There is this

This thing I wanted
I now possess. Clutching it
I find it lacking.


This moment for which
I waited: I'm living it
wondering what's next.


This, you say. And this!
Your eyes gaping with wonder.
Look now! There's this, too!

A Good Friday call to prayer

                                                 St. John's Abbey Church Window

A Good Friday Call to Prayer:

 

The story of Christ’s death that we tell today

invites our gathering, worshiping and praying.

This story of Christ’s death also invites our silence.

There must be silence somewhere in this day because now

we are asked to remember and connect our lives to

something that defies our full comprehension or explanation.

Here we witness a love that words will never contain.

The One whom we meet here dwells

above, below, within and beyond anything we might say.

We must make room for silence.

The silence of Good Friday is a heart-broken silence.

For here we witness the needless suffering of a good person;

here we encounter the unjust death of an innocent one.

Here we are asked to stay awake to such suffering

as it exists in this world today, and to the many ways

Christ is still crucified.

We will make room here for a heart-broken silence.

The silence of Good Friday is a humble silence.

For here we witness disciples who flee and hide,

friends who cower and remain silent in their fear.

We hear leaders who ask cynical questions like: “What is truth?”

And here we must remember that we are not so different;

we, too, hurt one another with our action and our inaction.

We will make room here for a humble silence.

The silence of Good Friday is a reverent silence.

For here we witness just how far love is willing to go,

and it goes much farther than anyone could’ve imagined.

Love surrenders all claims to power or privilege.

Love shows mercy in the face of ignorance and violence.

Love lays down life, so that life might flourish.

We will make room here for a reverent silence.

Kyrie eleison. 

You are the moonflower and the moth

During the past year I've enjoyed co-facilitating a poetry discussion and writing series at the retirement community where I work, together with Karen Sheriff LeVan, Professor of English at Hesston College. We've entitled this series Words & More, and our primary intention is to use poetry to invite reflections on aging and identity.

Each installment of Words & More has two sessions, one week apart. In the first session we introduce the poet and poem that we've selected. Poems have included Jane Hirshfield's "Optimism", Li Young Lee's "From Blossoms", Naomi Shihab Nye's "Famous" and William Stafford's "Yes".

In the first session the poem is read aloud at least twice and the group engages in a facilitated discussion of what is first encountered in the poem. Conversation is always lively and the hour passes quickly. Before wrapping up the discussion we offer the group one or two writing prompts that are in some way connected to the selected poem. Participants are encouraged to spend time in the following week using these prompts to come up with their own pieces of creative writing.

In the second session we begin by reading the poem aloud again and inviting any additional reflections that may have emerged during the week. The majority of the hour is spent listening to and responding to the pieces created by participants. Each time it is a uniquely rich and creative experience!

As facilitators Karen and I also become participants, and we enjoy playing with the writing exercises that we've offered the group.

In our last installment of Words & More we spent time with Billy Collins' poem "Litany". Here is a video of Collins reading the poem live:

I wish I could share here all of  the inspired pieces offered by our group members. Here is the one I wrote:

 

Wait for it      (after Billy Collins’ "Litany")

You are the moonflower and the moth.

You  are the first mosquito bite of spring

and the snap of the small-mouth bass

who eats the mosquito

as it lingers too long

over the still pond.

You are not the still pond.

Actually, I am the still pond

and the heron with the broken, unhinged bill

patiently fishing at the water's edge.

I am the gingko tree undressed by winter

and I am the husk of the cicada

still clinging to its trunk.

You are the actual cicada

the cicada nymph to be exact

(and it’s important to be exact here)

surviving underground

beneath the yellowed patch of grass

where the dog pees each morning

and you wait to emerge

in about seven years.

Eric Massanari

 3/13/17

 

Birthnight

Henry Ossawa Tanner, Study for Nicodemus Visiting Jesus (c.1899)

Nicodemus, the Pharisee who appears at three critical moments in the Gospel of John, has always fascinated me as a character. For me he represents the willingness to remain curious, to allow one's understanding and heart to be expanded beyond what we assume or expect. I wrote the following poem after spending time meditating on Nicodemus' first appearance in the Fourth Gospel, his nighttime conversation with Jesus (John 3:1-21). It seems that Nicodemus gets far more than he bargained for in the encounter and I imagine him spending sleepless hours contemplating what he has yet to fully comprehend. I think of it as Nicodemus' birthnight.

Birthnight: A Song of Nicodemus

 

I don't know what compelled me

to seek you this night.

You were not hard to find,

but once found you were

hard to apprehend. Words

bent strangely in the darkness

turning corners I did not expect.

You must be born of

water

wind

spirit.

I saw mother and father, felt the warm

swell of blood into skin that comes

when pleasure joins pain. And after so long

felt again the rising tingle on my scalp

that faithful signal of discovery.

But what have I found here?

More has been unsaid than spoken

my answers taken and mysteries given.

You send me out riven and raw

uncertain which path to follow.

I only know that I cannot return home

to heaps of scrolls and words upon words

so I wander dark streets

past Herod's temple to the

tombs of Kidron where I sit down

and watch for the morning.

Eric Massanari

First published in Desert Call, Spring 2016

Merton's "Le pointe vierge" and J.O. Schrag's "A Dot"

John Orlin "J.O." Schrag was a dentist by profession, but reminded me that one should be very careful to avoid defining anyone solely by what they do for income. I assume he was skilled at cleaning and filling teeth, but that's not what J.O. was doing when I met him. I met in his final years of life which were spent in the nursing care facility where I serve as a chaplain. I came to know J.O. as a poet, a careful observer of life and one who was willing to ask the difficult and necessary questions.

I will never forget the day we were sitting together in one of the more public areas in the health care center, watching residents and staff going about daily routines. The birds were chirping away in the aviary next to us, staff were responding to an assortment of beeping alerts and residents were slowly moving about to various activities and appointments. It was a busy place, and we quietly sat there taking it all in.

At some point I realized that J.O. was looking over at me from his wheelchair. When I returned his gaze he gave a wry smile and asked, "What is the purpose of this place?"  His question took me aback. I hoped it was in some way rhetorical. When I didn't immediately reply, J.O. repeated the question, assuring me that he did want to hear my answer.

I don't recall what I said, something about community, honoring the opportunities of life at all stages and giving care and support. It was a mash-up of what came to mind in the face of such an honest, hard question. When I was done he held my gaze a moment longer and then said, "Hmmmm, perhaps."  It was clear that he hoped I would keep considering the question.

I do. I keep considering J.O.'s question. I have yet to articulate a satisfactory answer and suspect that it probably doesn't have one, at least not one that would be satisfactory to everyone.

The other day I was on a walk through the cemetery near my home. As I scanned the fields of gravestones my attention was drawn to a black granite gravestone with a large gray circle. I walked closer and was surprised to find myself standing next to J.O.'s grave. I smiled when I saw that his poem "A Dot" was written out in plain script on the dark stone:


a dot
small
very small
we all started as a dot
just a speck
loaded with all the goodies we would ever need
the directions were all there
size, color, sex, numbers of hair
toes and all other details
a loaded dot
where, where did it come from?
from parents?
perhaps
from where did they receive their dots?
dots have no beginnings or endings
just like what we call God
from everlasting to everlasting
God or eternal energy reduced into a dot
we too are part of God
we have no beginning
no ending


J.O.'s words reconnect me with one of my favorite passages of Thomas Merton's writings. In his essay, "A Member of the Human Race," Merton evokes the image of le pointe vierge:

Again, that expression, le pointe vierge (I cannot translate it) comes in here. At the center of our being is a point of pure nothingness which is untouched by sin and illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark that belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God written in us. It is so to speak his name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our sonship. It is like a pure diamond blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely.

At the heart of our being:
this "dot" of
no beginning
and no ending,
this point vierge of pure being
and unadulterated love

may I know it within me,
may I see it within you,
so that some great light
will guide us in the darkness

tzimtzum

photo by Yolanda Kauffman

tzimtzum: a term used in the Kabbalistic writings of Isaac Luria to describe God's act of creation following an initial act of contraction. Luria posited that God must withdraw some aspect of the Ein Sof, or Infinite essence of God, in order to make room for all that is.


to write a true word on the page it is first necessary to withhold judgment, the movement of hand must be trusted and the pen released to do its needed task       the same must be true for the hammer dropping onto chisel and stone, or brush strokes of pigment on canvas      there must be a release of the remembered and the preconceived    and yet, there is also an imprint, the fragrant echo of the maker that carries on    how does one beget new life without some death?   how does one create without leaving a part of oneself behind?
 

Silence

Silence

You are sinew

between sound

source of word

home of melody

the pause

a bridging gap

from this breath

to the next

You are the stories of spores

clinging to the underside

of a fern frond

in the distant forest

the cry of stony atoms

spinning in the heart

of Michelangelo’s Mary

who holds her cold son

the dark messenger

between star and planet

and the feathers

of a raven’s wing

You are what comes

before the right question

and what should follow

the impertinent answer

witness to the gift not given

a service not rendered

the trigger not pulled

a resentment forgotten

You are an infant’s gaze

the flushed skin of the lover

a parent’s greatest fear

the elder’s forgotten tale

and when we are done

whether ready or resistant

You are the summons

we will follow