Go, look and listen

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

A perfect morning to sit on the sofa and drink coffee.  It is wet and cold and dark outside.  But here on the inside the heat pump hums gently in the background, a curl of coffee vapors climbs out of the pot and fills the room, and the sofa, conformed by many other mornings and evenings of our time together, calls me once again to sit down and get comfortable.

And so I do. At this time of morning on this kind of day I like to keep the house a little dark while I sit, the only light being the grey of early morning filtered through thick rainy clouds, and one lamp on the table next to the sofa, filling the corner of the room with soft light.

Even soft light reveals hard things. Light is light. It reveals truth. It extinguishes darkness.  And this morning, as I nestled into my comfortable place, the light was gently brutal as it directed my eyes.  There in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall for several months waiting to be hung, illuminated by the lone lamp in the room like a museum piece, was a block print by Birmingham artist Debra Riffe.  I bought it because it provoked me.  I suppose I let it sit out of the way for months because I did not want to be provoked.  But the light grabbed it this morning.  This lively, artful expression that so provoked me deserved better.  But it was hard to fit into my comfortable corner of the world, at least in a place high enough to be noticed.

This art form sometimes creates a look similar to a theater or concert poster.  In this print there stands an older African American man playing an acoustic guitar strapped around his neck.  The poster reads "I ain't fixin' ta sit down."

I do not presume to know what brought the man in the print to make that proclamation.  In my mind's eye I see the man to be of an age that our years of life would overlap, and so honestly, it would be willful ignorance if I could not form a general idea of reasons for his defiance or the message of his music.  

There are a few things I can learn from the print leaning against the wall of my den.  There are songs of life being sung all around us. It is important that there is time and space for the songs to be sung, but more importantly,  that those songs be heard by those who need to hear. 

But it is just a print.  Ink on paper.  I cannot hear the notes of the music being played, the specific words being sung by looking at the print.  The artist has done her job.  She provoked me to want to hear the old man's song.  Thank goodness for the light of this morning.

I must leave my comfortable corner to hear the songs. I might want to turn away.  I might want to sing along. 

But before I do anything, I must go and listen. 

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Can't see the forest for the trees, or is that poison ivy?

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

Last Saturday I worked in my yard. Actually it used to be my yard.  I like to think of it now as a second growth forest.  That's a real thing, look it up.  I'm thinking of putting up one of those dignified woodsy roadside signs at the foot of my driveway, maybe made of cedar, that declares my yard to be a Certified Alabama Second Growth Forest.  Not really.  I'm going back out there after while and get to work, just as soon as it gets hot enough.

Last Saturday I was cutting up a fallen tree.  After I finished I was not ready to put away my chain saw since it was running fine and one must take advantage of that good fortune when it arises.  At the edge of my once and future yard stands a hickory tree.  I really love trees, especially hardwoods, and in particular hickory and oaks, so no, I was not thinking about cutting down this beautiful tree.  On the contrary, I sensed that the time had come for a risky maneuver to save the life of the hickory.  Sure it was dangerous, but I had been putting it off for awhile.  It was time to slash the grossly monstrous vines that were attached to the tree like the sea creatures that made up Davy Jones beard in the Pirates of the Caribbean.   The ugly tentacles climbed and crept to the top branches, displaying the vines' oily deep-green leaves and clusters of berries like a pirate's flag at the top of a conquered mast.  There was no skull and crossbones.  But there should have been.  These vines were poison.  Poison Ivy.

Perhaps that's a little too dramatic.  But seriously, I am very sensitive to poison ivy resin and the mere thought of cutting through those hairy one and two inch vines was enough to shorten my breath and raise whelps on my skin.  On the other hand, I have seen what these insidious vines can do to otherwise healthy trees.  They kill them.  Slowly.  The green leaves of the vines become entangled with the leaves of the tree, so it is difficult to notice that the tree is dying, limb by limb, until it is too late, and most of the green that remains belongs to the poison vine, and not the tree that still supports the vine, even to death.  

I checked on the tree this morning.  Now it is easy to distinguish between the leaves of the choking vine and the leaves of the tree.  The leaves of the vine are now wilted and withered, all the way to the top of the tree.  I had no idea how far the poison vine had invaded the hickory tree.  I hope I cut the vine in time.

Last week I cut the big, hairy, ugly vines near the base of the tree.  The vines above the cut were dead this morning, all the way to the top of the tree.   But below the cut in the vine there was already new growth. Three leaves. One jag on one edge. Deep, oily green. Heading up the tree.  The vine is still rooted in the soil, just like the tree. 

And that's the problem.

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Wake up, it's getting light

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

Everything is still on the hill this morning.  Not a creature is stirring, not even a possum. The gentle light of the rising sun is kind, like a parent letting an adolescent child sleep late on the first days of Christmas break.  Nothing is moving, frozen by the cold air of the night.  But the still and quiet are beautiful, and welcome.  My plan is to blow a mountain of leaves off the hillside later, but they are still frozen to the ground, so dagnabbit, I will just have to lie here and drink coffee for awhile.   My heart is being warmed, literally, by my bowl of coffee that sits on my chest as I write while lying back on my sofa, custom fit to my body from hundreds of mornings of waking up.  Like the world outside my windows,  I have not completely committed to starting the day.   I will leaf here soon enough.  Sorry about that.  Not really.

I have never been more ready for Advent.  In my Christian faith tradition, United Methodist, Advent is a period of time, the first month or so of the Christian year before Christmastide (not to be confused with Crimson Tide), a time of waiting and preparation. Advent is a time for pausing to remember the coming of Jesus into the world, and to wait,  prepare for and anticipate what God will do next.

Like my Christmas shopping, my intentional observance of Advent is getting a late start this year.  Some of my prayers of late have included remembering, mostly out of a desire for assurance, and anticipation, mostly out of a desperation for God to do something.  So perhaps Advent for me started out of necessity rather than intentional liturgical practice. 

Maybe that is the way it is supposed to be.  Maybe that's the way folks felt 2000 years ago.  Desperate hope for many came from remembering when God did mighty acts centuries before, and anticipation of the time when the promises of God would come to pass.  There was liturgy back then too.  Judaism, the faith that Jesus was born into and practiced, included liturgy of remembrance and anticipation long before Jesus was born.  Faithful Jews knew it well.

But I wonder if the Jews at the time were much different from me.  The liturgy and scripture that was so dear and familiar to them informed them of how it was supposed to be.  But maybe the world around them made it real.  Oppression. Poverty. War. Cruelty. Inhumanity.  The ancient histories and promises had told them where hope was to be found.  But the mean world required that the hope of history become real in the present. The pain of the present required that the promises be fulfilled now.

I doubt that there is anyone who is not weary of the battles of this world right about now.  But in the darkness even a small light is bright.  Perhaps that is why we are moved to tears by unexpected hopeful signs, or small acts of kindness recounted on social media or acted out in the check out lane, or why we linger to talk instead of passing hurriedly by when an old friend greets us on the street, or why our hearts melt from the grins and giggles of an innocent child, eyes filled with the wonder.

So, this year, as always, it is good and healthy to pause, to remember,  to watch and wait, to anticipate.  Because there is light in the darkness.  It started as the tiniest, white-hot, pin-point of light that appeared in Bethlehem a long time ago. 

And it has pierced once and for all the darkness of our long night.  And is still warming up our world.  Like a gentle parent, waiting for us to wake up.


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America's favorite videos (and the ones no one shares) . . .

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

I have a confession.  Even as every day brings more serious news about the state of the world,  I watch video of our President and laugh.  I can't help it.  This week was like a greatest hits reel.  

There was the pre-arranged photo-op with President Trump huddled with Arab country leaders around a brightly glowing orb.  Each leader had his hand on the orb.  The photo-shoot was scheduled to highlight Saudi Arabia's new Global Center for Combating Extremist Ideology, which could be the subject of a whole series of serious posts.  But instead I wondered if this was what the old ABA (American Basketball Association) would have looked like today right before tip-off, if it had not merged with the NBA.   "Three, two, one . . . launch ... we mean team!!!"   Or I wondered if this was a trailer for a new Harry Potteresque kind of book series . . . "President Trump and the Golden Orb."  Or,  well let's just say I wasted a lot of time on the possibilities.   I was not alone. We invested a lot of creativity as a country captioning this one.  Perhaps I will do some serious research on Saudi Arabia's new GCCEI.  But this week I laughed.

Another photo-op at the NATO meet and greet cause me to smile.  We have all been to family reunions and a cousin wants everyone to line up for a group photo.  Some of us love it, some of us hate it, especially when one of our relatives has gotten on our last nerve.  Apparently President Trump was in the "love it" category as he appeared to do a football pass-rusher-swim-move to get to a place in the front center of the photo shoot.  He made the new Prime Minister of Montenegro look like the rookie that he is.  The video created an international conversation as to whether Trump's move was rude, or just the opposite, the result of his unexpected execution of a "man-hug."  Historians will have the final word.  But as for me, I looked at it and laughed.

There were hand-holding controversy videos as Melania seemed to refuse to take the President's hand a couple of times.  Maybe she did not want to hold his hand.  Or maybe she had actually paid attention to briefings which might have suggested that public PDA was not a good thing in Saudi Arabia and was trying to act accordingly.   There was a sword dance video which is the kind of thing all our Presidents seem to get trapped into. And there was the look on the Pope's face debate.  I know all of these things had serious ramifications, which may appear in a later post.  But they made me laugh.

It is too bad that things are so serious these days.  I think it is generally healthy for our democracy to be able to chuckle, good naturedly, at the person we have chosen to be the leader of the free world.  But in the serious context we find our world in, it is hard to know what to laugh at, or who to laugh with.  That's a shame, because nothing is more healing than a good laugh with friends.  Who can forget Obama's mom jeans or George W's mangling of "fool me once . . .?"   

The videos are everywhere.  From podunk blogs like this one to the great news outlets of the world, we were kept abreast of breaking gaffes.  Everyone had a caption, or an opinion. Many of us laughed or derided, many of us ignored or defended.  I am not being critical of the coverage. After all, the laughter this week probably added a couple of hours to my life.

But other things were in the news this week.  And the subject matter will not add hours to any one's life. Just the opposite.  Years of life will be taken away. 

Life will be taken away from folks who will never worry about the protocol of the highest levels of society or politics in Saudi Arabia or Europe. Life will be taken away from the least of these among us. And while these matters of life and death were covered with the time and column inches that remained after the afore-mentioned gaffe coverage, very little of it has been shared and tweeted and re-shared and re-tweeted.  The images do not make us laugh or smile.

In President Trump's budget proposal released this week, a significant number of children, elderly and sick will find it difficult, more likely impossible, to get medical treatment for illness.  Food and medicine will likely not be available to a significant number of these, the least among us.  Some who are already weary of battling illness will find it impossible to get medical treatment for the illnesses that have plagued them. Some will be forced to watch their children die for lack of medical treatment.  Children will go hungry.  In the USA.

Generally, the budget will cut $800,000,000,000, that's eight hundred billion dollars, from medicaid over the next ten years.  It will cut $192,000,000,000, that's one hundred ninety two billion from nutritional assistance.  It will cut another $272,000,000,000, that's two hundred seventy two billion, from welfare programs. It will cut $72,000,000,000, that's seventy two billion, from disability benefits.  College loan subsidies for the poor will be slashed.  

This does not include the effect of slashing of budgets that insure clean air and water, and pay for research for cancer, heart disease, AIDS and other life threatening illnesses.

I am confident this budget will affect a significant number of the least of us. 

What is a significant number, anyway?   If it is my child, then one is significant.  But if it is not my child, or my parent, or me, what is a significant number?  Ten?  A hundred?  Thousands? Or does it not matter at all if it's not my child, or my parent?

Under the proposed budget it will be more than one who will suffer or die.  More likely in the millions.  It will affect someone you know and care for.  If not, maybe you need to expand your circle a little.

I wish our President were capable of more decorum.  I wish he were not so belligerent.  I wish he acted more "presidential," bless his heart.   Changing his image is the one thing he might be able to do, he is a branding expert, after all.  But changing his image is also the least important thing he might do.  In fact it is his image that many Americans really like.

But image doesn't matter to the poor, the sick, the dying, the hopeless.  

Policy matters. Health care matters. Food matters. Education matters. Environment matters.

And right now, President Trump is proposing a budget of death and pain for millions of our fellow citizens.

And no one can laugh at that.  Especially if there were videos to share.