The
following poem “Growing Hope” was written in May of 2013 at the point of the
emerging reality of my mother’s death (my father died nearly 10 years ago) and the reality that I would be the next living generation that would be remembered by the
succeeding generation. The poem is for me a marker and celebration of my family
while reflecting on growing up having left home at 18 years of age. Its
language and images are loosely a narrative that tells of my journey grappling with
the early and ongoing influences of family and others and some nameable elements
that have supported finding my way.
Growing Hope
i.
From birth we have struggled
against a specter of
Possibility,
which has its subtle ways
of sucking air out of Hope.
As a child, I was endowed
with the practice of breathing:
walking down a dirt road
along a canal
being led to the edge of my
world,
Playing in a grandfather’s
way:
collecting raw materials, 10
creating things methodically—
contented—quietly
sustaining joy.
ii.
Two branches helped unite
my avocation and vocation as
one:
one industrious, oriented
around systems and design—
informed my
imagination and art
The other, vibrant with
expression:
assembled around meals,
we received attention,
correction, 20
an awareness of belonging, acceptance.
The parish church shaped
a space of strange mystery
where the body broken and
word spoken
preveniently imbued abundance and Hope.
Mythic ventures of
riding bikes hours at a time,
primitive camping, building
fires,
climbing spires of nature—
training the senses to find
one’s way. 30
iii.
I traveled through the
wasteland
offering woeful happiness,
thin answers capable of merely
seeing
the women lazily reclined in
a field
Gazing at her home just above
a hill.
Whilst beholding her world
of riven things, the harsh
reality
of vulnerability, and
perceiving
What seemed a retreating
horizon,
I turned through long silence 40
working alongside, hearing
the poor, the fatherless,
while
Convention’s sway began to
fall
like autumn leaves in the
breeze of time.
her brokenness called out—
the unsealed sky reached out
To prophesy against what
numbs
and blinds—binding faith and
doubt,
joy and sorrow, bending
unholy power:
transforming the norms and
forms of life. 50
iv.
I witnessed my mother in her
last days
walking, hoping for better
days,
weakened by her deep loss,
waiting the beloved of her
life.
The browning of her days
like blades of the feather
reed grass
outside my den, which
bend and weaken each winter
Were clipped early spring.
Now new blades rise up: 60
their ascension repeat the
muse
to the next generation.
Notes:
Title:
While
the word hope is mentioned twice, it’s has become a growing theme in my
practice for some time while seeing increasingly how it has potential to evolve
in our lives through self and connective nurturing. Nurturing hope with the
awareness of my vulnerabilities has added much new value and teeming life into
my own consciousness. With hope one more clearly can conceive goals, identify
pathways and change thoughts leading to new ways of existence. I am indebted to Brene Brown whose wonderful
research and teaching on the subjects of shame and vulnerability are teaching
me that "our capacity for wholeheartedness can never be greater than our
willingness to be broken-hearted." She gives witness to the reality that hope
is a function of struggle (L1). The idea of wholeheartedness speaks of the
nature of connection for which the poem does in its formation, i.e., to be able
to see myself and hear myself and learn more about myself in the stories that
are told from other’s experiences.
L1
“Struggled” also recalls a birth story handed down by my mother. I was told
that giving birth required surgical assistance due to my large shoulders (over 10 lbs infant) and my mother being of small stature. This
deliverance led to more chaos when I had to be resuscitated due to an
allergenic reaction to Penicillin. While this might be seen as a miracle of
sorts, I view it as a motif for reflecting on a pattern of life, viz. chaos and
deliverance.
L2
“a specter of Possibility” alludes to the fragile nature of hope (or
vulnerability)
An
ancient Hebrew text reads, “I set before you life and death, blessing and
curse. Choose life, then, so that you and your descendents might live.” Deuteronomy
30
There is a fragility of hope, the tension that remains
in a person even as hope strengthens him/her. The possibility of good
necessarily entails the possibility for alienation as well. While possibility
must be sought out, yet possibility itself is ambivalent. In exploring new
possibilities for the self, one runs the risk of not recognizing oneself. Even
having been bolstered by hope and prospects of new possibilities, a person can
have to wait for the outcome of her actions to be made manifest. She may have
hoped for something far from shameful, but must still remain in the state of
expectation, waiting to see what happens. The freedom made possible by hope can
be a blessing or a curse: I can find myself free to serve or free to determine
my own destiny, or I can find myself paralyzed by choice and the possible
outcomes of my decisions.
We are called to move toward an ever retreating
horizon, wanting to rejoice in the progress we make, but also feeling
frustration at times because we never reach the final goal. Hope (as a virtue)
does not reconcile, but rather consoles.
It is this reason that anguish is never far from hope. In other words, hope
does not result in an ultimate sense of completion, a sense of resolution of
all our desires, but rather compels
us to move forward even when our desires are not met. Hope heals our wounds and
comforts when reconciliation is not possible. (An essay having closely read
Paul Ricoeur, philosopher, over the past decade on the topics of hermeneutics
and the masters of suspicion and hope).
The
opening stanza reminds me that I can say what I am naming here, for I have come
to appreciate the necessity of having a hermeneutic of suspicion, i.e., a
capacity to suspend interpretation and attitudes, refusing to take the declared
motives or conventional scripts of practitioners and subjects at face value. On
an intellectual level, I prefer to listen to historical and philosophical forms
of explanation that suggest that apparent moral positions of e.g., political,
economic, ethics, psychology, religious dogma which often cover up more insidious phenomena
or act to cloak ulterior motives. On a more personal, interior level, I seek to
step back and reflect on my own interior motives and functioning in relationships,
interpretation of events and texts I read and study, and the human need to penetrate
illusions and touch reality.
The italicized terms are meant to highlight
virtues and practices that continue to make a difference in terms of becoming
more fully human and less burdened by a draining emptiness,
the harsh reality, and forthcoming bitterness of a fragmented world.
L6
Breathing refers to the
practice of walking and biking (my preferred forms of movement) that provide a space to allay the anxious cadence in the
day-to-day living as well as meditative methods that induce calming and
contemplation.
L12
“Contented” sums up my way of moving from the thin idea of “happiness” to
the classical pursuit of Eudaimonia. Being
contented involves an awareness of and connection with the surrounding nature
which results in a growing capacity to nurture human flourishing.
L13-14
The “two branches” in Part ii convey the family streams with stanza 4
being the Seifert stream and the next being the Jones family.
L12
“Unite my avocation and vocation” while a normal part of the way I think
about meaningful work, it is an echo from Robert Frost’s “Two Tramps in Mud Time.” The
conjunction of avocation and vocation additionally conveys in part the concept
of bi-vocational service to one’s community. This is also become my vision of how “church”
works in society, i.e., as an alternative society that faithfully serves the
world (for which it exists) vocationally resulting in people and organizations
investing in others via cultivated gifts, talents, skills that benefit the
community’s needs.
L24
“preveniently” is used in its theological sense of “coming before” in the
sense that God acts and the human person responds. “Abundance”
is a cultivated awareness and antithesis to a scarcity illusion (scarcity is anxiety driven while abundance is sought and found via
contemplation).
L27
While “riding bikes hours at a time” may well portray a childhood pastime,
today it is relived in the practice of choosing personally to live without an
automobile. For nearly six years, I have cultivated a routine of commuting by
bicycle to most places around town (work, shopping, appointments and trips as
far as a 20 mile ratios). I also seek out lengthy segments of time
including overnight stays when I enjoy bike touring. Some recent trips and my
touring bike can be viewed at http://pinterest.com/seidj/touring-roads-trips/ Bike touring has proven to be simple way of
leaving behind the study and office to reflect, rest mentally and listen to
nature speak poetry.
L29
“climbing spires of nature” hints
at my past love of flying and later practice of hiking various mountains in the
region of the Shenandoah
Valley where I currently live.
Hiking became an entry point for developing a contemplative capacity in the mid 90’s
L31
Like T. S. Elliot, the “wasteland” refers to modern society at large, which
lacks a vital sense of community and a spiritual center that breeds authentic
grounding. While a spiritual or universal grounding cannot be necessarily
received from a secular society, if one is to transcend, he/she must
differentiate via relinquishment of the dominant script(s) that no longer exists
and indeed never did exist, and via embracing an alternative text of sorts via
the essence or wisdom; e.g., of a religious tradition (rich practices—not dogma—that
develop virtues in a people in
community) which over time provides vital meaning and substance that becomes a
counter narrative to the dominant scripting in our society that can be summed
up (today in America) as a script of technological, therapeutic, consumer militarism that
socializes us all, liberal and conservative. For example, if a people are to
become less violent, people in community must undertake nonviolent practices (e.g.,
dialogue, mediation, guns for money) that over time instill virtues (e.g.,
equity patience, justice, forgiveness). Like the Aristotelian tradition
(ethics), this kind of work at living becomes excellence at being human,
helping people to survive, thrive, form meaningful relationships, and find
happiness (Eudaimonia).
Wyeth’s numerous works seek to speak into harsh realities and embrace the complexities of life—the humorous, beautiful, painful, simple and tragic—while reflecting on the mystery and seasons of life, much of which have become a part of my rhythm of reflection as I am sent into a world filled with harsh realities and complexities (see L36-38).
L37 “riven”, torn, split apart, distressed, here used in a connoted sense of broken and disrupted
L40
“turned” is poetic for the Greek idea of metanoia, a rich concept denoting radical change: change in one’s consciousness
that follows new perceptions, cognition and behavior. While this term has biblical/theological
roots, in psychology it refers to an attempt of the psyche to heal itself of
unbearable conflict by melting down and then being reborn in a more adaptive
form. The outcome is on an existential level might well be named “transformation.”
Below is a poem I wrote when consciously entering the middle years which led to dynamic change in internal focus, mindfulness, and new practices assisting with negotiating or re-orienting self to new and strange territory. The poem incorporates language from James E. Loder’s Transforming Moment and James Fowler’s research in faith development (2002).
Below is a poem I wrote when consciously entering the middle years which led to dynamic change in internal focus, mindfulness, and new practices assisting with negotiating or re-orienting self to new and strange territory. The poem incorporates language from James E. Loder’s Transforming Moment and James Fowler’s research in faith development (2002).
The
past is filled with various turns, a course
of
rough and shifting currents, changing times
with
passing seasons having ushered gain
on
transformation’s way.
When
young who sees such plot and myst’ry,
when self-absorbed constructing one’s own world
when self-absorbed constructing one’s own world
of
mythic venture, group observance swayed
in
conventional ways.
Emergent,
bare adults our world expands
beyond
assumptions, rooted prototypes,
and
symbols through traumatic doubt and self’s
Contemplative
way.
And
when the day comes having grappled truth
regarding
one’s self-world reality,
through
paradox: conjunctive faith ushers
Transcendent
ways.
L42 is both a reverence to the crowing pronouncement on things as they are in Job 29. Humanity at its best pays attention to and cares for the vulnerable. Job in his final and longest speech, describes in a beautiful retrospect his past life, from his ‘autumn days’ when the friendship of God was over his tent and he was a counselor and benefactor among the vulnerable (“I delivered/rescued) the poor one crying for help, and the orphan/fatherless who had no helper . . . ). As his days drew consciously near the grave, he in the ancient story recounts in solemn review the principles and virtues that have guided his conduct—a noble summary of the highest Hebrew ideas of character. This language too speaks into the work I have been doing, which has been both challenging and meaningful: providing pastoral care and social work among adolescent and young adults who have experienced trauma and abandonment by family.
L43 “Convention’s sway” refers to the
meta-narrative or dominant scripts (see note for L31) such as national and
religious myths in society which are rarely questioned and which many never
take time to decipher. Convention’s sway is a result of taking on a story when
you have no story. Reading ecumenical and inter-faith theology has been a strong voice in my journey, as well as other writers and artist who have
helped me to self-differentiate from the herding and domination that breeds
anxiety in our family and societal systems.
L44
“Autumn leaves” name the kairos or
season I identify with as I embrace the death of my parents and take on the
challenge of living into the next living generation that too shall die. I wish to
live more fully as this poem depicts and the autumn season speaks its wisdom.
The following poem is a product of riding long hours this autumn along the foot
of the Massanutten Mountain range (2012).
Autumn
sky
beyond
impure azure—
empyrean
wilderness,
retrieve
in me hidden surprise.
Autumn
breeze,
cool
across open fields
diffusing
organic debris,
reorient
my senses alive.
Autumn
night
clear,
haunting, summons
“its
secret ministry of frost”
quiet
me in silent emprise.
Autumn
moon
arising
itinerant light
looming
axised mystery,
as I
lie down, demystify.
Autumn
leaves’
fading
brilliance
descending
to the ground,
teach
me how to die.
Part
iii of the poem contains some language from my definition of a practice I have
self-named “gentle cynicism.” Gentle cynicism has been a way of moving through
(not stepping away from) tensions where there is a complex array of
easy-to-get-to thin practices, answers and ideals on one side; while on the
other, profound thick sources of questions and insights that invite persistent
souls toward the way of becoming more fully human.
L46
While “her brokenness” refers back to the woman (L34-35 ), it also
cast forth an inward awareness of the brokenness that we all carry as
vulnerable human beings. Moreover, it alludes
to my mother, who carried with her a grief and longing that often (from my observation and now trained eye in the field of clinical counseling) was evidenced by levels of depression. Having experienced depression
myself, I have grappled with its causations and sought ways to walk through and
even embrace depression as a full-body experience and a full-body immersion in
the darkness. I learned at some level to not look upon depression as the hand
of an enemy trying to crush me, but rather to see it instead as the hand of a
friend pressing me down onto ground on which it is safe to stand.
Rainer
Maria Rilke's Book of Hours has been a
companion providing carved out language and space for the soul of depression.
You
are not surprised at the force of the storm—
you
have seen it growing.
The
trees flee. Their flight
sets
the boulevards streaming. And you know:
he
whom they flee is the one
you
move toward. All your senses
sing
him, as you stand at the window.
The
weeks stood still in summer.
The
trees' blood rose. Now you feel
it
wants to sink back
into
the source of everything. You thought
you
could trust that power when you plucked the fruit;
now
it becomes a riddle again,
and
you again a stranger.
Summer
was like your house: you knew
where
each thing stood.
Now
you must go out into your heart
as
onto a vast plain. Now
the
immense loneliness begins.
The
days go numb, the wind
sucks
the world from your senses like withered leaves.
Through
the empty branches the sky remains.
It
is what you have.
Be
earth now, and evensong.
Be
the ground lying under that sky.
Be modest
now, like a thing
ripened
until it is real,
so
that he who began it all
can
feel you when he reaches for you.
L48,
“binding faith and doubt” is a veritable re-texting of the dominant script
which identifies doubt as the opposite of faith. Faith and doubt are akin to
one-another, while the opposite of faith is certainty. Much of my religious
experience in the “wasteland” has been multitudes becoming increasingly
uncomfortable with certitude (primarily out of deep-seated interior and systemic
anxiety). Having experienced and embraced the reality of brokenness and
vulnerability, I have received (like some prophets, mystics, artist, poets,
writers, journalist, philosophers, musicians, and theologians who have found the
disorienting language/images of lament and complaint and discovered
language/images of re-orientation, emerging into something new and perhaps
radically different) over time and continue to become intrinsically empowered
and whole-hearted by the rich tradition of doubt across the ages. From JenniferHecht’s Doubt: A History and from my
reading of various ancient text, I have come to realize that it is only in
modern times that doubt has been equated narrowly with a rejection of faith. In
the words of a post-modern theologian, “To believe is human, to doubt divine.”
The ancient Qoheleth (Ecclesiastes) reads (3.10-11)
"I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything
beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one
can fathom what God has done from beginning to end."
The “eternity” which God has set in the human heart, is not an accurate translation; it speaks of the illimitable or boundless nature of time and space, futurity that includes darkness and what is not known. This marks our expansive yet limited plain of consciousness. Human beings (perhaps unlike the animal kingdom), are endowed with the faculty to step back from immediate situations and particular events that vie for our attention to catch a glimpse of the totality of existence, including our own (self-consciousness). Yet we remain ignorant of any purposeful providence that may underlie the totality, “from beginning to the end.” We are thus caught between self-transcendence and stifling and ignorance. We are both in time and out of time. Thus “At Our Best” . . . (2012)
Religion
receives, reads, interprets ancient texts;
shapes
rubrics, schools virtues, sustains peaceably;
humans
dialogue, co-op, fathom redemption
against
all odds, absence, and clear resolutions.
Animated
by innocent intuition
science
tests, tells of physical reality,
proposes
with awe-provoking curiosities
promising
cures and models of causality.
At our
best we move amid shadows, forms, echoes;
acknowledge
the unknown; are baffled by existence;
sit
before, name objects; doubt and apply silence . . .
warmed
by the sun, we find our way with reverence.
The final part iv is a
reflection out of the current season of time, reflecting on my mother’s dying
and inevitable death. I choose to view her from my last visit with her in Cleveland. It encapsulates her functioning from my observation.
While the image of the feather reed grass is clear and telling, it is related
to the biblical image of withering grass and flower (Isaiah 40).
The
voice said, “Call out.”
Then
he answered, “What shall I call out?”
All
flesh is grass, and all the loveliness is like the flower of the field.
The
grass withers, the flower fades,
When
breath of the LORD blows upon it;
Surely
the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
But the word of our God stands forever.
