soulsearching

soulsearchingProfessor Bill on a hot streak
at Iezzi's tavern the bookie
moans as he pays out you're killing me
drinks all around and smiles,kisses
i enjoyed our conversation the other day
and told my sorority sisters about you.
I'll read my poetry to them next time
oh, we can buy bombay saphire.
I drink wine too,we'll have a good time
but it must be on a tuesday
or a thursday when my wife works.

soulsearching

soulsearching Gardening. The furthest back place for me and gardening is remembering visiting my Grandfather. He worked for a rich man in West Hartford where he tended flower gardens that gained renown in the area. He would congregate with other gardeners for the wealthy at the Rose gardens in West Hartford. Whenever we went to visit him and Gramma on a Sunday afternoon, he would be hard at work in his garden. His everpresent pipe clenched in his teeth, in a permanent crouch as he pulled weeds or seperated bulbs, he would wave hello, no smile on his face, and go back to work.

My sisters used to delight in the gnarled dwarfs with faces partially disfigured by the weather. There are bits of movies in my head of them straddling the gnomes and sqealing in delight. Invariably when he gave us a ride home after dark, there would be cuttings or bulbs or plants that my mother would transfer to her garden. More than the smells of the leaves burning in the Fall, or the scent of the flowers, acrid marygolds in the Fall, sweet roses or peonies in the early Summer, I recall how his dour face would cloud over with sadness when he looked upon us.

My Mother's garden on Roxbury st was an offshoot of his. The forsythia that rattled in the wind outside the sunporch windows where I slept, the lilacs, the daffodills and tulips that lined the foundation on the sunny side of the house all came from his patch. Years later when we used to visit Aunt Martha's farm on the Delaware river in Mt Bethel Pennsylavania, she would bring home cuttings from Martha's peonies. These would bloom in the back of the yard, then give way to Grande's roses later on.

Before I left to spend two years in Turkey, my Mother asked me to plant the bulbs of tulips and daffodills which had been cooling in the cellar. She would report their progress in the following Springs while I was away. Now I live in the country with a woman who has spiritual ties with Wendell Berry, in fact she has her own version of the Mad farmer's manifesto which is laid out in meandering beds of herbs, milkweed and other plants and shrubs that attract butterflies and hummingbirds. But that is a story for another day.

trying to catch up with my invisible soul in the i

trying to catch up with my invisible soul in the i Befuddled. Crochety. Alone. Read a long memoir about self, after retirement. Woven into recollections of self at several stages of becoming. Captured my attention, but of little use to other. I think I'll wait another day.

Trying to catch up with my invisible soul in the ig Earth a: soulsearching

trying to catch up with my invisible soul in the i: soulsearching
July 4 2006: I cannot define what soul is or spirit for that matter to my own satisfaction, let alone another's. I know what I feel/think, but that gets into the realm of metaphors that cloud men's minds. This morning I went to N and B's to let the dogs out. There was no food, so I couldn't follow the feeding directions. I searched the cabinets for dog food. Nada. In the hallway to the porch there was an empty bag of dry dog food. In the sink an empty can. I found part of a dog bisquit and brought it out where pup pup sniffed the pieces and eventually ate them. Loupe went out barked, left the deck, took care of business, ignored me, lay down at the farthest reach. The pup frisked an leapt and insisted I pet her. I did. I sat there with them until the little one brought me a large pit and barked directions. I was to try to get it past her. She should be in the world cup. I decided to go home and get some dog food. The pup accompanied me to the car and I remembered I hadn't brought in the bag of dog food I bought yesterday. I filled a frisby and returned to the empty bowls. I divided the food and went into the house and filled the empty can half way with hot water and poured it on the dry food. I brought it out; the pup sniffed it and returned to the stone/pit and told me to resume trying to score a goal on her. Eventually Loupay came over, wagged her tail, waited for me to pet her and then she went to the bowls. She sniffed, then lapped the liquid, then finished first one bowl then the other. Meanwhile the pup continued to shut me out.

I sat in the quiet watching the cat birds? swoop to the feeder. There off the deck the trees are tall and straight and responsive to any breeze. I think of the other day when B went to great lengths to rescue a frog from the pool at B's . I remember his curiousity when we kayaked up untraveled creeks and tributaries to the river. I remember stopping to move turtles out of the road, and remember hearing that he rescued fallen baby birds. I see the women who love to garden. Just now on the way to the barn, Phebe's derriere as she peers at some emerging green. I remember Annie Dillard's Pilgrim atTinker's creek and Wendell Berry's reverent writing about farming in the hill country. I think of Pig Earth, The fire Next Time, Ceremony , Tracks. I think of some music, many poems, some blogs of son and friends. I am grateful for the chance to live in the country, to breathe air cleansed by the many trees she has planted and the many that have planted themselves. I think beyond the tons of junk floating in space, and the poisoned food that agri business gives us. I say way to go to Grannies for peace as they sit in Jail: Sonia Sanchez and Mrs Wetherbee-I'm sorry I forget your name. And I say Happy 4 of July. Let America be the America of Whitman, of Lincoln, of Woody Guthrie, of Pete Seeger, of John Tisa and the countless, nameless ordinary people who strive to live in harmony with their inner voices and all living things.

soulsearching

soulsearching July 3 06 I have lived a naive,and expectant life. Once dubbed the prophet of possibility I was sure we could soar. I used to think that at the workplace we hovered inches off the ground. And there were some good times and good teaching and considerable learning happening. I thought all my children were beautiful and creative and funny and talented. I loved my wife and she was desirable and happy. Something happened along the way to here. Life happened.

My sister still prays fervently to God. In times of trouble she is sure he sends grace winging her way, and her son in a coma since being run down by a drunken kid comes out of the coma after a priest lays on his hands and says:Happy Mother's day Mommy. praise the Lord! I listen to clever neo conservatives on CSPAN and vindictive, bitter hateful callers who deride any one left of Atilla and I wonder what the hell happened to the dream we once had in the sixties when we assumed the power of the people changed the course of the war. Did we underestimate the forces of darkness? Oh yes we did! I look around for a priest with his hands outstretched, I search for God within my soul in vain.
I have a friend, a gentle , good man who is perplexed at any mention of the Soul or spirit. What is it? Define it. He has heard Solomon Rushdie on Bill Moyers whom he says believes as he does. I did not hear Moyers , so I don't know. I gave him a copy of Care of the Soul, but he will not read it. I am left to deal with my own erratic soul It is not dancing on the barn wall as it once did. It is not there. I am not awash in grace when I witness love at work among my children or my stuudents, perhaps because I do not see it transpiring. I know. I have eyes that do not see, and ears that do not hear. So I must bathe my eyes , clean out my ears and begin again. Listen at predawn for birdsong;see the rubythroated hummingbird darting from blossom to blossom. When the dog stops snoring and awakes he will let me know he loves me.

soulsearching

soulsearching

Yesterday I wrote a rather mournful blog on a website I haven't accessed for almost sixth months.

soulsearching

soulsearching

soulsearching

soulsearching

Apres le deluge. It has been raining steadily, but the downpour is more toads and frogs. Ordinary people living out their allotted time often beset by minor tragedies are at a loss as to what to do next. Some seek refuge in alcohol. "Candy is dandy, but licquor is quicker." When my Mother passed a decade and a half ago, I went on a toot. Mine involved following the ponies while I downed glasses of vodka. I pulled out of that spin thanks to good friends and forgotten Grace..."Ontogony recapitulates philogeny." A modern translation might be :I can fuck up more than you dear old Dad.

I am one of the disappearing ones fading away, becoming invisible. When I had power, or at least considerable influence, I covered it with charisma and blowhard. Along the way to now, I eschewed power and chose to follow in the dust of a hopeful dream of LOVE . Nothing is as it appears to be. What my generation managed to do, in spite of its monstrous shortcomings was to follow at least one commandment: Honor thy Father and Mother. This we did; in spite of our smug certainty that we knew more and were better equipped to function in the world, we did show a reverent face to our parents, even as we went our own way and lived our own lives. I miss that hypocritical characteristic in some of my children.

I sit here in a barn office with a snoring old dog, in his waking hours totally devoted. I worry about all my children. I am dismayed by the world's turnings, I am disappointed in the dying of the light of myths that beckoned me in my earlier years. Still, I am fortunate to have a few friends who accept me as I am. It is good to correspond with a kindred soul who works hard at standing still in a blind current,who manages to gain a little. A year or so ago, my love and I were kayaking off Barnaget Light, and we were caught in the tide. I urged her to paddle harder, and we did though we kept on losing ground. The bird I was using a a marker got smaller and smaller. Eventually, we beached the kayak and waved down a boy passing by in a moter boat. He carried us home, his twelve year old back straight and tall at the tiller. At times it seems we are all stuck in such a race and the most we can hope for is to stand our ground.

I sometimes wish I could be more like my sister who still prays to God and believes He interedes on her behalf. I do hope , I do love. I love the idea of what the world would be like if we could attain the ideals we created in the eternal myths we used to keep fear away, to hasten the end of darkness. I love my children, but I am at a loss as to what I can do to lighten their load. I love my wife who wishes I was different than I am, and so is often annoyed by me as I am by her.

When I was an ultra-omnipotent adminstrator riding the train from the city to this country refuge, I filled the trip with writing in a journal and bibliotherapy. The books I read now or read again or less therapuetic They often add to the funk. Still there is wisdom to be gleaned from reading Kierkegaard, or Camus, especially The Plague. And poetry allows my soul to leap, and the idea of my soul and my responsibility to myself through it, to the rest of the world eddying beyond me, is a fulfilling and grace giving concept. Courage to my children! Be responsible to yourself! Care for your souls and yourselves. And do find a little space in your consciousness to treat your Mother and Father with reverence. AMEN