Songstress

Never had there seemed so many hours
as lately there had been, like flowers,
all requiring music, by turns and towers.

The map of the head of the point
is convoluted,
possibly even polluted,
but in any case, inside out,
so a call came in from the tenor section,
requiring the sort of response,
by way of melodic line,
from one tonality to another,
or at least to the needed destination.

This, but one line in a fugue,
muddy, and instrumentally Moog,
guiding arrivals and departures
for all the birds of the sky,
as well as the cleanups, nigh,
of their minor mishaps,
evident all over the tarmac.

The phone rings again,
introducing yet another part,
and so the counterpoint thickens, thins
waxes and wanes into a sticky wicket thicket
—Ah, only a desperate sales call;
they had tried a dozen times before,
but perhaps the thirteenth time
will be the charm,
and the hapless caller
thinks to disarm
my brain.

Meanwhile, the music unravels
into a rubble-like rumbling gravel,
and seeks to go bounding along,
like a steam calliope,
to the circus,
as if that is truly
what should happen next.

From her cheeks to her hair,
the flames rise beyond care,
threatening to set curtains alight,
not to mention the folded laundry,
but thankfully in time to warm the dinner,
hopefully before the call goes out,
not at all for the fun,
to 9-1-1.

Please quell the flare,
and give this songbird flight
from the musical madness
of chairs in pairs,
lines and signs;
find resolution on your own,
ye dogs, cats, cars, cans and kin!

This girl needs a biscuit, some flan,
and a warm, soothing tisane.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Working Well With Others

My children are working on a collaborative construction project, in their respective classes. The class is divided up into working groups of students, each of whom has been assigned one or several roles in the assignment: to design and construct a load-bearing bridge with toothpicks. The assignment sounds like a lot of fun, and a chance to work with a real-life construction project on a small scale and with a hypothetical budget. Once the projects are complete, there will be a contest between the classes, for best- and greatest-load-bearing design.

My daughter was complaining to me that the child on her team who is supposed to be engaged in management and oversight, in addition to make sure that the “job site” is clean and “safe” has been shirking these responsibilities. Normally, my daughter would just shrug and make sure things were handled, but in this case, two other team members have been out. So, in essence, my daughter feels she has been carrying the project, and she told me it seemed unfair.

She said that she had tried to communicate to the person in question, only to be put off or growled at.

I had to laugh.

How frequently do we find, in our lives, in our lives, that gate keepers, managers, people entrusted with the work of oversight and management seldom live up to their job descriptions or pay?

How often do we try to keep it all going, on our own?

How much stress does this add to our daily lives?

Does this affect our love of work?

Cooperative effort requires team players. Teachers in our schools work hard to teach our children to work together in problem solving. What do we adults model? Do we model best practices in the areas of cooperation? Or will it be marked on our life report card: “doesn’t work well with others?”

I suggested that my daughter speak to a higher authority about her grievances, namely to her teacher. I even advised seeking arbitration.

“Well, I don’t want her to get in trouble; then she’ll really get mad at me.”

I then suggested that I would make some small signs, to put into the hands of some action figures. The plan would be post the action figures around “the job site,” as if there was a strike picket line. The signs would proclaim:

                  “MANAGEMENT UNFAIR TO LABOR!”

My daughter was appalled. “Oh, MOM! That is not going to stop her!”

I said, well, perhaps not, but it would bring public attention to a situation that really comes up in the world of work. Such events can even delay or shut down projects.

“You just want to embarrass me!”

“No, I want to embarrass her into doing what she is supposed to do,” I replied.

“Ah, mom.”  She dismissed this entire notion as being ridiculous.

“If you don’t talk to your teacher tomorrow, the action figures hit the picket line on Friday!”

“Mom, you have no respect for me!”

“I have every respect for you, and your best interests at heart—you are a laborer and you are being oppressed by management!”

“Hmph,” she said, “well, maybe you should have a little less respect for me…”

Forest or Trees

Deeper into the forest of books go I,
but less seem to learn of them;
the thickets of words, veritable mazes,
of which depth is oft proclaimed,
soon wear out their glib welcome
and inevitably thin to the same weedy patch,
wet and reedy, murky and muddled,
that I have explored before
--but I desire more.

The in-depth studies, the colorful analogs,
the structured cases resemble less
the actual beauty of the forest or the tree
--and I desire more.

The universe smiles wearily at my dilemma,
the untamed wilderness yawns lazily at my feet,
and the wild unknown beckons me toward its reality
--and I desire its shore.

Didn't she know? they sigh, sharing their inward smile,
experience trumps book-learning, every time;

Desire, bared upon the open shore,
shall most surely find more.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Reflections on Reality, Love and Family

There have been so many things, lately in the news, that have made me reflect on the concept of "reality."

For example, when you read an entire arc of written history and find that the ancient notion of Trinity has been purposely derailed from being Father-Mother-Child to Father-Son-and-[(female in name origin only) Holy Spirit], you tend to suspect that the proper order of things has been usurped to fit a human agenda that can often seem less evolved and fit for holy work than one would hope for humanity (which claims to want peace even while raising their weapons to conquer).

The historical model Father-Mother-Child really needs a more modern amendment to  acknowledge the actually exisiting model of [Responsible&Committed Parent(s)-Grandparents-Guardians-Villagers]-Child(ren—history reveals this to be the reality of what has actually happened, through times ancient and modern, in thick and thin, in times of war and peace.

I just wish that reality what actually happens didn’t have to constantly obscured, diminished, denied, denigrated, fought over and legislated, so we could all get on with the actual (and more important) holy business of loving each other—from within the sacred choices we have made about our identities—and caring for each other and our beautiful planet, which is, after all, supposed to be the whole point of this existence.

Maybe someday there will be a holiday called “Stipulation Day”, where everyone could remember the day we all said, Okay, we’re ALL so COOL! Let’s CELEBRATE that we’re all taking care of each other, and that this is the way it should be!


(sigh)

But, the problem with holidays is that we have parades where we all line up in separate groupings. We reduce everything to sentiments that are printed on cards and balloons. Over time, we forget what the holiday was ultimately all about, and why it was needed.

Perhaps a better solution is to make everyday a Sabbath day, where there is time for work, time for play, time for celebration, time for reflection and time for rest. Is it possible? Could life be like that?

Meanwhile, I feel so VERY LUCKY to live in a part of the world were there is so much more consciousness about the multiple definitions and dimensions of family and neighbor--and life.

The Vine

You didn't choose me, but I chose you, and appointed you, that you should go and bear fruit, and that your fruit should remain.                    ~ John 15:16

Showers of tears,
the fruit of the vine
touched by a raging sun;
yet, still she reaches out,
season after season,
ever onward and upward.

Despite such daily assault,
no bright flames
shall singe nor harm her;
and her fruit shall nourish
the nations with the sweetness
of a love like no other.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem has been set to music by Carson P. Cooman,
in his cycle of songs for solo voice entitled Brief Vibrations, Op. 870

Waiting for the Barbarians—21st Century Update

NOTE: This is not an original work by me, but it is an homage to the work of the modern Greek poet C.P. Cavafy. This monumental poem of his is about society and politics. Current events called this poem to my mind, and made me reconsider it in a new light. If you exchange the word terrorist for the original word barbarian, there is almost a direct parallel. I have made further tweaks, to make the poem modern--the opposite of Cavafy’s, which was set to reflect an ancient time. The word fear does not show up in the original or in this refiguring, but fear is the undercurrent that rocks this poem.

ÐÑ

                                           Waiting for the Terrorists

What are we waiting for, glued to our iPhones,
                       Twitter feeds and social media?

      The terrorists are due here today.

Why isn’t anything going on in the senate?

Why are the senators sitting there not legislating?

      Because the terrorists are coming today.

      What’s the point of senators making laws now?

      Once the terrorists are here, things will be too chaotic to legislate.

Why did our president get up so early,

and why is he sitting in the oval office,

ready to make a statement?

      Because the terrorists are supposed to be coming

      and the president has been waiting to receive their leader.

      He’s even got a document to give him,

      loaded with criminal charges.

Why have our generals come out today

Wearing their uniforms and armed with loaded guns?

      Because the terrorists are coming today.

      [The order is “shoot to kill”;

                 there will be no trial.]

Why isn’t anyone telling us what is going on?
Where are the reporters of the news media?

      The terrorists are coming today!

Why this sudden triumphant joy, this confusion?

(How joyful people’s faces have become!)

Why are the streets and squares filling so rapidly,

With everyone going home chanting slogans and yelling epithets?

      Because night has fallen and the terrorists have been murdered by our military.

      And some of our men just in from the farthest borders claim,

      Along with the government, that there are no terrorists any longer.

Now what’s going to happen to us without terrorists?

For our government, terrorists were a kind of solution.

ÐÑ

Source of the original version of this poem:

C.P. Cavafy: Collected Poems 
Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard Translation Copyright © 1975, 1992 by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard (Princeton University Press, 1975)

How to Change the World

I returned home, from a weekend away (in the peaceful countryside), to a battery of news that whipped around from "Royal Wedding" to "Death of Bin Laden" to "U.S. RULES!" I was dizzy all day Monday. I am still dizzy.

I wrote this morning:

The banner line reads: A World Changed. I say, Really? The figurehead may be gone, but the underlying problem, that which caused the figurehead to resort to terror, is not. Where is the problem? We need to look into the collective societal mirror. Do we honor life? Do we make peace? By our fruits, we are known. Do we really know what these are? Do we really buy into the policies that our leaders enact in our names?

I wonder if we really know how we stupid and foolish we are, like five year olds on a playground who cannot share the rubber ball. The decisions we make, as adults, sometimes seem to echo the mean and selfish child. Whereas we took pride in building the sandcastle and wielding the stick then, we now take pride in destruction and death.

How sad. How unenlightened. How un-evolved.

After a similar event several years ago, while some other tyrant fell (while we crowed) and other awful events occurred, I wrote this to a friend:

We spoke of emotional pain, and wondered together how it was possible to give others excellent advice that we cannot follow for ourselves. Recalling [a] recent sermon [where it was discussed how we are each made in the image of God], I surmised that it is not possible for us to look into the mirror--we must be face to face with the true image of God in order to receive the information God has to impart, and that it is for just that reason that primarily that there is more than one being. [Individuals] are necessary reflections of the ultimate truth that a mirror can only hint at; however broad and fine the resolution, a mirror image of self fails to impart what a living, breathing person can...

The mystery lives not only on the paten and in the chalice, but within the fragile architecture of sound [and of touch and of interactions and of speech and of so many other ephemeral things]...

I must admit, the horror of the continuing carnage of the ongoing conflict/WAR, combined with the equally senseless one-off horrors of events such as those at Virginia Tech, have engulfed me in an unspeakable sorrow. I went to my church, while the twins were at their respective karate and ballet lessons, and sat with the pastor, talking and praying. It was my thought to bring the church community together in a liturgy, not just to pray, but to cherish life, living, and the lives of the departed--not an office of the dead, but an office for the life eternal, on earth and not on earth. 

The office is supposed to honor life, but somehow, we get stuck on the death part, and glorify that more.

Today is a New Day, the newspapers proclaim. But I sit with Jeremiah and Micah on my shoulders, and I say that we have not been honest with ourselves, and that we continue to teach war and destruction and death and oppression and might-makes-right. And we give away our authority to people who misuse it, in our names.

I shudder that I sit with Evil Under The Sun everyday, and hear it called Goodness and Righteousness. Then someone says, "hey, let's go celebrate with a drink!"

Oh, darkness, darkness, how I am surrounded by it.

The mystery lies ever beyond, however. The mystery is engulfed in light. Our vocabulary cannot ever describe the life that the mystery holds and creates, vero de vero, being light within light. The Word is God, but we have never been able to hear it the way it should be heard, and so we cannot speak the mystery.

However, if we would but shut up, for a few minute--if we could stop the endless, mindless chatter of mouths and keyboards and even archaic pencils and pens, we might let the mystery speak to us.

Speak to me, Sweet Mystery! Speak to me! Teach me about light and life! Render my actions in the image of Your brilliance and peace, and guide me!

In the midst of darkness, I can apprehend your light, Oh Mystery Divine!

And I suspect that Yours is the only revolution that will survive.

Because it is not a war; we have misidentified the whole thing.

We need to lose the "r".

It is an evolution.