Saints and Poets

A few weeks ago I watched the movie Titanic on an airplane coming home from New York. Rather incongruous, this gigantic story on a tiny screen 35,000 feet in the air. Never a big fan of the film, but, too tired to read, I opted for the three hour distraction. The proximity of my seat to the screen brought the epic tragedy into tighter focus. I found myself thinking about the desperation of the poor souls whose lives came to an ironic end that fateful night. I grew up with this story, frequently recounted by my mother, whose distant relative gave up her seat in a lifeboat for her maid in order to remain aboard to die with her husband. But that story was always told in conjunction with the one about the courageous musicians who continued to play until just before the ship sank. I watched the James Cameron film and thought about this act of bravery and love. What else was there to do? With their own watery grave beneath their feet, these musicians performed a transcendent final act of beauty and mercy, serenading the passengers to their death. One witness reported that their final song was "Nearer my God to Thee." In the Catholic church, there is the tradition of canonization - the elevation of an ordinary individual to the level of sainthood. Among the criteria for this recognition is proof that the person being considered for sainthood performed a miraculous act. As I watched the depiction in Cameron's film of these musicians aboard the sinking Titanic, I couldn't help but think that what those musicians did was nothing short of miraculous. Generous with their gifts and talents to their hopeless end, they kept playing. Art and music as a transcendent force in the face of human suffering has always interested me. No story so clearly exemplifies this as the story of Theresenstadt (Terezin) - the town outside of Prague in the Czeck Republic, that was converted by the Nazi's to a Jewish ghetto during the Holocaust. Music and art thrived there in spite of inhumane conditions and near certain death. Children were encouraged by teachers to write poems and draw pictures of their experiences in order that they not be forgotten. They buried the poems and pictures throughout the town only to be discovered by survivors after the liberation. Theresenstadt housed many artists and musicians before their transport to Auschwitz. While hopelessness engulfed the ghetto, music brought a sense of humanity and joy. In the face of death, beauty. Our capacity as human beings to create in the face of the greatest horror and tragic circumstances is one of our greatest gifts. These two extreme examples should provide us with an important lesson. Artistic expression should be nurtured, encouraged and valued. As the German playwright, Bertolt Brecht said, "In the dark times, will there also be singing? Yes, there will be singing. About the dark times." Or, as Emily in Our Town asks, "Do any human beings ever realize life as they live it every, every minute?" "No. Saints and Poets, maybe. They do some." The musicians aboard the Titanic. The teachers in Terezin. The writers. The artists. Saints and Poets all. Their stories live on.

on a lighter note.......................Stan

update on virus
I am still not sure if  I can recover all my writing.  I do have a lot in my note books but will probably never go back and re-type it all.  I bayed at the quarter moon last night and that seemed to help.

In the mean time, we have puppies, lots and lots of puppies.  Chewy, our gray and white Schnauzer had 4 puppies one week ago and Shy-lo, our black Schnauzer had 8 puppies Thursday morning.  They have all been to the vet and are in good health.  Chewy's  puppies are fat little butter balls but Shy-lo's puppies are small.  The father of both litters is Lo-Jack, our gray and white Schnauzer.  He is rather perplexed by the whole thing.  He is curious and wants to check them out but Shy-lo and Chewy will not let him get near them.  Since Chewy only had four we gave her two of Shy-lo's so that each mom would nurse six.  It seems to work out quite well and both mothers treat all the puppies as there own.

Shy-lo is my on personal dog or rather I should say that I belong to her.  She follows me where ever I go (except to class).  Wednesday night I was on puppy watch but around 4 A.M. I fell asleep in my recliner with Shy-lo on my lap.  I was sure she would not have the puppies that night because she didn't seem to be in labor.  I woke up at 5 A.M. with shy-lo cleaning herself and a little wet puppy down in the side of the chair.  She had the puppy while setting on my chest.

Don't ever hire me to guard your house.  Thieves could take what they want while I peacefully dozed away.

do I hate thee...you bet .............by ... Stan Beatty

Let me count the ways.  One, I hate you because you love to cause destruction.  Two, I hate you because you delight in others agonies.  Three, I hate you because I cannot find you to choke you.  Four, I hate you because I will never see you suffer.  Five, I hate you because you are a coward. My hate for you is boundless and unending.  If I could find you I would destroy you in any way that I could.  You are the scourge of modern society.  You thrive on others miseries.  You do not even know me and yet you thrive on the fact that you can harm me and not be harmed your self.  I may have helped you find food.  I may have helped your family.  I may be your neighbor that supported you in a family death.  I may have, I may have.......I may have done a lot of things for you but one thing I do know, I have never done anything against you.  You are the of the DEVIL and my only hope is that somehow you roast in some form of hell.
The you I am talking about is the you that destroys other peoples work and laughs in glee.  The you I am talking about is the you that builds the computer virus that destroys what I and others have created.
The greatest retribution that could ever occur would be for you to die in agony with the Swine Flu.

They say it helps to get it off your chest.  Not so...I'm still pissed off.

In My Next Life by Connie Wolf

In my next life, my brother will be born first. My mother will long for a girl and when I am born, two years after my brother; my parents will weep with joy. In my next life, my brother will gently tease me but protect me fiercely from anyone else who might dare to try it. He will be handsome, intelligent and wildly popular. When I’m old enough to date I’ll have my choice of all his handsome, intelligent wildly popular friends. All of them have a crush on me because I’m graceful and small with a bubbly personality and infectious laugh. In my next life I have green eyes with perfect 20/20 vision and naturally curly hair. I ace all of my classes with very little effort and make friends with everyone I meet because of my charm, beauty, intelligence, talent, humor and unadulterated humility. In my next life my father will be an inventor. He will have invented all things technical, all things digital, and all global communications. We will be insanely wealthy and he will retire at 30 to concentrate on curing cancer and global warming. Except for this difference in the realm of career and personal wealth, he will be still my Dad, the one I had in this life. Only in my next life he will never have an aneurism or brain stem stroke and his memory will remain razor sharp throughout his long and healthy life. In my next life my mother will be my very best friend and as she ages all of her wrinkles will be laugh lines. She will smile every day and be known for her quiet wisdom and loving ways. Her humor will always be self-effacing and her kindness, world renown. In my next life my Mom will hug me every day and we’ll go shopping at least one day each week. We will laugh together and I’ll be able to trust her with all of my secrets. In my next life all of my secrets will be light and silly, all of my tears will be in empathy and I will always cry when it is appropriate. I will cry prettily when other people are present; just one tear from my eye will break the world’s collective heart. Once a month I’ll cry in earnest, these will be private, cleansing tears that clear the sinuses and lighten the heart. This is for medicinal purposes only because in my next life I will have absolutely nothing to be sad about. In my next life I will marry only once, he will be the one and only love of my life. We will meet at just the right time and marry at just the right age. We will actually live “Happily Ever After”. Oh, of course, he will sometimes get exasperated with me. After all, it isn’t easy to live with all this perfection but all I’ll have to do is pout adorably and smile my dimpled smile and he will melt and open His arms to me. No way, he will ever be able to resist my smile. In my next life, we will have two perfect children, first a boy and then a girl. They will fill our lives with joy and laughter. As babies, they will sleep through the night right from birth. They will never be cranky, they will never catch cold, never ever throw up or get diarrhea and they will potty train themselves just to please me. Pleasing me will be their hearts desire and their only goal in life. In my next life I will have a beautiful singing voice and will sing solos in the church choir. I will write best sellers in my spare time and will go on Dancing with the Stars and win by a landslide but only after I have been retired as the number one all time champion of Jeopardy. Alex Trebek is, of course, secretly in love with me. In my next life I will be a gourmet cook and will visit the culinary capitols of the world. I will eat and enjoy rich foods but never gain an ounce. I will be dead center on all height and weight charts and will never exercise unless it is fun because I just don’t have to, not even as I slip with graceful poise into my golden years. In my next life I will never catch cold or get the flu and I’ll never have an allergic reaction to anything. I will never have to take medication, not ever. My blood pressure will be perfection itself and my cholesterol levels with be the ideal that all others are measured by. In this life I’m pretty sure my death will be painful, undignified and terribly inconvenient. I imagine that it will happen in a very public place like the middle of Sunday morning church or in the produce aisle of Trader Joes. My face will probably be contorted in pain, I’ll lie in pools of odorous body fluids and small children will see me in their nightmares for years to come. But in my next life even my death will be pretty. I will lie on my pillow top feather mattress in a lovely new nightie, my silver curls tied up with a matching satin ribbon. My nails will be freshly manicured and no dry skin will be evident on my elbows or heels. I will simply slip away in the night with just the slightest hint of a smile on my lips. In my next life………

Some O' Dem Dry Bones by Mary, but not contrary

SOME O’ DEM DRY BONES Class assignment for Oct 5, 2009 Prompt: Tell the awful truth. This was not what I started to write about, but what came together after all. I will add to this and speak more about the ‘awful truth’ in another piece. If I may borrow Stan’s creative analogy, I would agree that we all have skeletons in our closet. I loved the way he added: “but they don’t have to dance in our living room.” Sometimes it is important to get our skeletons out of the closet. If we don’t they could pose a silent threat that somehow continues to influence us and begins to define us. This necessary process of letting them out, examining them, letting those old bones see the light; then facing the decay, admitting the truth and dealing with it, keeps ‘it’ from defining us. This class has provided a safe environment for that process. Things that happen to us; things we are not proud of; slips of the tongue that show others what we were really thinking; acts of rebellion, selfish unkindness, too swift judgment, and the whole attitudinal morass; needs to be unearthed. Not all of it needs to be shared, but some unspeakable things we thought we could never tell, need to see the light of day. Otherwise, decay begins to rot and the disease of ‘secrets’ cause interior crumbling. Maybe this is how we turn back into dust. There is unspeakable freedom in letting those skeletons dance in the living room. Airing out that closet helps immensely with all the stale odors that we imagine define us. Being able to trust our humanity with the humanity of others, brings a refreshing reality to bare bones. The flesh takes on new skin, and our self-concept begins to fill out. On some level the old dead things become alive. Shame loses its power to condemn, and that is when the dancing begins. Quite a few of my skeletons have been dancing in the living room since I joined this class. My closet no longer stinks. This new freedom comes with somewhat of a responsibility, however. Now that I know where the stench came from and how it got there, it is time for those skeletons to dance right out the front door. My closet can’t dance. It will always be there wondering if any more bones will be stored inside. It will always remind me of all the nooks and crannies where dishonesty could be stored. Dishonesty comes from the desire to save face; from the need to impress; and especially in my case, from the longing for security and acceptance. Once I began to believe that I was unconditionally loved and accepted by Jesus, that pressure began to dissipate. Now that the door has slammed shut behind those dancing bones and locked them out, it is my responsibility to guard that closet door. Knowing the old patterns that caused that closet to fill up, I have the opportunity to offer creative listening without judgment to anyone daring to unlock that door. I can become that safe place for them. I can start the music by caring enough to listen. I can share my life story, helping people with no words to speak. I can use my voice the help them find theirs. Mary, but not contrary October 6, 2009

Anaheim Born and Razed

Small town memories stir each daylight savings. When darkness falls at five, I am again, Anaheim's child waiting anxiously for my turn to walk amidst cheering crowds down Center Street on Halloween. The Kiddie Parade! I remember the year I was a gypsy. I remember the year I was chosen to hold one end of the banner proudly displaying my school's name, St. Boniface. You could taste the holiday spirit in the air. A carnival atmosphere in a city with a down town. Local shopkeeper festively decorated their windows with bright orange pumpkins and spooky goblins. Banks transformed into haunted houses and fully costumed tellers distributed candy to children making the rounds - marching between home grown businesses like Mitchell's Gift Store, Weisser's Sporting Goods, Hurst Jewelers, Jackson Drug's, Leo's Coffee Shop and the SQR Store. I didn't know it at the time, but my childhood may have been among the last whose memories include the Kiddie Parade, the SQR Store and a down town Anaheim. You see, I'm Anaheim - born and raised. I made my debut on February 10th, 1959 in Anaheim Memorial Hospital at about nine o'clock at night. I grew up right over on Resh Place, beneath the steeple of St. Boniface Church. Harbor Boulevard to the east, Citron Street to the west, Wilhelmina to the north and St. Catherine's Military School boardering the south. I grew up going to Elvis Presley movies at the Fox Anaheim. Stopped at Center Drug first to buy a nickel's worth of candy to eat while sitting in the front row watching "Girl Crazy" and "Speedway." Mother bought my saddle shoes from George in the shoe department at the SQR. I'm fifty now and so are my classmates of '73 from St. Boniface School. A school that no longer exists. I left Anaheim to go to college, I got married and moved back home to raise my children in a city with no down town. My kids never got to march down Center Street in the Kiddie Parade on Halloween. Robbed of that magic in the name of progress, my kids never had the chance to stand fascinated at the counter of the SQR as the sales slip was tucked into a tube and sent through exposed brass pipes up to the mezzanine. They never knew the little old lady with the thin red hair who cranked the elevator up to that mezzanine where she also wrapped the presents.Their memories do not include the pungent odor of shoe polish at Hoffman's nor the deer antlers that hung from its walls over the shoe-shine stands. No. Those memories went out with the wrecking ball. As daylight savings descends - buried in the rubble - childhood dreams, a small town spirit, the Kiddie Parade and down town Anaheim.

changing - Stan Beatty

When you get old the physical changes are not so obvious to other people. No one can see your aches and pains but you feel them. I accept the aches and pains as reminders that I am still alive and still in the game. I am grateful that God has not benched me.

The changes that are occurring in me are mental.  These are also changes that others cannot see. These changes are more than the normal age changes of the mind. They have nothing to do with forgetfulness that I have from time to time because of my age.

My mind changes have to do with my writing.  Writing has forced me to  see things more clearly and to  ask more questions and to listen to what is being said. I have learned that writing requires me to think and look deeper. Writing is different than talking. When your thoughts are published they cannot be denied. When I present something in writing it requires thought and honesty.  When I write I have to write what I know and not what I think.

I have to evaluate what I am going to write. I want  my writing to be as honest as possible. When I look at a scene or a person I think, "how could I write what I am seeing so that a reader would clearly see what I see"?   I now realize that if I want others to read and enjoy what I write it requires a lot of time, thought and effort on my part.

I have learned that as long as God leaves me on the playing field, I need to strive to get better at what I do. I need to work at improving myself, not only as a writer, but also as a person.

I have learned that since I have started writing I have become more sensitive to the world I live in.

I have learned that I am not a man cemented in the "Stones of Age" but a man still mold-able and changing.

I am writing, I am thinking, I am changing, I am alive.

Some Thoughts on the Awful Truth

The truth, in itself, is really not awful. Pretension is awful, living a lie is awful and being caught in a lie is the worst! Confession is truly good for the soul, I do believe that. I also believe it contributes to a good night’s sleep. Jesus, Himself, said, “The truth shall set your free”, I believe that too. I tell the truth. Unfortunately, there were times when I told it a bit too freely. Without some discretionary restraint, the truth can be awful. Lack of discretion in who to tell the truth to, or how often to tell it or in who’s hearing it is told can lead to unpleasant and unkind consequences. I confess I’ve always had a problem keeping my mouth shut. I remember running to the door even before I was old enough to go to school to be the first to tell Daddy “the news”. I would tell him what Mommy bought him for Christmas, I’d be the first to let him know that the plumbing backed up and there was garbage in the sink, I would tell him all the neighborhood gossip, often in front of the neighbors themselves. I’d always be quick to tell him of my brother’s latest misdeeds. Basically, I told him everything my mother wanted to tell him and all within the first five minute he was home, the more there was to tell, the louder and faster I’d tell it. The competition between my mother and I was intense. All the power was on her side but since she was not willing to burst through the door and run down the driveway when his car arrived, I usually won the first round of our, never named but always fought, contest each evening. Once in the house she would shush and scold me in order to get a word in edgewise. Sometimes, when I continued to interrupt I was sent to my room. All this taught me was to talk fast, talk loud, and always be first. My announcements would start before he was even out of the car. “We’re having spaghetti tonight”, I’d call on the run, “Timmy-had-diarrhea-today-and-it-went-down-his-leg” I’d say all in one breath. One time I even ran out with the news, “Grandma Foley died, the hospital called, it was a heart attack”. I don’t think my mother ever forgave me for that one and who can blame her? I am still somewhat irrepressible but I hope I have now learned enough self control to keep from hurting anyone. The truth is never awful but the way you tell it just might be.