While perusing the Winter 2007 issue of the Southern Poverty Law Center's Intelligence Report this past week, a song melody and the words, "number one in America" emerged from the recesses of a memory stored away sometime in the mid-1990s when I picked up a copy of singer-songwriter David Masengill's CD, Coming Up for Air. I knew of his work both from WFUV-FM in New York, and from having seen him perform at the Hudson Valley Writers Center in Sleepy Hollow.
The third song on the disc, "Number One in America," a wonderful almost-eight-minute perspective on race in America, provides some insight into the songwriter's roots in Bristol, Tennessee and among other things, ponders what it will be like when "a black is President." Three of the song's final four stanzas depict a poor white family in a K-Mart on Christmas Eve and what happens when the youngest of three children selects a "black-skinned doll" as her one toy. The first time I heard the song, among some other very powerful images this particular scene riveted my attention. After the fifth (or fifteenth) listening, I wanted to know more about that K-Mart family, and this poem emerged in December 1997:
Everything We Need
(for David Masengill)
Twenty-five windless degrees
allows each miraculous flake
a perpendicular freefall to a
starring role in a white Christmas
Eve, which lets Lawrence leave
his third job four hours early
and thirty-six before he has to
work again.
Uneven crunch of workboot sole on
snow recalls his childhood joy at
snowflakes only visible in amber
glow then fading past the streetlamp's
jurisdiction. He stops,
watches them fall within
the stilled boots' perfect silence,
then turns toward the bus stop.
Aboard, back seat seduction long
gone, he sits behind the driver,
imagines a car and just one job,
checks his pocket for the cash,
rests his hand where he feels it.
Eight familiar stops bring Lynn
aboard, the kids in tow, Larry bouncing,
Lisa glowing with the season: Daddy,
Daddy, Santa Claus is coming! He
smiles, hugs and kisses, feels the
tug of love, the slap of scarcity—
a full heart and thin wallet
competing for his consciousness.
K-Mart looms bright red as they
step down, wish the driver
Merry Christmas, follow the
store's beacon, its promise
of domestic perfection.
Inside, Larry and Lisa dash
toyward, Lynn's reminder lost
in the shopping sprawl: One
each—remember, only one each.
Lawrence marvels at her smile,
tries to return it through his
sense of deficit. It's okay,
she tells him. It's okay with
them; it's okay with me. We
have everything we need.
Larry grabs a basketball,
thirty-five dollars;
Lawrence finds one for
fifteen that Larry likes
as much; Lisa hugs a
twelve-dollar doll, its skin
much darker than her own.
They check both toys for
cracks and blemishes, find
none, pay $28.96; nearsighted
cashier glimpses doll-hugs and
ball-bounces celebrations. Smiles.
I'm sure we have some white dolls left.
Yes, Lynn replies, you do, but
Lisa wants this one. The cashier
shakes her head, says, Kids.
Will there be anything else?
Lawrence wishes he could say yes,
feels Lynn's hand, comfortable
on his arm; gazes at Lisa and Larry,
whose eyes envelop him in their
pure joy; mysterious tears
roll forth and he understands
now that it is okay.
No, he says, we have
everything we need.
From Who Lives Better Than We Do (From the Heart Press, 2001)
Copyright © 1997 by Reggie Marra
Monday, December 24, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Steroids, Hurricanes and Terrorists: a Systems Approach
As dramatic as the media coverage of George Mitchell's report on the use of performance-enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball may have been, and as amazing (and understandable) as Commissioner Bud Selig's understated response to the report (and to MLB's ongoing drug crisis) has been, both the media drama and the commissioner's understatement were predictable for anyone who no longer believes that magical wishful thinking is the most effective remedy to the pressing issues of any given day.
Contrasted with cycling's and track and field's fallen heros and heroines, baseball's millionaire gladiators--and I'm writing here about those who actually have used banned substances--will pay ever-so-slightly, if at all, for their transgressions. No Marion Jones hits for them. These men were victimized by a culture and an infrastructure that rendered their behavior unavoidable. They cheated because the environment demanded it.
It was a systemic failure--baseball's failure, the players' union's failure, the teams' failures and the owners' failures. How could anyone expect an individual elite athlete to withstand the pressures that come with the expectations that come with playing baseball in public for lots of money? Those players who don't cheat are the true enigmas--they're the ones who should be investigated. They must be doing something wrong to resist what their counterparts have so readily embraced.
Remember Hurricane Katrina? No one at FEMA, or at any state or local agency did anything wrong (although the poor who insisted on living where a hurricane might hit surely must bear some responsibility). Systemic failure that's still obvious right now in many areas devastated two years ago by that storm again reared it's ugly head. Brownie did a heckuva job, resigned, then pointed out how all the systems failed--except the one that allowed an unqualified individual to head FEMA.
Do you recall September 11, 2001? Then National Security Advisor Rice has made it very clear that, you guessed it, a systemic failure--especially during the Clinton administration--made that day possible, and that she, her boss and their colleagues would have moved heaven and earth to prevent what happened that day had they had better intelligence. According to her, the system dictated that the August 6 Presidential Daily Brief entitled "Bin Laden Determined to Strike in US" was simply a historical document, and not one that should raise concern about an imminent threat, although she's less clear about what the system had to say about the June CIA communications entitled "Bin Laden Attacks May Be Imminent" and "Bin Laden and Associates Making Near-Term Threats."
Damn systems, I swear. Responsible for thousands of deaths--allow terrorist attacks, can't provide competent aid in the aftermath of a natural disaster, and now encourage scandal in the national pastime--and all of those traumatic arguments that have already begun among sportscasters and fans.
What's an individual to do? Are there even any individuals left?
When things go wrong, I mean.
Contrasted with cycling's and track and field's fallen heros and heroines, baseball's millionaire gladiators--and I'm writing here about those who actually have used banned substances--will pay ever-so-slightly, if at all, for their transgressions. No Marion Jones hits for them. These men were victimized by a culture and an infrastructure that rendered their behavior unavoidable. They cheated because the environment demanded it.
It was a systemic failure--baseball's failure, the players' union's failure, the teams' failures and the owners' failures. How could anyone expect an individual elite athlete to withstand the pressures that come with the expectations that come with playing baseball in public for lots of money? Those players who don't cheat are the true enigmas--they're the ones who should be investigated. They must be doing something wrong to resist what their counterparts have so readily embraced.
Remember Hurricane Katrina? No one at FEMA, or at any state or local agency did anything wrong (although the poor who insisted on living where a hurricane might hit surely must bear some responsibility). Systemic failure that's still obvious right now in many areas devastated two years ago by that storm again reared it's ugly head. Brownie did a heckuva job, resigned, then pointed out how all the systems failed--except the one that allowed an unqualified individual to head FEMA.
Do you recall September 11, 2001? Then National Security Advisor Rice has made it very clear that, you guessed it, a systemic failure--especially during the Clinton administration--made that day possible, and that she, her boss and their colleagues would have moved heaven and earth to prevent what happened that day had they had better intelligence. According to her, the system dictated that the August 6 Presidential Daily Brief entitled "Bin Laden Determined to Strike in US" was simply a historical document, and not one that should raise concern about an imminent threat, although she's less clear about what the system had to say about the June CIA communications entitled "Bin Laden Attacks May Be Imminent" and "Bin Laden and Associates Making Near-Term Threats."
Damn systems, I swear. Responsible for thousands of deaths--allow terrorist attacks, can't provide competent aid in the aftermath of a natural disaster, and now encourage scandal in the national pastime--and all of those traumatic arguments that have already begun among sportscasters and fans.
What's an individual to do? Are there even any individuals left?
When things go wrong, I mean.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
The Cutting Edge (of What, for Whom?)
Almost everywhere we look as we head into the latter stages of the first decade in the 21st century, we find experts on "the cutting edge" of everything from medical technology, human consciousness, sales and marketing, communications, the arts, bathroom remodeling, educational strategies, having it all, and that one missing bit of knowledge that we all need in order to have it all.
Developmental models, including, but not limited to Maslow's work with needs, Kohlberg's and Gilligan's respective research on moral reasoning, Loevinger's and Cook-Greuter's studies of self-identity, Fowler's stages of faith, Graves' work, continued by Beck and Cowan, on values, and Piaget's early work with cognition, begin with a somewhat oblivious creature who has no sense of self, grows into an ego-centric (me!) individual, and then into an ethno- or group-centric (us!) member, and perhaps into a world-centric (all of us!) citizen, followed by a Kosmos-centered (all that is!) Self, at which point everything that arises is the Self.
Each of these researchers studies a different developmental line or intelligence, and employs very specific language for that unique exploration, and their findings uncover anywhere from six to twelve or so levels through which an individual might grow. Don Beck and Chris Cowan assigned colors to designate the levels of values that Graves' research first discovered: Beige, Purple, Red, Blue, Orange, Green, Yellow and Turquoise, the meaning of each not relevant for this discussion (interested readers can refer to the links in the October 9 post on this blog to find out more).
What we find in our "cutting edge" world is that each of these levels or stages of growth has its own cutting edge--essentially, that final series of steps that will give us a taste of the next stage: Purple's cutting edge is a glimpse or taste of Red, Red's is a hint of Blue, and Green's an insight into Yellow. To further complicate matters, each developmental line or intelligence carries its own content, so despite being "hosted" by the same structure of consciousness, the cutting edge of an ego-centric values system is not identical to the cutting edge of an ego-centric self-identity.
All of us, this writer included, recognize a personal cutting edge when we gain insight into something that is new and capable of pushing us to the next stage of our growth, transcending and including the previous stages--even if a million other people on the planet have resided in or even grown past that stage already.
So, beware. When you're presented with a "cutting edge" solution, innovation, gift, tool--anything at all--be sure to explore for whom and of what it is truly an edge.
Developmental models, including, but not limited to Maslow's work with needs, Kohlberg's and Gilligan's respective research on moral reasoning, Loevinger's and Cook-Greuter's studies of self-identity, Fowler's stages of faith, Graves' work, continued by Beck and Cowan, on values, and Piaget's early work with cognition, begin with a somewhat oblivious creature who has no sense of self, grows into an ego-centric (me!) individual, and then into an ethno- or group-centric (us!) member, and perhaps into a world-centric (all of us!) citizen, followed by a Kosmos-centered (all that is!) Self, at which point everything that arises is the Self.
Each of these researchers studies a different developmental line or intelligence, and employs very specific language for that unique exploration, and their findings uncover anywhere from six to twelve or so levels through which an individual might grow. Don Beck and Chris Cowan assigned colors to designate the levels of values that Graves' research first discovered: Beige, Purple, Red, Blue, Orange, Green, Yellow and Turquoise, the meaning of each not relevant for this discussion (interested readers can refer to the links in the October 9 post on this blog to find out more).
What we find in our "cutting edge" world is that each of these levels or stages of growth has its own cutting edge--essentially, that final series of steps that will give us a taste of the next stage: Purple's cutting edge is a glimpse or taste of Red, Red's is a hint of Blue, and Green's an insight into Yellow. To further complicate matters, each developmental line or intelligence carries its own content, so despite being "hosted" by the same structure of consciousness, the cutting edge of an ego-centric values system is not identical to the cutting edge of an ego-centric self-identity.
All of us, this writer included, recognize a personal cutting edge when we gain insight into something that is new and capable of pushing us to the next stage of our growth, transcending and including the previous stages--even if a million other people on the planet have resided in or even grown past that stage already.
So, beware. When you're presented with a "cutting edge" solution, innovation, gift, tool--anything at all--be sure to explore for whom and of what it is truly an edge.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Post Thanksgiving Post
Since this post is a bit late, it will be abbreviated as well. I realize I have a lot to be thankful for, and that most readers (if there are any) would prefer the short version, if they're willing to look at any version at all.
So, I'm thankful for quite a lot, and for all the people I love and who love me.
And for all the communities to which I belong, either in the flesh or in cyber space, including I-I, WSC, SDi, IONS, AAP, AARP, CCT, NSA-CT, NSA, and although I'm not down there much anymore, HVWC (this is not an exhaustive list).
Oh, and let's not forget MM-MPhDLPCCPT.
So, I'm thankful for quite a lot, and for all the people I love and who love me.
And for all the communities to which I belong, either in the flesh or in cyber space, including I-I, WSC, SDi, IONS, AAP, AARP, CCT, NSA-CT, NSA, and although I'm not down there much anymore, HVWC (this is not an exhaustive list).
Oh, and let's not forget MM-MPhDLPCCPT.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Veterans Day
November in Falluja
She sits with
a soldier she doesn't
know, C-17 en route
to Germany. Her
son
twenty
brain-injured
head locked in place,
lies before her.
She scratches her
eyebrow with the
ring finger on
her left hand.
Going Home
Near Kirkuk
five soldiers watch
or work
while two wheel
the blood-soaked
gurney from the
inflated O.R. The
sergeant's leg
amputated
and discarded, time
will tell if
he
will
be
as well.
Give It Back
Commander-in Chief
photo op over
we learn the
vehicle that crushed your
legs and pelvis was
American driven. Your
Purple Heart a mistake,
you have to
give
it
back.
Your
splintered bones,
real--
those
you get to keep.
Balad to Landstuhl
Sardines in the C-17
can, soldiers who
can't sit or stand, lie
shoulder-to-shoulder
five across, four deep,
medical charts
strapped to their chests.
Red lights in the cargo
bay cast a surreal glow
as mortars
explode on base
outside
the plane.
Sisters in Arms
Danielle Green
Chicago South Side
high school All-American
free ride 1,106 points
Notre Dame
psych major
class of '99
U.S. Army 2002
Specialist
Iraq
Dawn Halfaker
Ramona, California
four-year starter
West Point
class of '01
Lieutenant
Miltary Police
Iraq
Rocket
propelled
grenades
Danielle's
left arm
at the elbow
medical retirement
master's program in
school counseling
Dawn's
right arm
at the shoulder
promotion to
Captain, Congressional
internship
Sisters in Arms
without them
George W. Bush
New Haven, Connecticut
Yale cheerleader Air
National Guard
Harvard MBA
reprises pilot role
taunts the men
who would
take arms,
Bring
them
on.
_________
Poems from This Open Eye: Seeing What We Do
Copyright (c) 2006 by Reggie Marra
Acknowledgements:
"November in Fallujah," "Going Home," and "Balad to Landstuhl" emerged from "The Wounded" by Johnny Dwyer. New York Times Magazine. March 27 2005, pp. 24+. Photographs by Lynsey Addario/Corbis.
"Give It Back" emerged from the February 2005 story, widely reported in the media, of USMC Corporal Travis Eichelberger (and the similar stories of 10 other Marines), whose Purple Heart was revoked after it was learned that a 67-ton American tank, and not an Iraqi vehicle, had crushed him in his foxhole.
"Sisters in Arms" emerged from "Two Women Bound by Sports, War and Injuries" by Juliet Macur. New York Times. April 10, 2005, pp1+. Photographs by Doug Mills, Peter Thompson, Suzy Allman, and Shawn Baldwin/The New York Times, Joe Raymond, and the Army Athletic Association.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
"Useless Teacher": A Case in Point
Joan Hurley, a friend and colleague, was named Connecticut State Teacher of the Year last month, the penultimate step in a process that began with her being honored first at the University of Hartford Magnet School, then within the Capital Region Education Council (CREC), and which now puts her in the running for the "national title."
Besides being an extraordinarily committed, focused, and gifted third-grade teacher, Joan brings to her work, as do many teachers I've been fortunate enough to work with, a solid knowledge of and intuitive sense around state standards, curriculum development, learning styles and multiple intelligences, among other tools of her profession, tools that have only vague, general meaning for those of us whose familiarity with third-grade classrooms is limited to our eight-year-old former selves, our roles as parents, or both.
I had the opportunity to spend just over three weeks in her classroom as a teaching artist several years ago, and was able to participate in and witness first-hand her attention to the inner "workings" and outer behaviors of her students, the level of responsibility they shared in constructing the learning environment and theme through which they would engage the content that the state education department deemed was theirs to know, the genuinely democratic process they'd engage when inappropriate behavior arose among them, and the subtle balance of structured activity and freedom to explore that held it all together.
Joan loves her work. She has a fiery spirit around her educational philosophy, a strong aversion to those who know less but are in a position to dictate how she does her job, and an opportunity now, amid all of the blessings and curses that an "anything-of-the-year" award brings, to make some noise and help more kids.
Among the curses, minor though they be, have been some of the comments that followed the October 31 front-page story in the Hartford Courant. Among the 33 readers who had posted their thoughts on that paper's online forum before I wrote this entry here, 26 were congratulatory and positive, and written by a mix of people--some of whom know Joan, and some of whom do not.
The 7 other comments ranged from curious to ridiculous to mean-spirited in my reading of them. Here's one from "Curious" in Palm Harbor, Florida:
"I'm sure the kids all feel great about themselves, but is there any teaching going on? Are they learning anything? How do they do in their subsequent schooling? Any stats? Just wondering."
Another, "NCLB" from Bristol, CT wrote:
"SISSY has this right, I can only imagine if a male teacher was buying his students sheets for their beds, new winter coats & (did I read this?) taking students to doctor appointments under the guise of being a passionate and caring teacher. This "teacher of the year" is being cited by former students and anyone else who can justify her need for student approval."
SISSY wrote:
"According to the report, this lady teacher is "throwing kisses"......If this were a male teacher, he'd be under arrest for some sort of assault under the umbrella term of sexual harassment and attempted child molestation laws with its (metaphorically) "politically correct" applications."
And my title credit goes to "Now Get Back to Work" from Lincoln, RI, who wrote, simply:
"useless teacher"
While a very capable and early developmental level to which I still have wonderful access would like the chance to respond to each of these with varying levels of sarcasm, smugness, and an egoic, macho and unnecessary intention to defend my friend, I can't help but remember my own words in the initial entry that set the tone for this blog on September 11, 2007:
"Trust that your inquiry and any conclusions you may reach or hypotheses you may develop will provide as much, and probably more, insight into yourself than into the poem or the poet."
The "teacher-of-the-year" story was simply a trigger that provided an opportunity to vent for our fellow passengers in Palm Harbor, Bristol and Lincoln (I left out the one from "Eternal Sunshine" that commented on Joan's hair in the photo that accompanied the article). Each of these writers had something inside of them that responded as they did to a newspaper article that celebrated a wonderful teacher and human being who earned a professional honor.
Good for you, Joan.
Oh, and if I were going to allow that early developmental level to surface and respond, I might suggest that my friend, "Eternal Sunshine," move beyond the pictures and read the text. I might suggest that "Sissy" and "NCLB" learn to read excerpts and attempt to understand them within the context in which they appear. And perhaps that would apply to "Curious" as well. Does my friend from Palm Harbor simply assume that since the teacher is honored and the kids feel good about themselves, no teaching or learning could have taken place? Is that what happens in Palm Harbor?
Just wondering.
Besides being an extraordinarily committed, focused, and gifted third-grade teacher, Joan brings to her work, as do many teachers I've been fortunate enough to work with, a solid knowledge of and intuitive sense around state standards, curriculum development, learning styles and multiple intelligences, among other tools of her profession, tools that have only vague, general meaning for those of us whose familiarity with third-grade classrooms is limited to our eight-year-old former selves, our roles as parents, or both.
I had the opportunity to spend just over three weeks in her classroom as a teaching artist several years ago, and was able to participate in and witness first-hand her attention to the inner "workings" and outer behaviors of her students, the level of responsibility they shared in constructing the learning environment and theme through which they would engage the content that the state education department deemed was theirs to know, the genuinely democratic process they'd engage when inappropriate behavior arose among them, and the subtle balance of structured activity and freedom to explore that held it all together.
Joan loves her work. She has a fiery spirit around her educational philosophy, a strong aversion to those who know less but are in a position to dictate how she does her job, and an opportunity now, amid all of the blessings and curses that an "anything-of-the-year" award brings, to make some noise and help more kids.
Among the curses, minor though they be, have been some of the comments that followed the October 31 front-page story in the Hartford Courant. Among the 33 readers who had posted their thoughts on that paper's online forum before I wrote this entry here, 26 were congratulatory and positive, and written by a mix of people--some of whom know Joan, and some of whom do not.
The 7 other comments ranged from curious to ridiculous to mean-spirited in my reading of them. Here's one from "Curious" in Palm Harbor, Florida:
"I'm sure the kids all feel great about themselves, but is there any teaching going on? Are they learning anything? How do they do in their subsequent schooling? Any stats? Just wondering."
Another, "NCLB" from Bristol, CT wrote:
"SISSY has this right, I can only imagine if a male teacher was buying his students sheets for their beds, new winter coats & (did I read this?) taking students to doctor appointments under the guise of being a passionate and caring teacher. This "teacher of the year" is being cited by former students and anyone else who can justify her need for student approval."
SISSY wrote:
"According to the report, this lady teacher is "throwing kisses"......If this were a male teacher, he'd be under arrest for some sort of assault under the umbrella term of sexual harassment and attempted child molestation laws with its (metaphorically) "politically correct" applications."
And my title credit goes to "Now Get Back to Work" from Lincoln, RI, who wrote, simply:
"useless teacher"
While a very capable and early developmental level to which I still have wonderful access would like the chance to respond to each of these with varying levels of sarcasm, smugness, and an egoic, macho and unnecessary intention to defend my friend, I can't help but remember my own words in the initial entry that set the tone for this blog on September 11, 2007:
"Trust that your inquiry and any conclusions you may reach or hypotheses you may develop will provide as much, and probably more, insight into yourself than into the poem or the poet."
The "teacher-of-the-year" story was simply a trigger that provided an opportunity to vent for our fellow passengers in Palm Harbor, Bristol and Lincoln (I left out the one from "Eternal Sunshine" that commented on Joan's hair in the photo that accompanied the article). Each of these writers had something inside of them that responded as they did to a newspaper article that celebrated a wonderful teacher and human being who earned a professional honor.
Good for you, Joan.
Oh, and if I were going to allow that early developmental level to surface and respond, I might suggest that my friend, "Eternal Sunshine," move beyond the pictures and read the text. I might suggest that "Sissy" and "NCLB" learn to read excerpts and attempt to understand them within the context in which they appear. And perhaps that would apply to "Curious" as well. Does my friend from Palm Harbor simply assume that since the teacher is honored and the kids feel good about themselves, no teaching or learning could have taken place? Is that what happens in Palm Harbor?
Just wondering.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Hazardous Journey
This past Wednesday evening, I spoke by phone to a cousin who lives in California, zip code 92128. I was relieved to hear his wife's voice, and then his, and he told me that their home, although the entire area was shrouded with smoke, was two miles from one edge of the "Witch Fire," the largest of the wildfires scorching Southern California this week, and that it seemed as if they would be okay.
Okay or not, their situation, along with those of Peter and Faith, Floyd and Marion, the three-year-old with the swollen-shut eye (all from the previous three posts), and the millions of other journeys on this human path, reminded me of Ernest Shackleton's invitation to join his 1914 exploration of the South Pole. I first became aware of Shackleton's language while listening to Bill Plotkin speak at an Animas Valley Institute seminar some years ago. He joked that with a little revision, the ad that Shackleton had placed in a London newspaper would serve well for the vision quests that he and the Animas guides offered.
Shackleton's ad: "Men wanted for hazardous journey. Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful. Honour and recognition in case of success."
Bill was only half-joking. In Soulcraft: Crossing Into the Mysteries of Nature and Psyche (New World Library, 2003) he offered this revision as a possible ad for a quest: "Men and woman wanted for hazardous journey. Bitter cold and intense heat, long hours of complete darkness, boredom, no food, constant danger, encounters with the unknown, return in same condition doubtful. Vision and more hardships await in case of success" (330). Anyone who has enacted a vision quest can vouch for the literal and metaphorical truths in that description.
Anyone who chooses to live a conscious life, and I mean really pay attention to all of it to the extent he or she can in any given moment, can grow into a worldview that can vouch for these truths as well. Not one of us needs to create an enemy in order to embark on a hazardous journey. No one needs to drop a bomb, crash a plane, fire a gun, throw a punch, sarcastically criticize, or passively dismiss to live a daring, challenging, attainable life worth living.
All any one of us has to do (yes, the italics are literally true and a painfully ridiculous understatement) is to fully engage body, mind, soul and spirit to commit to finding out what our unique self is called to do during the time it has to do it, and what our true identity is within and beyond this calling, and we will have the grand adventure that is already ours. But we have to pay attention because the fire and the cancer and the arthritis and the hurricane and the flood and the heart attack and the accident and the depression will try to distract us from time to time, and not one of them is the journey that we're hoping for. Any one of them can suffice as a painfully distracting detour from or an attention-holding guide on the journey. We get to choose.
That's enough for now. I need to pay attention and see what it is I'm not paying attention to right now.
Okay or not, their situation, along with those of Peter and Faith, Floyd and Marion, the three-year-old with the swollen-shut eye (all from the previous three posts), and the millions of other journeys on this human path, reminded me of Ernest Shackleton's invitation to join his 1914 exploration of the South Pole. I first became aware of Shackleton's language while listening to Bill Plotkin speak at an Animas Valley Institute seminar some years ago. He joked that with a little revision, the ad that Shackleton had placed in a London newspaper would serve well for the vision quests that he and the Animas guides offered.
Shackleton's ad: "Men wanted for hazardous journey. Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful. Honour and recognition in case of success."
Bill was only half-joking. In Soulcraft: Crossing Into the Mysteries of Nature and Psyche (New World Library, 2003) he offered this revision as a possible ad for a quest: "Men and woman wanted for hazardous journey. Bitter cold and intense heat, long hours of complete darkness, boredom, no food, constant danger, encounters with the unknown, return in same condition doubtful. Vision and more hardships await in case of success" (330). Anyone who has enacted a vision quest can vouch for the literal and metaphorical truths in that description.
Anyone who chooses to live a conscious life, and I mean really pay attention to all of it to the extent he or she can in any given moment, can grow into a worldview that can vouch for these truths as well. Not one of us needs to create an enemy in order to embark on a hazardous journey. No one needs to drop a bomb, crash a plane, fire a gun, throw a punch, sarcastically criticize, or passively dismiss to live a daring, challenging, attainable life worth living.
All any one of us has to do (yes, the italics are literally true and a painfully ridiculous understatement) is to fully engage body, mind, soul and spirit to commit to finding out what our unique self is called to do during the time it has to do it, and what our true identity is within and beyond this calling, and we will have the grand adventure that is already ours. But we have to pay attention because the fire and the cancer and the arthritis and the hurricane and the flood and the heart attack and the accident and the depression will try to distract us from time to time, and not one of them is the journey that we're hoping for. Any one of them can suffice as a painfully distracting detour from or an attention-holding guide on the journey. We get to choose.
That's enough for now. I need to pay attention and see what it is I'm not paying attention to right now.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Peter and Faith
I attended a memorial service for Peter this past Sunday. Although we didn't see each other regularly since we met in August 1996, I always enjoyed his presence, and, against the backdrop of our canoeing, walks in the woods, New Years Eve and birthday gatherings, diner breakfasts and poetry readings, I think it's safe to say he enjoyed mine as well.
On that August evening, I saw him seated at a table at Dr. Java's, a cafe in Bethel, CT--at the time, the home of the Wednesday Night Poetry Series (WNPS), which is now the longest running weekly poetry series in the state. I had met his wife, Faith, the month before at the Sunken Garden Festival and she invited me to check out the goings on at Dr. Java's.
With his roots in Astoria, Peter was quick to point out that although we may have a New York Italian connection on the surface, Yonkers was not quite the same as being from the city. When I suggested that many Manhattanites felt the same way about Queens, we both laughed at my attempt to bond in not being from Manhattan if I couldn't do it by being from New York.
At first I thought of Peter as Faith's husband--corporate background, now consulting, and occasionally, and then regularly and humorously hosting the poetry series. But then I heard him read his poetry, and got to read some of it myself. The first two, "Friends," about his friend 'Grif,' and "Growing Old in New York," a riveting vignette of his aging parents, beckoned me to see him in a different light. Unfair, I thought, that this fiercely bright, wickedly funny, technologically savvy, table tennis ace (yes, all that and more) could write.
And while I'm tempted to say that the emergence of cancer in his pancreas early in 2006 was unfair as well, I know that it was not. Amid the shock, disbelief and uncertainty of the diagnosis, Peter analyzed the options for surgery, treatment, doctors and hospitals with every one of his talents. He calculated each step with Faith, and made it clear that he was going to be one of the cancer survivors who beat whatever statistical odds there were to beat (which he did, though not quite soundly enough for those of us who love him).
I consider myself lucky and blessed to have known him, although as an avowed atheist, he might cringe a bit at the "blessed" part. I learned that when I feared I might be imposing after his surgery, showing up at their home to chat was exactly the right thing to do; and that when I thought it might be too much, he jumped at the chance to walk in the woods for a couple of miles and then have lunch. When Faith called me after he wound up back in the hospital with an infection unrelated to the cancer, and asked if I could visit, Peter greeted me from behind his lunch tray with a strong desire to clarify if I were there as his babysitter or playdate.
The last time I saw him out and about, we had breakfast at a diner while his car was serviced, and he offered his humble, experienced perspective as a stepdad for three when I shared my own stepdad worries and fears. In response to an email in which I expressed my intention to see him at the opening of his and Faith's photo exhibit at the Newtown library (yes, an accomplished photographer as well), he wrote back that Faith thought it might be best if he not attend, because of, in his words, "You know--germs." I can hear his voice smile, and see his face and the gleam in his eyes as he emphasizes that last word.
The memorial service took place at his stepson, Michael's, home. Family and friends from various times and places in his life, piles of food, photographs, a video, and spoken and written messages of love and remembrance, hosted in an authentic, grounded, honest, devastated and loving way by Faith. More than once, and usually with some ironic twist and a smile, the words "arrogant" and "atheist" popped up. I believe that atheism is a valid stage of spiritual development--way past fundamentalism and not quite mysticism, and that arrogance is in the perception of the beholder.
So, Peter, like it or not, we are New York Italians and poets, you're an atheist who chose to marry Faith, and I love you and miss you.
On that August evening, I saw him seated at a table at Dr. Java's, a cafe in Bethel, CT--at the time, the home of the Wednesday Night Poetry Series (WNPS), which is now the longest running weekly poetry series in the state. I had met his wife, Faith, the month before at the Sunken Garden Festival and she invited me to check out the goings on at Dr. Java's.
With his roots in Astoria, Peter was quick to point out that although we may have a New York Italian connection on the surface, Yonkers was not quite the same as being from the city. When I suggested that many Manhattanites felt the same way about Queens, we both laughed at my attempt to bond in not being from Manhattan if I couldn't do it by being from New York.
At first I thought of Peter as Faith's husband--corporate background, now consulting, and occasionally, and then regularly and humorously hosting the poetry series. But then I heard him read his poetry, and got to read some of it myself. The first two, "Friends," about his friend 'Grif,' and "Growing Old in New York," a riveting vignette of his aging parents, beckoned me to see him in a different light. Unfair, I thought, that this fiercely bright, wickedly funny, technologically savvy, table tennis ace (yes, all that and more) could write.
And while I'm tempted to say that the emergence of cancer in his pancreas early in 2006 was unfair as well, I know that it was not. Amid the shock, disbelief and uncertainty of the diagnosis, Peter analyzed the options for surgery, treatment, doctors and hospitals with every one of his talents. He calculated each step with Faith, and made it clear that he was going to be one of the cancer survivors who beat whatever statistical odds there were to beat (which he did, though not quite soundly enough for those of us who love him).
I consider myself lucky and blessed to have known him, although as an avowed atheist, he might cringe a bit at the "blessed" part. I learned that when I feared I might be imposing after his surgery, showing up at their home to chat was exactly the right thing to do; and that when I thought it might be too much, he jumped at the chance to walk in the woods for a couple of miles and then have lunch. When Faith called me after he wound up back in the hospital with an infection unrelated to the cancer, and asked if I could visit, Peter greeted me from behind his lunch tray with a strong desire to clarify if I were there as his babysitter or playdate.
The last time I saw him out and about, we had breakfast at a diner while his car was serviced, and he offered his humble, experienced perspective as a stepdad for three when I shared my own stepdad worries and fears. In response to an email in which I expressed my intention to see him at the opening of his and Faith's photo exhibit at the Newtown library (yes, an accomplished photographer as well), he wrote back that Faith thought it might be best if he not attend, because of, in his words, "You know--germs." I can hear his voice smile, and see his face and the gleam in his eyes as he emphasizes that last word.
The memorial service took place at his stepson, Michael's, home. Family and friends from various times and places in his life, piles of food, photographs, a video, and spoken and written messages of love and remembrance, hosted in an authentic, grounded, honest, devastated and loving way by Faith. More than once, and usually with some ironic twist and a smile, the words "arrogant" and "atheist" popped up. I believe that atheism is a valid stage of spiritual development--way past fundamentalism and not quite mysticism, and that arrogance is in the perception of the beholder.
So, Peter, like it or not, we are New York Italians and poets, you're an atheist who chose to marry Faith, and I love you and miss you.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Floyd, Marion, Major League Baseball, et al.
With Marion Jones's coming clean this past week regarding her steroid use, and with Floyd Landis's illegal performance enhancement stripping him of his Tour de France title, and with the gradual, persistent, layered and labyrinthine implosion of the big muscles in Major League Baseball, and with the ongoing problem with steroid usage in interscholastic and intercollegiate athletics (especially, but not only, in football), and with whatever other substance abuse is going on in sport that has yet to surface in the media, perhaps genuinely concerned parties need to look at the issue not more closely, but in a different way.
In The Quality of Effort in 1991 I made the following general points about drug-enhanced performance in sport:
It is possible that one's loyalty to team, tribe, or greater good might be so strong that cheating appears on the horizon as a viable option, but it is within that second motivator above, that self-centered desire to do what it takes without guilt or remorse, that drug-enhanced performances emerge. Understanding the issue requires a more complex, integral approach than many sports administrators and journalists have taken. I do not mean this in the sense that we should feel sorry for those who cheat; they should be held accountable according to the relevant criminal and civil laws and organizational bylaws. I mean it in the sense that anyone who is truly interested in addressing and stopping this type of cheating in sport needs to understand the array of individual, cultural and social factors that lead athletes to cheat.
The above five "motivators" are loosely based on the values research done by Clare Graves and continued today by Don Beck and others.
In The Quality of Effort in 1991 I made the following general points about drug-enhanced performance in sport:
- Such performance cheats the athlete of ever knowing what he or she might have achieved without the drug.
- It burdens the cheater with the knowledge that he or she does not deserve the honor, although this burden may not be felt immediately, and may only become conscious if and when the athlete develops ethically to the point that such behavior is wrong.
- It also cheats opponents, irreversibly, of much more than a ribbon, medal, trophy or plaque. To use track and field as an example, this type of cheating is also a theft that steals from others the unique experience of crossing the finish line first, taking the victory lap, and standing on the winner's stand in real time to be acknowledged by those who witnessed the victory.
It is possible that one's loyalty to team, tribe, or greater good might be so strong that cheating appears on the horizon as a viable option, but it is within that second motivator above, that self-centered desire to do what it takes without guilt or remorse, that drug-enhanced performances emerge. Understanding the issue requires a more complex, integral approach than many sports administrators and journalists have taken. I do not mean this in the sense that we should feel sorry for those who cheat; they should be held accountable according to the relevant criminal and civil laws and organizational bylaws. I mean it in the sense that anyone who is truly interested in addressing and stopping this type of cheating in sport needs to understand the array of individual, cultural and social factors that lead athletes to cheat.
The above five "motivators" are loosely based on the values research done by Clare Graves and continued today by Don Beck and others.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Lens Through Which We See
The lens through which we see ourselves, others and the world at large is focused and colored by a broad and deep array of interior, exterior, individual and collective perspectives. Our personal beliefs, physical bodies, day-to-day experiences, cultural (in the very broadest meaning of that word) experiences, natural environment, and the social infrastructure within which we live our lives are among the influences that create and influence these perspectives.
A poem for you:
This Open Eye
Swollen shut the right
eye seeps semi-clotted
blood that streams
and blotches a map of
hell across the three-
year-old face. Wide
open, the left eye
appears injury-free--
untouched, but
ultimately more
lethal.
Through this open
eye the child sees
the world that has
closed the other.
From This Open Eye: Seeing What We Do
Copyright (c) 2006 by Reggie Marra
What happened to this child? What I'd like you to consider are the myriad influences that inform your intuitive or analytical responses to this question and to the poem itself. What perspective(s) may have led the poet (in this case, me) to write the poem at all, and write it as I did? Trust that your inquiry and any conclusions you may reach or hypotheses you may develop will provide as much, and probably more, insight into yourself than into the poem or the poet.
This is the spirit in which this little chunk of cyberspace begins. I don't know where (or if) it will go from here.
Thanks for reading this far.
A poem for you:
This Open Eye
Swollen shut the right
eye seeps semi-clotted
blood that streams
and blotches a map of
hell across the three-
year-old face. Wide
open, the left eye
appears injury-free--
untouched, but
ultimately more
lethal.
Through this open
eye the child sees
the world that has
closed the other.
From This Open Eye: Seeing What We Do
Copyright (c) 2006 by Reggie Marra
What happened to this child? What I'd like you to consider are the myriad influences that inform your intuitive or analytical responses to this question and to the poem itself. What perspective(s) may have led the poet (in this case, me) to write the poem at all, and write it as I did? Trust that your inquiry and any conclusions you may reach or hypotheses you may develop will provide as much, and probably more, insight into yourself than into the poem or the poet.
This is the spirit in which this little chunk of cyberspace begins. I don't know where (or if) it will go from here.
Thanks for reading this far.
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