Drum Call

I'm sitting in my Spiritual Disciplines for Leadership class, and we've started with a demonstration of African spiritual practices.  While we are currently involved in an African praise/prayer, the example started with drumming.  This is not the first time since I have arrived here that I have experienced drumming in a spiritual sense, and in all instances I have been reminded of the drum call that often started a howie&scott show.

These drum calls were often some of my favorite parts of their shows.  It was like a centering force, a way to recognize that I am here instead of coming here.  It was a call to recognize what I am experiencing. Of course, there were also ending drum calls, to release us to the world.  They were like brackets on the experience, showing us when it would begin and end, but also to show the experience was different than what one normally would see or hear.  That's not to say h&s were an experience like none other, or superior to what else might have been going on (though an ego-driven reading of the situation might see that).  It was just more like a signal flare, to set aside what was to come or what had happened.

I've had visions in my head of calling to worship through these drum calls.  Drums are becoming more prominent to me in a spiritual way of thinking.  Example: Jeremy drumming during the Taize service on Wednesday that was rooted in the pagan Equinox celebration.  While I was unfamiliar with a number of the rituals during the service, the drumming was able to center me to the experience and recognize there was a spirit involved in the service.

I don't have drums.  I don't have any instruments.  I don't have any musical talents.  But I've decided to add a resolution to my time at seminary, really two: learn basic guitar, and learn to drum.

I don't know what I want to do when I leave seminary, but an idea that has recently entered my head is working on a church (or perhaps just a service) geared towards youth and young adults, and what may be a good start to that may be a drum call.

Feeling Ill

The longer I worked for Walmart, the more likely I became to ignore what was going on with my body.  I'd find someway to look past deficiencies, to push through sickness or injury to get the job done, and then maybe think about what is going on later.  Of course, this was helped by a pretty decent track record of not needing to head to the doctor to get myself well.  Drink orange juice, rest when not working, and sleep well.

Now seems different.  Maybe it is harder for me to focus on pushing past things when I am trying to do homework.  Maybe I'm getting older, thus it is getting harder to bounce back.  Maybe things are starting build up, and affect me more.

In any case, I don't feel well today as I try to focus on getting homework done.  On the one hand, I have muscle aches leftover from moving and then hiking yesterday.  On the other hand, something hasn't been right with my digestive tract for a little while, and I wonder if my diet has something to do with that.

I want to go to the doctor to get that figured out, by my experience with doctors lately has been lacking: hand over some money to get no answers.  Now that I'm in seminary, I can't afford to spend money if it is not in a useful way.

I've been trying to stay active since I've been here.  Am I doing too much, trying too many new things?  Am I not focusing on myself as much as I need to?  Or is it all scientific, and medicine the answer?  Or is there another way?

The Catalyst?

I come to this magnificent house of worship tonight, because my conscience leaves me no other choice.  A true revolution of values will lay hands on the world order and say of war:
This way of settling difference is not just.  This business of burning human beings with napalm,
Filling our nation's homes with orphans and widows, of injecting poisonous drugs of hate into veins of people normally humane.  Of sending men home from the dark and bloody battlefields physically handicapped and psychologically deranged, cannot be reconciled with wisdom, justice and love.

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

I've spent much of my free time this week listening to the new Linkin Park album, A Thousand Suns, and this selection of a sermon is included as an interlude between tracks.  It's quite a different direction than other Linkin Park albums.  However, I do notice an expansion of a theme from the previous album, Minutes to Midnight: advocacy for peace and justice, perhaps best exemplified by the MLK quote, and this one as well:

We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent. I remember the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita. Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and to impress him takes on his multi-armed form and says: "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds." I suppose we all thought that, one way or another.

 - J. Robert Oppenheimer

Thinking about war breaks my heart sometimes.  There is a opposition inside myself, on the one hand compassionate caring for the people of the world, a love that doesn't leave room for intentional harm against another, let alone murder.  On the other hand, I understand there are those that would act to remove me from this world, a stance I can't see myself agreeing with.

So how does personal (and country) defense reconcile with the idea of do no harm?  Most of the time, for me, love wins out.  I stand opposed to war in all forms.  Yet, isn't there honor in defending your way of life against all odds?  How can I not advocate action when our fundamental being is under attack?

When I was in college, after 9/11, my grandmother was constantly pressing me to stand as a "Conscientious Objector."  She feared that there would be a draft, and I would be the first to head to the front lines.  While I never believed for a second that the politicians in Washington would actually dare to enact a draft, I also felt that, if it came down to it, I might join the military in some capacity, in order to help defend the country.  While I vehemently opposed the war in Iraq from its inception, I understood why we attacked Afghanistan, and didn't so much support it as not oppose it as much as I might have.

Here we are, nine years after 9/11, and the war in Iraq is finally drawing to a close (Mission accomplished?).  The war in Afghanistan is still full of action, full of killing, full of dying.  I wonder now why we started, if it seems as it does now that we never want to finish.  I think it was never meant to last this long, and the longer it goes on, the sadder I feel.

Is this why I came to seminary?  Could this be another direction to go?

Or is this just what happens when you listen to A Thousand Suns twelve times in four plus days?

Class: Day 1

I had my first class yesterday, Poetry and Theological Imagination. So far, it looks to be a fun class that might help reinvigorate a passion for writing. A jump-start is always welcome. Here, the result of an in-class session of writing:

Gravity revealed in the deftness against aging windows,
Wind whips whispers along panes and pages.
Nights wrapped in marshmallows run on,
Still with the turning of each page.
Children of eighty, eighteen, and eight
Ease the eons of passing moments,
Dancing and twirling, roundly righting ills
From details that sting.
Reflections on the snow and on the mind
Fall in silence, muffled by the white wetness.
Cold weather warms the soul from within.

Reflections

I've spent my week reflecting a lot on what brought me to PSR.  I suppose this event was the formation of the inkling of a far off idea in my head.  I miss my grandfather daily, and I know he would be so proud to see this new path in front of me.

Written for and read at Papa's memorial service:

Papa’s favorite color was orange, and there was no better place he could put it on display than a Giants game.  I can’t recall going to a game at the Stick without him.  Sometimes Grandma would be there, sometimes Melinda, and sometimes other folks, but sometimes it was just me and him.  One time, when I was fourteen, we came to the game early and sat in the family pavilion, watching batting practice for the visiting Cubs.  I stood just inside foul territory, next to the foul pole, waiting in anticipation with my glove on.  Sure enough, here came a long line drive, straight into my glove with a loud thwack…and then right back onto the field as I failed to catch it.  Luckily the player shagging flies picked it up and tossed it back to me: my first actual major league baseball!  Triumphantly, I returned to my seat and showed Papa in celebration before putting it away safely.

After the game started, I returned to the ball, just to peek at it again, but as I opened my glove, it wasn’t there.  We searched our bags, our pockets, the surrounding seats, and the front row, all in vain for a ball that was no longer there.  It was disappointing to no longer have that ball, but I quickly moved on because they were letting children fourteen and under run the bases after the game.  How could I pass at a chance to be on that cherished field?  But as I jogged around the diamond, I saw Papa walking up to one of the workers standing on the field.  I later found out that Papa asked about the area behind the fences under where we were sitting to see if there was a way for us to get that ball back.

That was Papa.  He never stopped thinking about what was important to each of us, and he never gave up on anything.  He was the definition of patience.  When he first moved to Santa Rosa, he saw in his small front and back yard some aging planter boxes and a lot of small rocks.  So, over the course of the next few summers, Papa and I set to work on his grand plan for a new yard.  First was removing the old planter boxes, then came removing the pebbles, then digging, digging, and digging some more.  We took out rose bushes and replanted rose bushes.  We cut through the hard Santa Rosa clay and replaced it with much better digging dirt.  We put together planter boxes, planted trees, laid bark, and finished with laying brick.  Papa had his vision, stuck to it, and eventually we got it done.  So, naturally, the next summer I helped pack up the house so Grandma and Papa could move to Colorado.

That sort of irony wasn’t lost on Papa, who found the humor and joy out of every situation in life.  I remember going to a jazz show in Golden Gate Park and seeing him dance in the aisles.  I remember him driving the hills of Diamond Heights in San Francisco like they were a roller coaster, delighting my sister and me, and terrifying Grandma.  I remember him not getting lost, but just having driving adventures.

But he wasn’t just interested in his own joy; he made sure those around him were having fun too.  He took us to the beach.  He took us travelling around the country to see nature everywhere.  He spent time with us in the pool, letting us ride on his back far past the age he really should have.   He even took those fun times and used them as teaching moments.  He took us to zoos and museums.  He sat with us while we were learning to drive.  He showed us how to create and to build.  For many years, I had a small, ugly, wobbly table that really couldn’t hold anything, but I kept it because I got to build it with Papa.

He was willing to do anything for anyone, and I think this was the core of his being.  His capacity for love was never ending, and he made sure to pass that to the rest of his family.  One year, as I prepared to return to college in Nebraska after a nice Christmas break, my sister was almost ready to give birth to her second child in San Jose.   I was to fly out Sunday morning, and on Friday night we got a call in Cotati that it was time to head to the hospital in San Jose.  As Mom and Erin, and Grandma and Papa scrambled to dive in the car and drive down south, I took the opportunity to speak up, “Uh, I’m leaving in two days and I need to get stuff tomorrow, like a suit, and food, and school supplies.”  So, Papa volunteered to possibly miss the birth of his second great-grandchild in order to take me around town on Saturday, and then to the airport on Sunday after maybe four hours of sleep.

But that’s who Papa was, and that’s who I try to be.  From teaching to travelling, from humor to love, I grew up most of my life living not far from Papa, and spent my time incorporating the best of Papa into my life.  I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to model my life after.  And when next I go to a Giants game, I know Papa will still be there, too, guiding me to that elusive foul ball.

A beautiful day in the neighborhood

What a whirlwind week it had been!  Funny how orientation can make you feel more disoriented.

I had a fantastic day yesterday to close orientation week, a day better than many than I've had in a very long time.  Really, there were only three things that happened, but they were so very profound to me.

First, a small group of us went to a labyrinth in Oakland.  There was a short hike high the hills to find a very decent sized labyrinth in an old quarry pit, brimming with nature.  It was a hot and dry day, yet right next to the labyrinth was a marshy area full of green plants.  The labyrinth itself was make of stones and plants meandering about each other.  The path was narrow and wide, the plants we dying and living, and the area was open and sometimes covered.  I had never been to a labyrinth before this, and it was a powerful experience.  It was a chance to stand in the presence of thoughts I had been running from this week, and to let spirit move and shape me without the idea of control of the situation.  We, as a group, were silent as we individually participated, yet in the times I needed them, I never felt alone.

Afterwards, I went to my last free meal at the cafeteria.  I sat with friends, but ended up having a long conversation with Patrick, telling him of my journey to PSR and my reasons.  We both agreed the really beautiful part was essentially a great kick to my head in the form of slipping on a bit of water in my kitchen.  Small things can be so profound.

While I was at the labyrinth, I decided I really wanted some root beer floats, and then Patrick suggested a movie night when we were talking at dinner.  A, meet B, and celebration is formed.  I found the grace of Kelly to take me to the store for supplies, and soon enough four others were in my studio to watch Where the Wild Things Are.

It seems so simple, yet so powerful of a movie to make me smile so when it ends.  Monday is a holiday that I am so very excited to celebrated, and then classes are in again.  Let the great rumpus start!