Life. Program

I feel like I've been gone, lost from word smithing a long time, and I was wondering to myself what kept me.
Turns out, the reasons call themselves Legion(s).
But here is one of them, and its very own personal short name is Program. Christmas Sacrament Meeting Program, to be formal and complete.
An assignment, a gift of opportunity, from my bishop. Given, as I recall, in August, but flowering only in the snows of December. And though in the end I wrote nothing, to write was my actual assignment, if we are calling all things by their true names here. I wrote nothing because I could feel nothing. My words were wooden; they refused to sing. Instead, I read. I gathered for weeks, read and read, searched, cried, hoarded, copied, passed things to friends. "Listen," I demanded at the painter, "put that down and listen." Poems. Stories. Scripture. Letters. Carols. Press releases. Email from Iraq. Orders from two hundred years of warfare. Jars of Clay, rocker boys who sing their whole hearts out in Drummer Boy. Dickens and his ghosts. I felt quite at home there, in the smokes and smudge of a midwinter London fog. "It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal...the city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already: it had not been light all day..." Dark, already for me, in the dead mid September. Oh, it matters not the month, beware the ides. The account of the Mormon martyrs in Carthage jail, sending out for wine, for spirits to lift their spirits which were "unusually dull and languid...a remarkable depression of spirits...all depressed, dull and gloomy and surcharged with indefinite ominous forebodings," as John Taylor recorded in his Witness to the Martyrdom. John singing to Joseph and Hyrum, though he protested he had no spirit for a song. Why do I go back and back to that story, that moment?

The warning signs and weight of tired conversations
In the absence of a shoulder, in the abscess of a thief,
On the brink of this destruction, on the eve of bittersweet.
Now all the demons look like prophets and I'm living out
Every word they speak, every word they speak.

Do you know what I mean when I say, "I don't want to be alone"?
What I mean when I say, "I don't want to be alone"
What I mean when I say, "I don't want to be alone"
-Jars of Clay, Work


Our copy of Witness falls open to that page. John sings, not for joy, but "in consonance with those feelings" I have quoted above. He sings for expression in suffering rather than for solace, knowing "[T]he song is pathetic and the tune plaintive..." When, and after a moment, Hyrum asks for the song again, John has no more in him, protests he has no feeling for singing. And Hyrum says, "Oh! never mind, commence singing and you will get the spirit of it."

Commence singing.
You will get the spirit of it.

After I stored away nearly all my harvest the few things printed below remained; fifteen minutes of words to be read aloud at a nice pace by Leah, not any longer a child but still a very young girl, Harrison, a young man, Krista, a very young mother, Stephen, a father of young children, and Lisa, a young grandmother. Good voices, all, rich and varied. So I am sharing it with you, too. Because these are some of the treasures I have had in my pockets these last few weeks, watching December float past me in all its state and silliness, reverence and revelry, glory and gilded, glistening succulence. Good old December, food for the spirit, comfort and joy for the body, beauty for the soul.
My bishop offered me a chance to gather. It was hard to find the rhythm, the sway and pace of the dance.
I did not feel like singing.
As John Taylor says, "At his request, I did so."
If ever you were to feel, this December, or any other, that your feet did not move lightly in the season's dance, I would advise you to sit a spell, rest from the dance, but sing the tunes.

Commence singing.
You will get the spirit of it.

There is work to do, and though sometimes this comfort sounds cheap and easy to speak, I feel to the marrow and core of my bones (especially those bones grown stronger for the breaking) that we are gifted in our strength for the tasks, gifted in our skills, gifted in the holiness of mundane giving. The breakfast, the folded laundry, the washed and bandaged cut, the trimmed hair, the baked bread, the swept floor, the story read aloud, the words in time of crying, the helpless, ragged breath in time of laughing, the pages turned in time of gathering.
To every thing there is a season.
"Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness." Ah, Scrooge, my soulmate.
"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it."

And our eyes at last shall see him,
Through his own redeeming love,
For that child so dear and gentle
Is our Lord in heaven above:
And he leads his children on
To the place where he is gone.
-Once in Royal David's City

How, my dears, can I keep from singing?


*******************
Opening hymn, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.

Sacrament hymn, God Loved Us, So He Sent His Son

(STEPHEN)- For behold, did not Moses prophesy unto them concerning the coming of the Messiah, and that God should redeem his people? Yea, and even all the prophets who have prophesied ever since the world began--have they not spoken more or less concerning these things? Have they not said that God himself should come down among the children of men, and take upon him the form of man, and go forth in mighty power upon the face of the earth? Yea, and have they not said that he should bring to pass the resurrection of the dead, and that he, himself, should be oppressed and afflicted?
Mosiah 13:33-35

(LISA)- Then he said unto them, Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared: for this day is holy unto our Lord: neither be ye sorry; for the joy of the Lord is your strength.
Nehemiah 8:10

(KRISTA)- And in this mountain shall the Lord of Hosts make unto all people a feast of fat things, a feast of wine on the lees, of fat things full of marrow, of wine on the lees well refined. He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off of all faces; and the rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth: for the Lord hath spoken it. And it shall be said in that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, and he will save us; this is the Lord; we have waited for him; we will be glad and rejoice in his salvation.
Is. 25:6-9

(STEPHEN)- The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined. For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.
Is. 9:2&6

O Come, O Come (men's quartet)

(HARRISON)- And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. But the angel said unto them, Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
-Luke 2:8-14

Stars Were Gleaming (primary)

(LEAH)- Christmas Morning

by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

If Bethlehem were here today,
Or this were very long ago,
There wouldn't be a winter time
Nor any cold or snow.

I'd run out through the garden gate,
And down along the pasture walk;
And off beside the cattle barns
I'd hear a kind of gentle talk.

I'd move the heavy iron chain
And pull away the wooden pin;
I'd push the door a little bit
And tiptoe very softly in.

The pigeons and the yellow hens
And all the cows would stand away;
Their eyes would open wide to see
A lady in the manger hay,

If this were very long ago
And Bethlehem were here today.

And Mother held my hand and smiled—
I mean the lady would—and she
Would take the woolly blankets off
Her little boy so I could see.

His shut-up eyes would be asleep,
And he would look like our John,
And he would be all crumpled too,
And have a pinkish color on.

I'd watch his breath go in and out.
His little clothes would all be white.
I'd slip my finger in his hand
To feel how he could hold it tight.

And she would smile and say, "Take care,"
The mother, Mary, would, "Take care";
And I would kiss his little hand
And touch his hair.

While Mary put the blankets back
The gentle talk would soon begin.
And when I'd tiptoe softly out
I'd meet the wise men going in.

The First Noel (congregation)

(KRISTA)- And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us go now even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known to us.

(STEPHEN)- Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is the child that is born, the Messiah of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and are come to worship him.

(LISA)- And behold, there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon...and he came by the Spirit into the temple...when the parents brought in the child Jesus...Then he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said, Lord, now lettest thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel...And Simeon...said unto Mary his mother, Behold this child is set for the fall and rising again of many in Israel; and for a sign which shall be spoken against; (Yea, a spear shall pierce through him to the wounding of thy own soul also)...

(STEPHEN)- And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom; and the grace of God was upon him.
And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man.

(KRISTA)- God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Ghost and with power: who went about doing good, and healing all that were oppressed of the devil; for God was with him.

(LISA)- But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.
The Gospels of Matthew and Luke; the Acts of the Apostles; Joseph Smith translation.

(LISA)- And when they had sung an hymn they went out into the mount of Olives. And they came to a place which was named Gethsemane, which was a garden; and the disciples began to be sore amazed, and to be very heavy, and to complain in their hearts, wondering if this be the Messiah. And Jesus knowing their hearts, said unto his disciples, Sit ye here, while I shall pray. And he taketh with him Peter, and James, and John, and rebuked them, and said unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death; tarry ye here and watch.
Mark 14:26, 36-38, Joseph Smith Translation

(STEPHEN)- Then Simon Peter having a sword drew it, and smote the high priest's servant, and cut off his ear. Then Jesus said to Peter, Put up thy sword into the sheath: the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?
John 18:10&11

(KRISTA)- And he shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.
Is. 2:4


Candlelight Carol (choir)

HOW FESTIVE SPIRIT HALTED GREAT WAY
by Neil Griffiths, press officer of the Royal British Legion Scotland.

(STEPHEN)- NINETY years ago tonight, a group of bedraggled Scottish soldiers, Cameronians mostly from Lanark, spotted Germans clambering into the open with no sign of hostile intent.They were on the Western Front, near Lille. Baffled, they held their fire but the Germans came right up to the trench and offered cigars. It was 1914 and the near-mythical Christmas truce had begun, when men laid down their weapons, shook hands and embraced the season's message of peace on earth. If it seems incredible to us, to the men themselves it seemed beyond comprehension.
Extraordinary circumstances often lead to extraordinary events.

(KRISTA)- It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold.
"Peace on the earth, good will to men, from Heaven's all gracious King!"
The world in solemn stillness lay, to hear the angels sing.

The first Battle of Ypres in October and November had brought horrific casualty figures. The British lost more than 50,000 men and the Germans perhaps twice as many, but a lull followed as both sides awaited replacements for the savage losses. The huge armies dug in and watched each other as close neighbours, able to hear one another's chatter and smell their cooking. On Christmas Eve, frost hardened the mud and froze the pools.

Still through the cloven skies they come, with peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats o'er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lowly plains they bend on hovering wing;
And ever o'er its Babel sounds the blessed angels sing.

When night fell, almost simultaneously, the Germans mounted trees on their parapets and lit candles and lanterns. Thousands of British watched in fascination as the wondrous sight was joined by the distant haunting sound of men singing Stille Nacht. Every survivor spoke of the abiding impact of that one carol.

In many cases the British responded with a carol of their own. When the British sang O Come All Ye Faithful the Germans accompanied with the Latin version, Adeste Fideles. The Belgians and French, holding more than 400 miles of the front, shared the same experiences but very much at arms' length - the invader was on their soil and more than 300,000 French had fallen in August alone.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife the world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel strain have rolled two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not the love song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing!

Both sides wrote home using phrases like "fairytale", "day of fiction" and "extraordinary". At its simplest it was a triumph of the human spirit, when the ordinary soldier called off the conflict for Christmas, when the will for peace prevailed over the might of war. By 1918 the Armistice had been signed and the memory of the Christmas truce of 1914 slipped into legend, a moment from the forgotten golden age even the participants came to suspect never happened. But it did happen - when man's fundamental decency surfaced briefly in the midst of hell - and should never be forgotten.

Edinburgh News

For lo! the days are hastening on, by prophets seen of old,
When with the ever circling years shall come the time foretold,
When peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world give back the sound which now the angels sing.


Still, Still (instrumental)

(LISA)- A poignant description of the famous Christmas Day Truce in 1914, was bought by the singer Chris de Burgh at an auction in London yesterday.

The author is untraceable and it is not known what his fate was after the day of improbable gaiety, with carols, letters and presents from home, and a feast in the trenches of chocolate, oranges and hot Christmas pudding.

Historic documents experts at Bonham's auction house said the letter was a rare surviving example of a genuine original. It was clearly treasured and bears the marks of being read and reread and careful repairs to tears.

After a fiercely contested sale, De Burgh said he had a strong personal interest in the history of the first world war, in which his great uncle Thomas de Burgh was the first officer killed, and his grandfather, General Sir Eric de Burgh, served in the trenches.

The letter is headed "British Expeditionary Force, Friday December 25th 1914". It reads:

(HARRISON)-"My Dear Mater,

This will be the most memorable Christmas I've ever spent or likely to spend: since about tea time yesterday I don't think there's been a shot fired on either side up to now. Last night turned a very clear frosty moonlight night, so soon after dusk we had some decent fires going and had a few carols and songs. The Germans commenced by placing lights all along the edge of their trenches and coming over to us - wishing us a Happy Christmas etc ... Some of our chaps went over to their lines. I think they've all come back bar one from 'E' Co. They no doubt kept him as a souvenir.

"There must be something in the spirit of Christmas as to day we are all on top of our trenches running about ... After breakfast we had a game of football at the back of our trenches! We've had a few Germans over to see us this morning. They also sent a party over to bury a sniper we shot in the week ... About 10.30 we had a short church parade the morning service held in the trench ...

"Just before dinner I had the pleasure of shaking hands with several Germans ... I exchanged one of my balaclavas for a hat. I've also got a button off one of their tunics. We... had a decent chat. They say they won't fire tomorrow if we don't so I suppose we shall get a bit of a holiday - perhaps ... We can hardly believe that we've been firing at them ... it all seems so strange. With much love from Boy.

(LEAH)- And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children...This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord...
Is. 54:13&17

(LISA)- Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
John 14:27

Oh, Come All Ye Faithful (congregation)

(LEAH)-Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear on their hearts; to try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world--stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death--and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.

And if you keep it for a day, why not always?

Henry Van Dyke, Keeping Christmas



Sleep Little One, Sleep (choir)

(STEPHEN)- So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, feed my lambs. He saith unto him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep. He saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep.
John 21:15-17

(HARRISON)- And he said unto them, These are the words which I spake unto you, while I was yet with you, that all things must be fulfilled, which were written...concerning me...And said unto them, Thus it is written, and thus it behoved Christ to suffer, and to rise from the dead the third day; And that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in his name among all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. And ye are witnesses of these things.
Luke 24:44-48

(LISA)- And he said unto them, Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.
Mark 16:15

(KRISTA)- Then he said unto them, Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared: for this day is holy unto our Lord: neither be ye sorry; for the joy of the Lord is your strength.
Nehemiah 8:10

(LEAH)- And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.
2 Nephi 25:26

From All that Dwell Below the Skies (congregation)

********************

God rest you merry.

Noah's photos

Meditations. Words Fail.

Lines written Extempore, on receiving, in the month of December, a Gift, a Token of memorial and of sweet and tender care, shocking in its lovely Unexpectedness; here presented after minimal Fussing.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
2Timothy 1:7

Small and stupid words fighting out which among them shall be first to abase and embarrass itself here.

"Thank" and "you" won the first heat. As they so often do. Though predictable to the point of mundanity, their unfailing leadership not all bad, especially as "you" does so much heavy lifting and can stand in so very many places at the same time. The others murmur and protest, jostle for a standing in the line. "Love" and "this" vied to run next, but "you" is fighting fiercely to displace "this," and it's not looking good for the impersonal pronoun. As was said, "you" wants to be everywhere. Is everywhere, these days. "Broken" has simply enjoyed too much face time of late, as has "smiling", hence they are no longer taken seriously; "laughing" and "crying" have lost credibility in precisely the same way. In a canny bid for power, "humbled", a relative newcomer, has joined a coalition formed by "to", "the", and "dust" and is making great strides, intending to hold its ground. "Wow" has raised its great, silly head, wagging senselessly and shamelessly as the others turn away; even small and stupid words are mortified by "wow" 's antics. "Wow", the blissful mutt of the word world, notices nothing, happy in the frolic, spreading affection, hair, confidence, saliva and a deep, doggy contentment in equal measure. Vapid hasty "repay" jumps up and down, stamping tiny insignificant feet, insisting on its spotlit moment. Long-time heavy weight "never" has come silently and somberly to stand in front of "repay", lending the upstart both credibility and stability. While no one could ever speak out against "never", still, most of them cannot fathom how "repay" fancies itself a player in such a weighted conversation. "Debt," perhaps, "undying", certainly, arguably even "slave". But "repay"? The very notion. "Repay" looks to "you" for backing, relying on the unprecedented surge in importance and popularity the second person pronoun has recently enjoyed; "you", however, is looking firmly off in another direction, entranced by the graceful stance and wistful vulnerability of "need". What a power-pairing that would be, hmm? "Moved" is, well, all over the place, chasing after "deeply", and even considering such unlikely couplings as "irrevocably" (not strictly a member of the small word club) and "heartstoppingly"(worse and worse). These are such oddball efforts ("heartstoppingly" not even being a fully formed word, only some sort of bastard offspring) that "moved" is fading out of the running, despairing of support. "Shy" stands alone, at once miserable and pleased, never courting favor but always strongly supported by the crowd, not that "shy" would notice the crowd. Ah, "now" has offered to back up "shy". Fat lot of good that will do, though it is a noble effort. But then, "now" is always impatient. And here, at the end of it all, comes a dark horse, taking the lead in great, ground-eating strides! "Unworthy" crosses the line, the winner by a whisper, barely outpacing "joy". "Joy" will take it next time, wait and see if it doesn't (though how "joy" fell among this crowd is one of the mysteries). Yes, the smart money is on "joy" for the future.

Which leaves "I", lonely and unhappy, for what can "I" do without "you"? Bring "need" here to lie soft between, so "you" will settle, and "I" can slip into place, into the place that feels like home.

Be not thou therefore ashamed of the testimony of our Lord, nor of me his prisoner: but be thou partaker of the afflictions of the gospel according to the power of God;
Who hath saved us, and called us with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began,
But is now made manifest.
2Timothy 1:8-10

Meditations. Do Unto.

Of the Remembrance of Benefits

Gesta Romanorum

There was a knight who devoted much of his time to hunting. It happened one day, as he was pursuing this diversion, that he was met by a lame lion, who showed him his foot. The knight dismounted, and drew from it a sharp thorn; and then applied an unguent to the wound, which speedily healed it.

A while after this, the king of the country hunted in the same wood, and caught that lion, and held him captive for many years.

Now, the knight, having offended the king, fled from his anger to the very forest in which he had been accustomed to hunt. There he betook himself to plunder, and spoiled and slew a multitude of travelers. But the king's sufferance was exhausted; he sent out an army, captured, and condemned him to be delivered to a fasting lion. The knight was accordingly thrown into a pit, and remained in terrified expectation of the hour when he should be devoured. But the lion, considering him attentively, and remembering his former friend, fawned upon him; and remained seven days with him destitute of food.

When this reached the ears of the king, he was struck with wonder, and directed the knight to be taken from the pit. "Friend," said he, "by what means have you been able to render the lion harmless?"

"As I once rode along the forest, my lord, that lion met me lame. I extracted from his foot a large thorn, and afterward healed the wound, and therefore he has spared me."

"Well," returned the king, "since the lion has spared you, I will for this time ratify your pardon. Study to amend your life."

The knight gave thanks to the king, and ever afterward conducted himself with all propriety. He lived to a good old age, and ended his days in peace.

My beloved, the knight is the world; the lame lion is the human race; the thorn, original sin, drawn out by baptism. The pit represents penitence, whence safety is derived.

---

Source: Gesta Romanorum, translated by Charles Swan, revised and corrected by Wynnard Hooper (London: George Bell and Sons, 1906)

*****

Some of us went to the coast, or to the beach, really only to the beach, for a few days with friends. From the beach house you could step out the backdoor, take four magical strides, fall over the sea wall, roll just a little way down the sand and be in the water. You'd never want to do that, it'd be dumb, but you could. Nearly all the days were sand and salt water, golden rainstorms and soft, soft sea air. Good things for a dried out Millard County girl.

We talked and ate and took walks and one day the painter oversaw the making of a monstrous sand worm, but mostly we did all the body boarding we could do and then some. After the first day spent almost solidly in the water I felt like I'd been in a serious car accident. Wonderful. I took a sleeping pill, which, I guess, did its best. After the second day I felt like I'd been in a serious car accident the day before. The first day had the best waves, totally worth a car accident; also worth, but only just, the wild abrasion I acquired and am sporting above my left knee. I'd have put in a picture of it here, I deeply considered it, but it would gross you out and I'm not about that. Maybe I'll post it on Facebook. To be honest, I was a little bit worried you'd think it was fake. It looks fake, or like something you'd see and say, "AaaaaH! What the-!-!-!-oh, wait, that's fake. It's fake, right? I mean, look at it. That's got to be fake," because you just so totally hope that if someone has that on their body it's fake, maybe yucky body art or some sort of dare.

I'll tell you how it happened. It was sort of a dare.
Toward evening there came a truly huge wave and my sweet youngest child, boarding for the first time, watching it mounting, growing toward us, blocking out the view of the distant islands, blocking more of the western sky than we were used to, said, "Oh. We're going to die."
And then, "I'm not going to try this one."
A tiny interior voice said to me, ooh, she's smart, not dying is smart.
I jumped on the wave.

*****

LAVINIA. I can't help you, friend. I can't tell you not to save your own life. Something willful in me wants to see you fight your way into heaven.

George Bernard Shaw, Androcles and the Lion

*****

Through the wave, into the wave, I don't know, but not in front of it in an organized and manageable fashion. Too big for me, too pushy, too powerful. Broke me up completely, ate me alive. Bubbles go up, I reminded myself, blowing a little air to figure which way that was. A minute or so after I had got so I could breathe and see at the same time, we saw another big wave coming, like the one that had just messed me up. I held up my board and ran out to it. Oh. Good. I'm doing it this time. And I did.

*****
A lion roaming through the forest, got a thorn in his foot, and, meeting a shepherd, asked him to remove it. The shepherd did so, and the lion, having just surfeited himself on another shepherd, went away without harming him.

Some time afterward the shepherd was condemned on a false accusation to be cast to the lions in the amphitheater.

When they were about to devour him, one of them said, "This is the man who removed the thorn from my foot."

Hearing this, the others honorably abstained, and the claimant ate the shepherd all himself.

---

Source: Ambrose Bierce, Fantastic Fables (New York and London: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1899)

*****

Not dying is smart and body boarding is fun and big waves are very cool. It took so much of me, staying on top of that wave, I just completely neglected my legs, lost touch, forgot to keep them lifted, ground my knee hard and serious across sixteen miles of sand. Maybe more. Salt water. Stings, you know. Examining the damage after, I found myself missing my boy Noah. He's got such a weak stomach, so easily tipped over by skin and bones and sutures and splints but he's fascinated by blood running across wet skin. And he loves to play in the waves. Eden plays hard too and if she hadn't had to stay behind in Utah, a slave to her senior year, she'd have photographed the knee with her cell phone, adding record of my arrogant carelessness to the gallery of softball, volleyball and dance injury pics she carries around with her (ooh, look, you can see the stitching on the ball in the bruise; man, look at the swelling!; oh, gross, this one's still got sand in it).

Ever since I washed, smashed up, out of the ocean and into the hot tub and from there climbed carefully into a wet suit that covered the destroyed knee, ever since I had to begin dealing with the hole I have torn in my fabric, ever since then a little, long lost memory has come tumbling over and over into my mind, like a bright bit of beach glass in the surf. The memory, over and over, and then gratitude. And also relief, huge gratitude and relief.

*****

LAVINIA. Blessing, Caesar, and forgiveness!

CAESAR (turning in some surprise at the salutation) There is no forgiveness for Christianity.

LAVINIA. I did not mean that, Caesar. I mean that WE forgive YOU.

METELLUS. An inconceivable liberty! Do you not know, woman, the Emperor can do no wrong and therefore cannot be forgiven?

LAVINIA. I expect the Emperor knows better. Anyhow, we forgive him.

THE CHRISTIANS. Amen!

CAESAR. Metellus: you see now the disadvantage of too much severity. These people have no hope; therefore they have nothing to restrain them from saying what they like to me. They are almost as impertinent as the gladiators.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

This is the memory. One summer, when I was home from school, from college, a friend from high school days showed up in Kanosh, living in a house his parents had moved away from but not sold. People do that in Kanosh, leave town, never come back, hang on to their real estate. They think they want to retire there, come back if they ever get a decent job, hide out when society goes to hell in a handbasket, sell when the market is better or after all their relatives die. Whatever. My friend was living in his parents' spare Kanosh house, working a summer job. I saw him around a couple of times, no big deal, we liked each other well enough and had always been friends of a single degree of separation; he had, for a longish while, been my best friend's boyfriend, that sort of thing. One evening that summer he took a hard, fast slide along a goodly stretch of road, still mostly wearing his motorcycle.
And went home, alone, to a spare house to recover.

*****

LAVINIA. (laughing) You know,Ferrovius, I am not always a Christian. I don't think anybody is. There are moments when I forget all about it, and something comes out quite naturally, as it did then.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

No one in Kanosh did anything for him, of course, they are not inclined to extend themselves on behalf of (comparably) healthy young adult males who really should be on missions but aren't, whose relatives are too tenuously connected to the core handful of long-time town families, boys who are not exactly troublemakers but might be, someday, maybe, maybe not. Since as the twig is bent, the tree will grow, I am firmly Kanoshian in many/most of my views on human relations, devoutly believing not only that most people mostly ought to take care of themselves, but that most of them truly, deeply would prefer to if allowed, but thank you very much. This doesn't mean I don't help lost children or stop to give directions or make cell phone calls to report crimes or hold open doors for folks who have their hands full. It does mean I would never dream of opening your door myself, just to check, just to see if you maybe could use some help for no reason other than that I suspect you may have your hands full.

*****

Androcles. No: it's very kind of you: but I feel I can't save myself that way.

The Editor. But I don't ask you to do it to save yourself: I ask you to do it to oblige me personally.

Androcles. (scrambling up in the greatest agitation) Oh, please, don't say that. That is dreadful. You mean so kindly by me that it seems quite horrible to disoblige you...But I must go into the arena with the rest. My honor, you know.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

But. I was moved with compassion for my friend. No idea why. Nothing at all romantic in our history, not even near misses, though some possible romantic something had certainly been examined, contemplated. All the kids in a small town are closely considered, willy nilly, by every adult as possible matches for every other kid in town, without regard for the personal inclinations and preferences of the actual, living kids and these imaginary pairings result in greater and lesser degrees of foreboding and/or delight among the adults (and may have been a tiny part of the reason we moved. shhh). As a victim of this conversational, parental shuffling, I had, only a few years before he spread his DNA across an intersection, actually phoned Road Rash Boy (after three days of frozen, horrified, concentrated inability to do so) and asked him to be my choice at a girls' choice dance, the only girl's choice dance I ever attended. My mother prodded me, knew best, bucked me up, drove me into it (I think she had already talked to his mother. I mean, I know she had). That calling, that asking, was without doubt the worst thing I had undergone in all my life to that point. After he said yes, after I got the phone back onto the cradle (historical reference, some of you may have to ask an old adult about that one) but before I stilled the shaking and caught all my breath, I closed my eyes and promised God that I would say yes to every boy who asked me on a date as a tribute to their incredible bravery and in memorial to the things I had just myself suffered. That promise would itself wreck a considerable amount of damage, of course, but I meant well. And the date was fine, just fine, first because nothing could possibly be as awful as the asking but also because he was really a great guy, very cute and smart and funny and unfailingly polite to adults. Which is why my mom wanted me to go out with him, I'm sure. I think I remember we were a bit bored on our date, this being in the ages before people dated in pods and myself not being much of a planner. He asked me if he could kiss me to fill some time and I found I couldn't just step into that in cold blood. Perhaps if he hadn't asked first...well. At any rate. The point of that story is, I went to the spare house offering my assistance with no prior commitment, no history save that which is common to mankind nor any blood at all between us, bad or good.

*****

THE CAPTAIN. You are right: it was silly thing to say. (In a lower tone, humane and urgent) Lavinia: do Christians know how to love?

LAVINIA. (composedly) Yes, Captain: they love even their enemies.

The Captain. Is that easy?

Lavinia. Very easy, when their enemies are as handsome as you.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

Nope. I only felt a sudden wave of terrible sorrow for him, like contemplation of dental procedures, like homesickness, like the memory or foreboding of a breakup, and was sure, positive, he had no medical supplies in that spare house. I gathered an armload of my mom's stuff and made my dad drive me over (as I had no license yet; another story). He didn't like this, my dad, me alone with a young male person in a spare house but I scoffed him into silence. Pish. What could possible happen? I'm not attracted to road rash, scabs are not sexy to me. I promised to call my dad for a ride back (as he was suddenly, singularly concerned. Under other circumstances, many, many other circumstances, I had walked lots further than that, but, you know, boys and stuff). I knocked at the door while he waited (hovered, really, but that would sound funny) in the car and thought my friend shouted something from inside; a noise, it could have been anything. I nodded and smiled to my dad in the car and confidently pushed my way in, shouldered the door right open, just as if I had been invited, just as if I had heard a come in. Dusky in his den, the light all blue from the TV. I sat down with my armload of medicines by the patient on the sofa who, having had no call upon his voice, no reason to speak since the day before, could only make a harsh strangle when he tried to yell an answer to my knock. The first thing I did for my friend, who was so thankful, undone, pitiably grateful, to see any human enter his spare house, was to help him get up so he could creep down the hall to the bathroom. It was a slow getting up, some of him was stuck to the sofa.

I applied Neosporin and strategic Bandaids and set out food and water around him and changed the channel on the TV and talked, called my dad, waited a bit awkwardly till he came, and left.

I climbed into the car with my dad, smiled to show how unharmed I still was, smiled silently out the window because my eyes and mind were filled with stills and with short movies of arms and shoulders and torn skin.
Huh, I thought in the car.

And later,
Maybe.
Maybe not.

Arms and shoulders and a boy who made no sound when I pulled off bandaids, hard and fast.

Maybe.

I went back some more times, maybe every night for as long as a week; maybe it was a short week. Till he didn't need me anymore for doctoring, only for company, and then I missed a night and now I have grown old I realize I don't know what happened to him; he left the spare house and I never saw him again.
Or thought of him. Til now.

*****

LAVINIA. Remember me for a fortnight, handsome Captain. I shall be watching you, perhaps.

THE CAPTAIN. From the skies? Do not deceive yourself, Lavinia. There is no future for you beyond the grave.

LAVINIA. What does that matter? Do you think I am only running away from the terrors of life into the comfort of heaven? If there were no future, or if the future were one of torment, I should have to go just the same. The hand of God is upon me.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

My leg is surprisingly, stupidly, painful, red and hot. It has a fever, I think. When I pack it with the herbs I have come to use on open wounds I am appalled that it...well, it kills. Really. Embarrassing, inconvenient. The pain subsides, I remind myself, and it does after longer than I want to write about. I lie back in bed, a taut, bright rivulet of pain shooting out one edge of the scrape, minuscule screaming demons riding booted and spurred up the side of my thigh. Effleurage. Deep breaths. Wait it out.

Hurt nearly always makes a memory, for me, that's why I so often write about it. It sticks, I remember those moments. I remember and remember my friend, scraped and ground to a fare-thee-well, as my mom says. He must have hurt so big, so bad, those days alone in the spare house, the blue TV evenings with no one to talk to, listening, maybe, for a girl from down the street who had not promised to come back, had not asked what else he might need, a girl who ran her hands gently over his scabs and did not speak all her thoughts. The pain will subside, I say to him in my mind, and I know that it did, after more time passed than he wanted to talk about, time that was only a couple of very long days. This is the whole point of the story, Beloved, that it was not a big deal, going to him, putting on some bandages, taking off old ones, quickly. Buying a Mountain Dew against my better judgment ( bring Dr. Pepper for the sick and afflicted, dude). I take off my bandage, quickly, and am buoyed, floated, by this memory in this moment, a fortunate and prosperous time to recall that one time when I did something, opened a door when I knew somebody had their hands full just to see if there was help I could give. I receive it back to myself, my need so much less than his but still great enough, thank you very much, for me. For now. Not dying is smart. A friend to get you off the sofa is a friend indeed. A spare house is no place like home. An armload of home medicines is saving me. And one time, long ago before I became too old, I didn't let somebody down, though I owed nothing, had made no promise. Sweet, sweet, to me, sweet.

*****

FERROVIUS. In my youth I worshipped Mars, the God of War. I turned from him to serve the Christian god; but today the Christian god forsook me; and Mars overcame me and took back his own. The Christian god is not yet. He will come when Mars and I are dust; but meanwhile I must serve the gods that are, not the God that will be. Until then I accept service in the Guard, Caesar.

THE EMPEROR. Very wisely said. All really sensible men agree that the prudent course is to be neither bigoted in our attachment to the old nor rash and unpractical in keeping an open mind for the new, but to make the best of both dispensations.

THE CAPTAIN. What do you say, Lavinia? Will you too be prudent?

LAVINIA (on the stair) No: I'll strive for the coming of the God who is not yet.

THE CAPTAIN. May I come and argue with you occasionally?

Shaw, Androcles

*****
When I tore open my knee in the salt water no magical blond boy arose, like a Greek god from the seafoam, to carry me to the hot tub and run after bandages and ointments (have I yet mentioned that Road Rash Boy looked like a Greek god? Because, he did, dang it, though the Greek gods were unquestionably taller. Not that I fault him in this, without doubt they were showing off) because once I had helped him, had lingered on him in my thoughts and he had lingered on me, in his turn, and awaited the day I would scrape myself badly and foolishly enough that he might come to me for the end, the summation, of our story and this, Beloved, is the whole point of the story.

In the real of my life no one arose to carry me anywhere and they'd have been summarily dismissed if they had. Because I was going to get there on my own steam (more like fumes, at that point). Because I had to say it was nothing, a small hole, an easily repaired tear. And I had to go back for a few more hours in the water. I'm a tough chick; it's what we do. And it was pretty nice that a man loaned me a wet suit to cover my hole. He was nice, too, and pretty. He did this thing at the prompting of his wife, who could recognize a thorn when she saw one. And I was grateful to her, and relieved.

It's the temptation to make, to have made, my friend into a story; to wish for the why of it, the what happened because of and also the after. It's the too great longing for those tellings where he, the magical, injured god, saves me, the broken girl, since only he can see I need repair. And happens to have the tools on hand; he carries them with him for just such a chance as this. The heart's yearning toward discernible motives, explication, denouement, reward.
As,

She nursed him and he loved her; she saw deep into his heart in his suffering and her heart softened to his. When at last he could stand unaided they were married.

No.

She nursed him and he never forgot her and when he died he left her his fortune.

She nursed him when all others abandoned him and, later, she needed a kidney and he gave her one.

They threw him to the lions and one lion recognized him, from services rendered of old, and did not eat him but honored him and did him great service.

No, wait.

He took a thorn out of the lion's foot, so later the lion took a thorn out of his foot.

Once a person helped a lion in peril, which was a brave and stupid act. The lion, sensing this person was both stupid and brave and fearing what might follow, ran away as soon as it could, frightened and not so hungry. Later the person made up stories in which people figured prominently and lions could not get along without them. And sold the stories to other people, though the lions were not buying them.

*****

The locus classicus of the story is found in the fifth book of Aulus Gellius... of which Apion himself claimed to have personally witnessed in Rome...The emperor pardons the slave on the spot, in recognition of this testimony to the power of friendship, and he is left in possession of the lion.
"Afterwards we used to see Androcles with the lion attached to a slender leash, making the rounds of the tabernae throughout the city; Androcles was given money, the lion was sprinkled with flowers, and everyone who met them anywhere exclaimed: "This is the lion, a man's friend; this is the man, a lion's doctor".

Wikipedia, Androcles and the Lion

*****
Tony Hillerman, in an essay, told of a beautiful and miraculous natural story he and a friend watched unfold. The friend said, after, "This will be a wonderful moment in a book." But Mr. Hillerman already knew, sadly, that he could never use that miracle in fiction. "No one," he lamented, "would believe it."

Real life miracles are not what stories are all about. Story miracles do not make for real life.

It's the terrible, seductive desire to belong to a story, not just to events, to come away with something of your own, something to keep. A devoted lion. A beautiful boy. Someone to gather you into their arms and soothe away ugly scrapes. Something to keep. A hearty, well done thou good and faithful, at the very least. Even if it's not what actually happened. Even if you have to make it up. A life-friend. Someone owed you because once you were better than you had to be.

*****

THE CAPTAIN. Are you then going to die for nothing?

LAVINIA. Yes: that is the wonderful thing. It is since all the stories and dreams have gone that I have now no doubt at all that I must die for something greater than dreams or stories.

THE CAPTAIN. But for what?

LAVINIA. I don't know. If it were for anything small enough to know, it would be too small to die for. I think I'm going to die for God. Nothing else is real enough to die for.

THE CAPTAIN. What is God?

LAVINIA. When we know that, Captain, we shall be gods ourselves.

Shaw, Androcles

*****
Once a man came upon a lion, wounded and dying in the mouth of a dank cave, a man who disregarded his own life, whether bravely or foolishly, sufficiently to render the lion service, to go on his knees before it and to climb between its very paws, one paw badly torn by a terrible thorn which the man removed, though the lion could not. The man told no one this story for though he was brave enough for the telling he was not such a fool as to expect anyone would believe. He kept the thorn, for a time, but remembered it less and less often til finally he lost both the thorn and the story.
But the lion, who recovered, never forgot.
When, later, in his extremis, the man met the lion again, he did not recognize it, but nor did the lion recognize him, for men and lions do not so much love each other that either tribe has learned to know one among hundreds of strangers. The man, knowing not how he might face bravely or foolishly a fate so appalling, simply stood before the lion and cried silently. The lion, however, whose mind was not clouded by any fear of death and rending, observed still its habit acquired in the intervening years; it approached its prey softly, gently, raising one paw and holding it out to the man for a moment, waiting. To his astonishment, the man saw upon the pad of the great paw a ragged scar, made by a terrible thorn. As he had once before, the man fell upon his knees before the lion and wept tears, hot and gushing, onto the scar, in recognition of his lost friend and in relief, for his heart told him he had, all unlooked for, regained his own life. The lion, having long ceased to wonder at the ways of men, waited kindly, breathing on the back of the man's neck, small and weak before him, and onto the man's hair where his head was bowed before the lion. The lion did the man no harm then or ever, because they were friends.

It was never a story about a boy, but about a thorn and torn fabric and what came of the mending.
Though all our pain subsides, we shall know each other by the scars.

*****

You sit there in your heartache
Waitin' on some beautiful boy to
Save you from your old ways.
You play forgiveness, watch it now,
Here he comes.
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined when you were young.

The Killers, When You Were Young

Life. Tricking.

At my mom's house there's a photo of me, my little sister, two sheets and two amazing masks. The little sister and I stand close to each other, little white bodies against a white wall, completely obscured in costume except for the smiles on the bottom halves of our faces. We could be anybody. We are dressed as what, ghosts? Wrapped completely in white, swathed and twisted, we're mummies? Masked accident victims? We're David Linn people. The masks are are flame-shaped and elongated, galactic cat's eyes, metallic green and gold and pink and silver. I think, as masque and draping fell to her, maybe those masks were my mom's idea of a perfect costume, unusual, beautiful, showstopping and baby, you just buy it, plunk it onto a sheet and call it wonderful. Never mind what it may or may not represent. This year you're going dressed as Halloween, kids, as Masquerade itself.

Or maybe it's Mardi Gras.

I don't remember trick-or-treating in those costumes, I do remember my dad taking us around our block in the semi-dark, soft San Diego air, passing older, bigger trickers who seemed to me very serious, professional. They scared me not because of their costumes but because of their competence. Not that their costumes weren't frightening, glimpsed through the deepening darkness as the big kids brushed past they were frightening, truly. Semi-clear masks, altering face but revealing enough feature underneath to slide the whole countenance sideways into a vague nightmare place. Painted faces, with wounds and trickling blood. Demons, witches, murderers, dead people. I was seeing dead people and my dad just walked on among them, parting the current, his hands at our backs when the going got thick. I remember one group of boys, some seemed nearly as tall as my dad, dressed up together as a graveyard. Most of them were tombstones, painted cardboard front and back, there were a couple of ghosts, an amazing dead and blackened tree-boy with a hangman's noose dangling from one of his branches who was so cool I wanted to give him some of my candy and then a terrible, hunchbacked old man with only one eye, carrying a lantern and a shovel. I had no earthly idea what he was supposed to be or what he was doing hanging around with the rest of the graveyard but I knew for sure I never wanted to meet him again, ever, waking or sleeping. It never for a moment occurred to me he had to be a young boy, like the rest. I couldn't look, couldn't look away. Last night I watched my youngest swirl away in the darkness in a group of friends and realized the graveyard boys must have been about her age, just out of elementary school. Their tombstones bewildered me.

The little sister and I walked carefully down our sidewalk, on this night become a river of the undead and the unholy, the impossibly sparkly and improbably muscled and we hoped, assumed, my dad would steer us safely; I knew he could on any other day, but Halloween dissolved and shifted boundaries, altered my child-real. Nobody I was related to ever walked these sidewalks in the dark, we certainly never knocked at a door unless we already knew who would answer. But here was our dad, pushing us to walk, alone with only each other, through the dark and scary ten or fifteen feet up the tributary walk from the sidewalk river where he said he'd be waiting, to the looming stranger door, our passage lit only by street lights, bright windows, porch lights and glowing pumpkins. Anything might have happened, we might have had to pass unaided, tiny and trembling, close by horrifying big trickers leaving the door with their take, or we might have stumbled all unawares upon a bony and strangling something just the far side of the bushes from which those colored lights and scary music were emanating and been devoured before our dad could take the five steps to save us. But there was candy behind that door, or we had reason to believe it was there, and the strangers of that house wanted to give it to us, and our dad wanted us to take it! And everybody else was doing it! Delirious, feverish. Some of those doors now, Dad came all the way up to them, ward against some elusive danger only he could sense. We knew then that here, this door was some way stranger than the others, here we went into peril for the candy. We were grateful he navigated the river for us, wise to snags and bars.

Back home Mom was watching over the baby too young to gather its own candy and she was handing out candy too, to who-knows-what might be outside when she opened the door. She told my father stories that really were not for our hearing, after we got home, after our legs were aching and our fingers were nipped by the evening chill (whatever. We thought it was cold. We were little, we lived in California and we had no idea) and tired from hauling our loot. Mom told our dad of mean and pushy teenagers, demanding more candy, asking if she didn't have something better. They came from some other neighborhood, these brash and pushy big kids, not from our well behaved newly built housing development. You may have stay here to give out candy next year and let me take the girls, she told him, and at her words we paused in our cataloging, inventorying and eating. Could she? Could our mom, could any mom, part the stream, the hoards and crowds of over-painted evil and cloyingly glittering good to get us from house to house? Could she sense the hidden dangers which might require her to walk the whole way, accompany us from the main sidewalk clear up to the most scary doors? But, then, if it were too frightening for her to be at the house alone with trickers making menacing requests for better treats...and there was that baby to think of...we were conflicted, we were exhausted. We had to just brush our teeth and go to bed, trusting to inevitable, returning sunshine that makes everything right and normal and boringly safe again. But the morning stunned and betrayed us, our pumpkins smashed and scattered, the bodies hastily gathered and hidden by our parents, almost as it the bits and pieces were the mortal remains of family pets, tortured and dismembered in the deep of the night. Halloween lingered, twisting itself into the real of day and the normal of routine. Who would do that hideous thing to a nice pumpkin that belonged to a family, a pumpkin we had chosen for our own, labored over, given a face and purpose and almost a name? Frightening, truly, and we mulled and brooded but only to ourselves, silently, feeling much less at home in the world while simultaneously and conveniently disregarding our own gutting and dissecting of the family pumpkins.

Pumpkin victims into the trash cans. Costumes into the linen closet and the toy box. Candy checked for altering and tampering, these being the days of razor-blade-in-your-apple stories, LSD in your chocolate, all the more reason our dad took us to the doors, made careful calculations. Once approved, our candy was saved and was savored, in the flow of the year we didn't see much candy. And it disappeared more quickly than seemed right, possible. More was coming at Christmas, fortunately, the Christian calender tipping wildly between stiff arming evil and embracing newly born, soft and holy saving goodness, both ends of the swing tipping generous piles of sugar into our open mouths and reaching hands. Mardi Gras it was to us, Fat and Unholy.

Why The Wizard of Oz, so perfectly attuned to this darkening and unsteady time rather than to the stabilizing and happifying Yule, made its yearly television appearance at Christmas instead of on All Hallows Eve was a mystery. Mean adults who turn into witches, wildly costumed bigger kids who turn out to be best friends, flowers that make you sleep, flying monkeys that make you crazy. And that movie was so scary! With Wizard crashing our Christmas parties we'd have to wait all the years till The Watcher in the Woods before there was a safe-to-watch Halloween companion for The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, that one also too scary for me to watch except from between my fingers. Charlie Brown felt more like it belonged at Christmas, friendly and safe and only slightly depressing, not scary. Sincerity, we all knew, was the passive sort of virtue which resulted in a delightfully filled but limited stocking, whereas pressing on against physical weariness and freezing temperatures (remember, we thought it was cold) while constantly risking attack and abduction by evil forces, these efforts put the candy in your pillowcase no matter what that blanket-carrying weirdo said, and only the limits of your own endurance determined the size of your prize. No, Dorothy defined my childhood Halloween, where everything felt terrifying but was mostly alright in the end and turned out to be actually sort of run by the friendly adults hanging out behind their curtain, except for the sorting out of the witches of course, that the kids had to manage on their own. I felt a strange sadness when we bought our kids a copy of The Wizard of Oz, stripped it from its steadying spot in the calendar. I wondered if they could possibly grow up balanced and appropriate, watching it any time they chose, never looking forward to any terror, albeit through their fingers. But it was too scary for them, as it had been too scary for me, and I felt almost gratified when my children drifted into watching it in the fall of the year, in the murk where things settle when they can't help being scary.

And then I got old and it was right to push the kids to walk ahead, in the dark, alone, but to walk all the way up to some of the doors with them, to skip some houses altogether, to tell little people three more houses and we're finished, to bring inside our home any pumpkins we had labored on too long and too lovingly to bear their untimely and violent deaths at the hands of strangers. Last night I tricked with some baby cousins, the three year old butterfly chugging steadily from house to house, complaining that her purple plastic pumpkin was getting heavy and banging her knees, informing us where the witches lived and where the dance party was being held. She looked around at us all, walking along on the wet, wet street after the rains passed over (in answer to a thousand, thousand, baby prayers) and said authoritatively "No one here is tired or cold." One year, ages ago, I made costumes for some little boy cousins and for my youngest sister, so they could go tricking in a group. My sister was Dorothy and you could see the ruby glow of her shoes even in the dark. Noah was the lion. Cute? Oh baby, you should have seen them. You could have peeked from behind your curtain, watched them walk cautiously all the way up your drive, plastic pumpkins held out as wards, as signs. We come in peace, give us candy. You'd have seen me, waiting alone in the scary night for them to come running back, ready to chug on to the next house, willing to trust me against the dark.



some Halloween photos

Meditations. About Secrets

Sing your life
La la la la la,
Sing your life
La la la la la

Recently, for a reason, the painter and I were discussing a friend of ours, who I will call Friend. The painter was noticing, suddenly, that in many ways we haven't come to know Friend well though we really, really like him. This is because, while Friend will gladly talk to you endlessly and gracefully about lots of interesting and distracting subjects, you will realize, if you think back, not one word will have touched any of the personal life he must be carrying around inside his head. I mean, right? Smart, funny people have an interior life, that's a given, isn't it? Friend tells stories, he is a Storyteller, but all his stories are of other people's lives or of slight, charming, wandering moments of no import, funny to hear and cleverly told. These things being what they are, at the end of the day you don't know him as well as you might if things were different, if, for example, he ever came clean about having any personal likes and dislikes, problems, trials, doubts, stuff of that sort. The apprehension of not knowing was startling, unbalancing, to the painter, a surprise to him that, when closely examined, Friend was so closed, so private. The painter sort of assumes he has come to know people by occupying the same room with them and talking to them about himself.

Sing your life.
Walk right up to the microphone
And name
All the things you love
All the things that you loathe.
Sing your life.

*****

Another day I was talking to another friend who, perhaps in small part because she is a girl, a smart girl, a beautiful, creative girl, a broken-and-repaired girl, an embrace-the-world-and-then-stagger-home-to-sleep-it-off-with-a-fever girl, a girl grown so used to alone days she must at all times hear the beating of her capable, breakable heart, perhaps because she is such a girl, wants awfully to be known and needs deep knowing of others by turns but this is hard, hurts her. I watch as she breaks herself against being known, as if a sharp and dangerous rock stood between us two, a rock only she could run against since only she can perceive it. Strangely one-sided for me to watch, like seeing a person miming an inability to connect. She throws lovely words out desperately, hopelessly civilized, utterly alone. Our talk is important to me, too, and she makes me sleep hard because I have to think so much. I send her ornately worked messages in corked bottles borne by carrier pigeons. On this day our words, I can't remember how, turned to claims of secrets held and kept. When I told her I was a secretkeeper from of old and she told me she was one too, we were not trying to gain the other's trust for sharing but trying to one up each other. We both assured the other that the secrets we each carried, secrets we would never tell, no matter what, were huge, staggering, more impressive, in fact, than any paltry, token confidence the other might carry in her heart's pockets. It became a game, a pointless game since by its rules neither one could put forth evidence, could clinch, could score. We played with gusto, anyway, both assuring the other that one day when it all came out, one day when all was known, the weight and strangeness of our hoarded mysteries, the careful guarding we had given, would vindicate us before the other and each would be brought to confess the other had born the greater burden. Now, we are Christians, believing in an afterlife, a judgment, rewards and retribution, but why, I wondered suddenly, do we both hold the deep and unexamined belief that on some day all will be made known? Every silent, hoarded confidence spoken, hung in the bright open air for all the world's ears to hear? That each little lead secret people have lobbed at us, here, catch and don't you ever tell, all of them rolling weighty and separate in our souls, each secret which we obediently lugged about ever after, listing from them, sinking, straightening step by step, would one day be spoken and shed? Shouted from the rooftops, as the scripture says. Do I believe in that God, I wondered? A God who would one day look at His divine timepiece and intone, "IT IS TIME. SPILL," and everyone would split, heave, cleanse, gush out all the things they promised never, ever to say? Do we take up a forever-secret with a half-formed notion that this ugly or lovely little thing sits in our hearts only on a hundred year lease and one day will be flung free to find its own way, good or ill, to its true owner, whoever and however far removed from the original teller that may be? Are we willing to salt down the secrets because we bargain with ourselves, alright, this for now, but one day...
And won't they all be surprised.

Make no mistake my friend,
All of this will end
So sing it now.

*****

Secret people all around me, never saying what they really think, except those crazy few, harrying us all, trumpeting their whims and passions, fancies and follies, orders and half-cooked, half-cocked notions, poems and philosophies no one outside their originator's heads should ever, ever, hear.

I watch a woman issue orders, marshal her dinner guests, form us up into troops of fun-havers, and I think, ooh. And then, is this me? Am I this person? I have parties, I run things, I'm a director, for crying out loud. Is this me? I could ask my friends, of course, and of course that would be just too much to ask of friends, they couldn't tell me. Am I like that, I could ask and I can hear the answer, good heavens, no, do you think if you were we would...

Do you think if you were we would tell you?

It'd be a secret.

Do you like my hat?
Does this make me look fat?
Do you like him?
Is she pretty?
Have you read anything good?
Don't you love this song?
I made up the recipe, isn't it fantastic?
Does that sound crazy?
Did you like...
Have you met...
Do you remember...
Would you be worried...
Would you have time to...


Lies I tell.
Truths I will never speak.

"It's like this," I said once, to a man, "it's always like this. No one ever says what they really think or we'd just solve things and there'd be no drama, no texture to life. Every Jane Austen novel turns on this point, no one ever saying what they really mean, what they actually think. That's where plot comes from." It was ok to say this to him, he knew Jane Austen novels. And it's true, what I said to him. In books for small children, events move plot, things start happening for better or worse when one or more parent is removed, when the shield parents wield against plot both in life and in art is riven. The moment, however, we step out of childhood into an adult world it will be our words that kidnap us, ensorcel us, dangle us helplessly bound and impotent. My daughter comes home from high school seething at a tiny melodrama, not a teacup tragedy, more of a sports drink drama, spinning out from a girls' choice dance and what came of it; one girl who gave a certain answer to be "nice," and, disliking the consequences, became nasty. "You should have told the truth," my daughter recounts herself saying, "or shut up about it. If you're going to be "nice," you have to keep being "nice" all the way through." Sounds like she speaks her mind, doesn't it? But that's an illusion; the drama spins out and out and my daughter is also piqued that she herself was "nice" and went along with someone else's plan which was rotten, went sour, left all the girls holding sour, rotten feelings and tangled in it all, not able to speak the truths that would free them, send them all crashing into reality. You should have told the truth, or shut up about it.

Others sang your life
But now is a chance to shine
And have the pleasure of
Saying what you mean
Have the pleasure of
Meaning what you sing.

*****

I am the oldest sister and of the many specific functions I have held among the sisters, secretkeeper was never one, with a single, marked exception. Not as a confidant for the older two, they never told me anything and that became a lifelong conversational setting. I am not, in any group, church, school, business or social, one who knows. Ask somebody else, there's always someone who knows, who's heard the latest. No, among the sisters I was only entrusted with a specific set of secrets. They used me as a testing ground for medical issues. It went like this.
A sister would approach and, by way of conversational opener, request that I keep an unnamed secret and never, ever, tell. "Suzanne, there's something I have to show you and you have to promise you won't tell Mom." My automatic internal reservations flared even as I gave the requisite promise. The fact that I had those reservations probably completely explains why they only ever shared health-related secrets with me; I truly could not (can not) be trusted, I really would tell if things were bad, and while that would preclude any confidences touching moral or legal concerns, in a backwards way it was just what the doctor ordered, if a doctor were required. "OK, I promise not to tell."
"Do you swear?"
"Yes, I swear, of course I swear. Show me," and the sister would present the owie. Most of these just got a pass and a caution to wash it with soap and I never told what I had seen, just as promised. No one would have cared, so I never had to tell. Some, however, like the large, yellow abscess above the eye tooth or the jellybean sized and shaped black and purple cabochon on the bottom of a foot the sister said was a "sliver," produced instant, unconsidered, unapologetic breach of contract. "MOM," turning from the shocked and outraged (heavy on the rage) sister, "MOM. C'mere." Medical intervention followed, with the sister screaming from over or under parental arms and shoulders, "YOU PROMISED! I'LL NEVER TELL YOU ANYTHING EVER AGAIN!!!!"
I had told, I explained again and again after the trauma was cleaned up, because I had to. "It was bad. Mom and Dad had to know," I pled to the back of a sister's head that would never, ever, forgive me. And never did forgive, but most assuredly told me the next time there was real worry for life and limb, knowing I would do just as I had done before. You always told, they still say, grown up and sort of laughing and sort of mad. Yes, I did, and look at you now, with all your fingers and toes and teeth still attached.
I am still one people come to when they are scared for life, and I still make them tell, when I think it's bad.

*****

Once, in a hostel in Liverpool, Leah and Zoe were too short to be real people. Their heads were below the range of the light sensors in the showers. We didn't know this at first of course, didn't know it till the screaming started in the shower after the automatic timer had ticked away the grace period since it had last sensed anybody large enough to be real and total darkness engulfed them, and then we had a tough time figuring out what was happening only to them. The moment anyone else (everyone else was taller) entered the bathroom their superior height accidentally ended the crisis. Hard to know, when we did get it sorted out, how to help them; they were flatly uninterested in taller company during their ablutions. In the end we had to leave them to shift as best they could, screaming (which didn't help but which relieved their feelings), jumping and waving their arms when the dark overtook them, defiantly asserting their reality. Too small too be sensed mechanically. Secret people.

*****

In a Chinese restaurant I make everyone read their fortunes out loud (make them, I really am that terrible sort of bossy, arranging woman and no one is ever going to save me from myself because it's a stupid secret) till I open mine last. Everyone is laughing and teasing so when I see the tiny words there, words that drill me and expose me and reveal me, no one notices. And since I cannot read this secret out loud (does God control fortune cookie fortunes? and if so, did He think this was some kind of funny?) I do my best dissolving act, which is very, very good. Some people think they are good at dissolving; I truly excel. No one can see me anymore and no one notices since I was the one making the reading happen and no one else cared. I take the charged paper home and hide it.
Secret.

Don't leave it all unsaid
Somewhere in the wasteland of your head, oh
Head, oh, head, oh, head, oh,
Sing your life.

*****

The painter and I sing in the car. We work at it, hard. Or rather he does, making harmonies for himself to twine around my melodies, since that's all I can ever hear. Don't toss me a note and expect me to toss it back, it'll just land on the ground where we'll both regard it sadly and feel disappointed in each other. Sing a phrase so I can catch the melody, till I'll be able to sing along and then alone and you can go do your harmony thing and I'll be solid in the one thing I can do. Only this will never happen because I'll never, never sing with you. Singing with people, where they can hear me, isn't natural to me anymore. Every child sings its way into the world with a brave and natural voice but not every child grows to be a conversant, singing adult. The painter was the first person I ever tried to sing with, rather than alongside of, and it wasn't easy. Truthfully, he was awful about it. This was long ago, back when he was specializing in awful. Though things are better now I learned then that singing is a place of peril and danger. So, ever one to slay all my dragons silent and solitary by my lonesome, I no longer hazard it, no longer sing in front of people. I sing alone and alone with the painter. For all anyone will ever know of it, our work with words and notes might never have been, since, thanks to me, no one ever hears it. If you catch me unawares, if you lull me into confidence, if you dissolve completely into a background blur, maybe, maybe. Oddly, funnily but not funny, the person most upheaved by my locked down voice is the painter, he wants to sing for people, sure they want to listen. His frustration, gently expressed nowadays, feels very distant to me, very removed. This is the bed you made, I think, and you must lie in it. Odd, too, that he sleeps there so much more easily than I do.

So sing it now,
All the things you love,
All the things that you loathe,
Sing your life.

*****

Here's the truth about Friend. I nearly never became real friends with him because of all this not-truth-telling. He was nice enough from the start, a friend of the painter and a great guy, but not for me, not my style. Too much of that bland niceness spreading out in waves and billows, like thick butter over every food, like boring, sheer curtains softening every view. A relationship where I'd have to do all the serious honesty work, all the heavy lifting. No grit, no tooth to his conversation, just big happy smiles, genial, appreciative laughter and pleasant agreeableness. Who needs that? Nothing to get a hold of so I was always sliding off, slipping away into not having this conversation. Oops! Sorry, forgot you were still in the room. Of course I'd never voice any of this. Never challenge, never ask if there was anything he didn't like, didn't agree with, wasn't amused by. I'd walk my distance secretly, my dishonesty as great as his, no one ever saying anything real, anything from inside. Don't want to raise any eyelids, the painter said once, misspeaking and making wonderful, terrible meaning. Double portions of politeness all round, another helping for my friend here, this one's on me. The two of us, ships slipping away, coasting by, unchallenged, unhailed, in a sea of oily unreality. Where's the tragedy in that? Happens every day, in fact, it's what happens. No monster storms threatening off my bow to send me seeking or offering aid, no sprung water barrels forcing me to send up a flare and I'm not a pirate, grappling, boarding, claiming, gaining the intimacy born of violence. At the last possible moment, just before he disappears over the horizon, just before I fall asleep forever and miss him entirely, Friend mentions, through a toothy grin, how he dislikes certain of his relatives. Crunch, grind, shudder and we have run aground.
Land ho!
Hmph. Now you tell us.

Saved.

But before you go
Can you look at the truth?
You have a lovely singing voice,
A lovely singing voice.
And all of those
Who sing on key
They stole the notion
From you and me
So sing your life.

Morrissey
Sing Your Life (slightly rearranged)




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