More From My Journals

(Note: these journal posts are essentially unedited, meaning you get me as stuff was pouring out of my brain unpolished and chaotic. Occasionally--not often--I delete something that's just too damn embarrassing or might invade another person's privacy.)

TUESDAY, AUGUST 30, 2011
The best I can do is try to face each day as if it is the first day of a new life. I should try to bring a sense of wonder to each new day. I almost said "childlike wonder," but I don't remember that I faced very many days with wonder when I was a child. Mostly I faced life in fear and shame. For me, there is nothing childlike about wonder....while my approach to life has never been to assume a default position of wonder, or joy, or whatever, I have known moments of wonder, of joy, of...love. Many of them. And, perhaps, those moments were more precious to me because they came in isolation. If one lives in a perpetual state of bliss, how is one to appreciate happiness? How does one know one is happy? Don't good feelings exist within ourselves because bad feelings are there, too?

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2011
I detest almost all contemporary Christian "praise music." I'm sure that I could find some I like if I were to search diligently, but I really think it is not worth the effort. In the first place, the songs I've heard constantly refer to God as "our" God, as in, "Our God is an awesome God." Granted that he's awesome, God is not "our" God. There is only one God, so he is everybody's God, whether they acknowledge him or not....to claim the universal God as "our" God strikes me as presumptuous, hubristic, and exclusionary--all traits that--I believe--God reviles.
Another thing that bothers me about "praise music"--aside from the fact that the compositions are primitive and the lyrics banal and insipid--is its one-dimensionality. I find shallowness, in fact, to be a problem with just about all evangelical religion. It never seems to get beyond the "Ain't God great!" phase. It seems so wrapped up in the self--the personal relationship with Jesus Christ. I have no problem with praise per se. All worship, I believe, should contain a substantial praise component--not because God needs our praise, but because we need to express together our love for God and our profound gratitude for his grace. But if worship begins and ends with praise, it is shallow worship and the grace obtained from it is cheap. Worship should contain an element of praise. It should also contain a hefty dose of confession and repentance, education concerning God's word, celebration of the Christian community, and the challenge to live a life of discipleship--sharing not just God's good news but God's good works. And most evangelism--Sojourners, perhaps, excepted--stops after praise--20% of worship.

MONDAY, MARCH 26, 2012
The early protest songs of Bob Dylan have never been more relevant than they are today. "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll" could just as easily have been written about Trayvon Martin.

On Journaling

Well, 24 hours and nobody has read yesterday's post. That's okay. I'm really embarrassed by it. It was stream-of-consciousness writing, as almost all my writing is, but even so, it was pretty bad. I've looked back over the journaling I've done over the last few years, and I see some bright spots, but mostly I see confusion, disorganization, poor grammar, and flights of emotion that wouldn't be out of place in an eighth grade boy experiencing his first crush. Oh! the highs and lows! What stand out mainly, though, are the preaching sanctimony and the pride I take in my negative qualities. And here I go again, bragging about how bad my writing is.
I have to remember that journaling is not supposed to be literary, unless you're Samuel Pepys or someone like that. Journaling is the first draft of the defense of your life--your first attempt to express what you will say when you stand naked before the Great White Throne. These words, rushed and unpolished as they are, go far in revealing your true self, at least they do as long as you are honest and remember that you are not writing for an audience. Your thoughts and words are your only possessions, and they are precious and meaningful, however rambling and ill-chosen they are.
So I take ownership of the words I write. They reveal unpleasant things about me, mainly that I'm not nearly as smart as I usually think I am. But they also reveal the better angel of my nature. With due humility I can say that hidden in the dross of five years of nearly daily journaling are some gems, some real flashes of insight, and some fine turns of phrase. Maybe I can publish those in a slim little pamphlet some day.
Anyway, if you, should stumble upon this blog post some lonely night: if you don't keep a journal now, start one. Write in it regularly. You don't have to write every day, but the more you write the better you will get at it. Don't edit yourself. Write as fast as you can. Write anything that comes into your head. I try to avoid the stuff like "Dear Diary, today I got up and had corn flakes for breakfast,..." but that's just me. After years of writing, I'm still stuck with the notion that everything I write has to be profound. Your writing will feel stilted at first, but as you continue, you will  find that you feel less self-conscious and more natural. You will train yourself to write down what you really think, and you will think about things that you've never thought about before, or you will think about old things in new ways. Above all, be honest, as honest as you can. Write as though you are having a conversation with someone who knows everything there is to know about you but who still loves you anyway. You will constantly surprise yourself. You will sometimes amaze yourself. You will (frequently, in my case) embarrass yourself, even though you're pretty sure no one will see this stuff before you're dead. And if you have advance warning about your death, you may have time to burn it all if you want to.
I try to write every day, usually during my lunch break at work. Eating takes 5 minutes. Going to the can takes another five minutes. That leaves me fifty minutes or so to write. I write about what I'm thinking about that day. Maybe I saw a quotation that got me thinking. Maybe something in the news stimulated me, or maybe a long-lost memory will pop out.  Sometimes I struggle to get fifty words out--even after years of journaling I can't always write so much as a full page--but sometimes something snaps and the words just seem to write themselves as fast as I can guide the pen. Some of my worst writing has been done that way, but also some of my finest.
One final word: I try to avoid writing when I'm horny. The results are not good. Enough said.
Bottom line: Write, damnit! You'll be glad you did.

From My Journals

June 23, 2009
After I worked out, I went to the chapel to pray for the first time in a long time. I don't count the formulaic prayers said at church. They're too new-agey and feelgood. Confession--the admission of sin--seems to be out of fashion these days. I don't think you should overdo it, but, to me, a healthy prayer life includes the full and frank admission of one's wrongdoing ("sin") and request for pardon. But what do I know.
I got there at 10:15 P.M. I sat quietly and read the story of David and Goliath from 1 Samuel 17. I don't know why. It's a good story, though. Maybe that's reason enough to read it. I can just imagine the ancient Israelites gathered around a campfire while the local bard spins the tale, with appropriate gestures and sound effects, pregnant pauses, etc., while his audience sits spellbound,
After that, I tried some of that mindfulness breathing that I read about in Thich Nhat Hanh's book about anger. As I inhaled, I said, silently, "Breathing in, I inhale the love of God." As I exhaled, I said, "Breathing out, I breathe out my fear of life." I tried to repeat this twenty times, but always after repeating it four or five times, my mind would wander.
After that, I knelt on the handy kneeler--this is a Catholic chapel--and said another silent prayer, something like, "God, I need faith. To get it, I'm supposed to expose myself to you. Well, here I am. If it is your will, help me find just enough faith so that I come back tomorrow."
When I left, I felt calmer than when I arrived, but I didn't feel particularly enlightened.

June 24, 2009
It's very peaceful, as you might expect, in the Adoration Chapel. No distractions--just silence and the presence of a few other folks who are praying, meditating, or just reading. I did the same thing tonight as I did last night: read the Bible (Isaiah 55 & Romans 3). Then I did the breathing thing: "Breathing in, I inhale the love of God. Breathing out, I breathe out my fear of life." Sometimes, though, it came out as, "Breathing in, I inhale the fear of God," or "Breathing out, I breathe out the fear of death." Hmmm.
Lastly I prayed. All I really remember is that I prayed, "I'm available, God. Please help me maintain enough faith to come back tomorrow."

June 25, 2009
I made it back--the third day in a row! There are always people there, at the Adoration Chapel. It's open always. I've been in there at 3:30 A.M. and still there are people praying. I think maybe they sign up for the prayer detail to make sure someone's always there to make sure nobody steals the crucifix. People look up sometimes when I enter. I can tell they know I'm not Catholic. For one thing, I don't genuflect as I cross in front of the altar. But they don't seem to mind. They haven't thrown me out yet.
It is quiet in the chapel, quiet and still. I find it restful just to sit and try to open myself to God. There's no particular trick I use for that. I just say to myself, "Okay, I'm here. Let's listen for God and see what happens." I haven't heard him yet. Tonight, I relaxed and just tried to calm myself. Then I read some Bible, Mark 11 this time. I seem to be skipping around, more or less at random. I do make a conscious choice about my reading, though, not like the Catholics do with Lectio Divina. Then I did my meditation/breathing: "Breathing in, I inhale the love of God. Breathing out, I breathe out my fear of life." It was easier this time. I find that if you focus on the words--really pay attention--you don't get as much background noise. Words like this--a mantra--arte not supposed to matter. But I need them. I guess that ninjas don't get to be black belts overnight, and it takes practice to be good at reaching out to and receiving God.
Tonight, I also read some Thomas Merton--New Seeds of Contemplation. I read part of the chapter on salvation. The good father can be obscure to muddy thinkers such as myself. All his writing seems abstract--very little practical instruction on how to be a contemplative. You have to have true humility, he says, but he doesn't tell you how to get there. Do you just say, "I'm not much of a much. Don't mind me." over and over until you start to believe it? Do you always act as though you are humble, even if you aren't? Do you take pride in your humility? He tells us that the goal of contemplation is to find your "true self." In finding this true self--and he gives no definition of what that might look like--you actually lose yourself and subsume yourself in God. He was obviously influenced by the Eastern Zen Masters.
Merton. Now there's a genius. He leaves me confused. He leaves me with more questions than answers. Father Thomas, how do you achieve that state of Christian satori of which you speak so eloquently? How do you do it? You seem to be saying that the way to God is to stop trying to find God. Don't try--just be. Make yourself available to the spirit of joy--or maybe emptiness--trusting God and knowing that he will lead you to your true self and to him.When you get there, you'll definitely know it, but you won't be able to express it, because God is beyond human expression. In another context., "The Tao that can be expressed is not the Tao." Are you saying that the God who can be expressed is not God?
You seem to be saying, "Stop trying to be what you're not. You can only achieve fullness by emptying yourself. Open your mind and your heart--accept yourself as you are, knowing that somewhere inside you--behind your ego, your greed, your pettiness, your jealousies, your attachments--resides your true self. It wants to emerge, and God wants it to emerge, but there is so much shit in the way. Releasing that shit is the object of contemplation. So you contemplate, but you contemplate without seeking anything in particular. Seeking detachment is its own attachment. When you can rid yourself of all desires--even the desire for union with God--then, at last, you will come home and be united with God.
At least that's what I think the good Father is saying. Serious business to you and me. But as Merton says, "What is very serious to men is often very trivial in the sight of God." So don't take it too seriously.

My Ministry

I am not a kind person. In many ways, I am petty, spiteful, jealous, selfish, sullen, and mean. My family, especially, has seen and experienced the corrosive effects of these qualities, but others have felt them, too. Yet, over the years, I have performed acts of kindness—too few, perhaps, but still…

I have given money—a dollar or two at a time—to those on the street who ask for it. I give without strings, and I don’t question their motives. I don’t worry about what they’ll do with the pittance they receive from me. Sometimes even a homeless person needs a drink, or a cigarette, or a cup of coffee. Jesus commanded us to give; he did not command us to take social histories or question the motives of the people I give money to. I just give them the money and say, “Take care of yourself brother.” (In my experience beggars on the street are almost invariably men.)

I have served meals at the homeless shelter. I have visited strangers in the hospital and prayed with them. I have participated in a Habitat for Humanity build or two. Again, I have not performed these small acts of kindness often enough to be a good man. As unworthy as I am, I have always wanted to do the right thing and to be better than I am. Despite having lived my life in the shadow of Depression—which can paralyze—I have sometimes risen to the occasion. Mark me down, then, as not a good man but as a bad man who aspired to be better.

The greatest and most consistent act I have performed is, I guess, the one I am best suited for: it has simply been to carry on a “ministry” of letter writing. Over the last eighteen years (since moving to Tallahassee) I have written and mailed perhaps 250 personal letters to people outside my family—primarily to members of my church. These letters have contained words of encouragement for those enduring tough times, words of comfort and consolation for those who grieve, words of compassion and support for those who are hurting, words of congratulation for those who achieved, and, sometimes, just words of appreciation for some small thing—words sent just because I felt like brightening somebody’s day. 250 letters over 18 years—about 14 per year—doesn’t seem like much, and I guess they won’t provide me with much of a defense when I stand naked before the Great White Throne, but I work hard on them, and I am faithful in my way. Each week I read the prayer requests for my once and sometime church, and if I see something that moves me, I get out pen and stationery.

When you’re trying to convey honest sentiment fully yet succinctly, writing a letter is hard work! The physical acting of writing can be laborious in and of itself: Using a ruler to lay out straight lines—to be erased later—so that your writing doesn’t wander all over the place is tedious, and holding your pen just so, exercising neatness and caution in penmanship, so that your words are legible can be tiring. But the tangible parts of sending a letter—taking out the stationery and fountain pen, preparing the stationery, writing, addressing, sealing, and taking the letter to the post office—are nothing compared to the work of composition. 

You cannot rely upon the hackneyed phrases and canned sentiment of some Hallmark hack who is paid to do your feeling for you. Too, although you might use some of the same expressions in many letters, you cannot send the same letter over and over—every person and every situation is utterly unique, and, besides, plagiarizing yourself is almost as dishonest as plagiarizing someone else. You must write in your own voice as it speaks in the contemporaneous moment.

Sometimes, your voice becomes lost in the clutter that pollutes your mind. That is when writing a letter becomes an exercise in meditation. Especially in times of stress, people don’t need long and winding prose that doesn’t really seem to go anywhere. They need to read words that express sympathy, empathy, and hope—above all, hope—expressed clearly and completely—but succinctly. Most letters of the kind I write should be limited to a single 5” x 8” sheet of good stationery (I like Crane’s). To express condolences, understanding, and empathy and to convey hope in the spirit of love is not easy to do in 250 (at most) words.

You can’t just dash it off. To truly provide encouragement and respite from pain, you must quiet the background noise. You must leave yourself behind and focus only on the one who is in pain. Prayer helps. In the silence that exists between you and God, you can find out what is truly important and how you can say it in a way that will be an expression of true love for the one who hurts and will bring them some surcease of sorrow. You can, if you open your heart, spiritually place yourself in the other’s position and draw on your own experiences to provide comfort. How did you feel when you suffered a devastating loss? What words of comfort would you like to hear? What is it that will bring you comfort? Where is God in all of this? What words will convey the depth of your good will and support?

Only after I have dwelt long on these questions do I begin to write. And then, I find that the letter practically writes itself. It is not an easy process, and it takes a lot of work—especially if you want to reach out and touch someone’s heart in a voice that is genuine and filled with love; with a message that will bring light, however dim, into that person’s life. The hard work is worth it.

All my life I have suffered from Depression. I am pretty good with the language, but I do not have the words to express the utter blackness that descends upon me from time to time—not frequently, but often enough. There is not much you can do for people when at any time you can find yourself too paralyzed to even walk out the door. So this is what I do instead of doing practical things to relieve suffering. I try to bring to those who need it some comfort, consolation, friendship, and—above all—a reminder that we are truly all brothers and sisters, joined together (I fervently hope) by the fatherhood of God. Perhaps in the act of writing, I bring some of that same hope to myself.

I don’t often hear back from the people to whom I send letters, so I don’t really know whether my words have made the world a better place in any way. I really don’t mind that too much, because I bare my soul, a little, each time I write, and sometimes that causes awkwardness between me and the recipient.  When people do express appreciation, I usually feel oddly embarrassed.

When I began writing letters, I must admit, I was doing it as much—or more—for myself as for the recipients. I hoped that my expressions of support would win me friends and gain me respect. Over the years, though, I have realized that what friends I have would be my friends even if I never wrote a line. What respect I have does not come from anything I have said in those letters. Few people—none, really, not even my wife—know the scope of my activity. It’s not the sort of thing that gets around.This blog entry is the first time I have ever spoken about it at length, and few people will ever see it. Over the years, the desire for recognition and people’s love has faded away. I write now simply because I must write. It is my ministry. People hurt. People need to know that when they are badly hurt God is carrying them very close to his heart and that they can rely on his strength. They need to know that they are not forgotten, that they are not alone. I can express these things pretty well, and if I don’t do it, who will? Perhaps this—not preaching the gospel as a minister—was what God was calling me for when I felt—or thought I felt—his touch; when I heard—or thought I heard—him call my name all those years ago.

Last night, I resigned from the Board of Directors of a choral organization in which I sing. That was not an easy thing for me to do. I don't often get asked to serve in any sort of leadership capacity for any group. People just don't think of me as a leader. So when I was asked to step onto the Board, I jumped at the chance. It was a real boost to my ego, let me tell you. Somebody said, "We not only like you, we think you should be in on our decision making." I know, I know, this is a community choir's board of directors, not the U.S. Congress. Still... Friendships and recognition don't come easily to me, and I don't let go of that sort of thing easily.

But, late in life, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be true to oneself and how God wants us to be the people we are, not the people we want the world to think we are. All my life I have been pretending to be someone I'm not, desperately trying to get folks to like me. I have pretended to be an intellectual. I have a whole wall full of books, many of which--maybe a third--I've read no more than a chapter or two, or less out of. I have poetry, theology, history, philosophy, but I am no poet, theologian, historian, or philosopher. Oh, I'm smart--I have a vast amount of "cocktail party" (Does anybody have those any more?) knowledge. I'm killer at Jeopardy. But if I meet someone who is really knowledgeable about just about anything, I'm left in the dust, and I cringe in humiliation.

Or I have pretended to be a man of God. I think I convinced a lot of people of that--my church, the state organization, the seminary admissions office. Everybody, I guess, except God--and my wife who, in her love, let my fever run its course. I even convinced myself of the truth of that proposition once upon a time. Half my library consists of books of theology--and none of that inspirational or "Purpose Driven Life" shit, either. Real theology: The New Interpreter's Bible (all twelve volumes) seven or eight translations of the Bible, including versions in Greek and Hebrew. Stanley Hauerwas, Hans Kung, Elizabeth Schussler-Fiorenza, JD Crossan, Raymond Brown, Thomas Merton, Gerhard von Rad, The Jesus Seminar, etc.--scads of 'em. But, honestly, my faith is no deeper than a West Texas arroyo in high summer.

I could go on. The point is that I am none of those things: I am not a leader, an intellectual, a man of God, a very good friend, or even a very good person. And it is pointless to try to convince myself and others that I am any of those things. I am none of the things  What I am is an aging cynic with a rather abrasive personality who these days likes nothing more than sitting in the garden with a decent cigar and the New York Times. Or listening to European Jazz. Or singing. Or reading poetry or Thomas Merton. Alone (except for singing).

I wish I could be the sort of person whose company others seek out. The sort of person for whom people pick up little gifts just for the heck of it. The sort of person whom people invite out on their boat. The sort of person whom people invite over to their houses and who drop in unexpectedly, just to pass the time. The sort of person whom people include in their lives. But I'm not. I never have been. I never will be. I just lack whatever magnetism it is that people respond to.

And resigning from the board is a step toward recognizing that. I make this vow, here and now: I will never again pretend to be someone I'm not just to try to make friends. I will be true to myself. I will treasure what friendships I have and accept their friendship however they choose to express it. And I will be true to myself. I will be what I am. I hope that is good enough.

Not much of a blog post, I know. Poorly written. Not well organized. But few will see it, and when they do, they will know a little more about my true self.

Robinson Jeffers may be the most underrated major American poet of the 20^th Century. He has certainly been relegated to an obscurity he does not deserve. The philosophy expressed by his poetry is bleak, true, but his language is powerful, the images he creates are both striking and enduring, his characters are unforgettable, and his passion is unmistakable. And, above all, his mastery of the language and the forms of poetry is little short of awesome.

Jeffers was an ardent isolationist when being an isolationist wasn’t cool, and he expressed his political views in pointed and brilliant and short poems such as “Be Angry at the Sun” and “Shine, Perishing Republic.” He didn’t appear to care much for humankind, although he certainly found certain individuals tolerable. (He was, after all, married with children, and his love for them all shines throughout his oeuvre.) His supposed misanthropy together with his political opinions combined to cost him his popularity and his place among the giants of 20^th Century American letters.

I believe that Jeffers did not hate humankind so much as he loved nature more. Civilisations come and go, he said: all of them eventually are corrupted, wither, and die. He saw this corruption in America, and the history of our country since his death has born him out. He made the mistake of speaking the truth as he saw it, and he was reviled for it, as so many prophets are. (“You and I, Cassandra,” he said, “You and I.”) The rocks, the sea, and the stars, he believed were permanent and noble. He also found nobility among wildlife, especially birds of prey.

Jeffers was a master of the long narrative poem, a form that was dying out even as he perfected it. Nobody writes that sort of poetry now, but you should his great works, “Roan Stallion,” “Give Your Heart to the Hawks,” “The Women at Point Sur,” “Cawdor,” etc. These works were quite popular and would have established him among the pantheon of great American poets were it not for his politics and his personality.

I cannot do Jeffers justice in a blog post; I cannot even begin to convey the power and, yes, majesty of his art. But I beg you to seek out his poetry on your own. Barnes and Noble usually carries a slim volume of selected poems, mostly the shorter works, and a large volume of selected works is available in paperback. Too, a number of his original books are available in the used book marketplace—try Abe Books. Finally, if you want to spend several hundred dollars, the Jeffers estate has issued a mult-volume work containing all his poems—published and unpublished—as well as his correspondence.

What follows is my favorite short Jeffers poem:

The Great Explosion

The universe expands and contracts like a great heart.

It is expanding, the farthest nebulae

Rush with the speed of light into empty space.

It will contract, the immense navies of stars and galaxies,

dust clouds and nebulae

Are recalled home, they crush against each other in one

harbor, they stick in one lump

And then explode it, nothing can hold them down; there is no

Way to express that explosion; all that exists

Roars into flame, the tortured fragments rush away from each

other into all the sky, new universes

Jewel the black breast of night; and far off the outer nebulae

like charging spearmen again

Invade emptiness.

No wonder we are so fascinated with

fireworks

And our huge bombs: it is a kind of homesickness perhaps for

the howling fireblast that we were born from.

But the whole sum of the energies

That made and contain the giant atom survives. It will

gather again and pile up, the power and the glory--

And no doubt it will burst again; diastole and systole: the

whole universe beats like a heart.

Peace in our time was never one of God's promises, but back

and forth, live and die, burn and be damned,

The great heart beating, pumping into our arteries His

terrible life.

He is beautiful beyond belief.

And we, God's apes--or tragic children--share in the beauty.

We see it above our torment, that's what life's for.

He is no God of love, no justice of a little city like Dante's

Florence, no anthropoid God

Making commandments: this is the God who does not care

and will never cease. Look at the seas there

Flashing against this rock in the darkness--look at the

tide-stream stars--and the fall of nations--and dawn

Wandering with wet white feet down the Carmel Valley to

meet the sea. These are real and we see their beauty.

The great explosion is probably just a metaphor--I know not--

of faceless violence, the root of all things.

If I Should Die Before I Wake

(A bedtime prayer)

by doug hyden

If I should die before I wake—

               Let the last thing I ever said to Carol be: “I love you.”

If I should die before I wake—

               Let the last thing I ever said to Forrest be, “Son, I am proud of you.”

If I should die before I wake—

               Let me go remembering the laughs I have laughed, not the tears I have shed.

If I should die before I wake—

               Let me go with forgiveness in my heart for all who hurt me.

If I should die before I wake—

               Let me go with forgiveness in my heart for the one who hurt me most: myself.

If I should die before I wake—

Let me go remembering the good things I did and not the bad things I did, or the things I should have done but left undone.

If I should die before I wake—

Let me go thinking of the joys I have known, the love I have felt, the wonders I have seen, and what friendships I have made.

If I should die before I wake—

               Let me go with a song in my heart for the people I love.

If I should die before I wake—

Let me go in peace, reconciled with God and humankind, knowing that I have been forgiven.

If I should die before I wake—

Let me go with anticipation for what is to come, not with sorrow over what I’m leaving behind.

If I should die before I wake—

Let me go with gratitude to you, God, for my life, however badly I have misused it. In spite of everything, the good has far outweighed the bad. I’m glad I was here.

If I should die before I wake—

               I pray you, God, my soul to take.

Amen.