On Hope

The following is the text of a talk I gave in church on Hope. I stole a little bit of the introduction and the conclusion from a previous talk (hey, why re-write good material). I hope to write essays on all the virtues.

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A week ago, the Bishop asked me to speak on a topic of my choosing, one appropriate to the new year, - a dangerous thing to do with someone who can talk as much as I can. Still, I was able to find a single topic to focus my verbosity on: hope. I have been pondering hope recently and how it operates in our lives. I have been trying to understand how Hope fits in to the Gospel Plan and why it is that hope seems always to be found in the company of faith and charity.

Language often obscures as much as it clarifies. Joseph Smith once remarked that words are not sufficient to explain the truth, but they are all that we have. And so, we pile on words and imagery, he hint, we imply, we obscure, we clarify. This we do in an attempt to explain the fundamental truths that can only truly be gleaned by direct experience with life. Thus the Prophet said: “The things of God are of deep import, and time, and experience, and careful, and solemn, and ponderous thoughts can only find them out. Thy mind, oh man, if thou wilt lead a soul unto salvation must stretch as high as the utmost heavens and search into and contemplate the darkest abyss and the broad expanses of eternity, thou must commune with God.”
The deep and important doctrines are not the obscure teachings about Kolob or the origin of God or whether Adam had a belly button. Rather, the sacred, immensely deep concepts of truth, mercy, love, hope, happiness, faith; these are the true “deep things of God,” as Paul calls them. The Savior said to his accusers:

“Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye pay tithe of mint and anise and cumin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.” (Matt. 25:25).

To put our gospel lives in perspective, we must focus on the weightier matters, the deep principles of the gospel upon which hang all the other peripheral but no less true teachings and practices of the gospel, but we must not neglect these less weighty matters, rather, we must ground them in the roots of the tree. Most of these often thorny doctrinal issues that some people, particularly in the age of blogs, have wasted hours and days debating are really of little importance for our salvation and everything we know about them from authoritative sources could be summarized in a paragraph or two. Mercy, hope and love, however, require entire volumes and lives to explore and even then the fountain is not tapped out.

Hope, too, is born of experience. As the Apostle Paul said, “Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ: By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope: and hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us” (Romans 5:1-5).

Many of the doctrines of the restored Gospel can only be understand as we live them and apply them to our lives. The same is true of Hope, which we find will come to us as a gift of the Spirit in our trials.

In my ponderings and my meditations, I was drawn to the following poem by Emily Dickinson:

Hope is the thing with feathers--
That perches in the souls --
And sings the tune without the words --
And never stops -- at all --
And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -- (Poem 254)

Upon reading this, I was instantly drawn to the words of Paul:

"For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope; for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it. Likewise the Spirit helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered." (Romans 8:24-26).

It cannot be a coincidence that in these two passages, one from a Poetess and one from a Prophet, we see hope so intimately intertwined with those dreams and aspirations to which we cannot put words: the unutterable groanings of our spirits which cry out for things we do not even ourselves now perceive. And the Spirit of the Lord intercedes and communicates what we cannot express. Words remain the meager medium of communication to which Joseph Smith referred, but the Spirit of God can speak for us and share truth from soul to soul without any misunderstanding, so that "he that preacheth and he that receiveth, understand one another and both are edified and rejoice together." (D&C 50:22).

But how, then, does Hope save us, as Paul assures us it does? Is hope faith, by means of which we believe on the Lord? Is it repentance, by which we receive in us the Spirit of the Lord and become born again, born from above? Is it baptism, the ordinance of salvation or the conferral of the Holy Spirit by which we become new creatures in Christ? Is it the long journey of life in which we endure well the trials, temptations, and tribulations that mankind is heir to through the fallen nature of the world or the sinful lusts of our flesh?

Hope is everywhere present. It is the first and the last of the virtues. It is the first seedling of faith and it is the final gift of the Spirit which confirms to us the hope of a glorious resurrection. It is by hope, Alma assures us, that we come to faith. Faith is to "hope for things which are not seen, which are true" (Alma 32:21). We cannot, however even arrive at that point without first hoping for hope, by desiring to believe and yearning for hope. Alma says: "Awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words" (Alma 32:27).

The cruel cynics and devilish doubters would have us believe that doubt can bring a man to faith, but they are misguided. It is hope that brings a man to faith. Hope and the sincere and humble desire to know. We, from there, are drawn to seek answers, to question. Not doubtfully, but, as the Apostle James said, "in faith" hoping for an answer as did the humble father of King Lamoni who, knowing he knew nothing, but hoping that he might, asked: "What shall I do that I may have this eternal life of which thou hast spoken? Yea, what shall I do that I may be born of God, having this wicked spirit rooted out of my breast, and receive his Spirit, that I may be filled with joy, that I may not be cast off at the last day?" (Alma 22:15). And Aaron replied; "Bow down before God, ... repent of all thy sins, ... and call on his name in faith, believing that ye shall receive, then shalt thou receive the HOPE thou desirest."

Once again we see hope in a new light. Aaron promises the old King hope as the reward for his hope. Elder Neal A. Maxwell said the following:

"Faith and hope are constantly interactive, and may not always be precisely distinguished or sequenced. Though not perfect either, hope's enlivened expectations are "with surety" true. In the geometry of restored theology, hope has a greater circumference than faith. If faith increases, the perimeter of hope stretched correspondingly." Language again fails us, but experience and the communications of the Spirit can teach us.

We cannot attain to faith without hope and through our faith, we attain to still greater hope. By hope we begin to believe and, as Peter tells us, by faith we obtain virtue, with virtue we attain knowledge, with knowledge temperance, with temperance patience, with patience godliness, with godliness brotherly kindness and with brotherly kindness we attain charity, the highest of all. (2 Peter 1:5-7).

Paul tells us that all things of this world will pass away, save "Faith, hope, and charity." (1 Cor. 13:13). The Prophet Mormon, in a speech on how to obtain faith, hope, and charity, asks us plainly: "And what is it that ye shall hope for?" (See Moroni 7:41 ff). And he answers:

"Behold I say unto you that ye shall have hope through the atonement of Christ and the power of his resurrection, to be raised unto life eternal, and this because of your faith in him according to the promise. Wherefore, if a man have faith he must needs have hope; for without faith there cannot be any hope. And again, behold I say unto you that he cannot have faith and hope, save he shall be meek, and lowly of heart."

Our hope, like our faith, is to be centered in Jesus Christ, in whom we have hope not just for this world, but for the world to come (See 1 Cor 15:19). Paul said that our greatest hope in Jesus Christ lies in the world to come, because the life of a disciple offers few worldly rewards in the here and now. We are promised this hope in our struggles here on earth as a gift of the Spirit given to those who trust in Jesus. Our Hope is in the saving power of Christ, which serves as an anchor to our souls in the tempests and trials of life. Bearing that hope, we can endure the sudden setbacks and failings of mortality knowing that all things are promised to the faithful and that justice and mercy await those who endure well.

Hope is what remains to us when we have lost everything else, when we have nowhere to look, but up. When things fall apart, we can still have hope for a better tomorrow. We can still hope, as Mormon tells us, on the mercies of Christ with that hope that "strengthens not slackens the spiritual spine.” Through this hope we can endure the trials and temptations of life and like the Prophet Ether we can do the work of the Lord "from the morning, even until the going down of the sun." It was Ether who taught us that "whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God, which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor to the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works, being led to glorify God (Ether 12:1-3)."

Hope is what gives us the strength to toil anonymously in the Kingdom of God knowing that in this life we have little hope of reward, but knowing with surety that a better world awaits. It is by hope that we remain anxiously engaged in following the example of the Master by going about doing good. It is by hope that we turn to the Lord, trusting that he will receive us no matter how many times we have fallen.

I testify that we can have hope in the redeeming power of Jesus Christ. He is the way, the truth, and the life. His way is the path that leads to happiness and eternal life. He does not abandon his faithful servants. Perhaps because these are trying times, I was led to read the final words of Mormon to his son Moroni. After reciting the horrible scenes of wickedness and death that surrounded them both, Mormon said this:

“My son, be faithful in Christ; and may not the things which I have written grieve thee, to weigh thee down unto death; but may Christ lift thee up, and may his sufferings and death, and the showing his body unto our fathers, and his mercy and long-suffering, and the hope of his glory and of eternal life, rest in your mind forever.”

Perspective and patience is required for our hope to be full. Christ has overcome this world and our joy may be anchored in Him and in the hope of his mercy and kindness and patience with us, his errant children.

There is always hope. There is virtually nothing we can do that will put ourselves outside the saving grace and mercy of Jesus Christ.

I am reminded of the poem by Myra B. Welch:

"Twas battered and scared, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar - now who"ll make it two _
Two dollars, and who"ll make it three?
"Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three". . . but no!
From the room far back a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet,
As sweet as an angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said: "What am I bidden for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow;
"A thousand dollars - and who'll make it two?
Two thousand - and who'll make it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice
And going - and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand -
What changed its worth?" The man replied:
"The touch of the masters hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and torn with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd.
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on,
He's going once, and going twice -
He's going - and almost gone!
But the MASTER comes, and the foolish crowd,
Never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul, and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the MASTER'S hand.

Do not give up. For those that struggle, do not give up. For those who find it easy, do not judge too quickly those for whom the path is not so simple. The infinite goodness and perfection of God is equally distant for all of us. It is when it is the darkest, when nothing remains, that we will find that one thing remains to us: hope.

We are all finite beings with struggles and challenges which we are called upon to bear. Why some struggle where some prosper is a mystery, but what is clear is that we all called to bear up with one another: to dry the tears of the sorrowful, to bear up the burdens of the heavily laden, to bind the wounds of the injured. It is a much graver sin to judge others in their weakness, than it is to combat, even unsuccessfully, our own failings. We are not promised relief from sorrow in this world, nor release from the temptations and the weaknesses that beset us. But, as C. S. Lewis said, you find out the strength of the German army by fighting it, not by surrendering. Every battle, even those we lose, can build strength in us and teach us hope.

We are not promised riches and easy days. What we are promised, however, is strength for the journey, peace in our hearts, and the hope that all will eventually be made right in the due time of the Lord. Jesus Christ as the only sinless person, is also the only person who know to perfection how to resist temptation. He has descended below all things becoming in his ignominious death, the lowliest of all and he has ascended above all things become master of all and so He encompasses all that lies between: the totality of our experiences both good and bad. He knows how to succor the weak and the tired, because He has felt more what it is to be weak and tired than we could bear, but His perfection was not compromised and his mastery is not diminished.

I do not know everything. In fact, the more I learn, the less I feel I know. However, I cannot deny my testimony of the Book of Mormon and of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I feel like Peter whom the Lord asked, after many disciples turned away from following Him, “Will ye also go away?” and Peter answered: “Lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life. And we believe and are sure that thou art that Christ, the Son of the living God.” This testimony binds me to this the Restored Church of Jesus Christ. I cannot go anywhere else, because despite the weakness of us, the membership, this Church has the words of Eternal Life. I hope and pray that I will continue to be humble enough to recognize this. Amen.

The Eloquence of Silence

I have been told many times that I have a certain eloquence, the reward of a lifetime of reading and observation of language and its uses. But words can get away and assume a life of their own. It is difficult to control words, once they are away from us; they can betray us and betray more and sometimes less than we intend them to. Sometimes they can say the opposite of what we mean, or, which is perhaps more perverse, they can take a course parallel to, but not quite identical with the thoughts in our mind.

Words are weapons, but they can also be a bulwark. Joseph Campbell, extending perhaps the line of thought from Max Weber on the linguistic origins of religion, argued that the poetic instinct in man has often been corrupted and the literalists among us have wrested the language until it has been broken of its original metaphoric meaning. Like any weapon, though, words can turn against their wielder and the seductive beauty of a well-wrought phrase can obscure any underlying incoherence. A graceful rhyme or alluring alliteration can bend us from rational discourse and lead us with their poetic sophistry down to error.

I went tonight to a gathering of young professionals who all share an interest in foreign relations and languages, particularly those of strategic importance to US foreign relations such as Arabic Chinese, Urdu, and so on. A co-worker, knowing my familiarity with Arabic, invited me. Though not without some small trepidation, I went. It was held at the Goethe Institut, a thoroughly Teutonic building of glass and steel and rectilinear forms where a pretty, blonde Fraulein ushered us up the stairs into a very modern lounge. The walls were covered with the most modern of art, an upside cross of florescent light and chrome where a man, presumably crucified on the cross of modernity, writhed in agony. Another was a photo of face so tightly zoomed in that only a wisp of hair and the suggestion of an eye could be seen.

But the attendees paid little attention to the decor. They were there to sell, see, and be seen. Each person wore a tag that listed name, area of interest and current occupation or studies. It was like speed dating for a leg up or a foot in. I met Pervez Sheikh of Pakistan, Maha Al-Sheikh of Sudan, Hsiang-Chiang of Taiwan, James from Maryland. Each had a story and 30 second sound bite well-prepared and breathlessly spoken. It generally ran something like this:

"Good evening, [fill in blank], how are you tonight? So, where are you working now? [Await response] That's fascinating, I was just listening to NPR the other day and they were mentioning [regale them with story marginally related to their field, await return question]. Me? I study [fill in blank]/work at [fill in blank]. I've study [insert language here] [x number] of years. I did my graduate work at [fill in blank] studying the relationship of the factors that contribute to the build-up of tensions following the end of the cold war and the rise of the unipolar world under the US and how that affects policy-making in an increasingly interconnected world characterized by the democratization of information access coupled with the increase of non-state actors on the international scene."

That works for just about everyone. I was stunned to silence by the vacuity of it all. And yet, it works, for those that know the system. I am not among them, for sadly my eloquence rarely extends to the spoken realm particularly in large crowds of predators. I mingled unobtrusively and eavesdropped on the selling of souls half envious and half disdainful of the golden-tongued in this arena. The sweat and acrid smell of the cheap wine and emptiness of the words left be swooning, so after forty-five minutes I left pondering what I had just seen.

I then walked down to the Chinatown Metro and got on the train bound for Fort Totten, remembering only after the train was pulling away from the station that I had driven that morning and so needed to take the Green line. However, I could still transfer and so at the next transfer station, I exited and went down to the Green line platform just in time to watch the train pull out leaving me with ten minutes and no free seats.

A man carrying a placard walked up, by the look on his face, a look that spoke of being lost, I knew he was an out-of-towner. He asked if this was the train to Glenmont, I replied that it was. Then turning back to my paper, I made the error of ever so slightly glancing toward the posters that were now resting angled against his leg. They were, based on their slogans, for a pro-life rally. He noticed my noticing and immediately began telling me about the rally set for Friday at the Supreme Court. I mentioned that over the years I had seen the rallies before, typically hundreds of Catholic school students and the most ardent of the pro-life protesters. Seeing my government ID badge, he told that every year, 54,000 potential taxpayers, potential Americans were murdered in the name of convenience.

I gave him little to work with and so he began to work the crowd. To the African-American gentlemen behind me, he began to speak about the history of pro-abortion movement and its early ties with eugenicists. Margaret Sanger, the near sainted founder of Planned Parenthood had, he told the crowd, wanted to use abortions and forced sterilizations to wipe out the Negro race. It was a silent genocide against Blacks, killing more young blacks every year than heart disease, AIDS, or guns.

"Bullshit," yelled a man from behind me. We all turned toward the diminutive, bearded curser. "I'm for a women's right to choose and I can't stand here listening to this shit."

"There are ladies present," replied the first.

"They're adults," the second man said, "And I say a thing like it is and this is bullshit. You stand there spreading this crap around trying to manipulate these people. I'm for a women's right to choose."

"Come over here and let me show some of the evidence I have: letters in Margaret Sanger's own handwriting where she states she wants to cleanse the slums of ill-bread Negroes and other minorities. Let me play for you a recording of the planned parenthood donation service that lets you donate money according to the race of the child to be killed. It is genocide against blacks."

"That has got nothing to do with anything. I could say Hitler was for abortion, but even if he was, it wouldn't matter, cause I'm for women's rights and a women has a right to choose. I don't need evidence to tell me how I feel about that!"

The conversation died down and a tense silence filled the void. I sat back and could only listen. It was a marvel to me. Two people, both so very right in their own minds. I have spoken before at length about logic and reason. I am an acolyte of logic and an adherent of reason, but I know that these are poor deities. They are merely shells for organizing information and relating it. I could believe that I were the Banana King of Elbonia and still be a logical person. So it seems a marvel to me that people ever communicate with one another -- taking it on faith that they do.

As I watched these combative interlocutors, I wondered about what was in their minds. I thought about the words they were using: murder, children, genocide, right, choice, freedom. They are all words filled with powerful and emotive meanings and all, in this case, used for the same real world referent. Would a rose, Juliet asked, still smell as sweet were it called by any other name? A rose is a rose unless it isn't. Were I all-powerful and could make rose mean cesspool and cesspool rose, what then would change? Would the rose still smell as sweet?

Humans so easily attach emotions to words. The scant dictionary definitions do little justice to the life of a word and the emotional link it has in the minds of its speakers. This link is so deep that it becomes difficult to change later in life. No matter what I learn about certain words that are offensive in German or Arabic, they have no impact for me, not like a good English curse word. So in my little drama, I was watching a battle of wills, seeing who could more successfully connect a word with an deed and thus effect the end they are after: to rally people to their cause. I realized, too, why it seems easier for the anti-crowd -- regardless of what they are against, Abortion, war, discrimination, etc. -- to label the deed. Negative emotions are powerful motivators, perhaps even more so than positive ones. I might not be willing to extend great effort to do something that will make me happy, but I'm much better at avoiding things that make me depressed, though this sometimes results in an existential paralysis but that should be saved for another blog.

Our train finally came and I rode to my end station with the other occupants of car 3. All in tense, but laden silence. I disembarked and drove home in the drizzle of rain and sleet and snow which splattered and clung to my car. What a perfect storm for such a moment. An in-between storm that cannot decide what precipitation it wants and so dumps it all. Man is a liminal creature, always between, rarely just being. Alexander Pope opined that we are rude creatures trapped in a middle state, more than the lowly beast, but lowlier than the Gods and so we are left to doubt and to fear and to hope ever at war with the beast and the angel that define our betweenness. We are eternally inchoate, always becoming. This contains, however, the seed of our hope for we can become tomorrow something better than we are today.

What an odd creature is man! Always after more, yet never satisfied by the owning, only by the acquiring; always searching but so rarely satisfied by an answer. A brute now and an angel here again. We make war, we build churches, we murder, we lie, we love, we sacrifice. We so want to connect with others and yet we so often become so wrapped up in what we are saying that we don't listen to what others are saying. We hear, but we don't listen -- though we are quick to note when others don't listen to us! All my experiences of this evening have reinforced this this impression in me. The ladder-climbing yuppies and the verbal combatants at the train station all heard one another, but I'm not sure they listened. They were so busy knowing that they could not understand.

I See America

I can see America. It is a ceaseless striving for something else. From points east in little colonies they came, some for freedom, many for profit; some to start over and some to escape. Their impulses are as diverse as their stories and their names. They spread out following rivers and deer trails in trickles and drips until the tide became a flood sweeping over mountains and plains driving ever west and up out across the land and the seas. They broke the boundaries of clans, tribes, nations, nature, and space to reach out and touch the stars. This is America, the never ending yearning, a restlessness to be ever moving.

I love this place, its land, its people. It is my home. Whereever I go around this globe, I feel the pull of the land on me. I feel my home here in American, the mountains of the West and I am a descendant of all her peoples, the white and the black, the settler and the Indian, the robber-baron and the union-man.

Greed and lust are as American as freedom and cannot easily be separated from her virtues. The same passion that drives America's innovations and technology, drives America's fracturing and atomization. Natural orders come as interconnected systems.

I can see the hate beginning to boil. The divisions that underlie our strength are fractured under stress. It begins as a rumor. One group has betrayed us. One of us is Un-American and it spreads like a flame. They are repeated so many times that the rumors become fact in the popular imagination. The economy worsens and one side turns against the betrayers and drives them out to restore the purity of their system. It convulses and from virtue it forges vice.

If ever we believe that we cannot become like this, then we become at most risk of falling. Pride goeth before the fall.

I see America is all her glory and in all her infamy and I am in love with both. I am full of hope, but I am full, too, of fear for her.

Truth Will Out

I have been vindicated ... or at least affirmed/supported, etc. This week in the New York Times there appeared an article entitled "The Americanization of Mental Illness," by Ethan Watters. Watters argues that American (and, indeed, Post-Freudian, Western concepts of mental illness) are taking over the world reshaping the way others see mental health. Indeed, my very vocabulary here betrays my upbringing -- mental illness. Such a concept is ultimately a metaphor, the carrying over of the concept of physical illness to mental issues. I have treated this issue extensively in some of my earlier postings.

This article, however, comes at the issue from the angle of cultural hegemony. I might say cultural imperialism, as some have used, but to me that word evokes an intentional colonization of the world by some central empire, whereas the U.S. and the West merely have economic superiority and hence their cultural values come in tandem with the economics. It is the same as what happened during the Islamization of the Middle East. Unlike the Crusaders or the Conquistadors, the Muslim conquerers never (almost never) forced their subjects to convert. In deed, because non-Muslims generally paid higher taxes, some Muslim rulers forbade or limited conversions to stabilize revenue.

But I digress. Humans are terrible at understanding the grand causes. We continually misconstrue everything around us. And so when we see the economic ascendancy of a power, we seek desperately to attribute it to some simple cause. We, as a species, hate chance. Hence, I have little hope of every ending conspiracy theorists. It is human nature to see some grand pattern in chaos. Thus we readily adopt wholesale the Weltanschauung of another, be it a celebrity or a dominant superpower.

It is the native shortsightedness of man that draws us to proximate causes rather than searching for ultimate ones. Thus we find magic and superstitions common throughout the world. As Frazer noted long ago in The Golden Bough, we see connections and like affects like.

As I read this article I thought not only about what I have written on the subject, but also about Michel Foucault's History of Madness which looks at insanity as the modern version of leprosy. Whereas ancient societies divided the world in the clean and unclean, the ritually pure and the impure, the modern world, beginning with the Enlightenment, divides the world into ration and irrational. In this new paradigm, the supposed irrational soul falls outside the societal norm.

I say supposed, because in my estimation, many "insane" individuals are supremely rational. Let us remember that logic is merely a tool; it is not knowledge in and of itself. It organizes and derives, but it does not create knowledge. It is dependent upon a priori facts. The irrational soul of today merely has a different set of "facts." Whether they are true or not is here irrelevant, for logical validity is not the same as truthfulness.

I have discussed all these points earlier and end here by saying that we err when we judge others given how little we know and while I feel it is inevitable, I am bothered by the incessant need to categorize people and things. I a Hedgehog, to use Isaiah Berlin's phrase, because I seek to bind all things into one glorious whole and yet I see the multiplicity of the world and fear to impose some grand and glorious schema on the chaos about me.

And yes, I'm fully aware of both points of irony and/or self-contradiction in that last paragraph, but I don't care.

Dating, Career Choices, and Personal Defects

Different jobs attract different kinds of flawed specimens of humanity. We are all flawed, of course, beset with our own neuroses, but we flock together according to certain interests. For example, I used to work in the non-profit sector which attracts people with more passion than sense.  The result is waste and constantly conflicting arguments about values and justice.  There is conflict, high highs, low lows, screaming, crying, and every emotion in between.  People attracted to non-profit work love to feel their emotions.  

I now work in an environment where my particular neurosis are more at home: the library.  Librarians love order and hate conflict.  They value knowledge, eschew confrontation and, for most, overt competition.  This produces an atmosphere of passive-aggresiveness and back-biting where people snipe at others reputations, act polite to one another in person, but oppose and obstruct in secret.

You can tell a lot about a person by the job they choose (not necessarily by what job they are doing, but what job they would choose).  This should be considered in dating, because i come to realize that the important thing in dating is not to find the person whose positive traits are your ideals, but rather, find the person who does NOT have the flaws you cannot stand.  You can learn to live with anything else and learn to love.  

I think the trick in life is first of all: Never give up. A person can change and grow for the better, but it takes time and lots of it; second: recognize that things will never be perfect, ever! The trick is to learn what you absolutely cannot stand and learn to love the rest. It works for dating as well. When dating a person, figure out if they have anything you could not tolerate under any circumstances. If they don't, you can learn to love the rest.

The Pearl: Chapter One

The following is the first chapter of a novel I am writing.  I'm offering it as a serial while I write both to stoke my ego and to get feedback.  I would like to hear from everyone who reads it would you keep reading, is it dragging (hopefully not in chapter one), is it boring, etc. etc.  Happy reading.

~The Author

Chapter One: The Singer and Prophetess

The tiny craft was no more than a drop amid the immensity of the turbulent waves.  It seemed to sit still in the chaos of sea mixing with sky as the mountains of water rose and fell beneath it.  The boat’s narrow, low profile meant that water easily breached the sides and only the feverish fury of the men kept the gaping sea at bay.  Four men handled the oars but could do no more than aid the helmsman steer into the rising crest to ensure they met the wave head on and were not overtaken.  The remaining crew bailed the water with helmets, boxes, buckets and quiet prayers to the spirits of the sea.  Only the helmsmen wore a face of stolid confidence as he shouted orders only to find the words torn from his mouth and swallowed by the storm. 

It did not matter that they could not hear their captain; the crew knew what needed to be done to stay alive.  They tossed what could be spared and steered into the waves that rose and fell with mechanical regularity.  They rode up the mountain and tipping at its crest they fell into the trough where the sea opened like the jaws of a beast to engulf them. 

The wind howled, the water boiled, and the blood of the men ran red on their limbs.  In the momentary gloaming of the lightening, the predators of the sea appeared silhouetted in the mounting and falling waves.  At times, they floated ominously above the men as the ship sank in the waves, but as the bronze sprit was buried in the bottom of each trench, the sea and her angry gods claimed another sailor and soon only three remained clutching the ship with any further hope of helming her.

The tiny ship was now given over to the elements.  On board, the remaining crewmen were surrounded by water and wind and blood that stained the ocean surface and drew the predators closer.  All but the captain stared down, not daring to see their coming deaths, but hoping where there was no hope to avoid their crewmates’ fate. 

The ship rode up the monstrous wave and hesitated at the precipice of the yawning gulf before spilling down the wave where the sea floor awaited them.  It crashed into the exposed reef, shuddered, and splintered.  One man was impaled on the rugged rocks and where he sank as the sea rose.  His blood reddened the water, but the sharks dared not come here where land and sea and sky mingled threateningly.  The two survivors clung to the flotsam and jetsam and rode the next wave which pulsed toward the tar black land.  The waves rose faster and broke in shimmering foam and surf that surged forward dragging the men under and throwing them forward once more in its relentless agony. 

In the tumult, one more body was dragged under and did not reappear.  Only one was tossed ashore, the sea and sailor both spent from their labors.  The storm moved on and the sea quieted to a gentle rhythm.  Each rumble of thunder moved farther and farther afield until, at the horizon, it melted away.

*     *     *

 The little village on the bay looked as it had since their ancestors had first settled here between the sheer red cliffs and the opalescent sea.  The shelters were sturdy, but pliant, as were the people.  Each house consisted of a stone and mortar foundation, which the village as whole helped to construct whenever a new one was needed, but the upper portion, including the roof, was made of reeds and poles and the leaves of Taytay tree which grew nearby. 

As the storm abated, the men of the village emerged, leaving their families and livestock inside, to inspect any damage and to consult on needed repairs.  There had been worse storms, as the Singer reminded them, when the whole village was destroyed and every stone overthrown, but this storm had done only superficial damage to the houses, but the real danger was the crops. 

The elders consulted, and after the Singer sang about other storms and what the Brave Ones had done during them, it was decided that the he would take the young boys to the shore to collect the best Taytay leaves to re-weave the walls so he could show the youth the best ones to select and how best to prepare them.  The remaining elders would inspect the fields and determine if any lasting damage needed to be addressed for this was still spring and the plants were tender, but there was still time to replant if necessary.

The Singer’s name was Ghaysan.  He sang the songs of how Antar had killed the demon Tamar and from his blood he made the life-giving sea, from his flesh the fertile earth and from his bones the protecting cliffs that kept the fearsome raiders out.   The raiders were Elat’s children, too, but born of his bile instead of his tears and were demons who in the dark could make themselves like smoke.  But Elat’s favor fell on the people of the village, because he had given them knowledge of how to hunt, how to grow food, and what plants could calm fever and ease illness.  He taught them what plants were good to eat and what to do when the rains came. 

It was the singer who remembered this wisdom and Ghaysan was renowned, not only in his village, but for many miles around for his knowledge of the Days of the Brave Ones and how they made the world safe from demons who spat fire and gathered the children of Elat for his slaves, but Antar had made them free and given them knowledge obtained from Elat and his Daughters with which he founded the village and drove out the dangerous boar and the wild raiders banishing them behind the bones of Tamar.  Antar tamed the river and taught the people knowledge of Elat and what plants to grow and how to build houses. 

Often elders came from other villages to consult with Ghaysan about their troubles.  He would listen as he and the elders sipped teas and then he would sing the songs.  Once a tribe came because a plague was killing their young children.  All the other tribes would not let them in, but Ghaysan knew it was okay.  He listened to their tales and then retreated to the cave in the red cliffs where he sang to Elat.  Then Elat’s servant, his Daughter Tahi came and sang him a new song about the hero Tayza who had saved his village from an angry spirit that lived in the spring.  Realizing that he could not overpower the demon in the well, he sealed it off and placed stones there with powerful enchantments and dug a new well farther up stream.  The plague never recurred.  Ghaysan sang this song to the visiting elders and they concluded that they must do as Tayza had done and when they had finished their work, the plague stopped.

Ghaysan took the boys with him to show them how to select the best leaves and poles for their homes.  He told them to look for the straightest poles and not to disturb the younger ones in their play so that these could grow and be used later. 

As they walked, a young boy named Mahur brought something strange.  It was hard like a rock and sharp like a spearhead, but smooth like a fired pot.  He had seen such things before from traders and travelers who occasionally happened on the village, but few outsiders save those from neighboring villages ever came to Antar’s cove.

“Uncle,” Mahur cried, “I found more of them over their by the cove.”  He led the old Singer to the debris which lay scattered along the tidal zone where small waves lapped gently.  Ghaysan looked closely at each piece which looked shattered from the storm.  Bits of wood and cloth lay along the length of the bay.  He picked them up, examining each in turn.  It was, he thought, a boat from one of the traders who occasionally sailed by, but who never stopped at the little village in the nestled cove.  The sheer cliffs and the prominent reef kept all but the smallest ships from entering and none of those who could ever tried. 

He searched for larger pieces that could be used around the village: a large block of wood to repair a house, more smooth spear-like objects for hunting.  He called the young men to him.

“My sons, Elat has given us this bounty to compensate for the storm.  We must gather it up and take it to our village.”  They began to search the shore and placed all the useful objects in a large woven blanket to carry back.  There were large square pieces of wood, others that were narrow and smooth like reed poles.  There was cloth woven so tight that Ghaysan thought it could hold water if needed. It was soft like a new leaf and the Singer could only see the web and the weft when he held it up to the light.  As he ambled along the rocks and the sand, he found a curious piece.  It was smooth and hard like the spear-like items they had found, but was more like the idols in the Cave.  He examined it closely.  It was the size of the palm of his hand and had on one end two circles that interlocked.  Each circle had spines that protruded on one side.  Below that was a single eye with lines that radiated from around it.  Below that was a disc surrounded by wavy lines.  There were two long poles on either side like palm trees without leaves and below all that were scratches.

He placed the totem in the leather pouch he always carried with him and continued searching.  The boys continued to bring more and more items, many, Ghaysan thought, of no real value, but they needed to learn.  Out beyond a large rock that protruded into the bay a voice rang out:

"Uncle, uncle!”  It was Tamam’s son, Tamamhah, a young boy not 10 years of age.  Ghaysan turned and despite his many years, ran with his shuffled gate. 

“My son, what is it?  Why do you yell?” 

“Uncle, I have found a man.”

“A man?”

“Yes, uncle.  Mahur thinks he is dead, but I do not think he is dead.  I think he is alive, but sleeping.”

“Show him to me.”

"Yes, uncle.”

Tamamhah lead him along until they reached a smooth stretch of beach bestrewn with shattered bits of wood as well as seaweed and other items tossed up on the shore by the storm.  In the middle of the beach, and so covered in sea weed, moss, and blood as to be unrecognizable as a man from far away, was a figure surrounded by prodding boys all crouched on their haunches to inspect him. 

“Away with you young scamps! Away!” cried Ghaysan.  They scattered obediently and Ghaysan drew up close.  The body was covered and where skin did show through it was purple and blue from the mass of bruising and blood.  Ghaysan rolled the figure onto his back and saw that he was naked.  He looked young, not nineteen years, but he did not have a beard save for a few wisps of growth such as young boys have.  Kneeling down and leaning over him, Ghaysan placed an ear to the man’s bruised and bloodied chest.  It was indistinct and muted, but he heard a heart and felt the chest rise. 

“He is alive, young fools.  Bring me the cloth, we can return later for the leaves and the wood.  Elat has sent this man to us and we must help him.”

The boys ran and returned quickly carrying the large cloth among them.  In their absence, Ghaysan cleared the moss and kelp from the man’s body carefully examining his wounds.  Under the dried moss that clung to his body were cuts and gashes where there waves had tumbled him against the rocks and the coral.  Small stones and debris were lodged in many of the wounds.  He would not treat them here, but would bring him to Amamah, the Prophetess.  She had outlived all her children and lived now with her grandchildren who had children of their own and while Elat had taken much of her vision and left her wrinkled and stooped, he had given her wisdom to heal.

Together with the older boys who could be trusted to be gentle, Ghaysan rolled the man, whom the boys were called Lammam, or, the man from the sea, onto the cloth.  As each who could lifted from a corner, they raised him up and carried him to the village while the younger boys scampered around and shouted:

“Lammam, we have a Lammam!  Come see what we have found.  Elat has sent a man to us from the sea!” 

The curious came from the homes and fields and before they reached the house of Amamah, nearly the whole village was accompanying them. 

“What is this noise?!” cried old Amamah from within.  “I am old and while Elat has taken my sight, he has left me my hearing and you should leave me my peace!”

“But Grandmother,” replied a young boy, “Ghaysan has found a Lammam.”

“A Lammam?  There is no such thing, foolish boy.  Men come from the earth, birds from the air, fish from sea.  Men do not come from the sea.”

“Grandmother has spoken the truth, but nevertheless, Ghaysan has found a man who is in need of your skill.”

“I will see him,” she replied simply and reached out her arm to lean on the young boy.  She walked with careful steps, her glassy eyes looking nowhere, but seeing many things in her memory. 

“Old Amamah,” said Ghaysan when he reached the small home she shared with her grandson, “Elat has sent us a guest.” 

“Bring him in.” Amamah said, and turned around letting Ghaysan follow her.  She began to run her fingers along his skin.  “He is filthy.  You did not clean him, Ghaysan.  You never clean anything.  Old Tayma when she lived was always cleaning up after you while you sang songs and saw visions.  What good are visions, foolish Ghaysan, if you cannot do anything for yourself?”

“Do not argue now, old woman.  We have a guest.”

With the young men’s help, they carried the sleeping sailor into the hut.  Amamah quickly turned and with sudden energy she drove the men from the house to the waiting crowds.  The presence of someone in need of her help had energized her and she seemed years younger.  

The Singer and the youth joined the waiting crowd, only Amamah’s granddaughter, Narah, remained to assist.  The entire village was drawn out by the news of something different.  Already this week was memorable because of the storm, but a stranger was always cause for great excitement and led to people abandoning the hard work of survival and necessity.

Inside, Old Amamah quickly shuttered the few windows and lit the turtle wax candles which cast a flickering glow.  She breathed deeply the aromatic scent that smelled of fats and the oils she had added to the wax. Narah was set to work wiping the wounds and skin with a damp cloth that had been soaked in water and myrtle oil.  Amamah went hastily but carefully about her work arranging by memory the tools of her trade.  In the east, where his head was pointed, she placed a drum on which she had, many years before, painted her healing vision of the Great Fathers and Mothers of her people.  This would draw forth visions and dreams and help her see how to heal.  Toward the west, to the direction of his legs, she placed totems of Elat and Marid with horrible, twisting faces that writhed in pain and horror.  This would scare the demons as they left and drive them far away.  On either side she placed a small row of dried, powered Taytay leafs mixed with the root of Zam plant and, for scent, several aromatic flowers.  These would channel the spirits.  This done, she knelt at his head and, placing her hands on his head, she looked toward the sky and began to chant.

“O Grandmothers, make me see his pain

O Grandfathers, make me hear his hurt.”

She repeated this over and over again until they ceased to be words, but became a series of sounds and silences.  She felt them as they slid out over her tongue, between her teeth and across her lips and she let herself follow them until she left her body and her spirit walked in the shadowland with the stranger.  She could see him, lost in a great wilderness, bewildered and afraid.  He turned hurriedly in ever direction, but stumbled only a few feet through the parched and dying shrubbery before turning around.  The land was vast as eternity but empty of every feature save the desiccated plant life.  Every horizon burned the red of an approaching dawn, but it never came closer.

Eventually the man quieted down and collapsed to the ground.  Old Amamah, now her youthful self in vision with long, sleek black hair and deep honey-colored eyes, drew closer to him.

“Child,” she said, cradling his head, “do not worry.  Old Amamah is here to help you.  Tell me who you are.” 

The young man, now free of wounds, looked at Old Amamah with sorrowful eyes that welled with tears.  He seemed to age before her getting weaker and weaker.

“I am lost,” he said.  “And no one can show me the way.”  He looked away toward the far horizon.  In her hands, she felt him grow colder.

“What is that you are seeking?  I can help you find your way.”

“I must find the one wise to show me the pearl.  Only he can fight the dragon and take me home again.”

As he said this, he grew quiet and limp in her arms.  About her the world was melting into nothingness and even the figure of the young boy grew less and less substantial until Old Amamah found herself sitting on the floor of her hut.  She arose and began to clean and dress the wounds.

Writing as Meditation and Prayer

I have lately found it very difficult to write.  Every word has been a chore and my once verbose fluidity has run dry.  There was a time when I wrote constantly.  I wrote poetry, essays, short stories, treatments for future novels, etc.  However, for the last couple of years I have been beset by both an intense need to write and a dread fear.  

For me, it is only in writing that I can feel myself free and open.  When I speak, unless it is from prepared remarks or unless it is around one of the very few persons in whose presence I feel comfortable, talking can be torturous.  The words come ajumble spilling across my tongue and tripping indelicately over my teeth only to pratfall at my lips.  Perhaps I have too high of standards for my communication; I despise idle chatter and small talk, though I recognize that it serves a social function not discernible from its vacuity of content.  It is the interstitial adhesive of social interactions.  

Writing is my meditation and my prayer (hence the name of my blog).  I have, at times, actually written my prayers in the form of poetry.  Meditation is at the its most basic organized, directed, sustained thought and as such is the basis of all prayer and writing.  It is perhaps for this reason that I have found writing so difficult lately.  Mark Twain, that divine agnostic, wrote that, "you can't pray a lie."  I find it diffult to write a lie.  That is not to say that I don't write fiction, merely that I must write honestly and when I find a blockage, I do not write lies, I simply stop writing, I stop meditation, I stop praying.  It is a damnable sin to tell a lie, but is a damning sin to lie to oneself.  It warps your soul and leaves bare the conscience of the sinner.

It was Abraham Lincoln who said that we must trust that Right will make Might; that from righteousness will come power.  This is echoed in the Doctrine and Covenants where we read that from virtue arises confidence and here is power.  There are those who can with great flippancy marshall words to defend any cause.  I admire the flexibility of that talent, but for me, I can only express myself when I say what I utterly feel and for some time now I have felt unable to be honest with myself and hence unable to write.  I have, instead, attempted to sate myself with TV and books hoping against hope to drown out my thoughts with the thoughts of others, to deaden beyond feeling my spiritual sense.  But this is a failure and I am a victim of my own fears.  

But the impulse remains.  For fear of self honesty I hide from it; though it compels me day after day.  I find myself composing in my mind on the train, on the street, thoughts of brutal honesty and sometimes sublime insight.  I rework them again and again, but too often I lose them to the ether.  How I wish I had the courage to write what is bursting within me, but it is too easy find an excuse.  It is not difficult to bound between two poles, for how can I justify writing when have so many other responsibilities weighing upon me?  Yet I am weighed down in inaction by fear.

O if only I had a muse!  The times when I had someone to write for have been my most productive for, to paraphrase Tom Stoppard, writers publish publically what others think privately.  I am not sure as to whether I am a "good" writer or not, but I am not a consistent one.  My words are pretty, but my pages are a mess.  My ideas come not in verbs or phrases, but in pictures, in wholes, in blind yearnings for a way to match what I see and feel.  In my meditations, my tantric mantra is the steading tap-tapping of the keys.  But for the last couple of years the visions and the images have been blurred, the yearnings confused, and the wholes dislocated.  There is a blockage, a Pauline thorn with which I have lived now for so long that I am afraid to remove it for fear that once gone, I will be all out of excuses.