Breadcrumbs

feathered stars
scattered silver

veins
across an indogen
palantir

she speaks
much
these nights
of her father

recalls

the unbottomed
black
of his eyes
the catholic
cry
of his laughter

in these
reckonings
lie clues

this
the man
knows

he knows
yes
he knows
yet
still cannot
follow

for
the ways
her ways
so steep
so slick
so shallow

dissolve

at even the
fancy
of touch

so he
reads

and reads
and reads
again

watching the words
roll and fall

cold mercury
fading
from her lips

©sdrogers 25 february 2014

Our house. So divided.

I try not to think about politics.

At almost 52, I can look back to times when I was radically outspoken about my beliefs; times when I believed The System could be changed from within and worked to do so; times when I was so disappointed in my country and its leaders, that I chose the role of ostrich rather than crusader.

That is not what I mean when I say now that I try not to think about politics.

Because, I try to think as little as possible.  About anything.  I try to experience.  I try to feel.

As many of you know, insomnia is a usual part of my life.  Like good skin it’s part of the genetic makeup of my family.  One with which all of us are blessed or cursed at various times.  I also strive to give up fighting insomnia — choosing to take a few deep breaths and welcome it like the irritating cousin who always shows up at Thanksgiving — with stolid equanimity and a seat as far away from me as possible.  That’s where I found myself at 3:00 on the morning of this, the 148th anniversary of his assassination —  Sitting with Cousin Insomnia, reading Uncle Abe.

As many of you also know, Abraham Lincoln is a particular hero of mine.  An icon really.  A man who has, in many ways, had a greater effect on me than Jesus Christ, greater, perhaps, than even the Buddha.

And many of you have heard me praise the book, Lincoln’s Melancholy, by Joshua Wolf  Shenk.  Some of you have even received a copy of it from me.  I’ve recommended it to many of my grief counseling patients, and have lost count of how many times I have read it and/or listened to the audio version.  In short, as this is not a book report, Mr. Shenk gives us a captivating  — and fact-based — look at Abraham Lincoln “through the lense of his melancholy”.

Along with good skin and insomnia, my family also carry the genes for clinical depression.  Not a one of us (except our precious angel, Debbie, who had so much more with which to contend) has escaped that gene.  Consequently, the chance to read a Lincoln biography written from the view of his melancholy has been a wonderful, and often enlightening, experience for me; one to which I return time and time again.

This morning, I opened the book to the section on Lincoln’s House Divided speech, given on June 16, 1858 to the Illinois Republican Convention where he hoped to be nominated for State Senator.

We all know this speech, at least parts of it, fairly well, and I certainly have read it many, many times.  But, in the heart of last night, I found myself reading the opening words as if for the first time:

Mr. President and Gentlemen of the Convention.

If we could first know where we are, and whither we are tending, we could then better judge what to do, and how to do it.

We are now far into the fifth year, since a policy was initiated, with the avowed object, and confident promise, of putting an end to slavery agitation.

Under the operation of that policy, that agitation has not only, not ceased, but has constantly augmented.

In my opinion, it will not cease, until a crisis shall have been reached, and passed.

“A house divided against itself cannot stand.”

I believe this government cannot endure, permanently half slave and half free.

I do not expect the Union to be dissolved — I do not expect the house to fall — but I do expect it will cease to be divided.

It will become all one thing or all the other.

Either the opponents of slavery, will arrest the further spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in the course of ultimate extinction; or its advocates will push it forward, till it shall become alike lawful in all the States, old as well as new — North as well as South.

Have we no tendency to the latter condition?

Let any one who doubts, carefully contemplate that now almost complete legal combination — piece of machinery so to speak — compounded of the Nebraska doctrine, and the Dred Scott decision. Let him consider not only what work the machinery is adapted to do, and how well adapted; but also, let him study the history of its construction, and trace, if he can, or rather fail, if he can, to trace the evidence of design and concert of action, among its chief architects, from the beginning.

How fitting these words are for where we again find ourselves as a nation today.

But the slavery of today is greed.  Grasping and greed.  We are split, as violently and forcefully by greed as we were then by slavery.  Indeed, the great majority, “The other 98%” , of us are held in very real bondage by greedy corporations and the wealthiest 2% of the American population.

These organizations and people, as groups and as individuals, have turned the democracy of our nation — again —  into a “piece of machinery” for their benefit, to the near destruction of what should be the greatest nation in the world.  We have only to “consider not only what work the machinery is adapted to do, and how well adapted; but also, … study the history of its construction, and trace, if  [we] can, or rather fail, if [we]can, to trace the evidence of design and concert of action, among its chief architects, from the beginning.”

I don’t pretend to be politically savvy enough to trace the path here.  Honestly, I don’t care to.  As I said, I try very hard not to think about politics, and tracing back through these years — now decades — of greed and grasping by the very people and institutions meant to protect the freedoms and liberties on which this nation was founded, would be enough to set the genes of my own melancholy into frenetic motion.  However, even a cursory glance backward clearly shows just how well this “piece of machinery” has done its job.

In 1858, Lincoln not only failed to win a senate seat, he actually stepped out of running for the nomination because of  strife and division within the Republican party.  Lincoln was truly a man of vision, and that vision was a long one, a selfless one, and one of service to the nation he wound up saving.

We have no Lincoln.  In  2008, I, and many like me, dared hope that we had, if not a Lincoln, at least a man of vision and principle and truth.  We have been greatly disappointed.  Time after time after time.  That disappointment is one of the reasons for my determination to stay as uninformed about politics as possible.  But every once in awhile, something slips through my filter.  When OM Times Ezine recommends a book by a U.S. Congressman, it gets even my attention.  (Even a year after the fact.)

A Mindful Nation: How a Simple Practice Can Help Us Reduce Stress, Improve Performance, and Recapture the American Spirit. is a book written by Congressman Tim Ryan (D-Ohio) in which he tells the story of his personal experience with mindfulness meditation.

I have not checked Tim Ryan’s record.  I do not know where he stands on “issues”.  I did not even know he was a Democrat until I looked it up to write this piece.  But, I do know this:  any politician who dares, in this country, at this time, to even admit to mindfulness meditation, much less encourage it, is worth looking at.

He is quoted in a Huffington Post article:  “I think it [mindfulness meditation]could be very, very powerful. We could prevent a lot of suffering. We could prevent a lot of war, suffering in the healthcare system, these kids who don’t even graduate from schools.  Mental health, depression, addiction, burnout.”  

Not exactly the usual politician talk.

Mindfulness meditation is a very simple practice.  Although its origins are Buddhist, the practice itself crosses all boundaries of philosophical, religious, or spiritual beliefs.  It is just as possible for an avowed Atheist to reap the benefits of mindfulness meditation as it is for a Zen monk to do so.  The same holds true for any person of any faith — or lack thereof.

I believe that Abraham Lincoln practiced mindful meditation though he did not give it that name.  Lincoln lore is full of first person reports from contemporaries who, more than once, came upon Lincoln, “lost in thought”, with what many described as a “deep, far away stare” and “not easily interrupted” — all very apt descriptions of “spontaneous meditation”.   These episodes are recalled most often in times of great stress or before making difficult decisions, circumstances that were a daily part of most of Lincoln’s life.

We have all experienced spontaneous meditation without realizing it.  It often happens while brushing our teeth, showering, exercising, washing the dishes, mowing the lawn or even those “auto-pilot” moments driving the car.  Events after which we “wake up”, oftentimes refreshed, at least with a clearer mind for the respite of a few moments from our never ending thoughts.

The difference between such spontaneous moments and actual mindfulness meditation, is intention and purpose.  Mindfulness meditation is a purposeful practice in which we intend to rest in complete awareness of the present moment — and only the present moment — for a certain amount of time.  Of course, it is good to be aware always, at every moment, but such presence is difficult and almost impossible without training the mind in times of quiet stillness.

From the age of thirteen, I have explored various meditation philosophies, theories and practices.  While I cannot claim to be either a proficient or religious practitioner, I can say, unequivocally, that there have been times when meditation has, quite literally, saved my sanity, if not my life.  Having experienced its transformative powers, I have always been, as Mr. Ryan is now, a great proponent of meditation.

However, as he says in the same article listed above, This [mindfulness meditation] isn’t something you necessarily jam down somebody’s throat, but it is something you can, gently and over time, begin to cultivate wherever you are.”

Wherever and whoever you are.  We are.

Meditation is a powerful tool.  I do not say “weapon” as I believe our vernacular is too full of war imagery as it is.  But it is a very powerful tool.  One that, I believe, can be used to help dismantle the machinery of greed that has enslaved our nation and its people.   One that can, surely, help us to “know where we are, and whither we are tending,”  so that we may “then better judge what to do, and how to do it.”

And we, the 98%, need all the tools we can find.

Mr. Ryan ended his speech with, “We have the opportunity to do some great things.”

Not exactly the House Divided.  Nor, as I read him, do I find myself thinking anything close to, “Yes We Can”.  But he does make me smile.

And in our fractured, wounded country, that smile almost means hope.

©sd rogers 14 april 2013

Reserve

It is the Phaeton
husk
of night.

It is the Club
car
of a train rolling
no where.

You are sunk
into the cigar rolled
depths
of one of two
Chesterfield Chairs.

They face me.

I have opened a
fan,
an ostrich feather
fan,
between us like a
wall,
to deny you any
glimpse
of my face;
any glimpse that
might tell you
Just How Bad It Is
this time.

The black plumage
falls like a
veil,
to deny me any
glimpse of the
Impossibly Pretty Girl
pressing her
way 
into your lap.

From behind the black
quills
I hear her
giggle;
yes, really,
giggle,
and I wait for the
expected, for the
attendant
         Thud
of her sweet young body
on the floor as you 
stand
deftly, unceremoniously,
to tell me
It Is Time For Bed.

But it does not sound,
The Thud;
all that sounds is the 
not-quite silent spill of
smoke,
the smoke you hate,
all around us, all
tangled
in the giggle of the
girl.

I lower the feathers to
slice-eye view; my out
breath waves them like
water on my cheek.  I look
only
to the chair, to the empty
chair
beside you.

My rumpled wrap
lies
along its shiny back like the
skin of some long consumed
beast. 
My strappy shoes,
Our Favourite Shoes,
stand empty on the India
floor, leaning drunkenly
against
each other for
support.

My kohl-heavy lashes
lower to the down;
I   Am   So   Tired.

And I feel your
stare,
clean and keen and
shrill
willing me to
               Look
at you.
  



©sdrogers 22 november 2012

Inchiostro

Tonight
this particular sleepless night,
the colour is brown.

Some nights are red.
Others,
many others, are blue and black.

But tonight
this night
is brown.

Dipping the Venetian blown
tip, I marvel at its fragile strength;
I envy its amazing ability to hold
fast just long enough and yet retain
nothing.

Because retention,
(ah, yes, Retention)
is the danger, retention
is the risk and the lure.
Retention.
That way madness lies...

Beyond, around, beside the
brown, lie bits, shards and
sherds of who I suppose I am,
I suppose.  An aggregation of
pens and inks and paper scraps,

lavender lip balm, and three different
crèmes (one for eyes, two for hands); one
candle, three spent matches (reticent
sulphur); four pairs of Dollar Store readers
in various states of broken;  five malas and

one silver hoop long thought lost; a jade-
eyed jaguar and a near-sighted faerie; photographs
and cookie-fortunes, cards of encouragement, and
notes of love, for which I never feel quite
worthy.

Above it all, in a crystal vase, a platinum
rose (dipped alive against forever) stands
silent guard against the clutter, over the
mess that is who
I am.

When I die, lay the rose
in my hand, my (hopefully) ink-
stained hand, the one with
Infinity on the finger, then bind
me in buff-coloured linen, (pull

it taut and smooth), and call
the children to colour me.  Tell
them to decorate, to make me
ready to lie, not in, but down,
not under, but atop the prickly

sage and the rustling buffalo
grass that grows beneath the
ancient twirling, still wooden
windmill.  The Angus will come
(drawn by my motley shroud)

to nuzzle me with their soft
fat mouths, then seeing that
I am merely flesh and nothing
good to eat, will lumber away,
leaving me for those less

particular.  The carrion vultures
with their wet-jet feathers, will
tear both shroud and skin, while
the red-tailed hawks and crafty
coyotes (ki-oats) fight over  

tastier bits.  One eye will fly
West, another North.  My liver,
carried whole, will feed the hungry
pups who lie hidden at the base of
the Cottonwood grove. 

But
when they come to fight for my
heart, they will not find it.  It will
be gone East, having followed the
black-blue hum-throbbing vein that

called it so long ago.  And there
it will stay (my heart), beating softly,  
beating  steadily, inside yours, until
you are ready to bring it
home to me.

© srogers  11 august  2012

Melatonin Hung Over

sad skies full of rain
threatened but not
delivered, not quite
delivered

the breathing heads of
dying kittens simmer
ceaselessly in a stew
of grey and bloody
afterbirth

she arrives

tall, thin, cadaverous
as a SuperModel, with
eyes of jet and starlight,
the sweven hybrid of us
both

she wants me,
only me, all of me,
just me, and she has
me
as she has always had
me
in that strangle hold of
Death and Life
available only to
a child

we walk

she becomes a waif,
a pixie-perfect baby
ballerina from the
Ballets Russe, her long
legs out stepping me,
always
out stepping me, her
perfect changement
punctuating each
bend in our
path

she turns

waiting and not
waiting, as I
stop,
listening to the
hiss of kitten head
stew resound down
the hall

© srogers 29 july 2012