Tag: Culture

RUPERT IN THE FRAY

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 4 Comments

One of the more curious twists in recent American history is the impact of Rupert Murdoch, the Australian press baron who became an American citizen to keep control of his then fledgling television network.

Politically conservative, he’s nevertheless lowered the social standards of mass media. So much for values. He introduced dirty words to television and thus made them more acceptable in otherwise polite public discussion. His tabloid newspaper journalism, meanwhile, focused on celebrities and scandal in ways that have eroded serious political debate and public policy. That’s even without getting into his influence in Hollywood.

Put simply, we’re a less polite society than we were before his appearance. Or should we just say, cruder? That’s even before we get into the Fox News role as the Republican Party mouthpiece. Or all of the Murdoch-related phone-hacking uproar in Britain.

Now we might wonder how he’s reacting in private to the Donald’s emergence as the GOP presidential race leader. Someone from another television network, free from the Fox connection, all the same rising and then riding on the confrontational entertainment celebrity approach to political argument Murdoch’s nurtured.

Still, Murdoch’s far from the faceless corporate existence we see elsewhere. He’s passionate about print journalism, for one thing, and has been willing to take risks. But when people complain about “the media,” he’s still part of the mix, the one that almost always carries negative connotations. And, for the record, let’s point out it’s really corporate media, focused on big profits, rather than liberal.

PLAYING UPON THE LOONY TUNES, TOO

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

As I said at the time …

One acquaintance, preparing to be married under the care of another meeting, finally concluded you couldn’t find so many loonies collected in one place if you tried. There are times I suspect most of us would agree, especially when we get jammed on an item of business. We are an intelligent, opinionated, independent bunch of people. It’s said of us, as I also heard Jews at temple refer to themselves, that where twelve are gathered on an issue, you’ll have thirteen points of view.

Our way of doing business, requiring unity but no voting, requires us to try to listen carefully to each Friend. In practice, this can be difficult, especially if someone opposed to a proposal refuses to speak up or speak fully or, perhaps more serious, refuses to attend the business sessions where the matter is being considered. Sometimes, knowing there is unvoiced opposition, we will lay an agenda over to the next session, hoping for better representation – itself an admission that low turnout for our monthly meeting for worship for the conduct of business may also indicate its low priority in our lives. Laying it over, in turn, can often mean beginning all over again as a different set of individuals addresses the issue. Moreover, being present is essential, because miracles can occur in the session. Sending a statement on paper or via another Friend avoids moving with the Spirit in the meeting. There are times when being uncomfortable in the context of business meeting is healthy, and a sense of agreeing to disagree for a while may in turn lead to a third way and innovative resolution.

Our structure of doing business, in which each Friend is expected to participate in the operation of our faith community, can also be subject to breakdown. Individuals may fail to follow through on promised action, or not step forward at all for committee service. The work then falls back on a small core of Friends, who quickly become overburdened. Has there ever been a period when all of our committees were sufficiently filled and operating smoothly? It’s a lovely ideal, all the same, one that makes me all the more grateful for committees that are running well through the year.

Other dysfunctions arise in business meeting when we veer from the decision at hand, usually by trying to introduce a host of other problems and concerns – that is, trying to solve many of the world’s problems instead of replacing a furnace; when we forget the tenderness of the individuals involved and their motivations; when we try to redo work a committee has already labored over; when a committee comes forward to business meeting without finding unity on the proposal, hoping we can do what they couldn’t; or when we leap ahead toward a project we’re unlikely to give full support over time.

Once upon a time, reflecting on the traditional assumption that our business meetings would be led by Christ and that our job is simply to listen for the answer, I jested, “I don’t think Jesus cares what color the carpet is.” A decade or two later, when we were faced with that actual, prolonged decision, I had to add: “But he does care how we engage one another in deciding.” People can and do come away from our deliberations with hurt feelings, and it’s something requiring our mindfulness. Being opinionated doesn’t necessarily have to mean being heartless, even unintentionally. In the rug decision, the reaction of Friends in bringing heirloom Asian carpets to the meetinghouse for the wedding, while we were still deliberating the choice of permanent floor cover, remains a colorful reminder of the third way and its surprises.

We also need to be mindful that working through differences on small things is practice that strengthens us, as a body, for larger, more difficult issues.

COLLECTING LEAVES TO COMPOST

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 7 Comments

Dealing with clay soil like ours has convinced me of the value of compost. Not that I hadn’t composted before. But over the years here, I’m watching the ground become more supple and workable and productive, thanks to the effort.

The first autumn, I collected more than 200 bags of leaves from the neighborhood. (Each year, I try to reduce the figure, only to find some of neighbors now expect me to come over for the haul.) To that, we’ve added our garbage (thus reducing our expenditure on the city’s green trash bags). Once we acquired rabbits, their droppings and the hay from their bedding started going into the pile as well.

The process is incredible, watching the volume decrease to a fraction of what it had been. Consider the amount of heat the decomposition produces, and then the arrival of the red wigglers (or wrigglers, I’ve heard both), the friendly worms that do the big work of transformation. Forget his insights about evolution, it’s Darwin’s observations of worms I treasure. What’s left in the end is a gardener’s pure gold.

On a spiritual level, this humus and humility have a lot in common. So much can flourish from their nourishment and grounding.

DISPLACEMENTS

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 5 Comments

Any scholar of language will be struck by the ways some words drift from one meaning to something quite different. At the time of the King James Bible, for instance, “to prevent” meant “to precede,” from the root “to come before,” rather than “to hinder.” In our own time, we’ve seen “enormity” go from meaning “great evil” to simple “immensity,” and we’ve lost a powerful word in the process. Both “gay” and “queer” have lost timeless, innocent concepts. There are countless other examples where an author from the past tries to tell us something quite different from our current interpretation.

I’ve come to call these shifts “displacements,” especially when they happen by degrees over time and particularly as they relate to religious practice. For example, a cousin who was also a pastor in the Church of the Brethren likes to point out how the “Holy Sabbath” changed over generations to “the Sabbath” and then just “Sunday” before becoming what we know as “the weekend,” preferably of the three-day kind – each stage losing something along the way. I could argue how “my perception of the Truth” is quite distinct from “my truth,” one embracing the ideal of a single verity while the other presents an infinite array of conflicting, what, sensations or tenets, maybe? The “Inward Light” that early Friends proclaimed was quite different from the “Inner Light” version appearing two centuries later. Or “that of God in each person” is quite distinct from each person being a god unto himself or herself. Or even the way the quest for fun has displaced a work ethic and social consciousness. As for “Christmas” turning into “Holiday Season,” remember, it’s not far from becoming a more candid “Shopping Season” altogether. Keep your eyes open; these shifts are all around us, probably in every field of endeavor.

Returning to root meanings can be empowering. “Radical,” after all, comes from the word “root,” and Native American culture tells us, “roots are strong medicine.” Good roots, as gardeners know, are essential for healthy plants. In the world of thought and action, examining the roots can also restore the original vision. Hmm. “Look” and “see” aren’t exactly identical, are they?

TAKING A FALL IN AUTUMN

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 8 Comments

Autumn typically stresses my allergies to a point that many years I’ve been knocked down for a week or two with “flu-like symptoms,” as one physician diagnosed it. (Not that he had any magic shots or pills to speed my recovery.) Some rounds have meant being unable to stay awake long or finding myself chilled to the bone, unable to warm up. Shortness of breath, dizziness, and loss of appetite are also common. Responsible work, please remember, is out of the question.

A routine of preventative medications in the past decade or so has allowed me to largely elude the malady, but this year I’ve been hit.

As illnesses go, this is quite tolerable, as long as I’m not trying to do much of anything. It simply means lying low and drinking liquids.

An upside does appear, though: for me, it’s the reading orgy that can accompany the recovery.

Do other writers (or readers, for that matter) feel obligated to tackle certain periodicals or books before getting to our guilty pleasures? Or is it just me?

Don’t get me wrong. For instance, nobody forced me to subscribe at a bargain-basement rate to the New York Review of Books, but after several appeals, I caved in – and then the issues began to pile up.

I hadn’t really followed this periodical since the early ’70s and was curious to see how much it was sticking to its earlier biases. (Yes, I’m using that term.) Happily, I’m finding a broader range of thought than I’d remembered. What has taken some readjustment involves the depth of the articles. Each one carries an assumption that we are somehow conversant in an esoteric topic that is apparently an earmark of intelligence or a solid education or … well, I dive in anyway, realizing I seldom know enough to challenge the author’s line of argument. It feels like being swept along in a tide.

This is also reminding me of a hierarchy of intellectual discourse in writing.

If the New York Review of Books is at one level, the New Yorker seems to sit a step lower, and the New York Times on a step below that. New York and Vanity Fair magazines, along with the Boston Globe, Washington Post, and a handful of other newspapers sit a step lower – and they’re all well above the median level today. As for the rest of us out in the sticks?

Admittedly, I felt a little pressure here. My wife repeated her request I pass the issues on “when you’re finished,” and that meant intact editions rather than my usual filet strategy that cuts a magazine apart, clips out articles of interest, and pitches the rest. (Saves space, for one thing, and puts pieces I want to address in appropriate files, for another. Plus, in the old days, we used to mail clippings of interest to each other – remember that, back before email?)

Well, back to that matter of keeping up, especially when we have our own local and regional issues to address, in addition to our individual specialized interests.

I got caught up with the backlog of New York Reviews and a few other magazines. And then it was on to a stack of books. Huzzah! Huzzah! Without getting into the list, let me just say what a pleasure it is to read a volume straight through, within a day or two, as God or at least the author intended – rather than having to do it by bits and pieces over long stretches of time. (Do I need to mention there are many books around our house still waiting for the final, uh, consummation? Not all mine, by a long shot.)

Well, I am feeling better now, thank you, and there’s a long list of home repair and garden projects to do before cold weather kicks in. Life really depends on maintaining a balance, doesn’t it? Or is there a better way?

ON ART ABOUT ART

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

As I said at the time …

I largely distrust art about art. It’s not that I haven’t written poems about poetry, much less music or paintings. I think we all do, sometimes as a matter of reflecting on the practice we pursue as artists. Why do I write what I do, in this voice or style? Where do I fall in the stream’s current?

The danger is that such work can become incestuous. Artists of all stripes can easily perceive themselves as high priests of the mysterious or marvelous. We are inspired, or so we think. Or at least super-sexy. We have special visions and heightened awareness. We speak our own jargon. So what if the masses cannot understand if it heightens our niche? What sells is commercial, and we point to its cheap tricks, unless it’s feeding our wallets.

What happens, of course, is we speak more and more to each other, rather than the world we inhabit. We celebrate ourselves, rather than searching outward. We become artistes, caricatures who flock to cafés and late-night bars, rather than hard-working creators. Paris wasn’t Paris when it was the expats’ hot stomping ground. Their old photos look more than funky.

Consider, for a second, the opera. Let me argue that Butterfly, free of the artist halo, is a more fascinating and touching character than Tosca, the opera singer. Parsifal or Lohengrin, than Meistersinger. Orpheus moves me as a widower, rather than for the power of his music. The magic flute, fortunately, becomes a mere footnote in Mozart’s cosmic comedy.

That’s before we even get to the application of “poetry” to describe another art. A pianist whose playing is “poetic,” for example, or the “poetry” of a piece of architecture. Again, it becomes incestuous or self-celebratory and essentially meaningless. Do we mean pianism that’s introspective and not flashy? Then what about humorous poetry? Do we mean architecture that instills a sense of awe or one that’s lean and understated? And so on. Should we even ask which poet the critic had in mind?

This might also have something to do with the fact that I’ve spent most of my adult life as a journalist, rather than in a full-time literary profession. I don’t teach writing or literature. Even in religion, where I am actively engaged, it’s not in paid ministry – which can seem somehow tainted by the fact it’s a job or employment. They overlap, of course.

Despite that, I have written collections that remain homage. My unfinished Corridors arises in the experiences of visiting art museums over a lifetime, as well as making art: while individual pieces are named after various artists, I should point out there is rarely a direct connection between the two, other than the spirit of life. Likewise, the Partitas and Fugues cannot employ a direct correspondence between musical form and language – if anything, in acknowledging the wonder and joy such works stir within a listener, my poems only admit the chasm between pure music and an aspiration for a pure language, apart from literal meaning.

Now, out into the field beyond the field across the stream below the house, as it were.

DISTINCTIVES AS A MATTER OF FINE DINING AND FAITH

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

Maintaining particular elements that set a faith community apart from the larger society as well as a desire to be like everyone else provokes a basic tension in religious history. In Quaker tradition, we see it especially in the Hicksite Separation and later, with the Gurneyites, as many Friends adopted pastoral worship and turned their meetinghouses into “churches,” sometimes complete with a bell. The problem that arises along the way is that other values, like the Peace Witness, can also be eroded on the road to a generic Protestant practice or New Age miasma. (Or, increasingly these days, both.)

It’s important that we remain aware of what are known as “distinctives” – in our stream of Quakerism, the unprogrammed worship, simple meetinghouses, and decision-making process are highly obvious. Once, our discipline of Plain dress and speech, our system of “guarded education” in Quaker parochial schools, and our avoidance of public entertainments would have also set us apart. Scholars look for distinctives when they examine a spectrum ranging from sect to denomination, where something like the presence of an American flag in the sanctuary can say much about how far the congregation buys into the values of the surrounding culture. (The Mennonite fellowship I participated in was viewed with some suspicion because we enjoyed going to Baltimore Orioles games – together, at that. Ahem.) Often, it’s seen as those scholars look to reasons one Amish group differs from another. The width of a man’s hat band, for instance, or even buttons. It’s the way the little things add up to strengthen more important matters. I’m not saying any of this is easy.

Once, while dining in Little Italy in Baltimore, I overheard a couple talking to the co-owner of a restaurant. They were telling him how, on a visit to New York, they kept hearing everyone speak about how his place was the best one back home. Finally, he interrupted, saying, “If you don’t believe you’re the best restaurant in Little Italy, you shouldn’t be here.” While some people detect a degree of arrogance in that, I sense a humility and an admiration of his competitors – a desire for excellence and an admiration for those touches that make each restaurant distinctive. Ways that encourage each other to do better, too.

I turn that to our own neighboring faith communities with an admiration for congregations that uphold their own meaningful distinctives. Each one, with the potential of enriching the others. We Friends need not add glittering icons or glorious pipe organs or triune water baptism to our service, but we can dialogue and even worship with those who have them – and maybe all come away with deeper amazement and resolve in our own daily practice.

Hey, it was only a month ago I was reveling in Greek dancing — admittedly, not as part of the Orthodox service but certainly as part of the community. Along with all of the food.

AN ABOLITIONIST NEXUS

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Coming upon Moses Brown Square in Newburyport, Massachusetts, one evening threw me for a loop. The plaque said this Moses, 1742-1827, was a prominent shipbuilder and merchant active in the slave trade. (Not to be confused with a Capt. Moses Brown, 1742-1802, a privateer – that is, a licensed pirate living nearby — also on the wrong side of my moral compass.)

The ringer, as I read, was that Newburyport, with all its wealth based on the rum, sugar, slave trade triangle, was hostile to abolitionists, and its Moses had soon become its wealthiest resident. So that was the funding for those glorious houses on High Street, not the whaling trade? I hadn’t suspect this turn.

What a contrast to the more famous Moses Brown (1738-1836), a Rhode Island Quaker convert who became both an avid abolitionist and a pioneer of the Industrial Revolution in America – himself quite wealthy and a founder of what’s now the prestigious Moses Brown School in Providence, adjacent to Brown University.

I’m guessing they were all cousins, given the naming patterns and wealth.

What further intrigues, though, is the other statue in the square, this one for William Lloyd Garrison, an abolitionist who was also from Newburyport. There you learn of the depths of the town’s virulent support of slavery and their collaboration with its institution.

Curiously, Garrison “the Great Liberator” found two important colleagues from upstream on the Merrimack River.

The first was John Greenleaf Whittier, the Quaker poet living in neighboring Amesbury, Massachusetts, kitty-corner upstream.

And the other was the journalist Horace Greeley, born in Amherst, New Hampshire, further upriver.

What I see in all this is a hint at the hot pockets, pro and con, on a contentious issue of the time – sometimes within a stretch of the map, sometimes with a family. Not that things are always any different today.