Prayer

“This act is prayer by which term I understand no vain experience of words, no mere repetition of certain sacred formulae, but the very movement itself of the soul, putting itself in personal relation of contact with the mysterious power of which it feels the presence.  Whenever this interior prayer is lacking, there is no religion.  Wherever this prayer rises and stirs the soul, even in the absence of forms or of doctrines we have living religion.”  (William James, 1842—1920)

“Prayer may not save us, but prayer makes us worth saving.”  (Abraham Joshua Heschel, 1907—1972)

 “Ideas about God come and go, but prayer, the struggle to find meaning even in the darkest circumstances must continue.”  (Karen Armstrong, 1944-- )

 “Prayer opens eyes to wonder.  Prayer opens hearts to gratitude and compassion.  Prayer opens souls to that which is greater than the self.  Prayer is the music and lyrics of religion.”   (GB)


It is Rosh Hashanah.  How does an agnostic pray?  For the agnostic, a prayer spoken does not mean a prayer heard.  I am agnostic.  Prayer does not come easily.

I have prayed sitting in services, as part of a congregation, but at those times I often felt disconnected, removed from the prayer.  The words come out in monotone, lacking meaning, and I am left feeling disingenuous and empty.  Now, when attending services, I bring a book.  I read and study while others around me pray.

I have prayed from the heart when, metaphorically, I’ve been in the foxhole.  When I feared for myself or the well-being of my loved ones, I found it easy to pray.

I too rarely remember to recite prayers of thanks and gratitude.  I should do so more often.  If unhappy, I try to remind myself of the good fortune in my life.  Perhaps this self-talk is a kind of prayer.

At holidays and family gatherings I have blessed my children and grandchildren bestowing upon them the ancient prayer, “May God bless you and keep you.”  That prayer comes easily.

I wrote a prayer that hung on my office wall.  It was a prayer for children, especially for those children whose parents came seeking my help and advice.

                Grant this child health.

                Grant this child peace.

                Grant this child courage, love and dignity.

                Grant this child the blessing of a life well lived.

I know where my prayer came from.  I was often humbled when faced with my limitations.  I saw many children for whom health and healing required a power and knowledge far greater than mine.

I don’t know where prayers go.  I said my prayer for children unsure to whom or what it was directed, doubting, yet hoping  that it was heard.

My Vacation

“One great thing about fly fishing is that after a while nothing exists of the world but thoughts about fly fishing.”  (Norman Maclean, 1902—1990)

I am now one week back from my car trip through Colorado.  I set out with three goals in mind; to learn about the geology of the land, to see Colorado’s four National Parks, and to fly fish in as many rivers as possible.  Mission accomplished.

For anyone travelling to Colorado, I recommend September in order to avoid the summer hordes of tourists and in order to enjoy some of Colorado’s finest weather.  In September the rivers are low and the fishing is generally good. The elk are mating.  Mule deer and moose are plentiful.  Late in September the Aspen’s are beginning to turn colors.  Travel in September and you will observe the migratory behavior of the Baby Boomers.

Regarding geology, my trip took me from a craton, to an orogeny and back again to the craton. The middle part of the U.S. sits on the Great Craton, a rather inert expanse of the earth’s crust where little activity has occurred other than oceans rolling in and out over millions of years.  This accounts for the flatness of Kansas, and the sedimentary nature of its rocks.  An orogeny is a rather sexy sounding word meaning ‘mountain forming’, the Laramide Orogeny occurring about 70 million years ago when molten igneous rock pushed upwards into layers of sedimentary rock, leading to the formation of much of the Rocky Mountains.

Each of the four National Parks (The Great Sand Dunes, Mesa Verde, Black Canyon of the Gunnison, and Rocky Mountain National Park) is geologically distinct and each merits a visit, but for anyone who’s never been there, I highly recommend Mesa Verde National Park in Colorado’s southwest corner. Beautiful scenery and stunning vistas combine with the archaeologic remnants and the cliff dwellings of an early Native Pueblo civilization dating from 700 AD until 1400 AD.  Not only is it a national park but it is a designated UNESCO World Heritage Site.

As for fishing, I stood in the Arkansas River, the Animas, the Uncompahgre, the San Miguel, the Gunnison, and the Colorado River.  I stood in the rivers fishing, not necessarily catching.  Trout are finicky eaters and it took me time to figure out that a trout’s September diet is different from its summer diet of mayflies and caddisflies. In September, Colorado trout eat grasshoppers and ants that fall into the water as well as very tiny midges that hatch under the water.  I was eventually able to catch and release some nice fish, catching my last two fish near Sprague Lake on the east side of Rocky Mountain National Park.  My penultimate fish was a mere inch-and-a-half brook trout.  My final fish was my best catch of the vacation, a twelve-inch scarlet cutthroat trout.

Vacation has come and gone. Time is a strange thing.  From the perspective of geology, time is measured in millions, even billions, of years.  From the perspective of archaeology, time is measured in hundreds or thousands of years.  A lifetime is measured in decades.  A vacation is measured in days and weeks.  And from the perspective of fly fishing, time temporarily ceases to exist.

Enablers

In the jargon of family therapy, the word “enabler” has a special meaning.  An enabler is the family member who assumes responsibility on behalf an under-functioning, often addicted, other. The enabler rescues the other from the consequences of bad behavior. The enabler makes excuses on behalf of the other. There may be a little nagging every now and then, but really the enabler demands and expects very little from the other. Understandably, the enabled other willingly accepts this all-too-comfortable arrangement.

The actions of the enabler imply, “Since you aren’t functioning, I will do for you.”  The enabler conveys the covert message, “You are incompetent and irresponsible. You need me!”  An enabler and the enabled other enter into a mutual pact that inadvertently, but effectively, stifles incentive to change and to grow.  The resulting relationship is not one of mutuality and shared responsibility.  The relationship is instead a self-perpetuating cycle of dysfunction, dependency and codependency.

Enablers are not only found in the context of families.  As I see it, for many, government has become the great enabler.

Almost sixty years ago, the nation was thrilled by the inaugural speech of newly elected president John F. Kennedy.  Every grown-up and child knew the words, “And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country.”  No such words, not even tepid approximations, are heard from current leaders and politicians.  None would dare to do so.  Instead, amidst an ethos of entitlement, we hear over and over ludicrous promises of massive government handouts, while simultaneously ignoring a ballooning national debt, a crumbling infrastructure, international nuclear proliferation, threats of cyber-warfare and catastrophic man-made climate change.

For a democracy to function there must be an expectation for personal, and not just governmental, competence and responsibility.  I don’t want to see our country led by enablers who feel compelled to function on behalf of an under-functioning populace.  In the election year to come, I will not vote for a candidate who speaks only about “what your country can do for you.”  I will listen for a leader who speaks to us, rich and poor alike, as “my fellow Americans,” and who like President Kennedy will call us to task, asking us to consider what we must all do as competent and responsible citizens for the sake of our endangered country.

SIlence is Olden

“All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”  (Blaise Pascal, 1623--1662)

“Mental reflection is so much more interesting than TV it’s a shame more people don’t switch over to it.  They probably think what they hear is unimportant, but it never is.”  (Robert Pirsig, 1928 --2017)



The Chosen, written in 1967 by Chaim Potok, is a story about silence.  One of the characters, Danny, is brilliant but with an unfeeling heart.  His father knows he must teach his child to feel for others, and to do so imposes a difficult father-son silence.  Potok narrates the pain of silence, both for the father and for the son.  But as the story develops, we witness Danny’s transformation of character, the process of growth catalyzed by his father’s silent discipline.  As the story ends, Danny, with a broken yet now compassionate heart, begins a new journey, to study Freud.

Sigmund Freud appreciated the transforming power of silence.  In Freudian psychoanalysis, the therapist maintains a silence, instructing patients to report uncensored any and all thoughts and feelings that enter awareness.  In the supportive environment of the analyst’s office, patients are instructed to do the hard work of self-reflection in order to begin their journey of personal growth and discovery.

The transforming power of silence may also have been recognized in biblical times.  After the exodus from Egypt, Moses and the Israelites wandered in the desert for 40 years.  The Bible tells us of the journey’s beginning and the journey’s end but says little about the 38 years of wandering in the middle.  A biblical commentary says that God and Moses were silent during those years, but we are not told why.  Was it silence in anger?  Was it silence as punishment?  Or was it silence that helped transform a wandering generation?

Thirty-eight years of silence was hard discipline imposed upon a people who needed to turn inward in order to begin their journey of growth and transformation.  As slaves they were conditioned to wait passively for their master’s instructions.  Once freed, they had to learn to listen to their own inner voice.  Free will and moral choice come not from obedience to a master, but from an ability to feel, to think and to reason.

And where there is no silence?  Authors such as Orwell, Huxley, Bradbury and Vonnegut imagined dystopic future worlds where people are enslaved not by the lash, but by constant noise.  They imagined worlds in which minds are filled and controlled by the constant drone of meaningless chatter, gratuitous imagery and programmed misinformation.

In my quiet and contemplative moments, I worry about the noise that occupies our children’s minds.  Developmentally critical hours are spent bombarded by fast-paced, action-oriented, mindless noise.  Children come to school transfixed in their electronic virtual reality.  Glassy eyed, they come numbed and unprepared to do the hard work of thinking and learning.  Children need silent time in order to develop their minds, their imaginations and their emotions.

In a modern world, we are all bombarded by electronic sights and sounds.  In contrast, silence is olden.  But we need silent time.  It doesn’t take 38 years.  Just a bit of time to silently wander, every now and then, would do miracles.

Limitations

I am haunted by this short story:

“Once a fiddler played so sweetly that all who heard him began to dance, and whoever came near enough to hear, joined in the dance.  Then a deaf man who knew nothing of music, happened along, and to him all he saw seemed the action of madmen – senseless and in bad taste.”  (from Tales of the Hasidim, by Martin Buber)

There are those who hear what I cannot hear,

There are those who see what I cannot see.

Often, the poet hears that to which I am deaf.

Often, the artist sees that to which I am blind.

There are many who have helped me to hear a little better, and who have helped me to see a little clearer.

There are times when I can do no better than to recognize and accept my deafness and my blindness.

Before judging others, I must recognize and accept my limitations. 

There are those who imagine what I cannot imagine.

There are those who understand what I cannot understand.

There are those who feel what I cannot feel.

These limitations I recognize and accept . . . reluctantly.

This is Pickleball

My wife and I are learning to play pickleball.  Recently introduced to the game by my in-laws, we watch instructional videos and play once or twice-a-week, gimpy knees and all.

For several years, I’d heard of the game.  I was put off by the name.  Pickleball just sounded too silly.  I was put off by the characterization of pickleball as tennis for old people.  In fact, there are a lot of old people playing the game.

A pickleball court is 1/4^th the size of a tennis court, so there’s less court to cover. The game is usually played with a partner, which further cuts down on the running.  The game is played with an oversized ping-pong paddle and a wiffleball.  Compared to tennis, when hitting the ball there is less torque on the arm, which means less chance for injury.  Still, playing pickleball is a surprisingly good workout.

The scoring is a little confusing at first.  Each game is played to eleven points.  You only get a point if you’re serving.  With each point you serve you must call out three numbers; your score, your opponent’s score AND a server’s number, either one or two.  If you want to check your mental status, you can also call out the date and day.

The net is at the same height as tennis.  The baseline is 22 feet from the net.  There is also a line 7 feet from the net.  Anything inside of that line is called the kitchen, and with a few notable and confusing exceptions, even if you can stand the heat, you must stay out of the kitchen when hitting the ball.

The serve must land in the opposite opponent’s half of the court, beyond the kitchen line.  The ball must bounce before being returned.  Unlike tennis, the ball must bounce again on the return of the return.  Only then can the ball be hit from the air.  Beginner’s strategy is simple, play it forward.  Get yourself and your partner up to the kitchen line after the third hit, and then try your best to keep hitting the ball over the net.

There is a group of mostly elderly pickleball players, men and women, that meet Monday through Friday, 7:30am at the local pickleball courts.  My wife and I warn them we are beginners, and we are nevertheless welcomed.  We rotate teams, different partners each game.  Even the very skilled players have been kind and patient with us.

During one game, my wife apologized for a missed hit.  She was informed, “This is pickleball, no need to apologize.”  Between games, my wife and I sat on the sidelines, watching two notably better players warming up.  They invited us to play.  Being newcomers to the sport, we declined.  One of them looked at us and said, “You’re missing the point. This is pickleball.  You're supposed to be social.  Get out here and have some fun.”

And we did.

Reading and Writing

“We must learn to feel addressed by a book, by the human being behind it, as if a person spoke directly to us.”  (Walter Kaufmann, 1921—1980)

“Maybe we understand, in some way, that books represent the permanent part of us that can “shed” the body and live on for a time in the new form of words.”  (Roger Kamenetz, 1950--)

Is reading my hobby?  No more so than eating and breathing.  It’s my sustenance.  I am driven to read by unquenchable curiosity.

I am a bibliophile. I treasure books, real books, not ebooks. When I read a book, I need to hold it, turn each page, underline and make occasional notes in the margins.  At times, I find books oppressive.  Books unread remind me of my finiteness; how much I don’t know, how much I still want to learn, how little time there is.  Mortality forces me to choose and prioritize, to read some and to put aside so many others.

Sometimes when I read great books and essays, I imagine I'm listening in on a great conversation, ideas being discussed and debated, back and forth defying barriers of time and space.  When I write, I pretend that I am no longer a passive listener, but a small contributor to that eternal dialogue.

Is writing my hobby?  No, it’s my creative outlet and my therapy.  The best self-help book I’ll ever read?  The one I’ve yet to write.

It’s easy for me to read. It’s hard for me to write. The more I write, the more I fall behind in my reading. I find excuses to not write. It takes time and effort.  It takes a willingness to be vulnerable; a willingness to accept the scrutiny and criticism of readers.  Perhaps hardest is wanting the writing to matter, fearing that it will not.

I write for my children. I want them to know me for my beliefs and ideas, for my occasional humor and my occasional wisdom. And if they happen to read what I’ve written, I hope they hear my open invitation to join me in a great conversation.  Here are my thoughts and beliefs.  Now, I want to know, what are yours?

This is my 50^th blog post.  Time out while I catch up on some reading.