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For my Son, himself a divinely loving father … of whom I am very proud and for whom I am so grateful.

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They ate the little mushrooms together with the beans and drank tea and had tinned pears for their dessert. He banked the fire against the seam of rock where he’d built it and he’d strung the tarp behind them to reflect the heat and they sat warm in their refuge while he told the boy stories.  Old stories of courage and justice as he remembered them until the boy was asleep in his blankets and then he stoked the fire and lay down warm and full and listened to the low thunder of the falls beyond them in the dark and threadbare wood.

Cormac McCarthy, in The Road

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A father loves the son in divine dimension.

It is Sunday.  We are given Sunday so we might ask if we love as the Father?

In the best of moments and in the strongest of bonds a father loves his son in ways that mimic God and prepare the son for tomorrow and all the tomorrows we might be given, all the burdens that fall to men – the sacrifice of killing and of dying in the fight.

In the last few American decades it is men who have been attacked, derided, suspected and accused.  Fallen times and fallen women – a race gone wrong in many ways. Such is a time when God is forsaken.  Fundamental undoing. Dangerous course and full throated nonsense.

But who will fight for the frail but the father and his son?  The crop of warriors diminishes. Whole groups have no fathers.

We speak and act as if there is no treachery, as if “others” will magically appear to save us.  But there are fewer fathers who love their sons divinely … and fewer sons breeds fewer fathers and danger appears to conquer and destroy.

When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he’d reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him.  Nights dark beyond darkness and days more gray each one than what had gone before.

Shalom.

Footnote – I hope this strikes a satisfying cord for you, especially for men and fathers. We have fewer now who know who we are and what we do, know how deeply we feel and how essential we are.  Share this with others if you wish – and surely with men who are fathers. God bless you all.

 

“How full the days are, full of slow and quiet … Only here do I feel that my life is authentically human.

Thomas Merton

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Merton’s words in a journal entry of November 1964 when he moved into his hermitage – a place to dwell alone surrounded by nature.

In my solitude on the ridge I know what he means.  Never have I felt closer to reality, to God, to the ground of being … or more at peace.

I am away from disorder, chaos … and the flood of bad behavior, routine deceptions and the idiotic chatter – its self-destruction.

I think of ISIS.  North Korea.  The American Left.  The media, the press.  Iran. Russia’s global antics and Europe’s passivity and foolishness.

When good falls victim to evil has not the ground under you shifted?  Is it not wise to seek Eden once again?

In Eden there are no pagans, no herds of selfish people making unwise and suicidal demands.

Merton and the Ridge.

Shalom.

Technical knowledge is not enough.  One must transform techniques so that the art becomes artless art, growing out of the unconscious.

D. T. Suzuki, in Zen and Japanese Culture

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How do you fully live?  Yes, how do you access and activate the unconscious – awaken the essence of the human legacy?  Same question really.

He met the conformity of culture as structured by man but never conceded its control over his breathing, his heartbeat, his life here – as it preceded him and stretched into eternity.

He always had one foot outside the box.  His wry comments and independent judgment kept him free and gave him a sharper vision than most.  He saw behind the silk scene – people, after all, were not clever in concealing their shallow and predictable motives.

He was not often fooled.

Having access to the unconscious, getting to know it in detail made his life art – artless art, a movie from birth to mortal death … and then the everlasting sequel, a seat above in the presence of a warm May sun.

He was never much for formulas.  A blank canvas was more his comfort. Something to write on, to scribble freehand what came to heart, mind, wrist and hand.  Free flowing.

Operating on the margin of the box – turning the rules into sources of amusement and dismemberment so to say: “You do not have me yet.”  Life in the present structures as a game of escape and evasion, lest he suffocate, dry up and become weak and brittle.

Victory.  Life as artless art in all its ease, in each breath, in listening, hearing and seeing.

The experience of experience in its full range – from joy to sorrow and back again, never a dark day in triumph over the warmth of the sun reflected in the others, the friends, the children, love, laughter, kindness, the beauty, the quiet, the memories, the experience in yesterday and today.

… artless art …

Shalom.

The cows are in the pasture.  The prayers have been said.  The sky is dressed in gray.  Push-ups have been done.  The fire is young but alive.  Bach soothes.  The mountains maintain their vigil. Peace prevails.

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The desert was created to be itself … So too the mountain and the sea.

Thomas Merton, in Thoughts in Solitude

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Alone I find how anonymity allows you to meet your self.  Social man gives way to himself, to his sacredness, his holy being – its composition, the divine harmony of its contradiction, peace and His Creator.

It is a relief to no longer be among the crowd, adhere to the “to-do’s,” the hubbub and the gloss, the artificiality of it all, its costumes and its absurdity, its contaminated pecking order.

The desert, and the mountain, and the sea were created to be itself.  So too are we, each one of us.

Shalom.

The Holiness of Rain

The rain falls hard today in the mountains.  Hard enough to give it voice, a steady presence in a quiet room.  There is a peace in its persistence.  It seems to “hush” with its music, its patter –  coupled with its consistent, rhythmic din.  To match rain, the skies are close in; clouds and their gray dim the light as if to call us within.  Peace is at hand.  God visits today.  Being alone takes on its holiness, forcing the Truth of God’s eternal, everyday – day and night, year in and year out existence.

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” … my … pilgrimage has come clear and purified itself … I know I have seen what I was obscurely looking for.  I don’t know what else remains but I have now seen and pierced through the surface and have got beyond the shadow and the disguise.”

Thomas Merton

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These are Merton’s words upon visiting a cave adjacent to the ruins of ancient temple buildings near Polonnaruwa, Ceylon, and entering the cave to find large renderings of human beings and a giant reclining Buddha.

He felt in this excursion into this place an “inner clarity.”  He referred to this as “an aesthetic illumination” allowing him to see “beyond the shadow and the disguise.”

This was Thomas Merton’s last journey.  He was to die at 58 in a matter of days.

Is your life a pilgrimage?  Do you seek what you are created to seek.  Or are you captured by what is not Truth, not of the soul, of God, or of your divine nature?

Do not let the thought-police take you captive.  Your warden is a Loving Father.

For Merton the great stone figures were “in full movement,” beautiful and holy.

How does the world look to you?  What do you see?  Hear?  Feel?  Experience in the rain and the clouds?  Do you see “full movement” in motionless stones?

Shalom.

We face up to awful things because we can’t go around them …

… it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain and misery …

Annie Proulx, in The Shipping News

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Today, east over the mountains I see gray clouds and a dark pink sunrise.  Gray and pink against the faintest of pale blue-gray sky.  Another day of hope and promise.

Last night I watched The Shipping News – good book put to film.  It reminded me of many things.  How stories teach.  How we each are made good and bad, and how the hurt we suffer or inflict settles a sadness deep within – next to God.

How those who hurt us loose in the end as their glass shatters.  How often small towns can give us the shelter of caves before death and in those shelters we might – just might – heal the curses previously inflicted.

I saw in this story that nothing is more evil than nailing a man to a tree and that doing so brings in a blood thick fog, until a pure unpainted face appears to smile so we might see the ocean, its living waters – deep, endless, timeless as God who makes the gift of love for each of us.

How good women can rescue men, and men inexplicably, modestly reciprocate without understanding how.

How men do not cry for the treachery they see and know.  How this is our excursion and how we face it all without fear.  How children worry about death but men do not.  How those who loved us never die.

How a woman’s face can be warm when she is but a woman.  How her delicate fingers touch the world and the hearts in it so carefully.  And how darkness can exist within some and make warmth deathly cold, snaring and hard.

How living waters make us all “water people.”  And how story is life and life is story.

Shalom.

 

Would any seed take root if he had not believed His promise when God said,

“Dears, I will rain.  I will help you.  I will turn into warmth and effulgence,

I will be the Mother that I am and let you draw from My body and rise, and rise.”

St. Thomas Aquinas

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If there is no God, how can these words from the 13th century survive, interest us, speak to us, make us think, perhaps alter our consciousness, orientation to daily life, and the meaning of our existence?

Aquinas thought that contemplation and solitude were among the greatest gifts we are given.  But alas we are very busy, and noisy.  So easily distracted, indeed to a state of exhaustion and impatience.

He became a Dominican monk and lived a vow of poverty with complete devotion to God.  Even in the 13th century this was a radical departure from what was.

His family kidnapped him and held him in isolation for two years in their castle to try to dissuade his choice of a monastic life.  This only strengthened his will and his faith.  In his solitude and forced imprisonment, he memorized Holy Scriptures.

Released he became a master at the University of Paris and focused his attention on Aristotle’s writings on metaphysics.  From this he learned how to make the profound seem simple to his audience.

In his studies his faith deepened and matters like the growth of a seed or the expanse of the human being came to form and to his understanding and he shared his insights with all.  To this day his words survive.

Are you not the seed promised life-giving water and eternal warmth?

Shalom.

Tomorrow’s Post: How the Democrat Left lost and Trump became President.

To be in harmony with the wholeness of things is not to have anxiety over imperfections.

Dogen

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I was asked this week to share a story about a law school classmate of mine on his 70th birthday.  In doing so, I recalled how each of us laughed easily at ourselves and all the people and events we encountered in the world around us.

The imperfection of humans (ourselves included) and the things we create always seemed quite obvious to me and to my classmate.  Hence, we laughed a whole lot.

One time my son asked me how I maintained the disposition I have, and I answered, “I see the world as an episode of MASH (one of his and my favorite television shows) and I’m in it.”

Yes, there is reverence in irreverence.  Yes, doing good amid the chaos is possible and it is more the everyday challenge than one might initially think.

We are by nature and design perfectly imperfect.  But, oh, how we try to ignore that fundamental reality!!!  And what disaster flows from it!

Disaster?  Yes.

Some examples.  “Political correctness.”  Obamacare.  The quest for physical appearance, the Fountain of Youth.  Marxism.  Just about any government program.  Saving the planet from “Global Warming!!!

In seeking perfection we can create great tension and great anxiety.

Yes, it is good to seek the good we are, to maintain beauty.  But at what price?  Does the good we seek not also include our tranquility?  It seems that it must.

Often the task of coming to imperfection as an accepted and natural state requires a process of re-parenting.  That is: unlearning the habits and demands of those who tutored us in the illusion of perfection.  Thank God that has not been the case in my life.

Fortunately, I grew up in a family and a community that was utterly realistic, that saw the calamity we humans so often generate (most frequently in the name of “perfection).  We surely never “bought into” the utter fiction of the “hierarchy of elites” who fashioned, like Ms. Hillary, that they know best and we are a “basket of deplorables.”

So, slow down.  Accept the human being that you are.  Ignore those who “sell” perfection for they peddle snake oil, illness, unease, tension, foolishness.

Life is composed of tatters, shreds of this and that.  Find the ease, the humor, the implicit instability, creative imperfection of it all.  Live in joy by living what is.  Dispatch those who keep you in constant tension and anxiety.  Let them drive themselves crazy.

Laughter lubricates very nicely.

Shalom.

For all my friends here and now, those of yesterday and those deceased – those precious ones who lived the life God gave them no matter the circumstances, no matter the cost.  They are among the shinning stars of every dark night sky.

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Strictly speaking, he was alone; but the room, and his interior life, was full of companionship.

Paul Elie, in The Life You Save May Be Your Own

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At any given time well over nine out of ten of the people you see around you will not have journeyed far or well, and surely not deeply and broadly enough.

You see most people are encased in their own immediate self – that is to say the surface experience of life as it either appears to present itself to them or as they selectively screen it to appear, twist it to their small template – a template usually nailed together by the hammer of yesterday’s hurts.

We are social animals and you realize the power of this when you realize those around you care not very deeply about you, that as soon as something captures them you are forgotten, misplaced or used like one might use a garden tool: only when necessary and convenient, then housed in the shed ’til another season of need appears.

For some, indeed for all I dare say, this is hurtful.

Social animals would rather not be garden tools touched only seasonally and only for a brief time.  But that is the way it frequently is and must be because others journey on the surface until they gain wisdom from hardship, and most importantly – we must know hurt and alone or we cannot know our self and The Divine, and we cannot love without need.

If we are never misplaced and forgotten, we can never be found and remembered.  If we are not shelved we can never be precious and handled with care, sought for who we are and what we do.

Yes, being alone is difficult but it is essential to your the journey.

If you want sadness and disorder and inexcusable hurt all in one I give you this: most people never really enter the journey for only the wise and strong come to welcome alone.

Shalom.

Share this with others if you wish.

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Note: Thanks to the Podesta emails which have been made public, we know that important Clinton campaign figures were concerned that Ms. Clinton was securing cash donations that might raise questions.  Likewise, the emails show that others associated with the Clintons raised concerns that Mr. Clinton was accepting cash and valuable gifts that might raise questions.  Those who represent us must not act in ways that create these sorts of concerns among their own partisans.

A man must at times be hard as nails: willing to face up to the truth about himself … refusing compromise when compromise is wrong.  But he must also be tender.  No weapon will breach the armor of a woman … like tenderness.

Elizabeth Elliot, in The Mark of a Man

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Perhaps the strange time of “war on men” in the West is at a close.  Seems like it must be as a matter of nature, of re-adjusting the balance necessary for happiness and self-defense and preservation.

My life began when men were men – you know the guys who won World War II and came home humbled, yet confident for war does that to you, hell – all combat does that to you.

Men, and I mean real men, have not been stymied in the decades in which they bore the brunt of the post-1968 feminist fits of resentment.  Oh, some have been bent to feminism’s false measure but others have survived and the seed remains planted.

Truth is the world, including America, cannot survive unless men are men and women are women – in the measure of nature as The Divine hath made, no matter what Marx (Karl, not Groucho) or Betty Friedan and her progeny might say to the contrary.

Without men, there is no boundary held, no bleeding done for others, nor lives laid down in battles while many eat and sleep in safety, far from the killing and deprivation, the brutality and corpses.

To understand men, know that they die for principle – that is their proving ground.

To understand men, know that while they kill and die, they also love and long for peace and the embrace of a woman whose divine superiority is giving life to life.

Good men and good women know who they are and know that the difference between them is closed tight only when they cherish one another.

Maybe we are drawing back to normative reality.  If so, it is none too soon … and we will be happier and more at ease for it.

Enough of the Age of Menless Men and Angry Women.

I’ll take brave men and beautiful, loving women every time.

Shalom.

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