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, April 24, 2004
MERTON ON ELIOT
"For the first time it has been warm enough to sit outside. After dinner I sat in the sun and read T.S. Eliot's 'East Coker' and part of 'The Dry Salvages' from Four Quartets. Eight years ago when we were at the cottage at Olean, Nancy Flagg had 'East Coker' in manuscript, for it was still not published. We all said we didn't like it, but today I like it quite a lot...I was surpsied to find him drawing so heavily on St. John of the Cross; I do not see immediately how it fits in...but the beginning is fine and the rhymed sections are very beautiful - as beautiful as anything that has been written in English for fifty years or more.
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars Simulates triumphal cars Deployed in constellated wars Scorpion fights against the Sun Until the Sun and Moon go down comets weep and Leonids fly Hunt the heavens and the plains Whirled in a vortex that shall bring The world to that destructive fire Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.
I think this book is the best of Eliot. Also, I admire Eliot's literary chastity. he is not afraid to be prosaic, rather than write bad verse. but when he is very prosaic he is weak...
...As a poet, I have got to be sharp and precise like Eliot - or else quit.
Thomas Merton, The Sign of Jonas, an entry from March 14, 1948
4:01 AM
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Thursday, April 22, 2004
Thomas Merton was always struggling to find a balance between action and contemplation, mostly complaining that he couldn't get enough quiet or contemplative time in the "busyness" of the monastery, despite the vows of silence and the goal of contemplation. He tells the following story, at his own expense, about a fellow monk who had recently died. I guess I could imagine myself getting the same kind of comeuppance.
I asked Reverend Father what made Brother [Gregory] so saintly. I don't know what kind of answer I was hoping to get. It would have made me happy to hear something about a deep and simple spirit of prayer, something about unexpected heights of faith, purity of heart, interior silence, solitude, love for God. Perhaps he had spoken with the birds, like Saint Francis.
Reverend Father answered very promptly: "Brother was always working," he said. "Brother did not even know how to be idle. If you sent him out to take care of the cows in the pasture, he still found plenty to do. He brought in buckets of blackberries. He did not know how to be idle."
I came out of Reverend Father's room feeling like a man who has missed his train. (The Sign of Jonas)
11:03 PM
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Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I was stunned yesterday when I visited CommonBeauty and saw that he is probably giving up his blog, and today I've felt really sad about it. A loss for all of us who have been privileged to read his fine writing, glimpse his thoughtful mind and sensitive heart, feel his generous spirit, and see his drawings. He's busy with so many wonderful things in actual life, though, I can hardly blame him, just wish him the very best.
Usually I think of myself as dealing with change pretty well, or at least being philosophical about it, but this sudden potential departure made the ground quake under my feet a bit. A while back some of us - led by Butuki, I think - were speculating about whether web friendships are real or not. They feel real to me, but we are not responsible to each other in the same way; it is as easy to pull the plug and disappear as it is to one day stop clicking on a link we've clicked on for months. Gone!
I realize, thinking about this, that I'm not very good at protecting myself from disappointment and loss. I tend to engage and pick up the pieces if they fall later on, and I doubt that characteristic will change. It's like the students who I come into contact with through church and the college: you can either engage and be fully present, knowing it's temporary, or not. I suppose all relationships are like that, really, aren't they?
Tuesday, April 20, 2004 "According to the Franciscan priest Richard Rohr, spirituality is not for people who are trying to avoid hell; it is for people who have been through hell. In many ways, spirituality is about what we do with our pain. And the truth is, if we don't transform it, we will transmit it." - Al Gustafson
Kurt is blogging today, with his usual perceptiveness, about that recurrent subject of whether to write about politics or not, and how to deal personally with the anger he feels about current events. We've talked about that here but it's one of those bottomless subjects, always with room for another take.
One of the great hungers I sense is how to observe and absorb the horrors of today's world, and yet remain open to its beauty and functional as a human being. And many of us want to make a difference. I've been very engaged politically and as an activist for big chunks of my life, and there have been other times, like the present, when I've stepped back. Usually that's because the protest has run its course or lost effectiveness, or because I've come close to burning out, or because other priorities in my life came to the fore. Sometimes I've stopped reading or listening to the news very much, as self-preservation. So I think the first requirement is to listen to your emotional and physical self and try to see what you have strength for, remembering that sometimes it takes more strength to disengage than to engage. Right now I'm not standing on street corners holding signs. Last year I was. This fall I may do it again, or be more involved in the campaign; I'm not sure. I've wanted to sponsor a Palestinian child; maybe the current situation will make that decision finally happen.
But I try to never stop being a witness. Wherever I am, if talk turns to politics or ethics, I speak up for what I think is right. Often a dinner party or even some chance encounter is a time when a few well-chosen, calmly-spoken words can help somebody move in a more constructive direction. I've kept up leading the monthly interfaith gatherings because I think it's important and because that community of cross-cultural people needs each other. When I'm asked to speak about interfaith issues, or being motivated to social justice by my faith, I nearly always say yes.
The other thing is that I think we can try very hard to "be" peace, and to find the beauty and joy around us. Our attitude toward each day is really a choice that is ours to make; people who live with adversity every day show us that way. I am most inspired by those, like Desmond Tutu, who fully know what is going on, never ignore it, and are full of joy and hope anyway. It's become clear to me that these people are the real saints, not the ones who preach gloom and doom; it is, frankly, a much harder path to get onto than the one of despair and cynicism, but once you're on it, the light you need becomes available and your eyes - even with tears in them - become much more open and receptive to the good and the beautiful.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Last night, late, a thunderstorm came through from the west. My mother, in New York State, had told me they'd had a big storm with lots of rain, wind, and enough hail to whiten the lawn.
We were in bed, reading, when we heard the first distant drum-rolls of thunder, but they advanced quickly, louder and louder, and pretty soon the first fat drops were hitting the windows on the west side of the house, and then cascading onto the skylight. It rained hard for an hour or so, and then let up, and this morning we woke to clear skies and 55 degrees. By 2:00 pm the thermometer said 88 degrees, and when we went out to see if that could possibly be true - it was - J. flopped down on the grass and announcd that summer had come. It was very windy: kite weather, I thought to myself.
I got a towel - the ground is only recently thawed and still pretty damp - and laid down beside him, my dark clothing instantly soaking up the heat. Little goldfinches, newly yellow, chirped at us from the thistle feeder, and on the neighbor's bank, above us, the tall Norway spruce trees swayed and tossed in the stiff wind, while our own maples scraped against each other and complained.
When I finally opened my eyes I saw a scene that I exists in the far recesses of childhood: my own hair, blonde and back-lit by the sun, a few inches from my eye, forming a golden, slightly-out-of-focus curtain beyond which, without moving, I could watch the drama of life that moved on the blades of grass and along the moist earth. The first open daffodil swayed, at eye-level, in the perennial bed. The sun warmed my hair and gave it that special hot, organic scent, and I lay there, quiet, for a quarter of an hour, knowing it might snow tomorrow but sure that spring had arrived.
4:53 PM
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Sunday, April 18, 2004
We spent some very happy, meditative, and fun time yesterday afternoon learning how to make Ukrainian Easter eggs. A good friend of ours, who happens to be an Episcopal priest, is an expert at this craft, which is practiced by Ukrainians especially during Holy Week, almost like icon-writing. I've always wanted to learn how to do the technique, which is a sort of batik/wax resist/dye process, but it seemed enormously complicated until the process was carefully explained and de-mystified by our friend. Sitting around a kitchen table with burning candles, cubes of beeswax, stacks of paper towels, white eggs, and the special wax-melting-writing tools with which you "draw" on the eggs was a wonderful way to spend an afternoon. J. and I made several eggs which had a naive, beginner's charm, compared to our friend's professionalism (that's her hand in J.'s picture above), and I liked the process so much I ordered some supplies. My mother and I have made dozens and dozens of Easter eggs over the years, so this is a new technique to add to many others.
7:55 PM
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READ AT YOUR OWN RISK WildfireJo is an English activist who writes a blog from Iraq. Her most recent post (April 12) tells of working with an ambulance crew under fire in Falluja. It's difficult and heartwrenching reading, but anyone who has any illusions about what's going on over there ought to read this, and then consider the story we're getting on our news.
2:28 PM
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