This morning I heard the drum roll. Across the street men and women gathered in front of the Civil War monument in front of the library. I joined them to honor all who have died in war. All—our service people as well as theirs; our civilians, as well as theirs. I just don’t get war; maybe if I could understand guns, I could. Too late: I’m too old to be anything up a pacifist.
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Recently a friend told me that her middle aged daughter is suffering from some serious reoccurring medical problems. We talked, I commiserated, but toward the end of our conversation, she said something to the effect that she is in a place of peace regardless of how the situation continues. What a place to be! Peace regardless: peace in the midst of concern as well as joy. This friend has chosen a spiritual lens through which to lead her life. I say chosen, because it is her choice, her choice to be hopeful, intentional, and realistic. She takes care of her physical needs, knowing that what she has and does now is temporary. She lives her emotional and spiritual life in that liminal space between heaven (the unknown) and earth (the known), which is where, she is demonstrating, inner peace resides. Dear Martin Luther King, Jr., How do we do this? Could it just be that we all are all oppressors? “The non-violent approach does not immediately change the heart of the oppressor. It first does something to the hearts and souls of those committed to it. It gives them a new self-respect; it calls up resources of strength and courage that they did not know they had. Finally, it reaches the opponent and so stirs his conscience that reconciliation becomes a reality.” After taking a look at the debates last night, it came to me that my call is to be peaceful and positive in thought, word, and deed. Maybe one of the most important gift we older people offer to the world is to live our life with a peaceful mind, few words, and carefully selected deeds. Of course this is not way of politicians. And then there is the age problem. Many standing there on the stage were old (will be the same for the Democrats). Many would be celebrating their 70th birthday in the White House. 70 isn’t old for some things, but I think it is for a president. I understand politicians have to talk, but do wish they could ponder the quote by Robert Benchley from www.gratefulness.org that I put on this blog yesterday. “Drawing on my fine command of the language, I said nothing.” Enough. I will say nothing more. I’ve mentioned before that I’ve pretty much chosen to stay away from the news, and particularly from politics. It isn’t easy as the presidential primary in the state just north of us is heating up, and as the debates have started. I watched the other night, telling myself that I needed a ‘visual’ of what was going on. I was disappointed on two levels. I was disappointed at the cynicism, rancor, rudeness, and negativity of some of the candidates. I was disappointed that the needs of the poor and disenfranchised were dismissed or framed only in legal terms. I was disappointed that these privileged men (and one woman) couldn’t show compassion, empathy or understanding for what it is like to be without health insurance, or the means to earn enough to live on. I was disappointed that there was no talk about gun control. I was disappointed at the subtle, and not so subtle racism and sexism. Although I wasn’t disappointed in my opinions, I was disappointed that I allowed my buttons to be pushed. How do I, who longs for silence, solitude and simplicity, want to respond as democracy plays itself out in the next fifteen months? For a start, and perhaps a finish, I don’t want to make cynical, rancorous, rude, or negative comments about a candidate. How about taking the log out of my own eye, and then, if I can’t speak politely, lovingly, and positively, keeping silent. I’ve picked up If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit, a gem of a book by Brenda Ueland (1891-1985) that I put down for two months before I went to Scotland and became involved in family and Camp Fisher activities. Now my life is my own again and I’m settling into my home version of solitude, and into my writing.. I love Ueland’s message, blunt and unconventional. Just listen to this! “But the great artists like Michelangelo and Blake and Tolstoi—like Christ whom Blake called an artist because he had one of the most creative imaginations that every was on earth—do not want security, egoistic or materialistic. Why, it never occurs to them….So they dare to be idle, i.e., not to be pressed and duty driven all the time. They dare to love people even when they are very bad, and they dare not to try and dominate others to show them what they must do for their own good. For great and creative men know what is best for every man is his own freedom so that his imagination can grow in it’s own way, even if that way, to you or to me, or to policemen or churchgoers, seems very bad indeed.” That’s enough to ponder for the rest of the summer, or year, or a lifetime. Of course we’re not all great artists, but that’s not the point. We all have a creativity, imagination, spirit, whatever you want to call it, to nurture and express, even if only to ourselves. What resonates with me is the permission Ueland’s gives me, all of us, to be idle, to be free from the duties that we feel the rest of the world is pressing on us. In that idleness, experienced in solitude, we are free, free to create, but also free to let go of the judgments we have about other people. When I dare take the counter-cultural stance and go to the cottage or travel alone, I satisfy my own good. It may appear selfish, but I think of it as being honest, which is essential for inner peace, and that I dare to assert is the ultimate goal of all of us.. Where do the memories of my artist dad fit into all of this? As my sister said at the gallery opening of his work, Dad was disciplined. It’s a given that to be good at anything we have to practice. But Dad also took time to be idle. Again I’m reminded of all those times when I would see him sitting in a chair in the woods. Sometimes he had a sketchbook with him, but my recollection is that he just sat. I wish I could ask him what he was thinking, what his process was. But maybe the memory of him ‘perched’ there as I, absorbed in my play, ran by, is enough. Dad and I, both in our imaginations, working things out. Dad, the grownup, thinking. Me, the active ten-year old, active, my thoughts and actions working simultaneously. Now, sixty years later, I’m more in my head although I get many of my best thoughts while walking. Regardless, whether sitting or walking, I am idle and alone. Yesterday morning. along with the snow, my internet access returned. Actually, I was looking forward to one of those snow days of old with no internet until I remembered what that entailed—no power and a roaring fireplace tended by my dad. So I accepted the internet convenience, knowing that I didn’t have to click on. Of course it didn’t turn out that way. I found the snow rather disquieting, although all was silent. Snow, zero visibility, more snow. Silence, as in void. My hyperactive self kept shifting gears, from low to high, from sitting, to knitting, to reading, to puzzling, to writing, to shoveling, and yes, to ‘internetting’. As always, today is a new day. The void is filled with peaceful silence; middle gear is set and I’m going for a walk. I meant to post this yesterday, but not to worry, the New Year has just begun and undoubtedly we will all need a little help throughout the year. So, whether you have weight deadening on your shoulders, or you are feeling the clarity of light, take this blessing for yourself and send it out to others. Beannacht (Irish Blessing) On the day when the weight deadens on your shoulders and you stumble, may the clay dance to balance you. And when your eyes freeze behind the grey window and the ghost of loss gets in to you, may a flock of colours, indigo, red, green, and azure blue come to awaken in you a meadow of delight. When the canvas frays in the currach of thought and a stain of ocean blackens beneath you, may there come across the waters a path of yellow moonlight to bring you safely home. May the nourishment of the earth be yours, may the clarity of light be yours, may the fluency of the ocean be yours, may the protection of the ancestors be yours. And so may a slow wind work these words of love around you, an invisible cloak to mind your life. beannacht John O'Donohue The story of Socrates and ‘The Three Sieves’ is posted all over the internet, source unknown. What if everyone performed the simple ‘Three Sieves Test’ before speaking out? Many possibilities, but for sure the world would be a more peaceful and silent place. Once upon a time in ancient Greece, one of the acquaintances of the great philosopher Socrates came up to him and said: “Socrates, do you know what I just heard about one of your students?” “Hold on a moment,” Socrates replied. “Before you tell me, I would like to perform a simple test. It is called the ‘Three Sieves Test.’ ” “The ‘Three Sieves Test?’ ” “Yes. Before you say a word about my student, take a moment to reflect carefully on what you wish to say by pouring your words through three special sieves.” “The first sieve is the Sieve of Truth. Are you absolutely sure, without any doubt, that what you are about to tell me is true?” “Well, no, I’m not. Actually I heard it recently and…” “Alright,” interrupted Socrates. “So you don’t really know whether it is true or not. Then let us try the second sieve: the Sieve of Goodness. Are you going to tell me something good about my student?” “Well…no,” said his acquaintance. “On the contrary…” “So you want to tell me something bad about him,” questioned Socrates, “even though you are not certain if it is true or not?” “Err…” “You may still pass the test though,” said the Socrates, “because there is a third sieve: the Sieve of Usefulness. Is what you want to tell me about my student going to be useful to me?” “No. Not so much.” said the man resignedly. Finishing the lesson, Socrates said: “Well, then, if what you want to tell me is neither true nor good nor useful, why bother telling me at all?” I live in a country-like suburb about twenty-five miles from Boston: farm land during colonial times. Word has it that Sudbury encompasses the largest landmass in the Commonwealth. As I’ve shown on previous blogs, the walks I take from my house are quite idyllic, so you might conclude that they are also quiet. I don’t want to exaggerate the noise but suffice to say, I’ve given up counting the number of lawn-care and garbage (excuse me, waste-removal) trucks that chug past me. Thank goodness, at least for the safety of walkways. A quiet walking spot, however, is the expansive cemetery just beyond the Unitarian Church at the town center. I go there with a friend whose husband is buried close to a tree that the family planted. It is a peaceful place for both of us. While my friend sits and remembers, I walk and remember—friends, spouses of friends, a dear teaching colleague, and a second grade student. Sad for me but seemingly peaceful for those buried there. Strange how that is! Flowers along my cemetery walk |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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