On my mind...

My theme song...

Todo pasa y todo queda
Pero lo nuestro es pasar
Pasar haciendo camino
Camino sobre la mar

Nunca perseguí la gloria
Ni dejar la memoria
De los hombres mi canción
Yo amo los mundos sutiles
Ingrávidos y gentiles
Como pompas de jabón

Me gusta verlos pintarse
De Sol y grana volar
Bajo el cielo azul temblar
Subitamente y quebrarse
Nunca perseguí la gloria

Caminante son tus huellas el camino y nada más
Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar
Al andar, se hace camino, y al volver la vista atrás
Se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar
Caminante no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar

Hace algun tiempo en ese lugar
Donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
Se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar:
Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso

Murió el poeta lejos del hogar
Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino
Al alejarse le vieron llorar
Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso

Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar
Cuando el poeta es un peregrino
Cuando de nada nos sirve rezar
Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso

Serrat Joan Manuel

Dream Team for Dems?

Doncha think, wink, wink?

You need to read this

For the few who haven't seen this from elsewhere... Kirstin and Andee need help.

You need to go visit Kirstin's blog NOW.

For Kirstin and Andee.

Another burial

It's hard not to think of all the people I have buried since arriving at Trinity... fifteen last year, two this year thus far, eight to ten the year before. A generation of The Episcopal Church is dying literally before my eyes. Of these funerals, I have actually known the deceased in four or five cases. The rest are phone calls the office gets from one of the three funeral parlors in town. In these cases, the deceased are members of the communion of saints and what I call the alumni/alumnae society — those folks who twenty-thirty years ago had a connection with the church but since then have fallen away. No matter how much I entreat the survivors to come back and check up on them, they don't. I am beginning to wonder if I should hang out in the graveyard?

In any event, today's interment was in a beautiful graveyard on a beautiful day in May before the black flies have emerged (and they will be FIERCE this year for all the rain). The cemetery is on Rte 103 in Cuttingsville; it looks across the road to Hateful Mountain (dunno why it's called that). The maple tree leaves are just about to open fully so they are wonderfully effervescent. [These photos are pulled off the web because the winter 'house' that curators put over the statue and door to the mausoleum are still up.]

What distinguishes this graveyard from others is the mausoleum at its entrance. Local tanning magnate John Porter Bowman's daughter died in 1879, the following year his wife died and two years after that he built this mausoleum complete with his statue, a grieving husband and father bringing flowers to his daughter and wife. He then built his house (now a B&B) across the road so he would not have to go far. It is reminiscent of Victor Hugo's poem, Demain dès l'aube....

Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

Tomorrow, at dawn, in the hour when the countryside becomes white,
I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me.
I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain.
I cannot stay far from you any longer.

I will walk the eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Without seeing anything outside, nor hearing any noise,
Alone, unknown, the back curved, the hands crossed,
Sad, and the day for me will be like the night.

I will not look at the gold of the evening which falls,
Nor the faraway sails descending towards Harfleur.
And when I arrive, I will put on your tomb
A green bouquet of holly and flowering heather.

An empty word

The news pundits keep talking about how Osama bin Laden's death will 'bring closure' to those who lost family members on 11 September 2001 or in the war fronts following that fateful day.

The word, 'closure,' should be banned when put in terms of mourning someone's death. We so want as a society to wrap things up neatly and put them away, especially when it comes to someone's dying.

The overuse of this word in the reports and the scenes of people jumping around wrapped up in US flags and chanting USA is indicative of our culture methinks.

Meanwhile, I still try to understand it all. And I won't. So I light candles instead.

Wistful

It has been thirty years since I have been to London. My father lived there three years in the late 70s, early 80s and I would go visit whenever I could.

He lived in on the third floor of a four storey flat on Upper Devonshire Place (purple dot). From the bedroom and bathroom, one could see and hear Saint Marylebone Church... not that we ever went there, oddly. He rented the flat from the father of a colleague from work and it was all he needed: a front living room/kitchen that looked out on Upper Devonshire Place, a front hallway that led out to the stairs, and then said bedroom and bath. When I would visit, I would sleep on an inflatable mattress in the living room. He and I went out the summer he moved over there and purchased a receiver and turntable so he could listen to his music.

I no longer remember exactly how far down the street the flat was (red dot) other than it was about halfway and a long walk from the Regents Park tube station when arriving with a suitcase. While he would go off to work, I would walk all over London, miles in a day. After my first spring break there, I had done so much walking that I ended up with tendonitis in my foot.

So, to hear all the fuss about the royal wedding in a matter of just over an hour, I am wistful because I have very fond memories of my summers and March breaks in London. There are so many other places to travel that I have not gotten back there since 1981 and I wonder if I ever will. Besides, without my pied-à-terre, it won't be the same.

For sale: One useless cat

A parishioner sent me this:

Blessed Easter

Christ's tomb in Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem

Lighting candles from a candle outside the edicule where Christ's tomb is located in an inner room

Both photos taken 27 February 2011

Great but sad line

'The 2012 presidential election already promises to be an exercise in bedlam...'

The rest of the article, The Mad Genius of Donald Trump is also interesting and, at times, funny.

Another nut case

From the news wires (as it were):

Jack O'Reilly Jr., the mayor of Dearborn, Michigan, has written an open letter to publicity-seeking, Quran-burning Florida pastor Terry Jones, in an effort to dissuade him from protesting in front of a Dearborn mosque. In the letter, O'Reilly tells Jones it's ridiculous to believe that the city is under Sharia law: "If Dearborn practiced Sharia law, would we have three adult entertainment bars and more alcohol-licensed bars and restaurants per capita than most other cities?"

Terry Jones is becoming a lone-ranger clone of the Fred Phelps clan — totally irresponsible, clueless about the damage he is doing yet protected under the First Amendment. This is the only comment I will make about this pathetic so-called 'pastor' because to continue posting gives him the publicity he so craves.

People like him give Christianity such a bad, bad name.

Good Friday

As I washed the bare altar tonight at the close of our Maundy Thursday liturgy, I thought of the 13th station in Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem. It's a large slab of marble and, as you can see, people are venerating it, placing religious articles on it (extra dollop of prayer) and praying. The photo does not really show all the votive holders strung above it. It was a madhouse the first time I saw it, perhaps because it was a Sunday. It commemorates the stone on which Jesus' body was washed after he was taken down from the cross of Golgatha (the rock on which it stood up some very narrow and steep stairs as the 12th and 13th stations, depending on whether you are of the Eastern or Western Church — such is the complicated nature of the church).

In any event, I thought of this slab as I poured wine on the horns of the altar and in the middle, letting the wine puddle on the inlaid crosses and then poured water on the wine puddles to let it all comingle before washing the altar clean and then kissing it before I leave, praying that it remain holy before we return to it.

There are moments when my heart breaks during the Maundy Thursday liturgy and this is one of them. I also am so hit by the words of institution on this night because I know that I cannot preside at the Eucharist again until the Great Vigil of Easter. We enter this barren landscape year after year. I would not have it any other way either.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem 2

For those who wish to go to Jerusalem but can't get there.

The Dome of the Rock, Islam's third most sacred place, shadows the Western Wall, Judaism's most holy place, the remnant of the Temple wall.

Looks like....

Does this look like a donkey or what?

Oh, oh, oh. It is going to be a very long 18 months. If only we would limit the electoral season to three months as other countries — El Salvador for one — do.

Palm Sunday afternoon sillies

Given that I had three back-to-back services this morning, there is not much brain power. How fitting, then, to receive an email with these sillies. Are you comfortable?

Jerusalem, Jerusalem

Just a week ago I was still in Jerusalem and was able to pray three times at the Western Wall. It has become one of those places I will hold in my heart as a touchstone to peace (though its existence has hardly been marked by such peace over the years). Since returning home, I have had no chance even to think about it.

As goes NH, there goes the nation?

NH Republicans elect Tea Party activist to lead them to 2012.

At least there is the Connecticut River between the two states to distinguish us... VT gets thinner at the bottom, NH thinner up at the top. Make of it as you may :)

Lord have mercy on us all.

Venting

So the conservative block in the House wants to cut education, Amtrak, foreign aid, the Washington Metro... cuts that would put Amtrak out of business and education???

And people wonder why the US falls behind so many other countries in educational standards and has such feeble public transportation?

At least there still are the Senate and President to put an end to such nonsense... if the House Republicans are serious about cutting the deficit they can take the symbolic step of cutting out their health insurance and cutting their salaries to levels that most people get.

What is beyond me is why people vote for quacks like this... just where and when did the deficit come from? Hm?

Pathetic. it is going to be a very long two years.The old depression pre-2009 is back again full force.

Is this any surprise?

No point in wasting energy or emotion in invective. Suffice to say that I think the party in the majority is way, way, way off course. Next they will vote to reinstate DODT. After that, make sure all those people who make a ton of money get more tax breaks... and on and on. Pathetic.

Grismal January

This silly flamingo has a brief sojourn outside but given the absolutely awful weather outside, I brought it back into the garage to winter over until the weather is more temperate.

Said flamingo is a gift from someone up north... now the giver is talking about finding company for the bird. Oh my.

Just some brevity and levity on a grismal day when the promised snow turned out to be sleet and freezing rain instead.

Still alive

Just not posting all that much...

A grey day in Vermont after a mid-week snowfall — not nearly as much as folks got down in Connecticut or even southern, southern Vermont (Wilmington VT got 36 inches whereas we got 10 or so). There is talk of rain next week, oh joy.

Ruminating on the events of the past week, realising that Vermont only gets a score of 8 from the Brady Foundation (as in James Brady's group for gun control), thinking that trying to have a reasoned, sane and non-visceral conversation about gun control is about as successful as having one about marriage equality.


I think about how such carnage could happen anywhere, here in Vermont. Here's a photo taken last July of my talking with Vermont's lone representative, Peter Welch. Given how loose Vermont's gun laws are, the same sort of thing could have happened, though the rhetorical temperature is much lower here than in Arizona.


What a difference several thousand miles make. Both states are border states but there is nowhere near the anxiety about it because it is true, who wants to come into Vermont? I still marvel at the open border that we crossed when we walked into Canada in September.

In any event, I don't hold much hope for the tenor of political discourse cranking down. And off on a slight tangent, I don't know how I am going to be able to stand two years of the Speaker of the House boohooing all the time. Get a grip.