THE GREAT UNLEARNING

Everything I learned in kindergarten, I have had to unlearn. For instance, Columbus was not the first to land on our fair continent. In fact, continents are a relatively new concept geologically speaking. I am not a descendant of Adam's rib, which may account for my small bones and witches don't roam with their wicked black cats ready to eat my gizzards. I'm thinking maybe I don't even have gizzards. However, enough is enough. The latest unlearning has brought on a fierce (Irish/Apache?) rebellion. Mr. Infallible Pope Benny has declared there were no angels at Jesus' birth. The Jehovah's Witnesses told me the same thing back in '72; I declined such heresy then, too. Let me remind said Pope that infallible popes of the past committed some horrifically fallible atrocities and he'd better not mess with my angels. My numerous poems, drawings, accounts, and encounters stay.I will not give up singing, "O Little Town of Bethlehem" or calling on my helpers to leave a small sign in front of me to lead me on. I remember nights with a candle burning beside a nativity set when I wondered if the next bullet would signal my last moments on Planet Earth. Just because the pope has been checking his Fact Checker is irrelevant to me. In war weary countries, people need to believe in goodness. In places of famine and drought, people need to believe in manna. For me, the humility of God coming to us as a baby in a manger of straw bringing with Him the message that peace works is a spectacular, radical, unheard of miracle mystery. The truth must be told! Some stories are more important than supposed accuracy. Imagination trumps all.Wonder is the midwife of belief and experience confirms it.

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...may angels rock you gently in their

soft wings and heal your misgivings...

Drawing credit: Henry Hobbs

NOW LET US ALL BE THANKFUL

I used to rhyme but haven't lately;

by lately I mean forty years.

A bit of free verse said it all

and saved my soul frustration's tears.

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When my dad retired from the Foreign Service, he let loose his Inner Writer. He and my mother settled in various locations (sand-in-the-shoes-Foreign-Service-syndrome). In one of these places which my mother called, "This is my last move," he started a small newspaper. The circulation was intended for the folks in Green Valley, Arizona, a senior citizen haven for retirees who no longer wished to shovel snow. He said he wanted to have the opportunity to write a column nobody would censor. Each column would begin with a light verse to put the readers in a good mood because the meat of the column would be a rant against or for (Reagan, Udall) sufficiently caliente to draw the citizens from their slumber. One Lt. Colonel was so drawn he came after my dad with a shotgun. My mother, having experienced riots in Jerusalem, Caracas, and Cali, wondered why he couldn't simply print the verse and skip the column. She was wary and weary of contemplating an early death. I was given some space for a poem which she greatly appreciated as the poems were an attempt to add beauty to the world. She thought I lived in the Land of Da Nile as her view was that you could name any country and it would be going to the dogs. Having observed several of these countries, I concluded she was the most cheerful cynic one might encounter. I am neither cynic nor an inhabitant of the Land of Da Nile but I catch myself echoing her words. This might be a result of biblical training. No, not from church. From my mother, since she was prone to quoting Scripture. She said it was a paradox that an atheist can quote all she wants whereas a religious person is the victim of complaints if he or she even suggests that the meek will inherit the earth. A college friend wrote a few years ago that he and his wife had retired to Green Valley. The paper my dad sold (yes, it wasn't the last move) had prospered beyond anything he had envisioned. I looked it up and there was nothing recognizable except the photo on the banner of the mountains in the distance. The circulation is enormous but only the name remains of his work. No caliente in this news. I often wonder what my dad would have done with the Internet. I can see him copying and pasting and checking his copyright manual and having a conversation with Chris Hedges. Two peas in a pod. I am grateful for those days even though I was gone, living in San Francisco. Perhaps they gave me the incentive or the genes to be writing my "column." My mother would be relieved that I still prefer to add beauty to the world and, like her, still believe the meek will inherit the earth. 

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...blessings to you on this Thanksgiving week

and remember not only the pilgrims feasting; 

remember also Pine Ridge...  

A WORD OR TWO BEFORE YOU GO

  "Soft you, a word or two before you go.

I have done the state some service,

and they know't--No more of that I pray you,

in your letters...speak of me as I am."

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 Westport Country Playhouse

Westport, Connecticut

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 The buses had started running again after Superstorm Sandy had come through in one big tizzy fit, fussed at us because of the way we have treated the planet. I couldn't blame her even though I was stunned by the photos of the damage. All that strewn furniture, clothes, boardwalks, cars; there was even a rollercoaster adrift in the ocean! I was on the crowded Select (fewer stops) 2nd Avenue bus going down to 34th Street for an appointment with an oral surgeon. Standing in front of me was a woman with a cap which read, "A word or two before you go" across the back. Shakespeare! Well, I had to know what that was about. She turned to show me the front. It said Westport Country Playhouse. I said, "Oh, I was there in 1958 on a drama trip from college!" She began telling me the history of the playhouse and how it looks now. We enjoyed talking about theater and election day to the point where when she got off the bus she waved with a friendly, "See you at the Playhouse!"

 Voting had been chaotic at the E. 67th polling station as there was an influx of voters from Staten Island where the flooding had caused havoc and power outages. Future politicians showed up in the form of public school youngsters  selling baked goods.They were regular experts at Mike Check, excited and hopeful. Eavesdropping on conversations, I felt it seemed people were actually waking up to the words climate change. With a Nor'easter predicted to be coming on the heels of Sandy, it was easy to understand that this would be the new trending topic. Go Green Party! Go Justice Party! Get with it Democratic Party!

 

Garden City, New York

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 Rockaway Peninsula, New York

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A bright note from my brother's festive exhibit at Orchard Windows Gallery was cheering:

Show I was in curated by Dino Eli, who is part gypsie, presiding over the candles. Everyone else had flashlights in each others eyes. Walking back to Tribeca at 9:30 very wooooky, nothing moving except whirling winds and the occasional police comet streaking by.

There was snow in Central Park on November 8th.

I cringe at the thought of what would have happened had Sandy, the sub-tropical cyclone, been a Category 5 hurricane.   I feel I should have told her, "A word or two before you go. I for one will do the best I can to take care of our exquisite Earth home. I don't need any more warnings!" Spread those words, my lovely friends.