the cassandra pages

Shorelines

I've just come back from a few days visiting my father, during which I stayed alone at the lake house. He came up during the days and we worked together to get the property ready for him to move back there with his girlfriend this summer. For me, it was a wonderful retreat from city life, combining some good hard outdoor work with a chance to enjoy the solitude of the natural world, and seeing a few friends. As it turned out, I had some rather startling encounters with other creatures -- but that story will be told later!

In the mornings I got up early and took my breakfast down by the shoreline. There were birds singing; chipmunks scurrying; sunfish, bass, and carp basking in the shallows. The three mornings were all different; one day the lake was completely still, another breezy, another foggy. At night I went out on the deck to look at the stars, and slept with the bedroom door open, listening to the frogs and insects. It was just what I'd needed, and worth the long drive back and forth through the Adirondacks and the Mohawk Valley.

My dad is doing really well. At 89, he's planning to compete in table tennis in the New York State Senior Games next weekend in Cortland, and though he's got some stiffness in his legs, seems to be functioning well on his replacement knees and hip. I sure hope I inherited those particular genes; he inspires me to stay as active and limber as I can.

My dad and me at the lake about thirty years ago, in the 1980s.

Staying in the house my parents built also has its sadnesses and strangeness; not much has changed and there are so many reminders of my mother, without her actual presence. I wouldn't say it feels "comforting;" it doesn't. I can't help but wonder how much longer my dad will be able to take care of the house, but I'm glad he still can, and wants to. Of course, these realities make me constantly aware that I'm getting older too. But the sadness doesn't have a sharp edge anymore, nor does my fear of the future. Even rock becomes smoothed by time, and nature, the great teacher, accepts each day in turn.

Elegy

My mother's birthday was yesterday, June 9th; she would have been 89. I was singing all day, which would have made her happy -- she knew how important music is to me, and during the period of my life where I wasn't doing much of it and was rather unhappy, she finally suggested, gently, that I might consider getting back to it. I did; she had been right.

She wasn't a fan of the Church, nor was she a believer, though she faithfully attended services every Sunday during the long years when my dad and I were singing in the choir; she did it for us, not for any other reason. For her, Nature was holiness -- that and loving those closest to her. But through a keen intelligence, a great deal of reading, observation of human life, and personal challenges that included the Depression, World War II, and chronic asthma, she developed a personal philosophy that was far more robust than that of many "religious" people; it stood her in good stead her entire life, including her last years. She was tremendously patient, generous, and kind; industrious about whatever needed to be done; and almost never complained about personal problems. My admiration for her grows as I too get older; I miss her actual presence but am happy to continually notice that her love and wisdom stay with me.

She'd be quite amused to know that my father, at 88, played table tennis and came in second in his age bracket in the New York State Senior Games on Saturday.

That day, while he was competing, I spent some time listening to Ian Bostridge singing English songs by Benjamin Britten and Ralph Vaughn Williams. Somehow Bostridge hadn't been on my radar until I visited Teju last weekend, when he played an episode of the BBCs "Desert Island Discs" for us featuring the selections of Vikram Seth, author of A Suitable Boy. When I heard Bostridge's voice, I knew I had to listen to a lot more. Some people prefer Peter Pears for Britten, and Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau and others for German lieder; be that as it may, I think Bostridge's voice is perfectly suited to these very English works by Vaughn Williams, and I like his interpretations of Britten, too.

I wasn't consciously thinking of my mother as I was listening, nor is this her kind of music, but for me it created a reflective and elegiac mood that reminded me of the countryside, and only afterward connected with my mother. Later, on Sunday evening, I sat down at the keyboard and played through a bunch of jazz standards that she really did like. There was a bouquet of yellow roses from my garden in her Wedgewood pot, too, adding their spicy fragrance to the night air as I played and thought of her sitting in her favorite chair, listening while she read or knitted, the screen door open so that the sounds of insects, birds and frogs filled the silences. When I finished there would be tea and a little something sweet, and before going to bed, we'd step out on the deck and look up at the stars.

 

JOHN DONNE - HOLY SONNET 17

Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt

To nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,

And her soul early into heaven ravished,

Wholly in heavenly things my mind is set.

Here the admiring her my mind did whet

To seek thee, God; so streams do show the head;

But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,

A holy thirsty dropsy melts me yet.

But why should I beg more love, whenas thou

Dost woo my soul, for hers off'ring all thine,

And dost not only fear lest I allow

My love to saints and angels, things divine,

But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt

Lest the world, flesh, yea devil put thee out.

 

Daily Drawing, May 23

Still life with lilies-of-the-valley, a Wedgewood pot, and a Palestinian purse.
Fountain pen on paper, 6"x8".

My mother died on May 23, seven years ago. Yesterday morning I called my father, and after speaking with him I went to my garden. The lilies-of-the-valley were in bloom, as they were when she died, and I picked some to bring back home, but before that I picked up and held the stone I had brought from her garden to mine. Last night I did this drawing, which is about her and me...my mother would be very happy to know I am drawing and painting again. I'm not sad, thinking about her -- tremendously grateful.

Après.

8:00 am, top of the Plateau Mont-Royal, looking directly south.

The storm went through far to the south of Montreal; all we experienced were high winds last night (I was biking home in swirling leaves, but no crashing limbs), some light rain, and very dramatic skies.

The biggest surprise for me was that when I opened the blinds this morning, literally all the leaves were down, overnight. Bare branches against a huge grey cloud, rimmed with sun, and a brilliant yellow glow beneath it, against deep blue.

 

Looking northwest.

Once we got to the studio, where I was able to climb up high and take these photos, I could see the storm clouds heading west, and the division between the pressure systems was obvious. J. said there was a beautiful rainbow when he rode up, but I missed it.

And southwest, toward the city center.

Around noon I took a walk across Parc Lafontaine, and the light from this sky was so intense on the remaining colored leaves that I coud hardly stand it. Very beautiful, and eerie too.

I hope all the readers who were in the direct path fo the storm are all right, and that your power gets restored quickly. Please tell us your stories!

 

Remembrance and Renewal

 ("The scars of September 11")

Our cathedral community includes a number of Canadian-Americans, many of whom came up during the 1960s and never left. We are the odd ones who came recently, driven by a different war and a different set of national paranoias and persecutions. Each Sunday there is a place in the liturgy for "the Prayers of the People" - a lay-led set of intercessions, fairly freely composed as a litany, in which we pray for the world, for our local community, for the Church, and for each other. It comes right before the general confession, which precedes communion.

J. and I were asked to lead these prayers on September 11, and although I rarely include prayers here, I thought this time I would, since I wrote them for this occasion and they express pretty well my feelings about this day -- and I also thought some of you might be interested in this part of what we liturgy-besotted Anglicans actually do. Constructing and writing liturgical text is a challenge that I like; I've done quite a bit of it but most often for groups of mixed faith traditions. Liturgy is like drama - or perhaps I should say, it is drama -- there must be ebb and flow; beauty and rhythm akin to prose poetry; a build-up of tension and release; and an overall control of the flow of emotion and content. It can be very effective and meaningful, or it can fall flat. In our tradition we have a pretty high standard of writing and language, and that's both challenging and helpful.

When I address "God" here I am speaking not to some omnipotent deity "out there" seated on a throne from which he (of course, "he") manipulates us like puppets, but to the force for good that I believe exists not only in the world but inside each of us -- what Paul Tillich called "the ground of being" -- that we can access when we reflect deeply and are motivated in our decisions and actions by love.

--

On this tenth anniversary of September 11, 2001, let us pray for our world.

Dear Lord, today we remember. We each remember where we were ten years ago, our shock and horror. We remember the strangers whose deaths we witnessed, those we knew who were affected, and those whose heroism saved others. We remember the families of the victims, and the survivors. And we pray for all of them.

(all) Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Ten years ago, a friend wrote:

Another week has come to an end. Some of the people in my neighborhood are able to move back. There is only access by foot and many police checkpoints. People are trying to get back to some kind of normalcy. Our building isn’t open yet. Another, around the corner, may need to come down – the fire damage was extensive from the plane parts that hit and are still in the building. I have concern for the children in the neighborhood who will have to return to this. We, along with the rest of the country, are waiting to see what happens next. I can’t imagine the type of war people are suggesting. Someone wrote on a sidewalk nearby, “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”

Dear Lord, today we mourn. We mourn for our lost innocence, and for a changed world – a world which has become more fearful, and, as a result, more extremist, more paranoid, more violent and oppressive, and much less secure. We mourn our inability to reach toward one another, and our perpetual human tendency to turn to violence because we cannot believe strongly enough in love. We mourn our failure to embrace difference, and our missed opportunities for humility, self-examination, and peace-making. As Christians, we mourn the fact that you have told us again and again to turn away from hatred, and to love one another -- and still we have not heard you.

And so, Lord, today we bring to you our sadness, our frustration, our fears for ourselves and our children. We bring our uncertainties, and we bring our hope. Help us to know who we are meant to be, and what we are called to do, and to act with courage and faith for justice, truth and peace, always remembering Jesus’ commandment: love one another.

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

We pray for our country of Canada, and for our unique city of Montreal, home to so many people from all over the world, living in relative harmony. We pray that our country and city may continue to be beacons of peace, freedom, and opportunity, and that our leaders may heed these words from the First Book of Kings: “A multitude of wise men is the salvation of the world, and a sensible king is the stability of his people.”

(all) Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

Let us pray for the Church

(specific prayers are said for our parish and diocese, and our prayer partner, the diocese of Masasi and this week's prayer cycle-partner, Myanmar.)

Dear God, we pray for the Church. Imbue our leaders with the courage to preach the Gospel as your Son intended: to be peacemakers, to champion the oppressed and the weak, and to stand and speak for peace, justice, and honesty against the powers and principalities of the world. Inspire in all of us faith in your grace and in your presence working among us, and help us to remember these words of Archbishop Oscar Romero: “Do not worry about whether or not you are effective. Worry about what is possible for you to do, which is always greater than you imagine.”

(all) Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Let us pray for members of our own community:

(a list of names follows of those in special need) 

And let us take a moment to pray for those closest to us, and for those we love who have departed from this life. (silence)

(all) Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

And so, let us bring ourselves before God, asking his forgiveness and renewal:

(all) Have mercy upon us, most merciful Father; in your compassion, forgive us our sins, known and unknown, things done and left undone, and so uphold us by your Spirit that we may live and serve you in newness of life, to the honour and glory of your name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

A)    On this tenth anniversary of September 11, 2001, let us pray for our world.

Dear Lord, today we remember. We each remember where we were ten years ago, our shock and horror. We remember the strangers whose deaths we witnessed, those we knew who were affected, and those whose heroism saved others. We remember the families of the victims, and the survivors. And we pray for all of them.

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

Ten years ago, a friend wrote:

Another week has come to an end. Some of the people in my neighborhood are able to move back. There is only access by foot and many police checkpoints. People are trying to get back to some kind of normalcy. Our building isn’t open yet. Another, around the corner, may need to come down – the fire damage was extensive from the plane parts that hit and are still in the building. I have concern for the children in the neighborhood who will have to return to this.

We, along with the rest of the country, are waiting to see what happens next. I can’t imagine the type of war people are suggesting. Someone wrote on a sidewalk nearby, “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”

 

Dear Lord, today we mourn. We mourn for our lost innocence, and for a changed world – a world which has become more fearful, and, as a result, more extremist, more paranoid, more violent and oppressive, and much less secure. We mourn our inability to reach toward one another, and our perpetual human tendency to turn to violence because we cannot believe strongly enough in love. We mourn our failure to embrace difference, and our missed opportunities for humility, self-examination, and peace-making. As Christians, we mourn the fact that you have told us again and again to turn away from hatred, and to love one another -- and still we have not heard you.

And so, Lord, today we bring to you our sadness, our frustration, our fears for ourselves and our children. We bring our uncertainties, and we bring our hope. Help us to know who we are meant to be, and what we are called to do, and to act with courage and faith for justice, truth and peace, always remembering Jesus’ commandment: love one another.

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

We pray for our country of Canada, and for our unique city of Montreal, home to so many people from all over the world, living in relative harmony. We pray that our country and city may continue to be beacons of peace, freedom, and opportunity, and that our leaders may heed these words from the First Book of Kings: “A multitude of wise men is the salvation of the world, and a sensible king is the stability of his people.”

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

 

B) Let us pray for THE CHURCH

In our Cathedral Parish, we pray for Paul and Rhonda, our clergy; we pray for the ministry team and servers, for the vergers, for the greeters, for all those involved in our music ministry, for the support and office staff, and for the members of cathedral Forum and Corporation.

We pray for the renewal of commitment to Christian Life in our community; for our ecumenical fellowship with neighbouring churches; and for La Communauté du Rédempteur, and we pray for a new spirit of interest and cooperation with those of other faiths.

We pray for our Diocese, especially for St Mary’s Church in Kirkland, and their priest, The Revd Lorne Tardy, and for our bishop, the Rt.  Rev. Barry Clarke.

We pray for The Anglican Communion – for our Prayer Partners in The Diocese of Masasi, and especially this week for Sittwe in Myanmar and its bishops, The Rt Revd Barnabas Theaung Hawi, and The Rt Revd Sein Aung, and for Rowan Williams, the Archibishop of Canturbury

 

Dear God, we pray for the Church. Imbue our leaders with the courage to preach the Gospel as your Son intended: to be peacemakers, to champion the oppressed and the weak, and to stand and speak for peace, justice, and honesty against the powers and principalities of the world. Inspire in all of us faith in your grace and in your presence working among us, and help us to remember these words of Archbishop Oscar Romero: “Do not worry about whether or not you are effective. Worry about what is possible for you to do, which is always greater than you imagine.”

 

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

 

 

Let us pray for members of our own community:

For those In Special Need: Scott Harding, Swanne Gordon, Andrew, Christopher Marlow, Joshua, Barbara Smith, Tobias, Gerry

 

Continued Support: Nancy Gilbert, Carolyn Edmonds, Duncan Peter, Lisa, Christopher Coolidge, Alice Knewstubb, Gloria Hall, Nathalie, Roger, Alain, Marie-Claire, Jonathan Fleming, James

 

And let us take a moment to pray for those closest to us, and for those we love who have departed from this life.

 

 

And so, using the form printed in the bulletin, let us bring ourselves before God, asking his forgiveness and renewal:

 

Have mercy upon us, most merciful Father; in your compassion, forgive us

our sins, known and unknown, things done and left undone, and so uphold

us by your Spirit that we may live and serve you in newness of life, to the

honour and glory of your name;

through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Autumn, Hüzün

Today, it has arrived, for sure. The breeze fluttering the white bedroom curtains was cool, almost cold, and for the first time in months I put on my fleece jacket for the ride up to the studio.

Last night I walked home around 6 pm. It was still warm, and raining lightly, but the air and the light had changed; unmistakable. I went down rue Cartier past the community vegetable garden, where I startled a fat black cat, and caught him in my lens, and then across Marie-Anne and down de Bordeaux. On the walls of Ecole Jeanne-Mance ivy was growing in ovoid patterns like poplars, and I ended up walking around the empty building, where only a few lights shone in upper windows -- a custodian working late in a hallway, perhaps -- taking photographs. The dated concrete structure and grassy, man-made berms planted with ornamental grasses reminded me of the Olympic stadium, a few kilometers to the east: a combination of abandonment and extensiveness that carried within its neglect and decay the sound of crowds, of young voices, and the way the hectares of poured concrete were slowly being cracked by the roots and climbing fingers of living things.

This school had once been the parochial school for Eglise Immaculée-Conception, which stands in front of it facing Papineau Boulevard, one side now shrouded in green netting and criss-crossed with scaffoding for the construction of a new roof. I waited for the light and crossed into the park, where I entered the trees.

(the sign in the second picture in the series above reads "Entrée des élèves: Students' entrance")

Today, while working on a large design job with a lot of tedious details, I decided to listen to some music, and put on my headphones. For several seemingly unrelated reasons, Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde has come into my consciousness in the past few days. I don't own a recording, and spent a bit of time reading recommendations. Eventually I listened to an old one, on YouTube: Leonard Bernstein conducting the Israel Symphony Orchestra, with the magnificent Christa Ludwig, contralto, and René Kollo, tenor. My first Mahler recording was the 1st symphony, conducted by Leonard Bernstein. That was when I was young myself, full of the emotion and excitement I heard in Mahler's music. Now -- approaching autumn -- Mahler touches me for different reasons. After I listened to all of the movements -- Ludwig's haunting "Ewig...ewig..." at the end of "Der Abschied/The Farewell" -- I read the original Chinese poems from which Mahler adapted his text, and then the text itself. The poet waits for his friend to arrive, the friend to whom he wants to bid a last farewell, but the friend is late...We leave the poet holding his lute, still alone, but transfixed by the beauty of the world, "the eternal, love-intoxicated world."

The Farewell

The sun departs behind the mountains.
In all the valleys, evening descends
with its cooling shadows.
O look! Like a silver boat,
the moon floats on the blue sky-lake above.
I feel the fine wind wafting
behind the dark spruce.

The brook sings loudly through the darkness.
The flowers stand out palely in the twilight.
The earth breathes, full of peace and sleep,
and all yearning wishes to dream now.
Weary men go home,
to learn in sleep 
 forgotten happiness and youth.
The birds crouch silently in their branches.
The world is asleep!

It blows coolly in the shadows of my spruce.
I stand here and wait for my friend;
I wait to bid him a last farewell.
I yearn, my friend, at your side
to enjoy the beauty of this evening.
Where do you tarry? You leave me alone for so long!
I wander up and down with my lute,
on paths swelling with soft grass.
O beauty! O eternal love - eternal, love-intoxicated world!




Der Abschied

Die Sonne scheidet hinter dem Gebirge.
In alle Täler steigt der Abend nieder
Mit seinen Schatten, die voll Kühlung sind.
O sieh! Wie eine Silberbarke schwebt
Der Mond am blauen Himmelssee herauf.
Ich spüre eines feinen Windes Wehn
Hinter den dunklen Fichten!

Der Bach singt voller Wohllaut durch das Dunkel.
Die Blumen blassen im Dämmerschein.
Die Erde atmet voll von Ruh und Schlaf,
Alle Sehnsucht will nun träumen.
Die müden Menschen gehn heimwärts,
Um im Schlaf vergeßnes Glück
Und Jugend neu zu lernen!
Die Vögel hocken still in ihren Zweigen.
Die Welt schläft ein!

Es wehet kühl im Schatten meiner Fichten.
Ich stehe hier und harre meines Freundes;
Ich harre sein zum letzten Lebewohl.
Ich sehne mich, o Freund, an deiner Seite
Die Schönheit dieses Abends zu genießen.
Wo bleibst du? Du läßt mich lang allein!
Ich wandle auf und nieder mit meiner Laute
Auf Wegen, die vom weichen Grase schwellen.
O Schönheit! O ewigen Liebens - Lebenstrunkne Welt!

Circination

Circination, by Steve Wing

An essay of mine about meditation, plants, and "porous borders," called "Conversations Between Kingdoms" , has just been published in BluePrintReview's "microcosmos" edition, along with the beautiful photograph shown here by Steve Wing, whose work we've published often in qarrtsiluni... I'm so pleased to have my work included in this issue, conceived and skillfully edited by the multi-talented Dorothee Lang, who lives and writes from Germany. Thank you, Dorothee!

It's then that I notice the fern just outside the window. It's an interrupted fern, one of Herm's favorites - he used to jokingly call them Fernus interruptus - and perfect in its newness, the fruiting bodies on the stem not yet dried, the fronds above and below them light delicate green. I search the woods nearby but it's the only one I can see. We look at each other...

The Violinist in the Garrett

 

Yesterday I got a note from a friend, asking if I could identify a story he remembered reading long ago which was still haunting him. It felt vaguely familiar to me but I had no idea from where. I thought probably someone here would remember. Can you help? Here's what he wrote, poignant in itself for the way he describes the hold that certain tales have over our imaginations, and the almost obsessive way we seek to recall them much later, suspecting, perhaps, that they hold a key to something we'd now understand.

From time to time, when I think of readings that left a mark, I recall a short story from many years ago.  By now it is almost a dream memory, imagined and distorted by desperate reconstruction more than recalled.  I don't know the author or title, and have tried, even recently in these days of online tools and cooperative reference librarians, to find it again, unsuccessfully.  It seems now like a story that might have been by L. Buñuel or H. Hesse (and I know I was fond of both these authors at the time), although I have searched the works of each of these authors recently, and unsuccessfully.  

The main character was a young man living an ascetic life in a frosty garret of some Bohemian city, a dedicated and solitary violinist who never performed in public, despite his excellence, although he often enchanted his neighbors,  listening through the walls.  Through some fairy-tale scheme, he was given an opportunity to wish for a life of comfort, or companionship, or riches.  Of course he turned these all down, and wished instead that he could learn to play the violin.  Whether through a pact with the devil or a djinn, or some other supernatural agent, he indeed learned to play the violin as no one had before.   He remained, however, a solitary ascetic in a frosty garret in some Bohemian city with no friends or comfort, besides his music, which gave him unbounded joy.

I have probably embellished or distorted key details in this story, maybe even the unbounded joy part, and certainly left out what makes it a story instead of a dream synopsis.  I'd love to find and reread this story again some day.  By any chance does this sound familiar?  Or only archetypal?