‘Kay- I’m more than a little swamped at the mo’- between the thank you cards and starting the new job and all. But I’ve been looking back over some of my earlier (earliest) posts (dating from before I realized that all posts should have a musical interlude or two) that had to do with this whole conceptualization/personification of evil as an external force.
This one was one of the things that had me hitting the books anew- searching for origins of this propensity we have to blame all the bad stuff on ‘something’ outside of ourselves. So, since time is at something of a premium for me right now, here’s a bit of a revisit of the subject of the tension between the idea of a ‘god of goodness’ and the way in which the character(s) is/are actually described in the stories.
People are as good- or as bad- as we grow them to be. We need to be addressing that rather than looking for outside sources to blame.
“Evil, they said, was brought into the world by the rebel angels. Oh really? God sees and foresees all, and he didn’t know the rebel angels were going to rebel? Why did he create them if he knew they were going to rebel? That’s like somebody making car tires that he knows will blow out after two kilometers. He’d be a prick. But no, he went ahead and created them, and afterward he was happy as a clam, look how clever I am, I can even make angels… Then he waited for them to rebel (no doubt drooling in anticipation of their first false step) and then hurled them down into hell. If that’s the case he’s a monster.”
Umberto Eco- The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana (pg. 349)
No one writes like Umberto Eco. His language- even as translated from Italian- is beautiful beyond belief. He seems to see…
Despite the arrival of the vernal equinox last week, my part of the world seems determined to keep wearing its winter clothes. Hope that this changes so we get to see some summer skies and meteor showers before too long…
I love Stephen Fry. So much so that I started a post ages ago about his approach to the world and how he meets his challenges with grace and dignity (I had just finished watching Fry’s Planet Word on TVO- LOVE that series). It’s one of a few posts that languished for too long in the drafts folder and then ended up in the trash since I couldn’t quite figure out where to go with it. As can be seen in the clip, he speaks so well all by his ownself, he certainly doesn’t need me to reiterate the wisdom that he shares with his world.
Then my friend Lenny, over at Lenny May Say, posted the link the other day, and I’ve seen it pop up in a few other places since. I love its succinctness, especially given my propensity of late to, um, let’s say, ‘run on’ about things more than a little bit. Another one of those cases when something teetering on the edge of your mind finds expression outside of yourself.
I am often asked the question: how do I find meaning in the world if I don’t believe in a god/gods. It has been hovering implicitly- never quite out loud, most people have more manners than that- even more, recently, with the loss of my Dad.
It’s hard- although not impossible, even in this day and age and in downtown Toronto, to put together an organized ‘funeral’ (or celebration of life by another name) without including the trappings of religion/religious belief/sentiment. People are so very well-meaning. I say that with a feeling of complete sincerity that has been reinforced this past while as wonderful friends and acquaintances expressed condolences and concern in the days leading up to and following Dad’s passing.
Offered prayers and blessings are always gratefully accepted in the spirit in which they are offered. One person’s prayer is another person’s positive message to the universe is another person’s demonstration of solidarity and support in this here world of ours, after all.
By whatever name it’s an expression of the connectivity we humans share in times of loss and pain. And in times of joy and new beginnings, for that matter. We want to help one another. To share or attempt to alleviate the burden of sorrow and celebrate the wondrous happenings with those we love.
People ROCK.
I’m not a ‘defensive atheist’. I’m comfortable with my non-belief and the reasoned and rational steps that led me to my worldview. I don’t feel the need to defend it- although I will, at times and if under attack, stand my ground. It’s ground on which I feel secure.
I’ve done my homework. Years and years and years of it. And the learning never stops.
My beliefs about the world- and the larger cosmos (are you watching that show, by the way? You should be. Neil deGrasse Tyson is another guy we all need to be watching) are well-examined. I do my best to investigate the wisdom of those who have come before me and to temper their findings with my own experiences and awareness of the world as I see it.
I am not bereft– in any way- as a result of this non-belief. I have heard things along the lines of ‘poor you, not knowing the love of the god in your heart’- over the years. It leaves me bemused. I am not bereft because I truly believe that the human imagination that can create gods with the compassion and love they are gifted with (when they aren’t being vengeful or judgmental) certainly has access to those same things in ourselves. In our human selves.
I’ve been fortunate in my life to have met a whole lot of people who do so. Access and manifest the kindness and love and goodness that others might deem the sole province of a created deity.
I’m all about this world. My world. The world that holds the people and places and things that I love, and respect, and wish to preserve. It’s not a perfect world. It isn’t inhabited by perfect people. But I don’t see any value in hedging my bets by envisioning a ‘better’ next world- one that includes judgment and punishment and divisiveness in the name of one imagined deity or another.
If your worldview does include such a perspective on what might come after, I say ‘excellent.’ Whatever gets you through the days/weeks/years. Whatever allows you to contribute positively to this world. I have no problem at all with other people holding whatever beliefs they care to hold. This is part of the freedom that we value and that work to preserve- here at home, and around the world when need be.
(Although this is not to say that I think we should be interceding all the time. There is always more at work than differences of opinion as to what, exactly, constitutes freedom. And politics and greed tend to get all mixed up in there a whole lot of the time- so all such actions must be handled with care.
Oh, and please don’t use your personal freedom of religious belief to attempt to diminish my personal freedoms and those of others whose opinions might not aline with your particular theology/ideology. Do that, and my tendency to stand my ground might become a little more emphatic. But I digress…)
A dear family friend- the connections between our two families are myriad- honoured us by speaking about Dad on Monday. She is a retired Anglican priest (among other things equally interesting and illuminating), and she and Dad locked horns on any number of occasions about points of theology and belief.
She is well aware of Dad’s non-traditional approach to the life and teachings of Jesus. She knows that he didn’t place a whole lot of importance in the divinity or non-divinity of the guy. For Dad, Jesus’ message about community and social action was the teaching to which he held fast and afforded primary importance.
As she started her tribute- she is a true and talented storyteller- I knew that she would impart a message that was in keeping with both ways of viewing the world- her own and Dad’s. She told a story about a child asking about what happened to people when they died- and the adult telling the child to look to the stars when such questions come up. She pointed out the awareness we now have- through our scientific discoveries- that all life on earth is made up of pieces of stardust. We are all stars. And, as stars, we can never really be gone. We are part of the universe forever.
It was a lovely amalgam of belief and science- and hit the perfect note as a remembrance of my Father. These things can, and should, work together. Just as we- whether we self-define as believers, scientists or atheists (or any number of other things over the course of our lives)- must work together.
Defensive, reactionary rhetoric is never progressive or remotely useful.
Stephen Fry knows this. A lot of us do. We just need to give those voices the airtime, rather than those who see fit to declaim their unexamined beliefs as statements of fact about how the world should work and why.
‘Slow slow slow, come come Someone come come come Even love is goin’ ’round You can’t ignore what is goin’ ’round
Slowly rebuilding I feel it in me Growing in numbers Growing in peace
People they come together People they fall apart No one can stop us now ‘Cause we are all made of stars’
Disclaimer: I don’t, actually GET Moby. I’m not into his type of electronica and I find his persona somehow off-putting. But this song is the obvious choice to accompany this post, so I’m giving it a chance. Evidently he wrote the song as an expression of hopefulness following the September 11th attacks. I can honour that- and empathize with the spirit and sense of the song. And it is appropriate. Even if it isn’t among my top picks. We are all made of stars.
All day yesterday- truly one of the longest days of my life (that whole ‘time is relative’ thing again)- I kept thinking that ‘if I can just keep standing until tomorrow…’
I have a day off. I’ve given it to myself- and firmly told myself that I needn’t do anything today that I don’t want to be doing. I have the rest of the week to get things done and to gear up for the start of my new job (!) next Monday. Today is for quiet and rest and the beginning of the recovery of my resources- which are a little tapped out right now.
We hosted a lovely celebration of Dad’s life yesterday. So many wonderful people coming together to speak about him- either as part of the ‘formal’ celebration (it was hardly formal in any traditional sense) or during the reception afterward. So very many wonderful people. Friends, family. People I hadn’t seen in, literally, decades– yet who took some time out of their day to share their memories of Dad- and of Mum- and of my sisters and I when we were but wee things.
I am quite drained. Emotionally, certainly, but physically as well. I’m not sure what that’s about. I feel like I’ve been running marathons or something- and I sure as heck ain’t no runner.
But I don’t do idleness well. After sitting on the couch this morning- catching up on local news (why do I DO that to myself?), I’m itching to get something accomplished. There are lists to be made (oh, how I love lists)- of thank you cards to be sent, tasks that need accomplishing as a means of getting going on the realities that require attention after such a loss (the legal, the financial, the day-to-day things that need de- or re-constructing)… so much still to be done.
I’m not sure I have the requisite concentration level at the moment.
But this time of transition is about more than the great loss of Dad. That’s the biggest thing, of course, and the one that it is hardest to wrap my brain around.
But…
For the first time in over 5 years I am not looking for a job. I am not checking the myriad online job boards I have bookmarked on the laptop, or researching potential employers to better explain my suitability to join the organization in a tailored cover letter, or adapting my CV yet again to better convey the reasons why I would be an asset to the company.
I’m sort of at a loss.
Those who say that looking for work is a full time job know what they’re talking about. And, for years, I was doing so whilst working a full time job. And volunteering at my Museum.
Did I mention I don’t do idleness well? Especially enforced idleness- even if I’m the one acting as the enforcer. I told myself that today is just about chilling. Not sorting through papers, not catching up on chores, not taking things to the dry cleaners. Just vegging on the couch. With a book. Or catching up with my WordPress peeps. Or a movie. Or some music. Hanging with the cats and with me. With no one else around. There hasn’t been much of an opportunity for that in the past few weeks.
I know this is a temporary thing. I will be kept on my toes once the new job begins- lots to learn, people to meet- and I hope to pick up the volunteering again- slowly, and possibly in different ways than before- as I settle into a new routine. I’ll be back running and feeling like there aren’t enough hours in a day in no time- of this I have no doubt.
So today is supposed to be about time for a little reflection and to catch my breath and sort through my own head a little. Even though I was there when it happened- peacefully, and with the three of us at his side- I still have moments when I just can’t believe that he’s gone.
There is much to be taken on board. Much of the ground beneath my feet has been rendered somewhat treacherous for the gaps in the foundations.
Ever since the Shuffle Daemon managed to shake me out of the total lack of clarity I was feeling after Dad died (as least insofar as I claim any real return to clarity. I remain in more of a fog than is usual- even for me) I’ve been letting Mike Oldfield help soothe the jangled nerves.
Sometimes this is a little counter-intuitive. Much of music is pretty much the opposite of ‘soothing’. His hugely elaborate Tubular Bells (1, 2, 3 and the Millennium Bell) and Hergest Ridge albums feature movements that can shock you either awake or into awareness with their power. The guy- and his talent (he plays all guitars- bass and otherwise- organs, glockenspiel, mandolin, bells- tubular and otherwise- and timpani. Basically all the instruments)- are pretty staggering at times. He was 19 when he recorded Tubular Bells. 19. NINE-bleeping-TEEN.
But, in addition to the wondrous orchestral masterpieces, he has a number of songs that are more in keeping with the ‘singles’ that you might hear on the radio (radio still exists, right?)- with vocalists and everything.
The Shuffle Daemon seems sort of stuck in the way in which it is rolling out these songs for my listening pleasure. In addition to the song I wrote about the other day- and included in the post I wrote about Dad, which I managed to read at the celebration yesterday- two others keep popping up, both featuring the wonderful vocals of Maggie Reilly.
Family Man tells the tale of the unsolicited attention that a gentleman receives whilst in a bar one evening- and his insistence that he isn’t ‘that type of guy’. Nothing, really, to do with any of the memories I have of Dad, of course (but, as I noted the other day, our parents were people before they were parents, so who knows…) beyond the title. Dad was certainly a family man. We were the centre of his world- of that there was never any doubt- and my Mum was the love of his life.
Hall and Oates did a cover version of this song- which changes its tone quite completely. At the end of their version the family man in question succumbs to the lure of the ‘lady of the night’- although it was too late to manifest his illicit choice. And the quintessentially 80s video is so endearing in its cheesiness. The clothes. The production values. That moustache!
And then there’s this song.
This lovely live version of the song- while lacking the crashing Oldfield-esque guitars of the album version- highlights the sense of loss that the lyrics evoke so beautifully.
It’s hard to choose a favourite from amongst the works of this guy. Heaven’s Open is up there- for many of the reasons I discussed the other day- and for all the new associations that it has brought to me this week. His artistry makes it reallyreally hard to pick one song above the others.
But Moonlight Shadow.Moonlight Shadow. I can remember the first time I heard it- and the many manymany nights I’d sit in my bedroom listening to it on repeat.
‘The last that ever she saw him, carried away by a moonlight shadow, He passed on worried and warning, carried away by a moonlight shadow, Lost in a riddle that Saturday night, far away on the other side, he was caught in the middle of a desperate fight, and she couldn’t find how to push through.
The trees that whisper in the evening, carried away by a moonlight shadow, Sing the song of sorrow and grieving, carried away by a moonlight shadow, All she saw was a silhouette of a gun, far away on the other side, He was shot six times by a man on the run, and she couldn’t find how to push through.
I stay, I pray, I see you in heaven far away, I stay, I pray, I see you in heaven one day.
Four a.m. in the morning, carried away by a moonlight shadow, I watched your vision forming, carried away by a moonlight shadow, Star was glowin’ in a silvery night, far away on the other side, Will you come to talk to me this night, but she couldn’t find how to push through’
Some have suggested that it was written in response to the murder of John Lennon (despite the lack of correspondence between the timing of the events of that tragedy and those in the song), and Mike has allowed that it may have had some level of influence. He had arrived in New York the day of the murder, and was staying a short hop away from the Dakota where Lennon’s profound voice was silenced. Mainly though, he was thinking about a film he had loved about Harry Houdini (starring Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh), particularly about attempts to contact the late illusionist after he had died.
Like Mike, I am fascinated by the life and times of Harry Houdini- particularly by his attempts to expose false spiritualists who made money from the pain and loss of others. I loved that about him. That, and the close connection the guy had to his mother, and the loving relationship- which encompassed both the business and the personal- he and his wife Bess shared throughout their life together.
This song resonates, for me, personally, on a very specific level. Years and years ago, my grandfather (Dad’s Dad) was staying with us while Dad was out of town on business. One night, very late, I woke up and heard someone moving around in the kitchen. Grandpa was down there, opening and closing the refrigerator door and wandering pretty aimlessly. I asked him what was up, and he admitted to feeling restless and if something was wrong. I put the kettle on and sat with him at the kitchen table. In my memory of the event, I glanced at the cuckoo clock my parents had brought back from Switzerland, noting that it was 4 am, just before the phone rang. The phone call informed my Grandpa that his youngest brother had just died.
A couple of years later, my Mum woke me up to say that she and Grandma (who was staying with us while Grandpa was in the hospital- Dad was out of town with work again) had to go out for a bit. I was in charge- although my sisters were sound asleep. I dozed off again, but startled awake not long after, feeling as if something was wrong, but also overcome by the feeling that my Grandfather was with me.
Unable to fall back to sleep, I went upstairs (I was sleeping in the basement, since Grandma had my room) and turned on the tv- catching the late night replay of CBC’s Video Hits. A little while later they came home- surprised to find me awake in the middle of the night- and told me that Grandpa was gone. It was 4am.
After Dad was moved back to hospital from the rehab clinic where he had seemed to be making solid progress, I found myself waking up in the middle of every single night. Each and every time at 4am. After the first couple of nights I didn’t even bother checking the clock. I’d settle in on the couch, cell phone beside me, awaiting the phone call I felt would inevitably come.
When the call did come, it wasn’t at 4am. For the first time in weeks I had slept through my own personal witching hour, until the nurse called me at 5:30. As I called my sisters and arranged to pick them up to head to the hospital to be with Dad, a big part of me was honestly thinking that this couldn’t possibly be it. It wasn’t 4am. We had passed the ‘danger time’.
I don’t know why Mike Oldfield chose 4am as the pivotal time in his most wonderful of songs (I also don’t know why he included the redundancy ‘4am in the morning’– but I’ve tried to let that go in the name of artistic licence and lyrical metre) but it has always served to very personally connect me to the song.
4am is random- even when I look at my own experiences of that particular time of day/night. It does serve to reinforce my awareness that we are all connected- to those we love and to those in the larger world who have had the same types of experiences- of family, of love, of loss- and that we all seek to share those experiences in the best ways we can.
Mike Oldfield is a musical genius. He expresses and shares that genius through his songs. My family and friends contribute their own forms of genius on a daily basis- sending their strengths and insights out into the wider world, and teaching me as I am touched by their examples.
So, even though it is my ‘day off’, I can let myself get away with ‘working’ since I am still taking my own prescription to chill and try to absorb all that has happened lately. Writing, for me, can be work, certainly. But it is also therapy- and the way I sort through my own feelings and experiences as I attempt to make manifest the gift of my life- and share the things that I have learned at the feet of teachers greater than myself.
PS- Even though I have run on more than long enough (even for me, this post is extremely long-winded), I need to thank all of you- here in my WordPress world- for the beautiful messages of condolence that you have offered in the past few days. Anyone who claims that the online world is lacking in humanity or any sense of real connection certainly isn’t hanging with peeps like you all. The messages are lovingly received with gratitude.
And a special shout out to Rachel at Rachel Carrera, Novelist for her kindness in nominating me for a couple of lovely blogging awards. As usual, please, if you are so inclined, take some time to browse her site, and those of the other wonderful writers that I am lucky enough to interact with regularly here at colemining. People are awesome.
When, after thinking and talking about it for ages, I finally started this blog as a way of writing about some of the things that I deem important, my Dad was the first one to subscribe to colemining. Even though the blogging world was a bit of a terra incognita to him.
He always encouraged us- me and my two sisters, and pretty much anyone else who came into his charismatic sphere and stayed for any length of time- and he knew that I had things to say that needed to be said.
He was my biggest fan.
Always.
We were so very fortunate- growing up and now, as adults- to have been raised by parents (and an extended family of grandparents and aunts and uncles- biological and otherwise) who encouraged us to find our own way in the world and pursue those things that most resonated with us, personally.
You see, they knew that they had raised us to be concerned about things larger than just us, that they had instilled in us the reality that we are part of a community. They trusted us- and they trusted themselves- enough to know that they had created three responsible, independent and thinking citizens of the world. Individuals who learned the most important lessons that can be taught- and who will hold firm to the mandate that shaped both their lives: that we are all required to do our best to leave this world a better place than we found it.
Our own paths- guided by intelligence (both inherited and nurtured) and kindness- perhaps kindness above all else- are the legacy of two wonderful people that anyone who ever met them feels privileged to have known. Being supremely lucky, I got to have them as my parents.
When Mum was diagnosed with a form of early-onset dementia, Dad became her constant and always-doting companion and care-giver. We often forget that our parents were people before they became our parents, but, through Mum’s long illness until her eventual death, we got to witness the playing out of a love story that Hollywood couldn’t come close to imagining.
One of their oldest, dearest friends sent this memory to me- all the way from Australia:
‘It is always so sad to lose one’s parents, regardless of their age or yours. It is the end of an era. Take comfort in the fact that he had a great, happy, long and useful life. When we were young and used to go out together, it was such a joy to see your parents — a couple so very much in love — I think your Dad beamed from ear to ear during the whole of their wedding ceremony! It was also the very first time that they had ever met or even heard of (her boyfriend at the time, now husband of many decades) as I was otherwise engaged, so the invitation did not include his name. Whilst other friends heartily dispproved, when I contacted your parents, they graciously said, “whoever you choose and want to bring to our wedding is alright by us. We want you to be happy and you both will always be welcome in our house” and they certainly stood by their word and the rest is history. We have never forgotten their kindness and generosity over the years.’
And this:
‘How time flies — it seems like yesterday when your Mum would call home to see if Rick had written and if there was a letter, she’d fly home during lunch hour to get it. So all of us knew that it HAD to be serious! Your paternal grandmother said she KNEW it WAS, as she didn’t think that your Dad was capable of holding a pen in his hand, let alone producing a letter as he had never ever written to HER when he was away so Betty HAD to be very special to get even one line from him!’
That last bit was news to me and is so veryvery ironic, I can’t even tell you. It has become a running joke- in our family and beyond- that Dad must be on the no-fly lists of a whole bunch of countries- starting with our own. He LOVED to write letters. To politicians, especially. And had NO problem AT ALL spelling out exactly where they are falling short of his expectations of them- and the responsibilities of the job to which they were elected. (See? I come by it honestly.) I guess all those love letters he wrote Mum served to loosen his pen…
I lost my Dad this week.
We lost my Dad this week. My sisters and I, and everyone who knew him. The condolences and memories that are flooding in a constant stream into inboxes and voicemailboxes are markers of the impact that this man had on his world.
You may not be aware of it, but those of you who are kind enough to spend some of your precious time hanging with me here in the WordPress World also lost him.
All the words I write, all the truths I seek to discover and all the stories I try to tell, they all have a kernel- and sometimes a great deal more than a kernel- of my Dad at their heart.
Another of his lovely friends wrote this in an email to me today:
‘When I think of your dad I always think of him as a seeker of knowledge and truth. I see him with his beloved books reading passages to us that he thought needed to be read aloud and discussed.
I think of him in the middle of many and varied lively conversations holding us accountable for our opinions…
I don’t need to tell you how proud he was of the three of you. He wanted you all to find your own path and pursue it with zest. He would tell us all about what was going on in your lives. (Don’t worry he didn’t divulge any of your secrets). He loved to read your “colemining” blog and was especially touched when you wrote about your grandfather.’
Yes. I definitely come by it honestly. I am my father’s child. Of that, there is no doubt.
He was proud of us. There is, truly, no higher praise.
I was proud of him. All my life. The person he was filled me with constant pride and amazement. His ethical conscience and concern with social justice was unmatched. His life was spent in service to others- to ideals that are bigger than any one person, certainly, yet, somehow, seemed summed up in his very being.
He led by example, instilling in us the reality that boundaries- of race, religion, socioeconomic situation- are human creations– and, as such, subject to constant examination and re-evaluation. Prejudice- of any kind- is unacceptable. Unexamined beliefs have no place in rational discourse. People matter. Outdated ideologies do not. Except as cautionary tales and reminders of how far we have evolved and developed as civilizations.
The Shuffle Daemon hit me hard, on the way home this evening. It does that, sometimes. Picks up on what I’m thinking and figures out just what I need to hear.
This is that morning It’s waiting for you The face of destiny Standing before you
This is zero hour Now is for you Can you feel that power Inside of you?
Through this priceless moment In your possession Answers to mysteries Stand in succession
This is zero hour And there’s no way back Can you feel that power? In its arms you’re wrapped
All through the night-time ‘Til the sun comes in Now heaven’s open Just to fly right in
Now you stand in that garden This is that vision Out on the world’s edge It’s your baptism
This is zero hour And your hands are free Can you feel that power? It’s ecstasy…
There is irony, I realize, in including a song called Heaven’s Open (the version isn’t the best quality, TBH, but it’s the only one I could find) in a post dedicated to my father. Dad didn’t believe in heaven. He was all about the importance of thisworld– and about living a life that positively affected this world. If he believed at all in destiny– it was about the need to create and fulfill one’s own goals- schooled in experience and education and awareness and engagement with the world around him.
You gotta know that I don’t believe in heaven. But, as I wrote in the post I reblogged yesterday, the idea of heaven, as a metaphor, or archetype, drawn from our shared mythology as a means of dealing with loss and pain, is beautiful, and so very human in its hopefulness. So that, along with the evocative power of the lyrics of that song…
The Shuffle Daemon knows.
Mike (or, in this case, Michael) wrote the song in 1991 as part of the final album he was contractually obligated to provide for Virgin Records- with whom he had something of a contentious relationship (after he pretty much ensured the success of the label for that Branson guy with the success of Tubular Bells). It’s a kiss off. A lovely and elegant kiss off, but a kiss off all the same. It’s about new beginnings- and it’s about finding the power within oneself to move past the things that have kept you stagnating. Or imprisoned. Or confined in any way at all.
I love Mike Oldfield. He is a musical master. And an interesting character.
I love my Dad. Dad loved music. It was a significant part of his life and he made sure that it was a significant part of ours. He was also an interesting character.
He spent much of the last few months imprisoned by his own body, laid low by various infections that the doctors couldn’t quite seem to get a handle on controlling.
He’s not imprisoned any longer.
Thank you for giving us the tools to create our destinies, Dad. Wrapped in the arms of the power you gave us, we will try to live up to your example. We will leave the world a better place than the one we inherited. Just as soon as we figure out how to navigate a world without you in it. Which we will. Eventually. You taught us well.
This was the first piece I posted, over a year ago, back when I was at the very beginning of this journey and trying to find my voice and figure out just what I wanted to do with this little space of the WordPress World.
At the moment I’m filled with things I NEED to be writing about, but the words won’t come. For many reasons- grief, exhaustion, uncertainty among them.
Looking back over the things I’ve shared this past 12 months, this, the first post, deals with the same thing I’m attempting to get a handle on now.
Loss.
While I try to do a little bit of ‘practicing that which I have a tendency to preach’ and gathering of emotional reserves, I’m also trying to remind myself that our stories continue to draw us together- even when we are faced with the very foundations of our lives being torn apart. We can, sometimes, find the peace we need to keep on moving forward in our past reflections. Hoping that this will be the case for me right now.
Today I had occasion to stop and think about the way people move in and out of one’s life. It came up over coffee with a friend. She was remembering the loss of one her childhood companions, gone 20 years today, killed in a random skiing accident. Her first thought when I pressed her to talk about him was that he died doing what he loved best and that fact used to give her some measure of comfort, since it defined the person he was. She went on to talk about how, not unlike the death of pivotal politicians or celebrities, she remembered exactly what she was doing when the call came, and precisely how she sprang into action to ensure that she could get home to say goodbye to him, despite the fact that she now realizes she was in shock. At 22 she had felt loss before, but…
Apologies for the hiatus. It was both unintended and longer-lasting than I’d have liked. I’ve had a number of things of a personal/familial nature going on at the mo’ which have taken priority, but I felt the need to take a little time to get some thoughts out there into my favourite part of the ether- my little corner of the WordPress.
This morning I was once again inspired by the thoughts of Beth Byrnes, and the issues that she discussed in her erudite and thoughtful post almost led me to write something as a follow-up to some of the things I had to say in the comments section.
But I had already started working on something- the latest in my ongoing examination of the ill-advised tendency we have to define evil as something external and non-human (or sourced in humans that are somehow labelled as other than we are)- and was loathe to divide my attention.
Then I realized that we are really talking about the same thing anyway.
The vilification of that-which-is-not-me. Those we consciously decide to label and demonize.
I’ve been thinking about this guy a lot lately.
Boo!
To be honest, he’s never really farfrom my thoughts (seriously- check out the categories and tags over there to the right >>>>> he’s all over the place), but lately he seems to be popping up every which way I turn.
This has been a most interesting week. I was Freshly Pressed (!)- that little thing I wrote about chaos/order– and as a result a whole lot of new folks have come by to visit. Thank you new folks! Welcome! I passed 10000 views- which, while I didn’t set goals regarding viewership when I started sharing things on WordPress a little under a year ago, is pretty freakin’ cool.
I also hit 666 followers shortly after the Fresh Pressing occurred. Even more lovely people- and a number of bots, I’m sure- have joined the ranks since then, but I was really inordinately excited to see who follower 666 might have been. Unfortunately I missed the notification, so remain unable to identify colemining’s own personal antichrist.
Pure silliness.
That number is just so resonant with me- given all the apocalyptic literature I’ve spent much of my life hanging around- I can’t help but claim a pretty strong fascination with that number of that there ‘beast.’
When I first moved back to Toronto and commuted to Ottawa once a week to teach classes (crazy as that was), every time I passed the 666 kilometre marker (in either direction), I identified it out loud (‘the mile marker of the antichrist’- even though it properly measures kilometres not miles). It was a way of marking the time and telling myself that I was almost at my destination or on my way back home, depending on which direction I was travelling.
I like the mythology surrounding the devil. I like the apocalyptic literature that inspired the concept of the antichrist. I also like the myths of all the other worldviews/religions/cultures that attempt to reconcile good gods and the presence of evil in the material world. These are some of the richest and most interesting stories we’ve managed to come up with from the deepest mines of our creativity. The motifs and the characters recur throughout our histories- literary and otherwise- because they are so interesting and complex.
I can honestly say that I love the devil/satan/Lucifer. As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t believe in the/a devil, but his various iterations are among the most colourful, enduring and often-endearing literary characters out there.
Where would Western culture be without him?
Seriously. Think about it.
No Divine Comedy. Paradise Lost. Faust/Doctor Faustus. The Exorcist would never have (repeatedly) scared the CRAP out of me. That opening line- Please allow me to introduce myself… I can’t imagine a world in which I’d never sung along to the brilliance of that song. The list goes on…
He is us. In all his (and sometimes, her) manifestations. This is the thing. THE thing. All the versions of the devil that we have are representative of potential inside of us. Us. Humans. Not some supernatural excuse for evil as a means of reconciling another supernatural being who is supposed to be GOOD. And omniscient. And omnipotent.
I find your theodicies unconvincing.
To say the least.
So I’m going to start a periodic conversation about our pal- call him (the) Satan, Lucifer, Mephistopheles, call him what you will (just don’t call him late for dinner). I’m so very sick of this vilification of the other as we continue to externalize evil and abrogate our own- collective or individual- responsibility for the wrongs that are done and perpetuated against one another. So very sick of it.
And since I am a cheerleader (Head cheerleader, it sometimes seems) for the need to examine the origins of our recurring motifs, the reasons why we think the way we do, and how we come up with the metaphors we come up with to shift the blame away from ourselves rather than face the internal propensity toward darkness we must continually and actively choose to turn from as we seek to live together peacefully on this ol’ globe of ours, there’ll be a whole lot of hanging with the devil ’round these parts in the next while.
I’ll be extending him ‘a little sympathy’. Tastefully, of course.
Hope you’ll join me. Let’s discuss.
‘Here come the world With the look in its eye Future uncertain but certainly slight Look at the faces Listen to the bells It’s hard to believe we need a place called hell…
I actually said that recently. During a job interview, as a matter of fact.
I tend to like order. Not to the extreme of stifling creativity or preventing spontaneity, but, overall, I like to have things organized.
I’m not sure that I’m really truly a control freak or anything. I can go with the flow with the best of them. I’ve been known to drop everything and take chances/switch plans/directions at the drop of a hat- proverbial or otherwise (hats HAVE been left behind on occasion).
Before anyone starts thinking that I’m perhaps protesting too much, let me just say that I am well aware that my Virgo-Nature (as one of my BFFs- and fellow-Virgo- terms this propensity) sometimes gets the best of me. I’m eminently self-aware about that little character trait.
I think it’s why, actually, I tend to gravitate to the mythologies of the Ancient Near East and Egypt. The belief systems that came before and heavily influenced the beliefs and the worldview that would be recorded in the bible- those Testaments Old, New and extra-canonical- were based in the foundational dichotomy of the need for maintenance of order to stave off the constant incursions of chaos in the known world.
The myths- and the societies that developed according to the worldviews contained therein- saw the primeval forces of the universe as sourced in chaos. In Mesopotamia this tradition was found in the stories of Tiamat – Mother-goddess of Chaos and origin of the world as we know it. As in the world was created out of her defeated carcass. Still, such was her power that even after Marduk’s victory her influence continued to be felt since we- and the planet we rode in on- were carved out of her physical remains.
We like chaos. Or, at the very least, seem to gravitate toward drama and the exaggerated over-turning of societal norms. Those same societal norms that were instituted in things like the Code of Hammurabi, those Ten Commandments, or the more numerous and somewhat onerous Levitical Laws. They all served the same purpose.
Order vs. chaos.
The maintenance of the balance of the two. Not the eradication of chaos- that would mean self-destruction, after all, coming as we did from the body of chaos herself- but the careful manipulation of behaviours so that order can keep it in check.
If the rules aren’t followed, the influence of Tiamat comes creeping back in to mess with the nicely ordered society that the gods- and the kings/priests/leaders who act on behalf of the gods- have created. For our own protection, of course. But also for the greater glory of those who hold the earthly power.
I get this- atavistically, and also because it suits my personality. We need rules- be they rules of morality or practicality. We also need to understand that rules are contextual in nature. They are based on specific needs and sourced in specific times/places and, as such, should be subject to change as our context does so.
Somewhere along the line, the order/chaos dichotomy got changed into one of good/evil. I’d argue that came about under strong influences from Zoroastrianism and its dualism, but that’s a discussion for a different day.
Bottom line (I’m trying to be succinct, for a change)? Those things associated with order became the rules that described what is good. Acting outside those rules became all about the evil.
Example? That little story about the Garden of Eden and getting kicked out and that whole, much later, Augustinian nonsense about Original Sin? Yahweh gave them one rule- ‘don’t eat from that tree. The one over there. All others are fair game, but leave that one be.’ (Obviously I’m paraphrasing here). And what did they do? They violated the prescribed order/rule and ate from that tree.
It’s called a ‘cautionary tale’ for a reason.
Right from the get-go we were being influenced by that crafty Tiamat (or her minions, who were myriad and took the forms of demons, ill-winds and, sometimes, serpents) to break the rules and let her get a little of her own back.
That’s an image of her up there ^^^. It’s also the image that appears on my homepage underneath the name of the blog. I believe in facing my fears head-on (I’m really not kidding. One of my cats is named for the embodiment of chaos herself. I was thinking along the lines of ‘naming something robs it of its power’. Didn’t quite work out that way. My Tiamat is pretty chaotic. I blame myself for the misstep). Please note that she looks like a great big snake, herself.
‘What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun.’
My buddy- and fave OT dude- wrote that in Ecclesiastes (1.9).
Yep. We are nothing if not a lather, rinse, repeat sort of a species. We beg, borrow and often steal the stuff that came before us and apply it- generally willy-nilly- to our own social contexts. Does that really sound like a remotely rational plan?
Despite my deep-seated appreciation of order, the need to examine from whence our conceptualizations of that order might have come is the very thing I’ve been (over-) emphasizing of late. We are letting our leaders tell us what we should be watching/buying/doing and how we should be thinking/voting/spending our spare time. Without any sort of examination or thought given to the context from which these prescriptions are coming.
Since we aren’t (last I checked), in fact, a Bronze Age culture trying desperately to assert our National identity among hostile ‘foreigners’ (whose land we’ve come to take) and therefore beholden to any notion of having our actions dictated as we are expected to blindly follow someone’s notion of what is ‘best’ for us, we really have to be looking more closely at these things.
We have so much opportunity and access to information that we HAVE TO make our decisions based in this cultural/social context rather than one that had its day more than 2000 years ago, half a world away.
That doesn’t mean that some of the rules- and the lessons contained within the rules and the stories that support them- mightn’t reflect universal truths and maintain some validity. I’m not saying that at all.
But c’mon.
Take the time to weigh all sides/voices/contexts and see that we have, in fact, progressed from the city states/nomadic/monarchic civilizations that came so very long before us. We have evolved. In every conceivable way. And the devolution of society that seems to be happening here and there is beyond distressing in the face of this reality.
We need a paradigm shift. Bigtime. Let’s forget about the whole externalizing/personification of evil/assumption of the existence of absolute good that we’ve inherited from later iterations of the Mesopotamian and Egyptian worldviews. Time to let go of childish things- like devils and demons and primordial gods (although not the cats who bear their names) and take responsibility for our role in the balancing act that is life in the 21st century.
The maintenance of order is important. It balances the chaos- of our own natures and of those things IN Nature over which we can exert no control.
I’m always looking for some order- and some New Order never goes amiss either…
‘I like walking in the park When it gets late at night I move round in the dark And leave when it gets light I sit around by day Tied up in chains so tight These crazy words of mine So wrong they could be right’
And, unlike evil– and the way in which we tend to pass the buck by labeling and externalizing actions/people as such- chaos will always remain a part of the world and its perpetual motion.
There are things beyond our human control. Yep. There are indeed. But the way we react to these incursions of chaos in our lives is completely in OUR HANDS.
I know he’s right.
There’s been enough chaos lately. We need some great changes right about now. But they aren’t going to happen all by themselves.
PS- So much for being succinct…
In case you were wondering… the interviewers seemed to both be pretty tickled by my comment regarding chaos. So much so they offered me the job. All being well, it’ll be onward to new challenges and a new venue- one that has a mandate for positive change and proactive involvement. HUGE thanks to you all hereabouts for the support offered as this first realized step in my journey- more meaningful action in my day job. Here’s hoping it will allow for the continuation of meaningful engagement in all aspects of my life. If nothing else, it will help me, personally, to balance that foundational dichotomy as best as I can.
Apologies in advance as this post is likely to be somewhat all over the place. I’m a little medicated- I think I’m fighting a sinus infection. This polar vortex/never-ending winter nonsense is kicking my ass.
Since I’ve already discussed the deeply-held conviction I have- the one which states that we are increasingly (and willingly) falling victim to organized and concerted attempts to keep us insulated from/ignorant of the important shit going down in the world- I won’t reiterate my discouragement yet again. It’s clearly posted any number of times for those who choose to have a look.
But. The Oscars.
I do appreciate finely crafted films- and the artistry that is involved with the entirety of the process. The writing of the story, the vision behind the scenery and cinematography. The costumes, the make-up. And, of course, the performances that serve to bring the stories alive.
I like movies. I do.
And they don’t have to be super-serious, story-heavy films to get my seal of approval.
I’m still reeling from the loss of Dr. Egon Spengler, earlier this week. While I know that the great Harold Ramis left us a wonderful collection of time-tested comedic brilliance, Ghostbusters remains up near the top of my all-time favourites list. I can quote that movie pretty much word-for-word. I’ve used it in classes. Every time I visit NYC and come across one of the landmark buildings from the film I am ridiculously happy.
Egon’s serious, scientific mien was the perfect foil for Ray’s innocence and Peter’s smarmy used-car salesman schtick. Which is why his one-liners had so much impact.
I appreciate film-making as both an art form and as pure entertainment, and there is no doubt at all that each year some very important films are rightfully nominated for these awards as a representation and validation of their place in our cultural canon.
12 Years a Slave is my choice for must see viewing this particular year (and I say this despite the fact that Brad Pitt is in it- generally speaking you can’t pay me to see anything with that guy). Solomon Northrup’s 1853 memoir remains one of the most affecting reads I’ve ever experienced. It should be required reading- and now viewing- in schools everywhere.
I have to admit that none of the rest of the films piqued my interest enough to see them when they were in theatres, but I will check out Dallas Buyers Club, Philomena, and Captain Phillips, eventually.
Still, I just can’t bring myself to care about the pageantry that is the Academy Awards.
In addition to the ever-ostentatious red carpet and the tired jokes and digs at fellow celebrities (not that I don’t think Ellen will be a great host), the pomp and self-aggrandizing glad-handing and masturbatory back-patting kind of ruffles my feathers.
It’s a matter of priorities. And I don’t think that we are able- or willing- to adequately prioritize our time, at all, anymore.
Especially not this year when the ‘local’ twist is that Mayor McCheesewill be attending. Jimmy Kimmel is involved, somehow. I’m not sure if he invited RoFo to be his guest or what. I don’t really care. I’m sick to death of anything that serves to validate this guy in any way. Or that gives him any sort of platform to further his self-serving re-election campaign.
If the fact of his presence at an event that is broadcast to the world isn’t a clear demonstration that the drawn-out awards season has become completely irrelevant as anything except personal glory-seeking and attention-whoring…
Sigh.
Especially during a week that saw the situation in Ukraine escalate, and the Russians making moves that might result in war, and American assertions that Putin’s actions might end with his nation’s removal from the G8.
These are world changing events. We’re in a whole mighty-big-Twinkie load of trouble.
Yet many of us will be spending five or more hours witnessing and then talking about the outrageous fashions/jewellery/hairstyles of the Hollywood A-listers. And the irresponsible and clueless elected leader of this city- as he attends the elite event (belying his claims to be against all things ‘elite’- here at home, anyway) seemingly oblivious to the fact that those who invited him are laughing at him, rather than with him.
So he will continue his posturing and campaigning. Endearing himself to those who attracted to the bright and shiny things that lay outside their reach while yet applauding his ‘man-of-the-people-ness.’ Those same people who will never see the mutual-exclusivity of those two extremes and who will vote for him again come October.
We need to stop giving this guy a stage and an audience. But, like awards season as a whole, it’s truly ‘the same old song and dance’.
‘Get yourself cooler, lay yourself low coincidental murder, with nothing to show with the judge, constipation will go to his head and his wife’s aggravation, you’re soon enough dead
it’s the same old story, same old song and dance, my friend it’s the same old story, same old song and dance, my friend
gotcha with the cocaine they found with your gun no smoothy face laywer to getcha undone say love ain’t the same on the south side of town you could look, but you ain’t gonna find it around
it’s the same old story, same old song and dance, my friend it’s the same old story, same old story same old song and dance
fate comes a-knockin’, doors start lockin’ your old time connection, change your direction ain’t gonna change it, can’t rearrange it can’t stand the pain when it’s all the same to you, my friend
when you’re low down and dirty, from walkin’ the street with your old hurdy-gurdy, no one to meet say love ain’t the same, on the south side of town’
Steven Tyler and Joe Perry could have been writing about RoFo.
‘I’m worried, Ray. It’s getting crowded in there and all my data points to something big on the horizon.’
And we’re down a Ghostbuster to help get us through.
Go gently, Mr. Ramis. Thank you for the laughter.
PS. On a FAR more optimistic note, a couple of wonderful bloggers have seen fit to nominate me for a couple more awards. Kim, at Let me Reach with Kim Saeed, offers valuable insights and information for those dealing with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Madeline, at Madeline Scribes, is a source for diverse discussions based in her experience as a professional social researcher. They offer valuable perspectives on many of the things that I am wont to discuss hereabouts and are truly Voices of Inspiration. Please do go and visit with them- I have no doubt you’ll learn something.
Thank you both sincerely for the nominations! I very much appreciate the recognition.
... au gré des trouvailles, au fil de l'inspiration. Ma devise : rester humble, devant l'infiniment petit, tout comme face au très grand... angle :) Merci à toi visiteur furtif ou ami de longue date...
colemining 