The end of the journey in cemeteries....

This morning I went walking in a nearby cemetery. I think the oldest stone is from the mid-eighteen hundreds and it is one of my favourite places to walk. Apart from the wonderful,very old and big trees, it seems to me to be full of lives lived as part of the history of our city.

I was looking for a particular stone: that of my landlords' mother who had owned the condo I now live in. One of her sons had shown me a photo of the new stone they had placed there. I believe that her life is part of my life now because I live where she lived. Perhaps something of her spirit remains - I don't know. I like to think of connections like that because it seems to me we are not just here, now, but part of a stream of humanity each of whom was a unique, identifiable person. I did find her stone and discovered too, that she was my age. I liked that. I wonder if there is anything else common to our journey?

One of the other things I noticed in the cemetery that I hadn't before - or hadn't thought about before, was how people are identified on their gravestones. By far the majority of people are identified in terms of family. Women are wives, daughters; men are husbands, sons though by far the majority are spoken of in marital terms ( Harry beloved husband of... Mabel beloved wife of...). Why is that what we put on our gravestones? Is that the most important indication of who we are?

Interestingly, in the military section there are no parents or wives or husbands at all. There are roles (gunner, aircraftsman) and ranks (private, sergeant) and regiment, year killed or died (because some are in the military section who died after the wars) and age. I can remember too, that in our monastic cemeteries the identification was by year of profession, number of years in monastic life, year of death with no mention of blood family.  I wonder if there are other circumstances that change this relative importance of one's family status? Clearly, the military or religious life have taken precedence over blood family... or so it seems to me.

Of course the saddest parts of any cemetery are the graves of children - always a reminder both of the uncertainty of life ( we have no guarantee of life) and also a reminder of the suffering of families when a small child dies too soon - most often suddenly. It is often clear by the dates on the stones that there was an epidemic of some sort that took a lot of folks prematurely - again, the fragility of our lives. 


I recall too a small cemetery in Cornwall, England where there were so many stones of people who died young. They had died at sea in an age when boats powered by sail alone were pathetically vulnerable to the sea's whims. They too told their own story.


Anyway, it is all a reminder to me of the journey of each precious human being who has come before, whose life has touched mine. I hope that mine will do that too.

 

Silence along the journey

Once again, my 'friends' who come to the streetcar stop across the road and the folks I see in the park  are supplying me with a question for the journey: why do so many of us walk or jog with our ears plugged up with, I presume, music? My sub question is: is this music (or whatever it may be)intended to keep out the world or to keep out the thoughts in our heads or perhaps, both? 

Of course, I guess there is a third option and that is that people like music but if so, why on the street or in the park where there are other beautiful sounds to listen to?

I am guessing that since we live in an age of noise silence is a problem for lots of people. When I entered the monastery so many years ago I was confronted, of course, with many new and difficult things. But the most powerful confrontation was with the silence. Talk was kept at an absolute minimum, there was no radio or TV or music played (except occasionally at special times) and there were at least 2 solid hours of private prayer when one was alone with oneself and God. It was a profound and at first, distressing silence.

One of the first things I think we all faced was the coming to awareness of the stuff in our heads that we had pushed down, out of earshot as it were. This was stuff that maybe wasn't very pleasant (experiences of the past, realities of personal behavior, fears, angers and I guess the list could go on). Suddenly, in the silence it was there and there was no place to run: no earphones to fill the silence, no TV to get lost in, no pub to drown in. There were people there to help at this time, but it was the silence that brought this to the surface of awareness and it was hard. It was in those beginning months that many people left. In time though, the silence became rich and healing and beautiful.

So I guess I wonder if the people I see are really trying both to separate themselves in some way from human demands - even the demand of the other's presence - and also to avoid what is in the heart and the head. I can really understand that but I think by drowning out the silence we are missing a great gift. 

Random thoughts of journey happenings

'Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! you don't want to be the last!'. This, called out by the one of the adults to a group of very young children at the beach today. I can also remember that being said to me or to my friends - is it something that is always said to groups of children. But today I thought for the first time, ' what is wrong with being the last?'

Why, I wondered, do we think it important not to be the last? In this particular case little Ollie (as I discovered his name to be) was doing his own thing and that included not keeping up. I rather liked the look of Ollie - maybe that is why I asked myself the question. But I think too of my friends in L'Arche. Many of them tend to be the last or somewhere near and many of them are among the most interesting and caring people I know - perhaps because they are not so focused on keeping up?

That's all.

The other thought about little random things that are part of the journey also happened this morning. Across the street where the construction site is there was, suddenly, a lot of activity. This activity included several fire engines, a couple of police cruisers, yellow tape around the whole block - not just the construction site. No ambulance so presumably it wasn't someone who was hurt. But it was most certainly an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence and gained, needless to say a lot of attention. 

So it made me think of that very phrase about things that are 'out-of-the-ordinary'. These are things that are not what we expect, they may be a bit mysterious because we don't understand what is happening, they may be a bit shocking but it seems that the important thing is, we notice them because they are unexpected, different. Which implies a sense that we all have of 'the ordinary' which mostly fills our day and is, for the most part, the stuff of our time on earth. 

I wondered, if we paid more attention to 'the ordinary',  would we start to see in it too, more things that are extraordinary, out of the ordinary? I am going to try to look more carefully from now on.

What are the limits?

Yesterday I listened to a rerun of the CBC Radio 1 program: White Coat, Black Arts with Dr Brian Goldman. His interview was with a man who has Huntington's disease and who has chosen to determine for himself when he will die.

Huntington's disease is as far as I understand it, an inherited disease and it's progress (if that is an apt word) is inexorable and the dying is horrible: the whole body and mind is, essentially, destroyed. This man's father had the same disease and the family lived through it with him, watching him suffer in ways 'you would not wish any living being to do'. So, when Nagy (I think that was his name) discovered that he too had the disease he made a decision that when the time came he would kill himself rather than inflict his suffering on his family or, indeed, himself.

Nagy discussed this with his wife, his doctor, his neurologist , his lawyer and some others so that it would be absolutely clear that this was his decision made in full understanding and that no one would have enabled him or assisted him. The reason he did this is that on the one hand, as I understand it, it is not illegal to commit suicide but it is illegal to help someone to do it.

It was clear that Dr Goldman was very conflicted about this decision as he discussed the interview he had had with Nagy. And yet, to listen to Nagy was to listen to someone who had an absolute and peaceful certainty that this was what he needed to do. Dr Goldman's conflict was, I suppose, what the majority of people might feel: is it right to deliberately and clear-sightedly take one's own life even in the face of awful and untreatable suffering? His neurologist said she felt that all she could do was to listen and to respect his decision. She would not make a recommendation to him except to let him know what treatment options she could offer.


I found myself deeply touched by this interview. I guess as a Catholic I should not support what he wants to do. I should say that to take our own life is not in our control; that somehow the suffering will bear good fruit. That God gives and God takes away - and only God. But...


I can't help thinking about the distinctions we make all the time: we allow millions of people to die of starvation even when we could help; we kill people in war; we fail to make sure that millions of people have what they need for a decent life. So I found myself asking as I listened: how is it then wrong to ask someone who will die soon and whose quality of life is unacceptable by any human standard, who will suffer unbearably, to choose her or his own time to die?   I don't know the answer but I think we need to ponder it more and more thoughtfully and carefully and lovingly.

Pondering Jerusalem

This morning looking out my window I watched a flock of maybe 20 sparrows, I think they were, fighting over a piece of pizza crust that was lying on the road. Each one would get close and try to drag the piece away but it was too big and unwieldy and someone else would come and snatch it up. This went on for maybe 15 minutes before they gave up and went away. It was sad to me because I felt that if they would stop snatching then everyone might have got enough to please them.

After that I picked up one of the books I am currently reading: A History of Jerusalem by Karen Armstrong. It seems a well-researched and thoughtful book and, so far as I am able to tell, not particularly biased. And that issue of bias seems especially appropriate in speaking about the history of this particular city.

Almost from the very beginning, starting with Jews, then in time, Christians and then, finally the Muslims, the city has been considered to be a SACRED city. Each of the three religions at various times, claimed it as THEIR sacred city and usually, in the process, attempted to wipe out the shrines, temples and sacred memories of the others. 

It seems there has hardly ever been a time of peace there. Without courageous leadership - or so it seems to me - the city's inhabitants continually fought over their scraps of pizza - or the religious equivalent, and so no one very often, called them to try to live with one another and respect one another's gifts of spiritual insight. Everyone had to be right and therefore had to attempt the complete annihilation of the other. So much for sacred.

This book certainly helps me to understand the current state of tension in the city and the fighting over who should 'control' it. It is also quite discouraging because it is hard to see how it gets resolved when the hostilities are so deep and so long-standing. But I do believe that if there were courageous leaders who could stand up for attempting peace, there might be hope.

Happiness as part of the journey

Some time ago I asked a friend, who had had quite a lot of upheaval in her life, if she was happy. I think I was thinking fairly concretely as in, happy in your new situation. And she did reply. She said, "I guess so. It's really difficult to answer. I mean are you HAPPY? or just living life where God or circumstance have put you (so to say)?...there may be peace , there may not be actual happiness...". 

She then went on to say " I look around me at friends of my age and ask are they HAPPY?" Finally, she said "Happiness is a different concept when one is old than when one is young I think. Often blocks to happiness come from within oneself and in that regard I think/feel I am not living my [life] to the fullest that I am capable of."

I found her answers thought-provoking. But also, her question: "Are you HAPPY?" made me ponder. Some of the upheavals in my life would put this question to the test I think but here was my answer.

Yes, I am happy. But it isn't because I am here or not there for instance. That is to say, my happiness is not situational; it isn't dependent upon where I am or who I am with except at a fairly superficial level. I am genuinely happy because I feel that my life , however difficult it has been, has been blessed and held and I am filled with gratitude. And I believe that gratitude is at the bottom of all happiness. 

I have always felt too, that I am free - not in the sense of not having obligations, or of being able to do what I want - but free to choose. Even when I have been in situations where someone else has made decisions that profoundly and perhaps adversely, affected my life, I have felt free to choose to accept these or not. I can always reject what I do not positively choose. So in the end, I have a kind of control because I choose what I can and will do in given situations. If that is so, then I cannot, for instance, be a victim.

Obviously, there are times when the choices facing anyone are decisions between bad and worse but even then, I can choose to accept that that is as it is and get on with it, working all the time towards more positive change. I wonder if this sounds simplistic but if it does, I can't think of anything else that can account for my happiness. It has taken a very long time though.

Words and their power

I sometimes wonder if we take the power of the words we use seriously enough.  When I say 'power' I mean, mostly, that I believe the  words we use affect the very essence of how we perceive the world in which we live and therefore affect all our relationships and activities. Here, my particular interest has to do with the use of gender specific words.

Take for instance, the Hebrew and Christian scriptures we know of as the Bible. In those scriptures the almost total use of masculine words for God has left us with an image of God that has permeated our psyches. God can only be male (even though most people know that God is neither male nor female ). In a very real sense this apparently unquestioned (until relatively recently) attribution has had the effect of making male the standard for human perfection. 

One modern(ish) biblical scholar (Elisabeth Schussler-Fiorenza) points this out very succinctly when she says, For the western understanding and linguistic expression of reality, male existence is the standard of human existence. 

She later says, The issue of androcentric language has received much attention in the past several years. The biblical texts as they are read by individuals or heard in the liturgy of the church perpetuate the male bias and exclusiveness of our own culture and language.

That is just a taste of what I mean about the power of words. In this instance I am using the Bible as an example because it has influenced western human history more profoundly than any other book. But if you think we now live in a society in which women are equals of men and that this kind of use of language is now history maybe it is worth pondering further.  

Look how often 'exclusive' language is used in the books, magazines and newspapers you read. Some people say of course, that 'he', 'brother', and especially, 'men' refer equally to both men and women so what's the problem? Do they? Why should they? Does the use of such exclusive language for the standard of humanity not subtly affect our perceptions of women?

If we think women are now equally well valued in our society take a look sometime at how many women are found on the special obituary pages of newspapers - take a survey over a week. There are probably 5 or 6 men to every woman and the women are often referred to because they were somebody's wife. Or, how often are articles and photographs of women sexualised or trivialized? ( I took a little survey of the Huffington Post and almost the only time the activities of Michelle Obama were mentioned, the reference was to what she wore).

This perhaps sounds too much like a rant, but just think about our young women and what they are taught to value in themselves and ask yourself: is this the best we can do for them?
 

Something about the boundaries of journeys

I presume that most people would understand journeys to have a beginning and an end. You start somewhere and you end somewhere. You may not reflect on its  goal or meaning or even realize particularly clearly that you are on a journey but that doesn't, I should think, change its nature.

Yesterday an old friend was sharing with me about a number of her closest friends and family. These folks are all in their later 70's and into mid-80's and all are ill in one way or another. Some have become suddenly ill: an unrecognized cancer, a heart problem, a hip that has gone awry and so on and some are lingering on. One friend in particular has just been diagnosed with both lung cancer and a blood clot -  both totally unexpected. This lady is in her mid 80's and is about to undergo treatment which involves chemo and the removal of the toes on one foot (the damage done by the blood clot). Okay, you get the point. These are serious and life-threatening problems.

But my question about the journey - in this case - the journey of a life is; when do you stop trying to stay alive when your body seems to be telling you that it 'wants' to shut down? Have we become so good at keeping ourselves alive even when just about everything in your body is indicating a desire to retire that facing the reality of the end of the journey, accepting it and letting go, becomes increasingly difficult?

Most of us I suspect don't think about death. It seems morbid. It seems to belong to someone else. It seems to interfere with getting on with life. But isn't it real? Isn't it assured?

I think that until the 20th century death was such a common companion that people - perhaps - saw it more realistically than we do. It was much more in your face for them for sure: children died young, mothers died of childbirth, people died of epidemics. I wonder if they were less frightened by it? I wonder if we could learn something from them? I wonder if we would live differently if we came to live at peace with death?

A challenge

This morning someone pointed out that I had said, on the 31st of July I think it was,  that 'God was in all of life; in all the good'. For her that seemed contradictory: if God is in all life, God cannot just be in the good.

I am not sure how to say what I meant.  My understanding about what God is like comes from the way Jesus lived his life. So looking at Jesus, I see someone who is good in the most essential way. But in compassion, he was present to people who were in the midst of evil. He was there for them if they wanted but they were free to reject him. I think of God in the same way.


I have no idea if this would satisfy the person with whom I was speaking but at that point another person raised an issue of perception or belief. This person said that he does not believe in a personal God but rather for him, God is a concept and that fully satisfies him. It is hard for me to relate to that but I see that it is good for him. 

In both these dialogues I thought about how hard it is for us to come together on the really meaningful things in life: religious belief, politics, the raising of children I suppose - anything that is fundamental to us.


I was reminded how, even in the monastery where you would think there would be a profound agreement about God, the church, the vocation and its purpose, there was in fact, as many thoughts about these as there were sisters. There was a whole spectrum of understanding on these issues and sometimes feelings could run high.


All of which brought me around to the very chaotic situation of the American government these last months. I think that between family members for instance, or groups of all sorts, however deep the differences, there is usually a way forward because people need to move forward. There will be a degree of compromise without a loss of principle.


So why is this not possible in the United States?

More thoughts about the view from my window

Today what struck me about the folks standing at the streetcar stop seemed at first glance rather trivial. And maybe even at second thought. But I will explain and you will see where it led me and how, just maybe, it is something to ponder.

The first thing I noticed - and I did a small sampling of maybe 30 random male and female travelers - is that roughly 90% of the women were wearing either black or grey. Some had a bit of white perhaps, or beige but it was pretty much black and grey. And yet, it is summer, it is the time when I would have thought we would wear bright and cheerful colours. Not so, obviously.

The other 10% of the women  wore colour. Really bright colours: limes, corals, reds being most predominant. Now the men also were very conservative (I realise that I am making a value judgement here about the meaning of colours). The men wore, almost without exception, black trousers and white or perhaps blue, shirts. No ties. 

Why do the people I see dress like this? Is it a requirement of their work? If so, why? Is it that they need to look part of the crowd; not be seen to be different? Not stand out? I, of course, have no idea, but my gut tells me it has something to do with both conformity and vulnerability. Vulnerability? More in a minute.

The other thing I have noticed is that both men and women are invariably carrying things although occasionally I will see a man who carries nothing and then can stand with his hands in his pockets. But what are people carrying? They are carrying: bags, knapsacks, purses (both men and women)and also coffee and a phone. This is new to me - I don't recall it being the case when I last lived 'in the world'. So why are people carrying all this and what is in the bags? 

I do not know, needless to say...except it seems to me that one reason we (I do too) carry bags with stuff in them, is so that I/we have everything we may need for the day ahead. So we won't be caught short. So we can be in control. So we won't be vulnerable. 

Is that possible? 

More about the treasure of the ordinary

Every morning I sit at my window overlooking Queen Street. I sit there from just after 7 until 9 and I read and I pray. 

Just outside my window, across the street is a streetcar stop. Each morning there is a steady stream of mostly youngish or middle-agish folks heading, I suppose, to work. They come in all sizes and shapes and colours reflecting this city's amazing tapestry. They come in all manner of clothing from elegant to extremely comfortable. And each day it is pretty much the same people at more or less the same time who stand there and wait with all the others. They read their newspapers, or talk on their phones or just stand there looking down the road to see if the streetcar is in sight.

Also on the street are the people who are just passing by: the older folk who are, like me, presumably no longer working. I suspect that some of them are on their way to Starbucks for their morning coffee and maybe for a chat with someone like them. There are also, in the winter especially, the children with their mums or dads and often, the family dog on their way to school (the children not the dog!). It really is a stream of humanity doing much the same thing each day and yet...

What strikes me a lot is that each of these people, though part of a stream if you will, or a crowd, is nevertheless, entirely unique, entirely unlike anyone else. Ordinary people doing ordinary things yet each is unique and, in my opinion, precious. And no doubt 50 years ago their grandparents or parents did exactly the same thing and 50 years from now, their children or grandchildren will be there, still waiting for the streetcar.

As I sit there, I pray for them and for the people at all the other streetcar stops and bus stops in this and every other city for generation after generation. And I wonder, because time is leading us all in the same direction from birth, through to death with all the streetcar stops in between, does each one ever reflect on the meaning of it all? Do you?