A Riddle

Let lights grace my form

As I stand amid your resting place–

Above the roof or below the mantle.

Children like to link arms around my waist.

I watch couples smile and talk and

Drink warm drinks and await a gathering.

My warmth is not like fire;

I blanket the soul in winter.

So gather at my base and let’s

Await the passing cold in peace.

More Milosz

EYES

My most honorable eyes, you are not in the best of shape.
I receive from you an image less than sharp,
And if a color, then it’s dimmed.
And you were a pack of royal greyhounds once,
With whom I would set out in the early mornings.
My wondrously quick eyes, you saw many things,
Lands and cities, islands and oceans.
Together we greeted immense sunrises
When the fresh air set us running on trails
Where the dew had just begun to dry.
Now what you have seen is hidden inside me
And changed into memories or dreams.
I am slowly moving away from the fairgrounds of the world
And I notice in myself a distaste
For the monkeyish dress, the screams and drumbeats.
What a relief. To be alone with my meditation
On the basic similarity in humans
And their tiny grain of dissimilarity.
Without eyes, my gaze is fixed on one bright point,
That grows large and takes me in.

What do you see?

“Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?”

-Herman Melville

Happy All Saints Day

If I look singularly to myself, I am right naught; but in general I am in hope, in oneness of charity with all mine even-Christians.

For in this oneness standeth the life of all mankind that shall be saved.  For God is all that is good, as to my sight, and God hath made all that is made, and God loveth all that he hath made: and he that loveth generally all his even-Christians for God, he loveth all that is.  For in mankind that shall be saved is comprehended all: that is to say, all that is made and the Maker of all.  For in man is God, and God is in all.

Juliana of Norwich: Revelations of Divine Love.

A bit of Milosz

The other day I rewarded myself with a visit to Barnes and Noble and a new book of poetry. I didn’t go looking for Czeslaw Milosz but was pleasantly surprised when I saw his name hidden between large volumes of Pablo Neruda. I’m relatively unfamiliar with Milosz; his name, however, appeared in an old professor’s Facebook status and in certain news headlines over the past couple weeks. The name of the collection is Second Space. When I finish reading, I’ll write a review. In the meantime, I’ll post poems that I think worth more thought or worth sharing (with or without nebulous, thoughtful, but meandering comments).

HEAR ME

Hear me, Lord, for I am a sinner, which means I have nothing except prayer.

Protect me from the day of dryness and impotence.

When neither a swallow’s flight nor peonies, daffodils and irises in the flower market are a sign of Your glory.

When I will be surrounded by scoffers and unable, against their arguments, to remember any miracle of Yours.

When I will seem to myself an impostor and swindler because I take part in religious rites.

When I will accuse You of establishing the universal law of death.

When I am ready at last to bow down to nothingness and call life on earth a devil’s vaudeville.

*Update: Here’s a great interview with Milosz. (EYEBROWS!) He talks about his philosophy(?) of poetry and some of his influences–especially Blake. Now I’m not sure I’ll be able to read Milosz without thinking about Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience.

A Letter for my Students or Some Thoughts on Teaching or I just need to write what I’m thinking before I lose my mind

Dear Students,

As usual, I want to begin with a question; hopefully, it encourages you to keep thinking and also helps you better understand your teacher.

What makes us think we can’t know something?

School is difficult; it’s hard to remember facts, to understand the relationship between those facts, to form a judgment based on your understanding, and harder still to formulate new thoughts and creative solutions to complex problems. In class, I present you with the facts and the problems for two reasons.

First, I want to help you develop your ability to think critically and creatively respond to the complicated world you find yourself in. Humans, as Aristotle pointed out, are political creatures–that is, people live in a community of intricately woven relationships easily broken but potentially glorious. Our classroom is a microcosmic representation of the rest of our lives. We sit and problem solve and (perhaps more importantly) create. In the midst of such a community, however, miscommunication is inevitable. The disconnect between what someone says and what we hear can be so vast, and therefore so dangerous, that our community is regularly threatened; it’s as if we were trying to help each other across the Grand Canyon on a tight-rope.

Consequently, there are many dangers, too many to list in this letter; however, I want to point to the danger of saying ‘no’ to knowledge. When we enter into discussion, we have to expect two things: 1) it is going to be hard work; 2) we will need the help of our classmates. Eventually, someone in discussion will blurt out “We just can’t know this so why do we keep talking about it!?” It is a crucial moment; one of our companions stands above the chasm, frozen and in danger of falling off–of leaving our discussion. How can we reassure and encourage her to keep going? Simultaneously, how can we not let ourselves become similarly overwhelmed?

I encourage you with this thought: never forget where you came from. Our conversation began with a question and, through a series of other questions, false answers, and new knowledge, it brought us to a new place. Remember what you have learned and rest assured that you can and will learn more. You only reach the end of knowledge when you decide to quit learning.

The second reason is more of a warning than a reason. Beware of pride. You are probably tempted to identify pride as thinking too much of yourself or to assume you are too good for anyone else. Instead, beware of pride in your false humility; in the belief that you can’t do or know something. Often, the cry “We can’t know this!” is the cry of one who’s world is growing and who is reluctantly affirming a reality that interrupts her preconceived notions of the world. In these moments of despair, rally under King Henry V’s battle cry “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.” Friends, your victory is in the fighting.

As your teacher, then, I introduce you to the fight and hope to give you the courage and determination to join those who have gone before you. You are not alone when you choose to fight alongside your friends. Pride, on the other hand, will make you lonely.

Prepare for our next class together (and for all of your classes) with this perspective: that you are being trained, through rigorous exercises, to acquire the humility to keep fighting for knowledge.  And, in the acquisition of knowledge, attain to virtue and holiness. Prepare to shoulder the fears and doubts of your classmates as you struggle to break free of pride and enter the fray. We are not alone.

Your companion in arms,

Mr. Dalbey

Life of a punching bag

I didn’t mean to throw the first punch and it landed hard. I wouldn’t say they were caught off guard. I was. They took offense and reciprocated in turn–snarky, biting, flippant, and spiteful. What the hell happened?

The bell rang and I could barely get out of my seat. The students, on the other hand, were sitting at the ready with their papers returned, their homework for the next class completed, and prepared to deliver the final sarcastic blow.

Unless, of course, they needed a favor. “Mr. Dalbey, can I print a worksheet from your computer? I forgot to print it before coming to school today.” “…sigh. Sure.”

I love these students. And I want them to learn, be happy, and take an interest in life (especially literature). I try so hard to give them take-aways, “If nothing else, at least be able to recognize Poe’s use of inverted images. Think about your own inverted image reflected in a mirror.” Unfortunately, they don’t care enough even to receive such a gift.

I’m tired and they took advantage of it. I let my guard down and they landed the punch.

I sat back in my seat and stuffed all my papers into a bag and headed out the door into a sea of students. They all seemed happy; they complained about their classes, about their workload, and upcoming tests, but they seemed happy. In the hall windows, I could see my colleagues, each with the same defeated but determined expression. Educator’s always seem to lose except for brief shining moments; when a student can say, “ooooo! I get it! Now I want to reread it!” or when a discussion consumes the class and the majority of students stick around after the bell. Student’s (humans for that matter) can only experience beauty in small doses. And when they get it, when they see it, the world becomes bigger, happier, and worth the work.

But we have to work and work sometimes feels like defeat.

Thoughts from a young grown-up

I stood in line at Disneyland and I saw the sign that read, “You must be this tall to ride.” As a 5 year old, I was always confused when a kid who was a half-inch too short was not allowed to ride–did the half-inch really make a difference? Whether you’re an inch too short or a centimeter above the line, couldn’t mean the difference between riding and having to wait for your friends. Right? Proximity is the thing.

In any case, that line seemed to exist somewhere when I was growing up. At some point, matching the objective standard for adulthood didn’t really matter; as long as I was within a certain range on either side of the line. If I’m not 21, I don’t get to buy alcohol, but I get to vote, drive a car, and buy tobacco. When exactly, do I get to ride this ride? Well, probably now. I have a real job with benefits. Also, I have to move out of the house, pay rent, buy my groceries, consider marriage and learn how to teach high school students. But, all the same, I still feel like the kid who is a half-inch below the ride line–only, no one is around to tell me not to get on the ride.

Paris Adventures

It was two-o’clock in the morning in the middle of a street in Monmarte, France. My friends and I parted ways at the Metro station, and now I was alone and lost.

As an American student studying in Oxford, England, I visited Monmarte during Spring break hoping to experience French culture and art. I stayed in Monmartre for four days in a hostel near the famous Cathedral, Sacre Coeur, and often walked the streets in and around the market. However, during my first night there, my friends and I separated after a late dinner, and I took the Metro back to Lamarck-Caulaincourt station. The Metro was supposed to close at two-o’clock and my hostel locked up in a matter of minutes as well. I began to panic. Near the front of the train, a couple drunken men began dancing. They tried to dance with me and a few other passengers. The train stopped, I bolted towards the exit and ran out onto the street. Not completely sure where my hostel was, I dashed in the direction that seemed most familiar. At night the streets were less familiar and welcoming than when I had walked them earlier. I was soon lost. Unable to recognize street names and landmarks, I prepared to sleep on the cold streets of Paris.

The weather that night was in the low 40’s (Fahrenheit). I had a couple long sleeve shirts, a black snow jacket, jeans and tennis shoes. If it got any colder, I could wrap one of my shirts around my head and look for a place where I could sleep under a roof. For now, I would keep walking the unlit streets in hopes of finding my hostel.

As I paced the sidewalks, I noticed people stumbling out of a bar just down the street hailing taxicabs. I began walking in that direction when I heard a loud voice just across the street. A young man with dark hair holding a stick behind his back stared down a parallel street calling to someone. Suddenly, he sprinted down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. I was curious but tried to stay out of the way; as I watched, another man began chasing after the other guy. He carried a bigger stick. I walked in the other direction. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I noticed that the larger man began to make his way across the street. I pulled up my jacket collar and walked quickly to get out of sight. I never turned around. The man must have gone off in search of the other guy.

When I finally looked over the edge of my collar, I noticed I was near the bar. A taxicab was sitting at the curb and it occurred to me that the driver might be able to give me directions to the hostel. I was about to knock on his passenger window when the driver locked his doors and waved me off.

Discouraged, but desperately wanting a bed, I walked another 500 feet and found another taxicab. I sidled up to the passenger door and rapped on the window. The driver rolled the window down. ‘Bonjour!’ I said. That was the extent of my French. I grabbed a piece of paper out of my backpack with the hostel’s address. As he picked up a book that looked like a Thomas Guide, his cell phone rang. He began to have a conversation while leisurely searching for the address in his book. The driver wasn’t taking me very seriously.

As I waited for the directions, a man from the bar wobbled to the back of the taxi. Afraid of what would happen next, I stepped closer to the car praying that the man would leave me alone and the driver would point me in the right direction. The drunken man simply needed to relieve himself. I sighed with relief. Finally the driver got off his phone and gesturing with his hands, he pointed me around the corner and down the stairs. I thanked him and bolted across the street and around the corner.

To my relief, the hostel doors were open. I walked in, walked down the stairs and into my room. It smelled of beer and smoke. My three roommates were already asleep. Exhausted and relieved to have found my bed, I lay down and slept for the next nine hours.

“…And do not call it fixity…”

Alcuin, once asked the famous question, “Quid Hinieldus cum Christo?(What does Ingeld have to do with Christ?)” He was reproving the monks of Lindisfarne for listening to and studying the secular poetry of Beowulf. His question begs the question, “Should we read anything other than the Bible?” How could Beowulf or Homer or (to use a more recent example) Harry Potter be beneficial for the Christian?

For centuries, Christians have been in danger of preaching dualism. There is a strong desire to separate the physical from the spiritual, the sacred from the profane. We sometimes live for the life to come at the expense of the present life. Yet, this has not been the history of the Church.

I recently visited Greece and Italy. While wandering through the ruins, our tour guide would often point out old temples, originally dedicated to pagan gods that were converted into a Christian churches. The early Church was constantly in the process of reconciling paganism not destroying it.

At one point during the trip, I was able to visit the ruins of the ancient city of Corinth. At the top of a high hill there stood the temple to Venus (Greek: Aphrodite – the goddess of love) and at the bottom, closer to the sea, stood the temple of Apollo – the god of power. Here, in this city, dominated by perverted desires for power and eroticism, Paul came and lived for eighteen months during his missionary journey. Paul lived and strove with the people of the city; he did not march into the city with guns blazing, seeking to destroy their temples and their way of life. He came and demonstrated true power and love through his daily life. He pointed the people to the true God through their false gods.

Oddly enough, we find in his first letter to the Corinthians, the most famous chapter ever written on love. In that chapter, through positive description and exhortation, Paul points to a higher power and a more fulfilling love that all men desire. He overcomes the eroticism of the city not by destroying their temples but showing them true love.

Herein lies the power of Christianity, that it reconciles the pagan, heathen, atheist: it does not destroy them. The love of God is creative not destructive.

What does Ingeld have to do with Christ? Everything. If God’s love is creative then we will most clearly see His love through the act of reconciliation. Ingeld can teach us much about Christ because the insufficiencies of Ingeld point us to the substance of Christ. Like the Corinthians, our eroticism and lust for power is reconciled and fulfilled in the person of Christ wherein our souls can finally rest. In one way, when we fear and isolate ourselves from the secular or physical world, we cut ourselves off from the love of God. We cannot just read the Bible and hope to find God’s love because His love is alive, working “to unite all things in him (Christ), things in heaven and things on earth.” (Eph. 1:10)