THAT LAST WEEK OF SUMMER

The mind dances here and there, rarely in a linear fashion. So what’s on my mind these days? How about counting on these fingers?

~*~

  1. As she says, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
  2. Still many sailboats out, their sails looking soft, dreamy. Other boats, on their moorings, rock endlessly. Listen to the incoming tide.
  3. With the sea haze is pronounced, we can barely see the Isles of Shoals from the mouth of the Piscataqua River. Other times they’re crisp, five miles away – the hotel and conference center/retreat, avian observatory, and White Isle lighthouse, among them. Soon, everything will be deserted for winter.
  4. Asked what makes me run, I could easily answer: COFFEE! Actually, it’s often a mystery to me, too.
  5. Without a big project going, I feel lost, adrift, directionless.
  6. Sometimes that sensation of feeling lost is a fog. When I’m not relating to music, what I hear is mostly noise.
  7. One help in revising a long work of fiction, especially, comes in finding its “emotional zipper” – and then everything falls into place as you move along it.
  8. Where’s the center of gravity? That is, the central identity or overall impression.
  9. Will she realize it’s our anniversary? (She almost always has the date wrong.)
  10. How I love the cool, clear days of late summer and early autumn!

~*~

Somersworth, New Hampshire.
Somersworth, New Hampshire.

It’s a common real estate question, I suppose: what do you do with an old church? In my newest novel, the family turns one into a rock concert venue, not that unlike the Stone Church in Newmarket, New Hampshire, not all that far from us. Others around here have been turned into homes or apartments. And still others are art galleries or retail spaces. Parking, of course, can be a problem.

MINDING THE DOOR

I’m grateful for each person who is led to enter the meeting room and pray that more will follow. The paradox of inclusivity is in assuring that it encourages each of us to fulfill and express our potential, rather than settling safely at the lowest common denominator of experience. If we cannot meet that potential, then we guarantee that spiritual depth will be found only in exclusionary bodies, which is not the way I want to respond to the Great Commission!

Cross-fertilization can be helpful, especially when it involves profundity reaching across to profundity, or from depth to like depth. You know how my sojourn among Mennonites in Rehoboth sustained me when I was confronted by similar difficulties with Quakers in that city. Let me note here, too, that the pastor at Durham Friends is a Italian-American Mennonite whose degree is from Andover-Newton – a wonderful and tender hand among us. I see that in your own Quarterly Meeting there are pastors at China, North Fairfield, and Winthrop who would, no doubt, enjoy meeting you. Now what was your question about hymns? The importance, I believe, is in substance rather than form (and, yes, “Magic Penny” could do with more substance, musically and theologically).

You were rightly appointed to be clerk of Ministry and Counsel. It’s a valid endorsement of your gifted abilities, and an invitation to grow in them. The fact that you are aware of spiritual baggage as well as the snares of ego and personal agenda is healthy. Within your baggage, too, is much that will find rightful application, more of that cross-fertilization that can help. The rest can go on the compost heap, which has its own spiritual metaphors. Either way, never fear being a “fool for Christ,” as Paul so aptly put it.

Your challenge likely involves a roomful of religious refugees yearning for the warm fellowship of church while fearing – often because of their own negative experiences with Bible-thumpers, proselytizers, smarmy priests, pedophiles, or whatever – the very goods that are essential. (In psychological terms, this involves looking directly into the Jungian shadow, at the places we were wounded; in Bible structure, it’s the reason we see the Tree of Knowledge early on but don’t see the other tree growing next to it until late in Revelation: the Tree of Life, with healing in its leaves – or, closer to home, the cure for nettles growing next to the nettle plant.) To use an old Brethren expression, “Bible words for Bible things,” meaning that sooner or later you have to face up to sin, repentance, atonement, Father, LORD, Holy Spirit, grace, rest, faith, prayer, and all the rest, often learning to retranslate as you go.

One thing about this group is that no one in it has much tolerance for being preached at – they’re just too independently intellectual for that, even if some of them earn their livelihood by lecturing! Lay out information for examination, and it’s a different matter.

~*~

For more Seasons of the Spirit, click here.

ROUND AND ROUND ANEW

I awaken with indigo skin. Sparrows hop about on my mattress. I vaguely recall a plunging star followed by blindness. In that sleep, a voice spoke in primary colors and related a saga oozing blood between brown feathers. I followed her in a procession toward the origin. She pointed out a killer whale, a shaman’s folded robes, a raven’s halo, a falcon spitting fog, a cluster of warthogs, a gathering of peacocks and white llamas, the roots of a great-grandfather’s moustache. As we ascended from a swampy trail of frogs, birds, cobwebs, sunning turtles, and lizards, we skirted the foot of a smoldering volcano. Off in the other direction in emerald water, an island burned. She, however, had other plans. Wild goats ran from our approach. Soon we braved auto glare, road owls, iron bridges. Spinning me back to my Midwestern sources, she demonstrated how thin the thread of perception remains. Spider-thin, in fact. She showed me I’m one animal at one time and in one location, but when those factors change, I become another. Only the soul is constant. When she held a mirror before me, there was no reflection. When I asked her name, she smiled coyly. “You’ll find it written in the desert.”

Each time you acknowledge the distractions that keep you from dancing freely, turn back toward the melody and the rhythm. Turning, I knew, was repenting. Turning and returning, in the music I danced and played. My partner there has always been faithful.

For more insights from the American Far West and Kokopelli, click here.

DEMANDING LIGHT

September 11 weighs heavily
we ask if the reasons for war have changed in our era
we look at ongoing “civil wars” and the many faces of oppression
government actions give only lip service
against violent actions while committing expensive resources
to military actions
widespread conflicts continue over wealth, resources, and identities
often cast as religion
here is one case where I’ll argue Marx
see the disparity
between rich and the poor
will always generate strife

*   *   *

Islam struggles
between fundamentalists and moderates
over its future
more than the book
or ethnic identity

*   *   *

O Holy One, we dare not neglect the imperative
of waging peace, deploying appropriate resources
“for our struggle is not against the enemies of blood and flesh,
but against … the cosmic powers of this present darkness,
against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places”
in this larger struggle, where we demand Light

Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set, click here.

THE DRIVING FORCE IN THE MESSAGE

For much of its existence, the Society of Friends has embodied a peaceful, respectable, even restrained way of life. Not so the earliest decades, when the economy, political structure, religion, communities, and families throughout Britain were all in chaotic upheaval. As Quakers emerged in the tumult, they coalesced many of the more radical elements as movement after movement broke up under the pressures and changing conditions.

As many observers have noted, the early Quaker message was that this was a time of apocalypse – the ultimate victory of good over evil was at hand, making way for the Second Coming of Christ. In battles of such magnitude, which Douglas Gwyn repeatedly views as a Quaker pentecost of the 1650s, there was no place for reserve – boldness came to the fore. And then, when the openings of revolution closed up again, resulting in the Restoration of the monarchy, Friends were forced to bank their fires.

Continue reading “THE DRIVING FORCE IN THE MESSAGE” →

SO MUCH FOR THOSE PLANS

Being mindful of what’s right in front of us can always be a challenge. Here are 10 new items from my end.

~*~

  1. Some years we use the Smoking Garden more evenings in September than August. Often with a small fire going and sense it may be the last time of the year. How sweet!
  2. We have our own taste of the African Queen when we take the fall trip up the river from Portsmouth, starting with the broad harbor that finally narrows just before coming into downtown Dover. It’s a rather amazing midday cruise.
  3. Such a joy discovering a masterpiece by sight-reading, the way I did with “There Shall a Star from Jacob Come Forth” from Mendelssohn’s unfinished oratorio, Christus. Much different from listening to a recording or hearing it in concert.
  4. Some of the best ocean swimming comes after Labor Day. The water’s finally warmed enough to be comfortable. As for tide-pooling, we still have a wide variety of small crabs. They all move fast when uncovered. But no fiddler crab, so far, despite the title of my poetry collection.
  5. There are no lifeguards where I swim in the open Atlantic at a relatively unknown park in Maine. While some of its pocket beaches are sandy, mine’s a field of pebbles. Sunbathing there can be surprisingly comfortable. Now comes the balancing act. While the water’s finally tolerable, even briskly pleasurable, the air can be a tad too chilly.
  6. How do “real” writers live in their “free” time? Thought I’d have an answer by now, free from the office. Instead, the right pace and attitude remain a challenging mystery.
  7. Still not ready to shave my head, even if I’d look like a Zen monk.
  8. The night ocean: a remarkable tint of green.
  9. September can be thunder in the distance.
  10. Nothing we do goes quite as planned. (Not just the garden, at that.)

~*~

Leaven was an adveturous outpost of good food and good company in downtown Somersworth, New Hampshire. Small towns can be incubators of entrepreneurial innovation. Leaven's bakery continues as a wholesale operation.
Leaven was an adveturous outpost of good food and good company in downtown Somersworth, New Hampshire. Small towns can be incubators of entrepreneurial innovation. Leaven’s bakery continues as a wholesale operation.

 

LEAVING THE POINTS OF REFERENCE

To step into desert far enough you no longer see cars or houses brings a break with convention. Returning from one exploration with Kokopelli, I view the town as a mound of pea pods. Next, it becomes peanuts (which aren’t raised in these parts). Eventually, as packages of Grape-Nut Flakes — each building containing bodies, nothing more. Entire cities appear as collections of books identical to a room of cardboard boxes. Every abode duplicates a television set. I know this isn’t how people should be living. This isn’t freedom. This isn’t personality. We have our work cut out, don’t we? If Kokopelli hadn’t come this way earlier, I might have feared for my sanity. Instead, I know the brain’s a weird instrument and let it go at that.

Imagine undertaking a trip where there are no road signs, no maps, no pages of text. You have no way of knowing how far to the next town, gas station, restaurant, motel, or campground. Ask people and hope they know. With utter sincerity, half of them give bogus information. The other half lie. Without a guide, all the books you’ve read can’t possibly help find the marker, YOU ARE HERE. Your teacher embodies map, compass, path, and highway. If you have the genuine article, it’s better than an Interstate speedway. If it’s false, watch out. I wished my own were closer. I was running on memories. As my Teacher said, “When you think I-I-I, you’re a smoky fire blowing every which way. No I, no me, no my attachment means there’s no smoke, just a good hot flame burning clearly.” For me, this meant breaking out of my own shell. Would I have wings or claws? I hadn’t considered the spider.

At least I have Kokopelli, on occasion. Most of the time.

In this desert, I seek to unearth the hidden meanings of place. I return to a chart of Aboriginal names and translations, and substituted these for the Geological Survey’s designations. The mountain once known as Komo Kulshan is STEEP. That’s how it is when GOING FOR CLIMAX in the spiritual quest. You must keep asking, “What can I do WHERE I AM?” The answer? “Take another step dancing with your beloved.”

For more insights from the American Far West and Kokopelli, click here.

COILING, IN THE SHELL

1

to speak of romance and sinking
hand-in-hand couples
approach
as a candlelight dinner
more than tragedy

the golden love I viewed as a lighthouse
my lighthouse
one of two back in Ohio, Ashtabula
marking
my own shipwreck, as well

in another history, Capt. Heman Smith
(He-Man), of Colonial Eastham
established a fire akin to a spire
(the latter, perchance with a clock
or weathervane)

marking time, the years

Chatham Light
2 white flashes
every 10 seconds

(2 bulbs revolving close together
followed by long silence)

originally from twin tower
steel shell with brick interior

2

which way the wind now?
the lifeline, the hymn
“Pilot me!”

3

aloof temples
to sails and rigging
extreme discomfort, sacrifice

in the dangerous occupation
to be murdered within sight of shore
once the storm broke

not just rock and water
but wind, especially
unpredictable, these potential

remote ruins of antiquity
American abbeys
at the confluence, hence

the fire in its crown, its eye
resolutely
facing up to uncertainty

4

one night, entranced by movement
in three rectangles of soft light
in the keeper’s house, considering
the occasional guest on the island
maybe a window with a wafting curtain
or secretive figure moving to the side

daylight revealing
only a pole with Old Glory
in front
of those three panels

more than the custom house
or harbormaster
this reminder of deception

nobody sees far into the water
and often little of what’s upon it

trade and fishing, mostly
occasional cruise castle or
the warship or well-known pirate

(death lurking below
in the rocks,
in the clouds and fog)

say what you will of radar, sonar
and satellite positioning
but life, love, and politics
remain fragile

Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of seacoast poems,
click here.

DRESSING THE PART

I wish I could articulate these feelings more clearly, but this seems to be the best I can do at the moment – maybe the counseling will bring new clarity as I delve deeper into my own emotions and dark side. Owning up to a lot of buried resentment (anger) has been a very difficult task, as is seeing how it has weaseled through so much of my outlook and actions.

As for thy question about dress, thee knows that plainness and simplicity are different. Thy daughter convinced me that plainness has meaning when it’s an expression of community – the concept of a city set upon a hill implies a people, and this isolated Quaker isn’t even part of a family in that way. Plainness would make me less likely to find the other half of that family base, too, from what I see. So in finally breaking down and ordering myself some new clothes (really the first time for that since before my marriage; my now-ex-wife bought me clothes after that, and in Rehoboth what I obtained was work-related), it turns out that with the exception of my bright yellow windbreaker, all of my mod clothes would fit very nicely into an Amish quilt. So much for my breakout! By the way, my corduroy broadfalls from Gohn Bros. are the most comfortable slacks I’ve ever had, even without the zipper. No, I have no desire at this time to appear “separate from the world”; at this point that would create a needless barrier to people who have enough trouble trying to comprehend the message of the Gospel. What I am finding, though, is that I feel separate from the world – walking into a mall or Kmart can be like landing on Mars. The biggest difficulty in all of this is the loneliness that ensues from that lack of family and community, of that sense of relatedness and common purpose. (Another one of the therapy’s major fronts. Please stay tuned for further developments.)

~*~

For more Seasons of the Spirit, click here.

ALONG WITH SOMETHING ELSE GOOD

Just a taste of what’s popping up. In case you were looking for a prompt.

~*~

  1. In Hebrew, breath and soul share the same word. (And thus, by extension: “I breathe, therefore I am.” As well as, “I breathe, therefore I’m inspired.” Remember, too, God breathed into the first human, Adam, giving humanity life, animation, and awareness.)
  2. Without a sense of rhythm, how little progress. Never overlook the drummer.
  3. Driving along, we keep laughing as we notice of every barn and not a few houses, as we acknowledge they needed of scraping and painting. As well as reroofing. Of course, we’ve just done ours. For now.
  4. They’re canning tomatoes these days. And peaches. Where will they all go?
  5. The Style of my own Eye. For now, back to the camera.
  6. Regarding the Song of Songs, a voice cries out, “What happens when we lose that Lover?”
  7. Watching two girls do the yoga sun salutation sequence on their patio, I find myself with a tinge of anger or disgust – something unexpected and hostile. Along with something else good, all remembering the circle. More centrally, whatever, about Swami that leaves me conflicted.
  8. I’m still amazed by the range of color in clear ocean water when I’m tide-pooling in the rockweed. Everything’s so crystalline in brilliant sunlight!
  9. A hummingbird at a prayer flag. I suppose it’s mostly about color.
  10. The Dover Greek Festival held every Labor Day weekend has introduced me to more than our local Orthodox community. I love the word “kefi” – joy, spirit, happiness, triumph, feeling good, mojo, loving life, and so on. Not a bad outlook on life, when you can.

~*~

Designed by Charles Bulfinch, who defined much of Boston's architectural style, the Massachusetts State House remains an imposing structure. It faces the Boston Common.
Designed by Charles Bulfinch, who defined much of Boston’s architectural style, the Massachusetts State House remains an imposing structure. It faces the Boston Common.