Who was Cassandra?
In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters
of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo
loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed
that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow
Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well,
you know what happened.
the cassandra pages
words, pictures, and a life
Saturday, August 09, 2003
THE ELEPHANT'S CHILD
Awake in the middle of the night, I got up and worked on some knitting, and then decided to have a cup of chamomile tea and read a little. My hand fell on a dark green book with a fragile binding that J. had been reading a few nights ago, under similar circumstances. It was Kipling's Just So Stories, a copy given to my mother in 1928 by one of her aunts. This was, I'm sure, the copy that was read to me when I was young as well.
J. had asked me about the book because, like me, he hadn't heard the stories since he was a child, and was highly amused to encounter them again. I looked through the contents, and chose the one that had been my favorite: The Elephant's Child. Soon I was accompanying our hero along the banks of the great grey-green, greasy, Limpopo River to his showdown with the Crocodile. Forty-plus years hadn't erased the basic story, but I didn't remember the tall aunt (it was my tall aunt who loved to read this story to me), and the broad aunt, and I certainly didn't remember the stellar and singular character of the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake (who always talks like that).
J. came stumbling out of the bedroom about then, and I offered to make him a cup of tea and read him the story. Since I'd already had a once-through, I was prepared with an array of animal voices and even stuffed-and-stretched noses. We laughed together, cheered the Elephant's Child, admired Mr. Kipling, and went back to sleep.
7:44 PM
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Tadeaus Rosewicz continually revisits the haunting questions posed by his early experiences, but he also wrote some poems that contain luminous, beautiful images and that are, for him, almost extravagant in their language. There’s always a certain lurking darkness, and the enormously effective portrayal of a stranger’s aloneness in a foreign city, but there are also moments when the poet, perhaps in spite of himself, gets caught up in what he’s seeing.
“Et in Arcadia Ego” is a long poem, in three parts, written in the early 1960s, about a trip Rosewicz took to Italy. It surprised me, both by its length (in my copy it runs to some 22 pages) and in the way the poet’s normal reticence and spareness imbue his descriptions with heightened sensuality, vividness, and metaphorical power that simply don’t come across in more florid verse. As the poem proceeds, he describes wandering the streets of Naples, a trip to the Sistine Chapel, and a military parade.
Obviously I can’t quote all of it, but here is a favorite section. The poet is in Naples.
from Et in Arcadia Ego by Tadeaus Rosewicz
streets converged and diverged in the twinkling of an eye he stood paralyzed asking for a name was shown many streets was shown the way people smiled hurried on hurried on were polite two girls with two tongues licked heaps of ice-cream with warm tangues they licked white and pink ices
bunches of lemons hung with rigid lacquered leaves bananas lay curved patched with black brown figs pink melons moons of water and light in a hippo skin with rows of pips in the mouth next to that lay a second head head on top of head and head next to head a pyramid of heads rose up to the whitened sky blind heads of coconuts covered with tawny hair crushed with saliva in a white interior the dented rim of a stone vessel of an extinct volcano a dark mountain over a transparent bay stirred and came to him came to his feet the bay threw an arc he was motionless
4:05 PM
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Thursday, August 07, 2003
ANGLICAN, BUDDHIST, OTHER... To all who have been following the recent discussions on religion here and elsewhere, I'd like to commend the current post at The Coffee Sutras. Kurt has an explanation of his Episcopaliansim that could have been mine: the rich liturgy, the music, the openness, the social conscience, with the absence of the most objectionable Catholic doctrines.
I have to add, however, that when you are in a church led by a conservative priest, it can be very hard to find that openness. Our former priest, who was of that ilk, recently left, but not until the parish had been wracked with division and underhanded dealing of the most un-Christian kind. We are still reeling.
I'm astounded by the arrogance of human judgmentalism, and the way this judgement, and need to feel "right" and "inside" has given rise to so many other -isms, responsible in turn for so much suffering. Scripture has been used, and abused, for any purpose under heaven. Christians bent on clinging to exclusionary ideas so conveniently forget that the New Testament was transmitted as a reformation of the Old, and that the "new commandment", simple and ultimately challenging -- "love one another as I have loved you" -- superceded all the old laws. I think we can be pretty sure that this was the central message of Jesus' ministry. It appears in several different forms in all the Gospels, and his life was a testament to that belief in action, to the shock of all who observed and accompanied him. When he added, "on this commandment hang all the Law and the Prophets" he was making the priorities clear: when faced with the humanity of another -- your neighbor, whoever he or she may be: Gentile or Jew, rich or poor, man or woman, sinner or saint -- choose love rather than the kinds of judgement that formerly excluded that person.
"Love your neighbor as you would love yourself." Whenever I'm unsure how to act or react in my own life, I try to ask this question: "Does this action (or thought) lead me toward greater love, or away from it?" If I can't answer, then I do nothing until the path is clarified. But usually I can. We can usually determine if the action we're contemplating is a loving one, or an unloving one, and the more we examine our thoughts, the faster and more easily we can know ourselves and where we're headed. I figure if I do this as much as possible, I can't go too far wrong - and if I do, forgiveness will be there. That's the "love yourself" part - another great spiritual difficulty!
The concept of unconditional love may be Christian, but I learned how to know myself from Buddhism.
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Thanks to all of you who have been commenting on yesterday's post. My mother told me a young Catholic friend recently asked her, "Who are the Episcopalians, anyway? And what makes them different from Catholics or Methodists, for example?" He also asked her to explain about bishops, and she told him that bishops had the difficult task of being spiritual leaders and also being the administrative heads of large organizations - the dioceses (groupings of churches by region or state) they're in charge of. (Bishops also representing the Church-at-large -- although Episcopal bishops have great freedom to express themselves, far more than Catholics who have to answer to the Vatican.)
These are all significant questions that I'm willing to go into in more detail if people are interested, but today I wanted to speak about the inherent tension that exists between the Church as an institution, and the religion itself as set out in the teachings of Jesus as we know them, along with the example of the earliest Christians. Sometimes that tension is so extreme that the two are actually opposed to one another. For those of us "within" the church, this is not always as apparent as it is to people "outside", who like the boy watching the naked Emperor, see through the hypocrisy and excuses quite easily.
The problem is one of self-preservation: institutions, the more organized and wealthy and hierarchical they become, begin to exist in order to perpetuate themselves, rather than the noble idea that began them. The original idea often needs no structure at all: it exists in the hearts, lives, and acts of ordinary, simple people motiviated as individuals and often, though not always, encouraged through community. The early Christians forbade priestly robes and trappings; they pooled their possessions, served the poor, the widowed, the sick, and the orphaned; and worshipped in "house churches" that moved from one dwelling to another, often to avoid persecution. The "Church" as we know it began only after secular rulers finally accepted Christianity, and the religion became intertwined with state power and invested with all the trappings of royal office. Once you head down that slippery slope, memory fades quickly.
I served for three years on the board ('vestry") of my own local parish, and during that time we undertook a capital campaign to renovate and enlarge our buildings. I was opposed, feeling that in today's world, there are many uses for that kind of money that are more appropriate and certainly more "spiritual" justifiable." Although a number of people in the parish agreed with me, the "powers" in the church adamantly wanted the building and justified it on the grounds that it would "help our mission". Poppycock. Well, I lost, they won, and there's going to be a big fancy new facility. That's how the Vatican got built, too, while peasants all over the world starved.
I'm disappointed with Rowan Williams, the new Archbishop of Canterbury. He's known as a liberal on gay issues, and has written sensitively on the subject. But he's now the head of a worldwide communion of Anglicans, and when faced with the difficult choice of courageous spiritual leadership, or the need to preserve the institution, he seems to be choosing the latter. The pressure must be enormous. There is the very real possibility of a split, with conservative African and Asian congregations walking out. Also, homosexuality is such a closet-issue in England, still, and the British seem fraught with fears that American liberalism could force open some of those closet doors at home. British Anglicans are still hotly contesting the issue of women priests, although a few have been ordained, while female priests and bishops are becoming a non-issue in the United States.
Without strong and courageous spiritual leadership, I think a split is even more likely. Sadly, fundamentalist interpretations are only strengthened when the institution appears frightened and weak. Likewise, those on the outside who might be encouraged by a strong message of inclusivity and love tend instead to see the weaknesses and the hypocrisy. I'm grateful that the Episcopal Church in the United States is organized as an autonomous body and that we're free to vote and act as we see fit; the courage right now is coming from this side of the ocean, but we may soon find ourselves on more of an island than we thought.
9:39 PM
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Tuesday, August 05, 2003
"Weather": one of 26 Things by jmcolberg at conscientious
26 THINGS I'm liking the concept and the various entries I've seen in 26 THINGS: 26 specified subjects that people interpret photographically and post on their own blogs. Here are a few from people I visit:
BEYOND BELIEF When I started blogging in April of this year, I was coming off two years of writing about almost nothing but politics and religion; TheCassandraPages has been an attempt to find some peace and sanity for myself as well as kind of coming at what I view as a basic problem - cultural fear and indifference - from a different angle.
(!*#@*!DAMN! There's a bat in the house. Back in a bit...10 minutes: a record capture-and-release. We have a new fishing net technique that seems to work well, with little trauma to either bat or humans. These are regular visitors in the summer, and we let them fly around, with the lights on, until they decide to hang upside down from a track light or some such place, and go to sleep. Then the fishing net goes over the bat, a little nudge to get it to fall down into the net, and out the door. This one allowed itself to be captured without even the usual "eek-eek-eek" or trembling, and I got to watch its amazing flight as it seemed to "map" the room.)
All right. So I've resisted writing about the writhings of my (Anglican) church about electing and approving an openly gay bishop - until today, when I feel like I have to say something. As it happens, I know Gene Robinson a bit. I've worked with him on committees and have nothing but admiration for the man. The last-minute allegations of sexual wrong-doing by Rev. Robinson struck me as preposterous, but certainly had to be taken seriously - which they were. Word just came through that he has been approved - but it's clear to everyone that the opposition won't stop here. This editorial in the Minneapolis Star-Tribune lays it out pretty well.
There's been a good discussion over at In a Dark Time about Elaine Pagel's book on Gnosticism, "Beyond Belief", and it touched on some of the issues that these current political struggles within Christianity point out - particularly the way so many people feel excluded (by the legacy of centuries of patriarchy, by racism, by sexual orientation or marital status, by poverty or wealth, and especially by scepticism and doubt) from a religion that is supposed to be inclusive and love-centered. I am saddened by this, but I think I understand it well, having spent at least twenty years of my life as an agnostic, out of the church, or considering spirituality outside organized religion and through the study of Buddhism. Now that I am "back in" the church of my birth, so to speak, I'm proud of the Episcopal Church and especially the Diocese of New Hampshire for electing Gene Robinson and for standing up for what I think Jesus Christ's message really was - to love one another and leave judgement to God. I'm proud that we ordained women priests. I'm proud of the church's stance on peace and justice issues, and particularly proud that there is room in my tradition for doubt, discussion, and change. But I also find myself alienated from the Church at large, and from the political wrangling that has consumed it from the very beginning. Organized religion unfortunately tends not to be very much about God, but about men (and women) and power. Jesus said it himself.
So the conservatives and liberals will continue to duke it out. These days many of us find it hard to even admit we're Christian, when the word has taken on so many unpalatable connotations: Franklin Graham's evangelical mission "armies" poised on the borders of Iraq, for one; the hypocrisy and sad retrenchment of the Catholic Church for another. Meanwhile, I prefer to think of the individuals who quietly take the teachings of Christianity and other religions seriously- and keep right on praying for the world, trying to alleviate suffering, and growing in compassion.
7:52 PM
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Monday, August 04, 2003
TREES, IN PICTURES
My husband Jonathan, known here as "J", has been a professional photographer for, well, longer than either of us would like to admit. He recently put together a portfolio of tree pictures and I've put them on a photoblog; please take a look. As he will tell you, he's not the verbal member of the family, but there are other equally valid methods of communicating. I'm hoping he'll post here a little more often and share his work with you.
7:02 PM
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Peasant with Samovar, from the exhibition St Petersburg: A 300th Birthday Tribute People and Palaces in Photographs around 1900 Somerset House, London, 14th June - 10th August 2003
In her comment on my Trees post from August 1, Elena (who is to be congratulated on her new blog – don’t miss the Modigliani/Loretta Lux comparison!) quoted Anna Akhmatova’s poem “Willow”, and I think it bears repeating here:
I was raised in checkered silence in the cool nursery of the young century. Human voices did not touch me. It was the wind whose voice I heard. I favoured burdocks and nettles, but dearest to me was the silver willow, my long companion through the years, whose weeping branches fanned my insomnia with dreams Oddly, I have survived it:: out there a stump remains. Now other willows with alien voices intone under our skies. And I am silent ... as though a brother had died. (1940) Translated by Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward
Although I love Akhmatova, I’m not sure I had read this poem before writing that essay, but I did remember one of my favorite Tolstoy short works, Hadji Murad, in which the recollection of the story is prompted by Tolstoy seeing a mangled but still heroically-living thistle in a field. In spite of Akhmatova’s supposed disdain for Tolstoy, I now wonder if she remembered that work as well.
While we're on the subject of famous St. Petersburg-ites, there may be those who, like me, were underwhelmed or even annoyed by Ian Frazier’s sniveling New Yorker article about St. Petersburg’s 300th anniversary. This brief and much less self-absorbed comment may be closer to reality as well as literature. It’s from the BBC’s current series on “cities that inspired literature”, and is written by Ingrid Bengis, the daughter of Russian emigres, who grew up in the US but moved to St Petersburg in 1991. She’s the author of Metro Stop Dostoevsky.
It's terrible and it's beautiful. It's exciting and it's boring. It's trashy and it's elegant. And it's everything. Everything that has affected me at least - all the literature connected with St Petersburg - has a somewhat hallucinatory quality.
The sense of something glorious but something not stable on its feet. I think the fact that the city is built on a swamp really has an effect on that. The sense that the whole city could disappear in a second.
There is also that sense of discordant elements constantly clashing against each other, of this society that is kind of whirling around at tremendous speed.
So I think a major theme of this city, if you're going to choose only one, would have to do with destiny, a sense of destiny. And what is that destiny - trying to define that destiny, and running from that destiny, trying to escape from it and then being caught by it again.
In a comment on the last post, Miguel points out the comforting fact that, while the New England forests were clearcut in the 1800s, these forests are now coming back. He's right. In all but the most populated areas, you rarely see a clearcut hillside. It is true, though, that where development has occurred there is no going back - at least not in the forseeable future. Of course, in the very long run, that may well be different. What we're experiencing now is an intensification and concentration of development in particular areas, and an abandonment of formerly-tilled and habitated land in the more remote regions, as people move closer to population centers for employment.
I don't have photographs of the hill in back of our house before it was cleared for farming, because that was before photography. We do have pictures showing it at before the turn of the 20th century, and there is barely a tree in sight. The scrubby second- or third-growth woods at the top and down the hill to the north are being cut now for more housing, but further up, and farther away from the commercial and population centers - within walking distance from my house - there is real second-growth forest with large trees: white pine, maple, cherry -- much like what you see in the first picture above. Walking in a woods like that never fails to renew me.
In colonial times, nearly all the straight, virgin white pines up and down the Connecticut were cut and floated down the river to become masts for His Majesty's ships. There are still a few virgin white pines left, and they are magnificent - Eastern cousins in spirit and inscrutibility to the conifers of the Northwest coast. The picture above is still pretty typical on th edges of farmland, but the totally-white pine second-growth forest has given way to a mixed forest dominated by hardwoods.
The pictures here are from some famous dioramas depicting the stages of the northestern forest at Fisher Museum Harvard Forest, where you can see the whole series and read this chapter of American history.
4:36 PM
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