Thank You Note Chowder

 (Continuing)

"Words are partly thoughts, but mostly their music, deep down. Thinking itself is, perhaps, orchestral, the mind conducting the world. Conducting it, constructing it, I sense this instinctively. There is no language for this, not then, not even now, this inner glide, articulation of the wordless, plotless truth of existence. Life is not made up of stories, much as I adore them; Charlotte, Heidi, Caddie Woodlawn. Really, life is – this. It's a float, my body a cloud drifting along, effortless but aware. Drifting over the world, seeing, passing along."

From THE ART OF THE WASTED DAY, by Patricia Hampl

Thank you dear friend, for helping me to see – I promise to pass "it" along. Many Blessings

He finished the short note to the artist friend who'd gifted him with the poppy art and, let's just say it, all the dreams and whatever they meant and were still "doing" to him as memories returned and receded. 

He sealed the envelope and put it in his suit coat pocket to drop off later at the blue box just outside the coffee shop where today they were featuring split pea soup and chicken chowder and the usual French onion. Pastrami sandwiches and another fancy avocado toasts: they all sounded good so he'd planned to grab a few things on his way home from the route.

Lately the newspaper route had taken him over into the more suburban area not too far from the apartment, about two and half miles with a bicycle didn't feel like anything really. He threw papers onto porches one after the other and watched his breath steam out in front of him, letting the bicycle coax its way along the block and into sunrise just toward the end of the route which circled him back to the start just perfectly day after day.

I love this job Zoe, he'd pat her on the head during his midday siesta at the apartment and share how the morning route felt today.

Little windy but warm and balmy even. I could smell the soil and there were a few worms wiggling out of the ground.

He put his headphones on, plopped down in his Irving Leather Armchair, a fine Stetson Chestnut trimmed with bronze nail heads at its edges. It was a chair that appeared to be bursting yet felt as soft as a feather when one sat down. He needed some recharge time. It was a perfect place to chill and he played at volume 7, some old familiar Kansas.

Soon he sailed along on the violin and all that his heart could do was conduct and glide his arms about on the breeze of the sonorous current, drifting over the world, following the now even right now articulation of the orchestral and plotless life of existence.

It was adventure.

And was he gassy from that chowder. Just seeing, passing along.

OLD GURU

(Continuing)

Much to his relief the friend who had sent the magnificently framed photo of the poppy never showed at the dinner party. Now he would have more choice about how to be in touch to thank the artist for the gift. But there was much else to talk about.

Whether it was from the dream of the night before or whether he had thought it out of his own creativity the long day after that, the one he had spent on the couch, he could not remember.

He was remodeling the old cabin. Trying to choose a sturdier front door system. He was at the kitchen table laying out plans for adding a three sided porch and outdoor fireplace. He would bring in his uncle Frank to help with the stonework. His dad maybe could drop over and help too.

A vision came of pouring the gravel for the cement for the trowel for the space between the stones he'd chosen from the river near where the balsam, nearly 300 old, lay bent over the rapids beyond the southern bend of the hillside. Blue light would shine their down deep between the pine and it would glow purple, deep blue all over the late March snows there with him if he was blessed enough to be awake.

Then an alarm would go off or the phone would ring or chime and he would come to and have to move on to what was next. He had picked up the paper route from a kid who lived down the hall and although it was getting him up and out early, the money was just what he was looking for at a time that was right with his other job, part-time as an Uber driver, at least for now anyway.

Despite the early timing he did like to get up and make breakfast. It energized him and helped him simplify his rhythm to two substantial meals per day. He loved fried eggs just right, Sunnyside Up with plenty of salt, no pepper please, rye toast with lots of butter and a black coffee. While eating today's breakfast sandwich he looked through some folders in a box still left to unpack and found some of his old teaching materials. Sometimes he would actually write down the words he intended to say to a group and commit them to memory as a sort of meditative training.

He loved how it felt just reading the words, sitting there on the floor; Zoe, who knows where, but happy.

From one of them:

Training witnesses.

Everyone can naturally grow through the period of narration… wherein ones story of themselves is the driving voice. Beyond moving the river through our endless list of preferences and "what we would like to have and do with our lives" there is witnessing. We live empty. We receive and we bestow. We become present to ourselves as compassionate recipients and witnesses. We receive gratefully and give generously as a way of living simply. Here's when we can see ourselves truly coming to life.

The smile of your true self awaits your smile to become its joyful light – first for you, then for others. It is an honest and humble giver and receiver, blessing by blessing.

The one you can be present to with openness and acceptance and steadfast love and trust. Beloved, in you I am well pleased, says God.

So you can remember simply to train your witness within as you encourage yourself to prayer time… Nourish in the practice of presence, renew in God's presence through daily centering prayer and mindfulness.

This restorative practice trains the heart through loving and trusting God, the work of it is to serve as a vacant temple with every door open through which God's holy wind sustains us As One, as one would empower any healer with visions of the shalom community fully restored to life everlasting.

I close my eyes, in order to see.

~Goethe

WORKING WITH THE MILES DAVIS JAZZ QUARTET snapped and spun out in the living room and now after a nice full day, he carried a smile of deep satisfaction within himself as the turntable wheeled its magic. He maintained his father's stereo to this day. Replacing only a few parts and upgrading to Bose speakers, the old RCA sang out through Davis's trumpet while his gang got skipped and ready to stay jazzy as a snare splashed open to a trapped splat symbols and brass into the belly of a deep base sending it out all over the floor, where Zoe lie bathing in the sun. The song sauntered out into the ether. Another blessed day at work, he thought.

POPPY LOVE

(Continuing)

The character awaits you, his life lives in every thought of the writer, right here before your eyes, how could it be any simpler to understand? Oh you treasures of God who keep reading, take what is here and fill it with life. Maybe later beside the pool you will have a curiosity about a question posed or something silly that was raised here in the midst of these few simple lines of words. Maybe at the grocery store or just lying down for a nap. Recollection comes reminding with memories as a free crow flies overhead toward the end of the afternoon. Now, where is our Zoe?

She could hardly wake him. She even broke into English although she knew he was still asleep.

The poppy, the poppy… The words were hardly formed as he wiped the drool from his mouth and struggled to awaken. The late morning sun filtered through the blinds as Zoe now resorted to several boxing style blows to his face, three or four furry little right hooks to the nose in hopes of getting some damned breakfast.

Things had gotten strange the night before. He got up later than he had wished. He made himself a pot of coffee, two pieces of toast and some scrambled eggs and sat down near the patio but still inside as it was too cool to be outside for breakfast. After a few sips of coffee he told Zoe what a strange night it had been.

I remember opening the picture. I remember sitting in front of it on the floor with it resting back on the couch. I looked at that thing for what it seemed were years of time… It really felt like forever Zoe. I gazed into the center of the fresh poppy there gleaming red with its bright and glistening center wet to its lilted ridges, red pressing velvet out and away engorged to an edge sprung warm in a beatific burst of spring which whispered at first, then swelled to dew drops on my tongue… I gazed into the poppy and drank endlessly. Oh Zoe, the quenching… I had a whole lifetime with horses… I was the conductor of symphonies… It gave and gave like music pouring through me… And the more I played and played…

I just. I just cannot describe it.

He hopped up from breakfast, through his dishes in the sink and flopped over on the couch with his spiral-bound notebook and he spent the better part of that day lying on his back writing out everything, word by word he unfolded as much of the events and their significance as he could keep up with from the epic dream he had upon opening the poppy. 

At present it was hanging over a bookcase he had parked in the living room. There was a potted plant across to the other corner of the room, a small coffee table and a few lamps so the place was fairly posh. Comfortable. Stylish.

He would've spent the entire weekend scribbling down his notes, filling out page after page all from that one single strange night he opened the photo of the poppy. All he knew when he awoke was that he was very much like the poppy and the poppy was very much like him. He felt astonishment at how it lived its dripping life on the verge of its blessing, again and again. It was the healing gaze of God he prayed within himself, the heart of ALMIGHTY LOVE pulsing in this most tender flower. Now and always.

Things were warming up in town, people were out on their bikes and taking their walks with their dogs. For some reason there were several corgis in this neighborhood, he never would understand why. But it felt good to get out and walk. 

You get in your stride, you put your music on and just walk yourself down the street, maybe start with a goal of getting to the corner. Feels good to get moving. I like to move my arms a lot when I'm walking. Right up to the point before I start to look like a real dork, I'm always real careful not to push the limit. But it feels good to move the arms and legs at the same time. And we have this great hill that goes down toward the library and once I get going in that direction I usually stop over and put my nose in a book or two. I get a kick out of locating one of my old favorite novels and then I sit down on their comfy leather couches and read a chapter or two of my favorites. I love Murakami, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Kurt Vonnegut… Charles Frazier.

On his way to a dinner party that evening he had a thought about writing some new recipes for whitefish. There were potatoes in his cupboards and he thought maybe to stop at the market on his way home, that is if he wasn't going to be staying too late. We'll see.

It was a nice bunch of people he'd known from school and it would be fun to catch up. But it would be strange for him to see the very friend who had just given him the poppy photograph. When he read that it was from this particular artist he was surprised and flattered and happy and grateful all at once. Now everybody was going to hang out and he would have to find a way to thank them for the gift. It didn't take much time for him to decide not to share anything about the crazy dream he had upon gazing into it however. There was absolutely no way he was going to go down that road, not until he had figured some more things out for himself, his recollections from the night of the poppy dreams would continue to return. He would do his best to enjoy himself that night. 

Maybe some Chardonnay, some ABBA for the gang to help us all unwind.

One Is Enough

 (Continuing)

It was Friday evening and he was settling in with a scotch on the sofa beside Zoe. He had plans to connect with Sophie that night and catch up on life, that left only throwing together a light dinner of stirfry and opening up the package to do before setting up his laptop.

The large cardboard box was resting against his door when he had returned from the library where he spent the afternoon researching Matthew Fox among other creation theologians. After dinner he took his Swiss Army knife and carefully let the blade glide along the edges so as not to damage what was inside.

It was some kind of image that had been framed and when he removed the paper his jaw dropped nearly to the floor. He placed the image on the couch and stepped back so that he might fully address it. This was his habit. Three seconds with the eyes closed and then – presto! LET THERE BE ART!

There was nothing he could do but sit gazing. It was alive.

Let's Go Cubs

 (Continuing)

Castanza was at the plate, full count, when he plopped down on the couch across from his Pal in the La-Z-Boy across the living room. Cheers! they said in unison. Each taking a sip of the single malt scotch he'd brought over to share this time.

Let's hope he's gonna have a good year, he sure let us down in the playoffs, that's for sure. How much did I miss?

It's only the bottom of the second, Jack said. Well lots of those kids are great athletes, but you gotta be able to play through the pressure.

That's it exactly! And they don't have to swing at every pitch, right? They play from pure emotion – exciting to watch, anything can happen, especially when this one's up, but he is "hard to walk" as they say.

Listen to this one Jack – for my essay:

Good People

most royal greening verdancy,

rooted in the sun,

you shine your radiant light.

Hildegard of Bingen

Holy Shnikeys that's a good one, where did you dig up that one?

It's from Matthew Fox's Original Blessing, one of the most important books I've ever read. Reorienting the church back to its original center in Creation Theology. You don't start with sin, you start with a holy loving God with whom we are already one and then the love story begins.

Commercials for AstraZeneca and Flonase and Country Crock and Chevrolet play between innings.

The story of religion, he is saying, doesn't begin with some kind of dilemma to solve. It's a really interesting way to think about things. That there even is a creation is an act of love, and then add some people to enjoy it with, who are so nearly just like God, as triune… a living, love community, three in one… On and on. So it's a keeper if you can ever find a copy.

Hey there! Martini hit a double, that should bring in a run. And yeah, shoot me some quotes will you? And I need to see that essay when you're done.

I'll be sure to send it over.

After the game he bid Jack farewell and stopped by to grab Chinese for dinner and a sixpack of Red Stripe from the 711 at the corner near the playground where he tried to, again, walk his cat without success. Back at the apartment Zoe greeted him with curls and purs around his feet. He took off his shoes, washed his face and hands. She told him about her day while he ate with chopsticks, appreciating how the sunset with all its golden lights was perfectly centered by his window frame at exactly this time on exactly this date.

Sun, not sin

(Continuing)

What I've learned from sin:

… everything is always broken or less than it should be no matter what and if that's not clear it's because I can't see straight… Because of sin.

What's deserved for it is punishment. Take that to the nth degree, hellfire and brimstone.

The accuser, Satan, loves it… Might as well be the same voice saying [accusing]…Why didn't you do this? You should never have done that. You probably think one thing when the other is true. 

I learned to question myself endlessly, so much so it makes me unable to make decisions and feel happy from day to day.

Always quite sure your fooling yourself into thinking things that are false all the time. From one delusion to the next.

What's really real and who the hell are you… Truly?

It makes concrete and nearly intractable a lifestyle of endless reward and punishment for good and bad behavior, separating human beings from themselves and from God and from each other.

As he tapped away at his laptop from his station near the window at the coffee shop, the room lived its life filled with the aroma of fresh cooked bakery, espresso and maybe a hint of cigarette from the gentleman sitting two chairs down from him near the decorative palm beside the doorway. Sun sliced in through the window.

He put his face straight up into the suns warmth and brilliance. Finally. Thank you.

That was enough for one day. Every time he worked on the essay he would get a headache and end up feeling crappy. Still underneath that was the heat and energy of knowing that this is what he could do, he was the agent in place, the one who stayed. Accepting that wasn't always easy, but there were times when finishing an important project like this one could stir his visions. He'd keep writing.

Right now he needed to be on his way to Jack's. They were going to enjoy an afternoon preseason game, he for the Cubs, Jack for the Pirates as usual. Not a bad day he thought to himself, sunshine and baseball. Winter wouldn't last forever and the essay would of course come to an end soon so long as he kept to his schedule.

Part of what bothered him was the fear of being misunderstood. He was of course by no means against the critical importance of self-knowledge; knowing the importance of being able to recognize his own shadows and capacity for illusion, a tendency to project his own fears onto other people. Self-love meant cultivating the ability to see the beauty of integrity and acknowledging his own growing edges.

Warm thoughts came to mind: Keep the Beginner's mind. We must always be ready to see anew. These were basics he tried to remember. And of course, he could always return to his breathing.

False Start

(Continuing)

Who the hell was he to determine that his essay was an important one, as if no one should ever want to slip by without getting in on the blessing he knew it would provide his readership?

It's just that he had seen it time and time again and even fallen into much of the same unhelpful patterns himself in his earlier life. He'd seen it cause much pain and unholy distortion. The first word, what you started with, the main thing that every other "part" of the most basic of the basics in the life of faith (as far as he and so many millions before him had been taught) was a three letter word that stunk like, hurt like, smeared like and stained like good old capital S-I-N.

First things first, they had all seemed to say, even as a young man growing up in catechism class, "You may not forget about this one. This is where we have to start. The good old-fashioned honest truth. You are a sinner living in a sin stained and sin broken world. Taken as yourself, just you being you in whatever place you happened to find yourself, you needed to be assured and agree that all of it was tainted through and through."

That meant the cruel world around you and that meant you too.

Now that he wasn't any longer enlisted as a professor at the Uniquely Named Christian Academy, he could finally write more freely.

He was working down a list of major points he knew he wanted to make. But of course, owing to his nature, he'd generally start out at the tip of some circuitous point and then let the writing move him toward the clarification of what that point was actually supposed to be. He remembered how Annie Dillard had referred to writing as an epistemological tool, a tool in the hand of a sculptor who by tapping along word by word in a straight and honest line eventually gave shape and form to a new and inviting finished product. We find out the truth by talking things through to their conclusions. It was a good start and took for granted the basic goodness of nature and the world which gave every inquiry of this nature a more positive and hopeful trajectory.

Why was this essay about "Original Blessing and Original Sin" so vital to him, so important to everyone? The page of the spiral-bound notebook contained this list:

Vital self trust – loving self connection, cultivating a fearful distrust of God and others and self

Pain in the wounding of the branding – sinner. We all are. You know who comes to mind?

Zoe needed her dinner so he put things away and made his way to the kitchen where there were just a few dishes to do. He put on Miles Davis and he and the sweet Burmese swayed back and forth to the sounds of the saxophone and what sang between each of the pieces in the jazz trio. Might be naptime Zoe.

He drained the sink empty and dried his hands and made his way over to the living room.  She was already snoozing, in her kingdom of God.