle broken pieces were transformed into a soggy pulp.

I return to wonder if the coming snow will be in the rainbow colors of the radar scan or will simply be the standard blowing pure white powder that will eventually transform to gray-brown. I know the answer.

The appointed snow start is delayed as the storm moves more slowly than anticipated much as does life. When finally it arrives, the albino mosquito-like flakes entice and entrance without warning of their larger relatives who will soon arrive for an extended visit.

The naked earth starts to transform as the multi-size flakes flying downward, upward and sideward all at once finally land to velcro themselves to their already grounded neighbors creating an unbroken covering that deepens layer by layer.

What was once brown on brown now is white on white on white.

But life must move on, perhaps forward, perhaps in a circle, perhaps downward, upward and sideward all at once, and so the bonded flakes must be separated into groups a flung through the air into new piles. As the clumps of snow take man-made flight, a pure white mist fills the air often falling back onto the moving force or the area from which it came.

The snow continues to fall, the pushing, shoving, throwing and flinging continues to move the white blanket to new locations, but a thin white layer always remains . . . for now.

And my cocoon bed remains and awaits my entry into my nightly death during which I will journey, with today’s new layer of life, forward to my morning rebirth.

My circle of life.

My Woman

I’m lying in my king size bed
With my love tonight
The woman sleeping next to me
Makes my life all right.

As she sleeps and I smile at her
I know the world is at peace
I may be alone in my mind right now
But she’s on the other side of the crease.

I wanted to write country western
Though I know I’m not getting it right
I’m too much in love with my woman
I can't write of sadness or fights.

The gentle soul next to me
Brings warmth to my life and bed
She loves me unconditionally
Or least that’s what she's said.

So I’m lying in my king size bed
With my woman sleeping next to me
I know what a lucky man I am
She’s what gives me the air to breathe.

Music In Words

Music infuses the room with an all encompassing sound that Magister Ludi would have appreciated as he translated the notes into numbers and formulas, but for this listener, the notes are translated into words and images.

Out from the silence the trumpets dance gingerly from note to note carrying the melody while floating above the feather pillow sound of the taut strings which in a breath pause and without warning ascend in smoke-like plumes pushing away the weakening trumpets creating a down comforter warmth.

But the trumpets refuse to take their last breath instead conserving their energy until a chosen bow reversal allows the crisp sounds to push through and recapture their dominance, remaining there until the sweet oboe vibration pierces their sound.

The oscillating reed perceived faintly at first bounces forward at an ever accelerating pace like the single horseman approaching over the horizon as a vibrating dot enlarging into a full size defined figure until it dominates the entire view.

In a snap and a blink, it is gone, the entire horizon visual expanse again exposed, but changed, the sun having moved, the shadows having shifted, the rider’s dust remaining suspended in the air as the music remains in the air with the violins and trumpets battling, the sounds of the oboe fading, the roles shifting.

From nowhere the migrant sounds from throughout the instrumental world appear to contribute their individual sounds, blending one into another until disappearing into nothingness just as the sunlight and shadows blend at dusk until darkness reigns

Only roar of the kettle drum remains traveling in deep vibrations earthquaking the walls and rippling the floor, expanding the heart, creating a mental tremor, broken only by cymbals embracing like lovers running into each other’s arms, their shared sound fading and fading.

The silence dominates once again.

Hidden Stories

As I sit in the doctor's waiting room with its seemingly mismatched furniture, at least until the pattern is discerned, I gaze at my fellow waiters. Only one is younger than me although from the look on his face and his on-going mouth breathing, he feels much older, but that is only temporary whereas my age is a reality - albeit a fleeting one.

If I am fortunate, I will reach the other end of the spectrum of life that is sitting across the room with walker at her side. The soft couch on which she sits seems to be swallowing her whole although because of her diminished size and frailty, she no longer represents a full meal. The others in the room, while older than me, are sitting patiently with thoughts unknown, but their minds continue to produce just as does my imagination. We all are simply moving along our individual progression through seconds, minutes and days.

Like the furniture, the other patient patients at first seem mismatched with nothing in common, but on closer look, once again, the pattern can be discerned. We share a common story pattern - birth, life, death - and we undoubtedly share many of the same chapters in our book of life. How fascinating it would be if these personal stories were like the books in a library – available to anyone at anytime. Although there is not time in a lifetime to read all of the books, one can pick and choose those that appear interesting. Imagine if the same were true of people - everyone an open book that you could read just by asking and in doing so, have a Forest Gump experience.

Excuse me frail lady with the walker, but I would like to check you out and read the pages of your life. Tell me your stories, the ones of a birth in which your mother almost died but then went on the bear 8 more children, in which your father worked two and sometimes three jobs in order to provide food, shelter and clothing for your family, in which your parents did without so much to assure that you and the other children would be able to go to college. Tell me of how you chose to work so that your younger brother, the next on line, could go to a better school, how during the depression, your brothers and sisters and you would pass clothing - jackets, pants, dresses, shoes and even underwear, from one to another skipping the order only for your third sister (the fifty child) who, at an early age, outgrew her older siblings. Tell me of the time when a Saturday matinee was a weekly, then once a month and finally a once a year treat, of when your brother with the college education that you had gifted to him, was killed in the war and your sister who grew so quickly died from the cancerous cells that also grew just as quickly. Share with me the stories of your loves - the first who was lost during the war in the Pacific never to be seen and how you wonder to this day what became of him and of your second love who was your husband for 53 years before he was taken away to a place we all will go. Tell me of the years of happiness - your wedding, your children, your friends, your activities, your hobbies, your travels and all that makes up the fullness of your life. But tell me too of the sadness for no life is lived on one side of the emotion road. So tell me of the loss of your parents - first your father who after giving so much to his family had retired and within weeks was diagnosed with a terminable disease and was dead within weeks, and next your mother who always had been there for you and everyone, and then was alone to learn the skills that she had never acquired from driving to balancing a checking account to making reservations to living as a single old woman, proud of her life until the day she lay down in her bed where she dreamt about all who had left her in this earthly world and quietly joined them in peace. The same peace that you hope to achieve but you are not yet ready to go gently into that eternal night for although you are not afraid of death, you are not ready to stop living. Tell me that you still have so much that interests you and gives you joy - friends with which to visit, songs to sing, books to read, games to play, food to enjoy, loving children to appreciate and especially delicious grandchildren to love and cherish, and to tell your life stories for you have not written a book but your stories are hidden inside to be shared as gifts and perhaps one of your grandchildren will remember the stories and share them with your great grandchild still waiting to be created and in doing so continue your life.

But alas, the stories of my fellow patients are not available for perusal, and so, I will just have to be satisfied with my imagination . . . but that isn’t so bad, not at all.

Love Growing Day by Day

An elementary romance
Primary was the attention
Courtship in the school halls
Love growing day by day

A playground game called dating
Music filled the classroom air
Life lessons learned daily
Love growing day by day

Productions staged together
Eyes meeting across the room
Laughing at each other's words
Love growing day by day

The children knew the secret
No surprise for their young minds
They had seen it all along
Love growing day by day.

So long ago was elementary school
We've passed almost every grade
But still the lessons are learned
Love growing day by day

A Visit With Old Friends

I opened the black leather door
Leading to the rooms filled with my old friends
Who I had not seen for what seemed like an eternity,
But eternity is longer than life so how could that be.

As I entered I looked into the mirror
That had been hanging in the museum
Reflecting walls lined with aging portraits
Except the one of the young man camera covering his face
As he composed his self-portrait
Capturing his youth at that point in time
To be reflected on in his later years.

Another mirrored reflection
Held a different view of the young man
Lean of body and full of hair,
Standing motionless on the platform
Watching the train speed by
Without realizing
That his life would speed by all too quickly.

Through the windows of the room I toured
The juxtapositions presented themselves one by one
As the jesters did to the kings
The contrasts forever captured

A man standing on boulders near the harbor
The distant high rises monopolizing the horizon
Man forever planted
Between nature and development.

The final resting place of soldiers from the wars
Marked by neatly rowed white stones all alike from afar
The foreground holding the matching rows of military vehicles
From war to eternal rest
In the distance of a few feet.

The 18 wheeler
Speeding to its destination
While on the roadside grew a blossoming plant
With nowhere else to go
Man’s movement forever missing nature’s beauty.

The crying child in his summer play outfit
Tears of sadness unknown running down his face
Until they dropped one by one onto the ground
Looking across to the ancient mountain waterfall
Forever motionlessly pounding downward over the rocks
Into the waiting pool of countless
Droplets of the earth’s tears.

From above and below
The bookends of life stare forever at each other
The young boy’s face without a line and his eyes without a story
The grandmother’s neck stretching upward
But not enough to hide her worn and wrinkled skin
Her eyes holding a lifetime of joy and sadness,
Stories kept inside without escape.

The musicians of the seventies
Forever ready to play the music now held tightly in the mind

Jerry started off the procession
Still young, without the gray or excess weight that would visit him in later life
Guitar strapped across his shoulder covering part of his solid plain tee
His four fingered hand frozen mid-strum
As he looked across the stage and out into space toward his future.

At the piano sat Sly Stone, his name well earned
Dressed in flamboyant felt hat and cloak
Staring across to Dave Mason
In his what would later be known as a yuppie sweater vest
Pulling the weeping notes out of his guitar
Together forever playing their music.

Bob and Leon were there together
Dancing without motion across the stage
Robbie Robertson joined with them
The great ones of their music degeneration
Their youth never vanishing as on they played.

Some spokesmen of the 70's filled rooms of their own
Words floating somewhere in the air only rarely now heard

Angela her afro covering her absorbant head
Held full and proud for all to see
Powerful right fist thrust into the air
It would have reached the sky
Had it not been attached to her earthly body.

Joining in were David Dellinger
The active pacifist of the infamous Chicago 8
Then Ed Muskie suspended in time
Before he cried and his tears unjustly
Brought a rapid cessation to this presidential dream
But here David and and Ed can dream on, dream on.

Off to the side were the outcasts
The ones who never quite fit in and yet populate all of the world

Against a wall stood a life size raggedy-ann
Striped dress and a sailor tie
Her matching stuffed twin sister in arm
A drink in her hand seemingly not her first
A clenched smile on her face
Saying this was the wrong time and place.

The old man stood close by with his too large nose
A well-lined face told the story of his life
A woman’s feathered hat upon his head
His twin puppet where his left hand should have been
With its own large nose and feathered hat
The puppet ranting against the war and telling stories
That the old man's mouth could not directly share.

The forever overweight man
Trying to hide behind his dark glasses
One encircling fat roll resting on another
In an endless progression
A portion of his posterior resting for posterity
On the plastic seat of the metal chair that surely would break
If he failed to sit completely without motion
And complete motionless he sits - forever

Starring out into space
The man with just one tooth
A fang resting on his lower lop
One false move and it would pierce through
But it never has and it never will

As I left I stopped to gaze upon
The obligatory family portrait from a time long past

My father with his white hair and highly starched shirt
Contrasting with his solid black suit and neatly placed black tie dotted with white
His face showing the years of life
Of newspapers and war and business
The sparkling pride radiating from his face, radiating from his face.

My mother with that working on it smile
Surrounded by the family she loved so much
Oversized Jewish star hanging on a chain over her heart
Burrowing into her heart or out from her soul
Forever symbolizing the centrality of her religion in her life, religion in her life.

My brother with his long hair and wild beard
Smiling like a cheshire cat
Giving him an undeserved Charlie Manson look
While dressed in could have been a bar mitzvah suit with hip tie
A contradiction between convention and revolution, a contradiction.

My sister with a bright smile on her face
Shorter and older then her brothers
Yet then larger than us all in so many ways
Gazing to and through the burning Sabbath candles
Her youth captured where she stood
Forever young, forever young.

In the middle stood a younger version,
Of a boy-man I know to be me
Standing physically above the others with
Too large glasses and too long hair
The promise of a full beard that would be a life-long friend and protector
A future waiting to unfold, waiting to unfold.


This piece is intended to express in writing my thoughts on the photographs that I produced in my 20's, mostly when I was attending Washington University or living in St. Louis post-graduation, and some during my travels throughout the country. The photographs now reside in a black leather portfolio on my bookshelf and remain my "old friends".

A Smiling Clown

The gray and tan checkerboard floor was beginning to drown in the puddles formed by the droplets running off the raincoats and soaked shoes of the shivering as they were propelled in a circle that wound from the fog covered glass doors to the quick stop no more time to think order counter and on to the pick-up area for the endless wait for fast food weight.

Then on to the row of two seat tables looking out into the dismal outside world where a clown face, peering out from within a newsstand filled with the soggy daily news, smiled and wished all a "Good Day".

Orders were placed in English – “the usual”, “large black”, “one with everything”, and every food combination from the beckoning order me, take me home with you board.

The echoed responses were in broken English that created a south of the border experience augmented by the no-English allowed talk among the working poor on the other side of the counter divide.

What were they really saying – “where are those pre-made plastic wrapped sandwiches to put in the make it taste fresh microwave”, “these people are wrapped in plastic like our chemical laced faux food”, “what type of cream cheese spread did she ask for”, “look at the spread on that one, why eat it first”, “what kind of doughnut filling did she want”, “that one brought her own internal filling”.

At the tables, a young couple, both in colorful multi-shade black with one color fits all slick black hair and matching piercings plotted the overthrow of the adult world while eating the national chain, everywhere you go tastes the same, food – the counterculture supporting the counter culture.

Next to them sat the handlebar moustached, bow tied, plaid jacketed, white haired, unshaved man with all of his worldly possessions in a forest green plastic bag stuffed into a two wheeler wire basket from which they could not escape anymore than his thoughts could escape his closed mind or his life could escape his wretched aqualung world.

Then sat the young must be a college student mindlessly stuffing the bagel into his ever moving saying nothing mouth, unaware of the taste or texture of the food or his life, consumed in the computer screen reading the news from the four corners of the round world to better understand all without gaining an awareness of self.

As each table was vacated it refilled just as did the cups of coffee, the trays of pastries, the napkin holders and the walking trash cans.

Having watched the people play the game of musical chairs, I played the role of the loser being exiled and forced out into the rain, passing by the new players who entered in an orderly fashion to walk the circle of orders.

As my remaining hair and gray-white beard were soaplessly showered again, I nodded at the smiling faced clown who clearly understood the world from his protected perspective on top of the news in the box.

The Woman in White

As I meandered down the asphalt walkway with the sun shining over my face
Turning my nose cherry red and certain to raise the reoccurring pustulating sores
Sores that had found a temporary fertile garden for growth, I came upon her.

Pale and white, she stood alone in the elements
As the wind whipped the leaves without concern for her well-being.
Pure faux linen cascaded over her head and onto her ridged shoulders
Where it draped her body removing all lines from her shape,
And yet she was beautiful.
Unaffected by her surroundings she appeared to stare at a single point on the distant horizon
A point beyond the forest of naked trees that swayed to the point to cracking.
Perhaps her gaze was fixed upon a different time or perhaps on a different reality.
And there she stood without movement, without change, without awareness.

I wanted to approach her, to get a closer look, to see her from all angles.
I wanted to ask what she saw, but that was not possible
For I knew that there would have been no answer
There could not have been a response.

And so, I moved on,
Pulled forward by my woolly century pound gentle four legged giant
Who showed no awareness of the unapproachable women.




The foregoing was motivated by a walk with my golden doodle in Maine, and a statue of Mary in a church yard where I was waiting for a real estate auction to start.

Deeds are Seeds

The the actions of our life are seeds that we plant and will grow - sometimes into weeds and sometimes into beautiful flowering plants. We hope that the weeds are few and that there growth can be stopped before they multiply. We hope that our flowering plants are numerous and can be nurtured so that they can spread their seeds and create more beauty. Although often we do not get to see the weeds and the flowering plants, many times we do.

Last night, I had the opportunity to hear too stories reflecting the growth of seeds of my deeds that I did not even remember, and I will share those stories not out of pride (although that exists), but as an acknowledgment and reminder.

The parent of a young man that we know provided a quick update on the medical school interview process that his son was going through. The parent wanted me to know that his son had told him that he always started the interview process with a firm handshake and a direct look in the eyes of the interviewer, and that this was a new found skill (at age 21) that I had showed him last year. For years, I have made it a habit to teach young people how to shake hands - with a firm, but not too firm, grip rather than the loose, dead fish, lifeless hand that is too often offered, a strong, but not too strong, movement (that should not include the entire upper body) and with direct eye contact being made. I started this teaching when I coached little league teams by explaining that I couldn't guaranty them wins or hits or wonderful plays, but I could assure them of handshakes at the end of each game. So, if this young man who learned a proper handshake last year now has added confidence when he meets people, perhaps some of the others have benefitted too. The deed as a seed.

At a service last night that focused on the creation of a welcoming community, a member told me of her search for a new temple when she moved to town with her family. They had been to many temples and synagogues in the surrounding area, and she was prepared to give up her search of out temple did not offer what she was looking for in a temple home. That Friday evening, her husband was out of town and so she came alone. She told of entering into the temple, and being greeted and welcomed warmly by me. It created a connection and an understanding of our community and so, after services, she went home, called her husband and said "we have found our temple". For years, I have made it a habit of greeting people at the temple as I believe that is part of the creation of a community. We all want to be welcomed. We all want to feel that we are part of a community. We all want to feel that we are cared for. We all want to know that we are recognized. So, if this woman and her family became part of our temple community because of an acknowledgment and welcoming, a recognition and conveyance of warmth, perhaps some of the others who I have recognized - from the toll taker to the waitperson to the gas pump attendant and so on have felt those feelings. The deed as a seed.

And so, as we move through life, let us plant the seeds that will growing into the flowering and multiplying plants.

I Will Be There

When the sands are burning
When the snows are deep
When the path is difficult
I will be there for you.

When the mountains are high
When the ravines are steep
When the rivers are wide
I will be there for you

When the noises are overwhelming
When the silences are deafening
When the thoughts are running wild
I will be there for you

When the hunger is consuming
When the thirst seems unquenchable
When the pain is intense
I will be there for you

Let me provide protection against the extremes
Let me be your strength and steadying force
Let me offer calmness to your soul
Let me provide sustenance and relief

Just want me to be with you
Just think of me in your heart
Just call for me in words or thoughts
I will be there, I will be there.

Learning By the Alphabet

Attending to conversations which bounce ideas against learning companions
Believing that there are answers for the unanswerable
Continuing along the path of learning, growth and change
Delving into unexplored areas of the mind and the history of the world
Elevating their thought process above what had existed before
Fixating their minds on points on the distant horizon of thought
Gravitating toward a new dimension of reality
Halting progression toward an indeterminable temporary conclusion
Integrating all of the elements into a composite with not yet visible cracks
Juxtaposing the seemingly inconsistent concepts until the consistencies are evident
Knowing that the unknown reveals itself step by step along a constantly turning, rut-filled path.
Leaning supports learning while challenging past learning
Memorizing gives way to conceptualizing, challenging, analyzing and reshaping
Nuancing the differences with a scalpel rather than an cleaver
Opening doors of perception through exploration rather than finalization
Pondering the puzzles of the puzzled in perpetual wonderment
Questioning all that has not been personally perceived
Recognizing the revolving nature of life and learning
Stifling the desire to cease the pursuit of enlightenment
Teaching that which was taught in the progression of learning and teaching
Utilizing all of the knowledge and skills that have been accumulated during life's process
Violating their previously unshakeable foundationless beliefs
Welcoming the temporary contentment arising through discovery until new discoveries are revealed
X-raying with their minds all that is hidden below the surface
Yawing through the undefined spaces of the unknown
Zapping all that stands in the way on life’s zig-zagging journey