peregrine

Falco peregrinus

(stock photo)

peregrine - having a tendency to wander (Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary)

peregrinatio - "going forth into strange countries" . . . a characteristically Irish form of asceticism. The Irish peregrinus, or pilgrim, set out on his journey, not in order to visit a sacred shrine, but in search of solitude and exile. His pilgrimage was an exercise in ascetic homelessness and wandering. (Thomas Merton, Mystics and Zen Masters, p. 94)

Closing my phone for the umpteenth time today, putting away pen and date book, and beginning the next errand of necessity,

I wonder:

What was it like for those old ones

when foot took leave of the shore,

and land fell off the edge of the sea,

and night pressed in

from above and beneath?

reading into things

The challenge is to make sense of the text without reading into it.

- R. Allan Culpepper

I came across this statement yesterday in a biblical commentary on the Gospel of Luke. "Yes," I thought to myself, "that is a challenge!" One might even wonder if it is truly possible.

One of the helpful insights of this present era that we have labeled Post-Modern is the way position shapes perspective. Whether we're trying to locate and describe the nature of light - is it packed in particles or flowing in waves? - or debating the interpretation of a beloved poem or passage of scripture, we find that our location (physical, social, historical, cultural, racial, religious, etc.) has the power to shape what we perceive.

Some may worry here, "Oh no! We're about to step onto the slippery slope of relativism!" Perhaps. Yet, the truth of our contemporary insights into position and perspective need not lead us to some sort of mushy place of "anything goes," or a you've-got-your-way-I-got-mine-and-all-is-well-as-long-as-we-don't-tread-on-one-another's-toes sort of self-involvement.

Our insights into subjectivity and perspective can call us into deeper humility, reminding us that we do not stand apart from life and reality around us. We forever exist in relationship. Our relationships with one another, with landscapes, with ideas and beliefs will inevitably shape what we see, and how we make meaning of what we see.

To return to Culpepper's statement above, when we engage a text or story the web of interrelationships that is our life will influence - "read into" - what we read and understand. Perhaps the words we read in some way confirm some strand of our web, or perhaps the words help us to create new strands and relationships. Whatever may happen, it remains an encounter, a relational act.

I find that when I encounter passages of scripture there are multiple layers to the encounter. Yes, there is often a use of interpretive tools and methodologies, attempts to allow a text to "stand on its own."

But there is also the engagement of my imagination, emotion, and the inevitable encounter of my own story with the text. There is also, I trust in faith, the possibility for deep listening to God's own voice in this encounter with a text. So in these ways I "read into the text," and one might also add that in other ways "the text reads into me."

I sense that one of the greatest challenges lies in remaining open not only to the truth of what I may encounter in a particular text, but the truth of what you are encountering there as well. Perhaps only then do we begin to "make sense" of it!

do-over

I want a do-over on a dream:

the one with the narrow passage - a dead end - and

the bottomless, light-filled pit I nearly fell into before

catching myself, steadying myself on the nearby walls;

the one I slowly backed away from in fear.

This time,

I want to fall in.

violin lessons at Preucil School

The dim entryway smells of snowmelt on old rubber mats,

rosin, and the wet wool coats of smokers. Tunes and scales

mute their way through lathe and plaster, tumble down

hardwood steps, and bid a jumbled welcome.

Above, feet clomp across the oaken expanse of a recital hall where a

silent stage waits: the patient, gaping-mouthed monster who relishes

in swallowing kids who haven’t put in their half-hour-a-day,

and the stage steps I once fell down after fainting.

Outside my teacher’s studio the rows of chairs on deep green shag

and the spot where Robin Andreason turned to me as she drew

a satin blanket over her violin, and asked: “Will you go with me?”

And I replied: “Go where?”

In the studio my teacher sits wide and large on the rolling chair -

always the short sleeves of the monochrome polyester shirt,

the unlikely, nimble fingers at the end of substantial arms,

and the tell-tale neck bruise of the well-practiced player.

The dim entryway smells of snowmelt on old rubber mats,

rosin, and the wet wool coats of smokers. Tunes and scales

mute their way through lathe and plaster, tumble down

hardwood steps, and bid a jumbled welcome.

ice feathers

ice feathers gather

on the pane above my sink -

stillness, while dancing!

small efforts

This is a link to a remarkable story from one of my favorite poets, Naomi Shihab Nye. It's a story about how one simple act, one small effort to step beyond oneself, can make a very great difference.

"Gate 4-A"

Monday morning coffee

Coming in from the cold,

we sit and hold steaming cups to our lips

which tell stories of death coming too soon.

Warm glances and grateful smiles pass

between us, too.