Author: mjgillen100@hotmail.com

Silence

There is meditative silence and also the silence of the mystic. This morning there is deathly silence — that of John Prine, a wonderful songwriter and narrator of the human condition. I first heard him and bought his first album in 1972. I was lucky to see him four times in concert, the last time October 30 last year. We had planned to go to his music festival this Fall, and I had hopes that I might have him autograph that first album. Not to be. This morning there is silence because this victim of coronavirus is silenced.

Fortunately, his songs live on. He was gifted at capturing the funny, the sad, the absurd.

Some lyrics of his that I would like to share (check out the songs if you have not heard them) ——

There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes
Jesus Christ died for nothin’, I suppose.

—- Sam Stone

If dreams were lightning, thunder were desire
This old house would have burnt down a long time ago.

—- Angel From Montgomery

Broken hearts and dirty windows
Make life difficult to see
That’s why last night and this mornin’
Always look the same to me

—- Souvenirs

Ya’ know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder ev’ry day
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, “Hello in there, hello”

—- Hello in There

And the water tastes funny
When you’re far from your home
But it’s only the thirsty
That hunger to roam

—- Rocky Mountain Time

She asked me to change the station
Said the song just drove her insane
But it weren’t just the music playing
It was me that she was trying to blame
…
A June bug flew from the warmth he once knew
And I wished for once I weren’t right
Why we used to laugh together
And we’d dance to any old song
Well, ya know, she still laughs with me
But she waits just a second too long.

—- Far From Me

“An old man sleeps with his conscience at night
Young kids sleep with their dreams.”

—- The Late John Garfield Blues (one of my favorites!)

And daddy won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River where Paradise lay
Well, I’m sorry my son, but you’re too late in asking
Mister Peabody’s coal train has hauled it away

When I die let my ashes float down the Green River
Let my soul roll on up to the Rochester dam
I’ll be halfway to Heaven with Paradise waitin’
Just five miles away from wherever I am

—- Paradise

“We’ll whistle and go fishing in heaven
We’ll whistle and go fishing in heaven.”

—- Fish and Whistle

To feel especially good listen to “That’s the Way the World Goes ‘Round”, the ‘happy enchilada’ version! “It’s a half an inch of water, and you think you’re gonna drown” or “It’s a happy enchilada, and you think you’re gonna drown.”

Requiescat in pace, John.

American?

What is an American? That is a question we don’t ask ourselves, is it? Do you know your roots, how you came to be here rather than somewhere else?

Michael Gillen, my German great-grandfather, came during the high period of German immigration, the 1870’s. My immediate German ancestors are John – Sebastian – Michael.

On my Durand (maternal) side Jean Durand came from France around 1660 and married Catherine Annennontak. They begot Louis who begot Louis who begot Pierre who begot Joseph who begot Francois who begot Felix who begot Azarie who begot Florence who begot me.

Louis Durand probably first came from Canada into what is now the United States as early as 1680. Those ancestors didn’t pay any attention to borders. “What border?” would have been their question. Louis’ mother was Catherine Annennontak, an important ancestor in the Metis (mixed First Nation and European ancestry) families of Canada. Azarie Durand, my grandfather, settled permanently in Faribault, Minnesota around 1900.

The relocations, dislocations that those first ancestors endured must have been difficult if not traumatic. Catherine’s mother traveled hundreds of miles to safety with her infant following massacre of her father by the Iroquois. How fragile is our ancestry.

I’m proud of my ancestral heritage, though none were ‘documented’ in the modern sense of that term.

Where is this entry going? We attended a talk by Jose Antonio Vargas, an undocumented citizen of the Unites States. He is of Pilipino descent. Briefly, he was sent to live with his grandparents who were here as documented citizens. He only discovered his papers were fake when he applied for a driver’s license. By then his education, his friends, his life were here.

Jose is a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, an intelligent, articulate (and humorous) advocate for an intelligent assessment of our complicated laws and system for treating immigrants. I urge you to read his book, “Dear America, Notes of an Undocumented Citizen”. There is a ton of misinformation out there, much propounded by this current administration. Facts are:

–   Undocumented persons live shadow lives, afraid of ICE

–   They are unable to vote

–   They are unable to use welfare or other government benefits

–   To the contrary, they and their employers pay their taxes and social security (our government is more than willing to take their money even though they do not use  the system)

–   The Congressional Budget Office estimates 50 to 75% of undocumented pay federal, state and local taxes. It estimates about $7 BILLION paid annually into Social Security.

–   Most undocumented people are NOT Hispanic; they are Asian. [I guess Trump will next want to build a wall across the Pacific!]

–   Most people do not want to be dislocated, to leave their friends and family, their culture, their language

I think that last point is most important. The world does not want to come to the United States, as many Americans seem to think. They would prefer to live where they are, assuming they could live in reasonable safety. 

And further, though an American of long ancestry, I seriously think of emigrating to another country, but hesitate for the same reasons that other citizens of the world hesitate to leave and come here (family, friends, language, the familiar). I consider it because to me America is not the home of the brave, the land of the free, welcomer of those in need. It has become the home of the cowardly, the land of the oppressors, a country of the greedy guardians of their hoards of wealth without consideration for needs of others. Even many of its churches preach a theology of prosperity, a perversion of the Gospel if there ever was one. . .

Power of Music

Last evening, September 29, we traveled a considerable distance to Atlanta to see a concert. Sometimes it is worth the price of time and distance to experience the ethereality of music. This concert was such a one.

The setting was a large Methodist church on Peachtree Road in Buckhead. The sanctuary was a perfect setting acoustically and esthetically, one conducive to meditation during the music.

I love classical romantic music, that which is very lyrical, pieces such as “Scheherazade”, “The Lark Ascending”, and “The Firebird”. Rachmaninoff is a late romantic. His “All-Night Vigil” is an incredibly rich and melodic choral masterpiece. The text contains Russian Orthodox versions of Latin hymns such as “Gloria in Excelsis”, “Ave Maria”, the “Magnificat”, and the “Nunc Dimittis”. The music combines text from several services of the daily office (or hours) to serve for a night-long service in Russian monasteries on eves of holy days.

The opening notes came upon us like a wall of sound, and for an hour we were immersed in a musical sea. The Russian basses go to depths of the lowest B-flat while the sopranos soar to angelic heights.

Select a recording of Op. 37, “All-Night Vigil” also known as “Vespers”. Sit back. Enjoy. . .

An Island Christmas

We celebrated Christmas with family on a Caribbean island this year. It was a new experience for us, and could not have been a richer, better time. We spent lots of time on the beach and in the water. Snorkeling was marvelous, the best I have ever experienced. We saw coral reefs, many kinds of fish, a barracuda, a moray eel and green sea turtles every day we swam. Our last day we saw octopi. The first one spread and changed color as Olivia and I watched. Son John surprised a second octopus as he reached for a shell. It too was surprised by him, inked and retreated to its coral home. It was wonderful to share the experience with grand-daughters. Seeing these sea creatures in their home environment was spectacular – much more than even the best documentary shows. We hiked, toured Charlotte Amalie, played games and enjoyed many other activities.

This Sunday was the feast of the Holy Family. Father Pedro had a wonderful homily (as usual). The gospel and homily seemed so apropos following our trip. The gospel is the story of Jesus becoming separated from his family and remaining in the temple. Father talked of Mary, Joseph and Jesus being a ‘dream team’, a family that could have exalted in their individual status and talent. Instead of being individualists they set an example of how to complement and bring out the best in one another and others – the trademark of a true dream team and family. The conclusion of the story is that Jesus was obedient to his parents. We hear no more from him until his public life, 18 years later – a lesson in silence.

Our family time was wonderful, a time when we complemented one another, made each other better and happier. It is a memory to be treasured.

September 2018

Feedback Wanted! An old friend from my rowing days told me she has read and enjoyed my blogs. I do not monitor traffic and therefore do not know who may read them. I appreciate any feedback, either posted comments, or emails to me at mjgillen100@hotmail.com. 

                       

My interest this summer has been on native plants and wildflowers of our beautiful Appalachian mountains. Wildflowers represent the ephemeral beauty of our world, often only discovered through macro photography. My eye is only able to see nature’s complexity when enlarged on my computer screen. This a world of individual flowers or small colonies visible only when one takes time to slow down and see.

  

In June I attended the Cullowhee Native Plant Conference at Western Carolina University, a gathering of knowledgeable plant specialists. They use the Latin terms, intimidating to me, a novice. They are a wonderful group of welcoming people who make all feel welcome. Among these knowledgeable folks climate change is indisputable fact. It is demonstrated by the ability to grow plants at the university that would not have survived 15 years ago and demonstrated by nurseries that have modified their plant catalogues to accommodate the changes. We are seeing more potent strains of poison ivy and more invasive plant activity as a result of longer growing seasons.

A week ago I attended a lecture by a noted meteorologist/climatologist. In her profession she gathered data and presented it. She did not advocate policy; that was left to decision makers. Her facts, though, made it clear that we have climate change and global warming, caused in large part by our carbon based energy production. We now spend more in the United States to cool homes than to warm them.Today the skies clear earlier at Asheville airport, the result of warmer nights that result in less cloud cover. 31 Alaskan native villages face relocation because of higher water levels and erosion. Engineers and architects are designing for higher ocean levels by building bridges higher. Design firms do not make such changes lightly, because the final costs are greater to their clients. These are only a few of the factual illustrations of climate change.

Yet, I continue to hear people deny climate change. They confuse weather which is local (e.g. a blizzard in late winter) with the broad impact of climate. Evidently, they listen more to the fake “news” of Fox, commentators such as Hannity, and paid spokespeople for big energy than to the reality. There is a tendency for all of us to deny what we don’t want to believe. I imagine the ancient Pompeians saying, “Non succendam!” as they looked toward Mt. Vesuvius.

Students of history are aware of societal collapses such as the Mayan civilization. Destruction of the rain forest and over-farming altered their environment. Rainfall declined. Crops failed. The people no longer believed their priests and leaders, and the political system collapsed.

There are immediate societal costs such as the cost of controlling invasive species, the health effects of respiratory illness and diseases such as malaria and fevers, and the impact on crop production, but we could face national and worldwide catastrophe.

We all bear responsibility. We are a consumer driven society, addicted to buying and using. I believe that awareness is at least a first step, one that could lead to positive changes. There is work on carbon recapture, but that is not economically viable (another myth of the climate deniers). What would be best is reduction or elimination of carbon energy consumption and a shift to renewable clean energy. Yet the United States remains a world leader in conspicuous consumption and planned obsolescence.

Is this a moral issue? Yes. The impact will fall first and foremost on the poor and disadvantaged. Do we as a society care? I’m afraid the answer is ‘no’. I think the wealthy and advantaged will simply use their resources to maintain their lifestyle. But as John Donne wrote: 

No man is an island; entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.

Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

 

 

‘Amerika’ 2018

I have too long been silent, remiss in expressing myself here. I have not been depressed, but I have greatly limited my exposure to news and commentary. I have almost desperately fled the depressing news of the moral decay of America. I have tried to become a regular practitioner of daily prayer and meditation, my focus on personal change. There comes a time that “even the stones cry out”.

America’s busyness, its preoccupation with wealth and success, its religious hypocrisy (prosperity theology) has made many of its citizens blind to the needs of others and the spirit of the gospel. Politics has long been a dirty business, but has sunk to a morally bankrupt level. As long as we have financial success we care not for our own fragile environment, for our long-standing allies, or for “your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. . .the homeless, tempest-tossed. . .” We build walls and separate families and children.

Today’s reading, from the Letter of St. James, reads:

My brothers and sisters, do you with your acts of favoritism really believe in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ? For if a person with gold rings and in fine clothes comes into your assembly, and if a poor person in dirty clothes also comes in, and if you take notice of the one wearing the fine clothes and say, “Have a seat here, please,” while to the one who is poor you say, “Stand there”, or, “Sit at my feet,” have you not made distinctions among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts? Listen, my beloved brothers and sisters. Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom that he has promised to those who love him? But you have dishonored the poor. Is it not the rich who oppress you? Is it not they who drag you into court? Is it not they who blaspheme the excellent name that was invoked over you?

You do well if you really fulfill the royal law according to scripture, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” But if you show partiality, you commit sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors. . .For judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment.”

Readers and students of history remember that prosperity, albeit false, came to Germany, lifting it from the Great Depression. It came with a regime that persecuted not only Jews, but the handicapped, the outcasts, those that did not fit the mold of what the powers deemed proper. It came with militarism. It came with National Socialism, Nazism, which seems to be the political wind of today, though not called such in our media, financial or polite circles. First, the Nazis persecuted the minorities and the helpless, then their own people.

Are America’s border walls meant to keep people out or its citizens in?

 

‘Petition to Mary’

“Petition to Mary’ was written in Mom’s hand and with her things after she died. My sister, Janet, and I believe she wrote it after Bob’s death from polio. Mom was very literary though she only had an 8th grade education. She had a worn rosary, and often said it was what helped her deal with her grief. She would just keep it in her hands, wearing the beads thin as she said her prayers.

I remember she kept a lock of Bob’s hair and a Lone Ranger bullet along with a few other mementos of him. She often compared him to Little Boy Blue, a child from a nursery rhyme. His sleep may be the sleep of death. Shakespeare referenced the rhyme in King Lear.

Little boy blue,
Come blow your horn,
The sheep’s in the meadow,
The cow’s in the corn.
But where is the boy
Who looks after the sheep?
He’s under a haystack,
Fast asleep.

“Twilight — the pause spanning the arch from day to night. We are alone, at last, my son’s dog and I. An unfamiliar silence rushes to engulf us.

The dog whines. Now, he is trotting off hopefully to search each hiding place again.

My beads lay cold within my hands. With heart colder still my lips begin the ancient prayers.

‘Hail Mary’ – Oh! Lady of Sorrows, you will understand, for you too have a son.

Mine left me today. Running down the long road he turned and smiled a last farewell.

Like a shaft of sunlight suddenly blotted out by a passing cloud; his stay with me is done. His eager spirit is returning home to God and you.

Perhaps, even now, you can see him running breathlessly toward you, among the windswept clouds, free and unafraid.

If he is restless, Mother Mary, please let him change from his ‘dress up’  suit of brown into faded jeans.

And, if he is a little late, please hang out a twinkling star to guide him. He was ever unmindful of passing time.

Down here, the ways of little creatures held a never ending interest for his searching mind.

Perhaps along the way, back to you, he has found a dove, needing care that gentle, grimy hands can give.

But gentle Mother, I know he will come. To him a promise was a sacred thing.

At bedtime when the quiet moon hangs breathless in the dark sky you will see the same quick wonder reflected in his face.

It has been two long years. Long years? To me, his mother, it was but a Rosary ago.”

This is the original Mom wrote:

 

2017 – Holiday Reflections

We  traveled to Bhutan and Thailand in March, a trip of a lifetime. Fortunately, for me, my second trip to that part of the world. It was not yet monsoon season, late winter, so not as green in Bhutan in October when I previously visited. As compensation, though, the skies were clearer, so we saw Mount Everest and the high Himalayas as we flew. We took a long hike one beautiful day and watched a farm family preparing and planting its fields with potatoes. This was physically hard work, done only with a tiller and by hand labor, but harkening to a simpler, happier time. Bhutan, its emphasis on Gross National Happiness, is a lesson for America where Gross Domestic Product is everything. I heard at a retreat years ago, “What you value is your God.”

We retired, giving us time for travel to Brevard, North Carolina, and Charleston, South Carolina. Lots of concert music and sights to see! It also gave us time to visit and spend more time with family. We enjoyed kayaking, Indian artifact hunting, and the total eclipse with granddaughters, Olivia and Mya.

We ended the year with one more trip – Costa Rica. I had visited there about 15 years ago, but was able to enjoy more of the country, including a side day trip to Nicaragua with its volcanos and colonial history, so beautifully on display in Grenada on the shores of Lake Nicaragua. We saw its dry and rain forests, each with its own flora and fauna. The wildlife included crocodiles, caimans, sloths, coatimundi, monkeys, and an incredible variety of birds.

Costa Ricans enjoy a much better life than many other Central Americans, but there is still a great deal of poverty compared to the rich life we enjoy. Nicaragua is even poorer. Many work in Costa Rica even though the lowest paying jobs. It was evidenced by the border traffic as people traveled home to spend Christmas with their loved ones. We saw several horse drawn carts filled with hay and one team of oxen pulling a cart laden with firewood. This was along the Pan American highway, a major roadway. Bicycle travel was common, dangerous with the proximity to traffic.

Nativity scenes and other Christmas decorations were everywhere. A highlight was Mass at Iglesia Catolica de Playas del Coco on December 17. The themes of my life have become focused on richer spirituality and trying to become less materialistic. Materialism is such a disease of modern America. It leads to selfishness and shallowness.  The rich family life of the Costa Ricans and Nicaraguans, despite there material poverty, is enviable. In many ways, they are richer and happier than we.

Etched moment

Memories. My mind sometimes wanders back to memories that are etched moments that are insignificant in time and outcome, but indelible.

One such memory is of a grade school classmate, Trudell. The time was 4th grade. Trudy was tall for her age, slender, and very pretty. I always felt awkward and shy with girls, especially a beautiful girl. She and I weren’t friends, nor did we interact much. This was the age of boys and girls hanging separately.

Every classroom in the old Medford school had a coatroom. They were long and narrow, full of boots and clothing. This, after all, was Minnesota, and it was winter.

Trudy and I happened to be in the coatroom, alone. I wasn’t aware of her. I don’t think she was aware of me. We each turned around and found ourselves face to face, inches apart. Neither spoke. We just gazed at one another, a moment frozen in time. I did think of kissing her, and have regretted not doing so. I have a rare dream of that moment. I kiss her in my dream, not a kiss of passion, but a kiss of union, connection, grace. A classmate entered the room a moment later and called our names, breaking the reverie’s spell. What is etched in memory is that we were both bound and frozen in that moment.

After one such dream I searched for her on the Internet. I was sad to learn she died young, age 60, after a rich life of family, travel and career. I pray for her, and treasure that memory of a brief moment of so long ago.

***

I have not tackled Marcel Proust’s, “À la recherche du temps perdu”,  a sprawling novel about time and memory. My entry and thoughts are a poor attempt to search for a lost time.

Dark nights. . .beautiful sunrises

It is a Monet sunrise here in the Great Smoky Mountains. I have been watching the sun gradually disperse the mists since 5 a.m. I have come to love early morning, in fact both ends of the day, punctuated by the prayers of Vigils and Compline. When younger I did not appreciate those times of day or the prayers, but age teaches and mellows us.

In one of the very low periods in my life I was commuting almost 200 miles round trip from Lake Hartwell to work in Atlanta. That is when I found peace at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit, and rediscovered faith and spirituality. I learned to appreciate rising around 3:30, even in the chill of winter, to begin my day with reflection and prayer. I would meditate as I made the long drive, using the time for quiet thought.

That time was a gift, one that has remained with me. We don’t think of such dark nights of the soul as gifts, but that is what they are. I have had a wonderful reward, one of appreciation for such mornings as this.