The Weight of Bright Sadness (a Song for J, T, and B)

I remember the nights when sleep felt like death
and I couldn't decide if that's what I wanted. 
Isolated from all that I wanted to love, 
those winter nights felt haunted. 

Sleeping alone in bed next to her
I could hear the wind outside.
Or alone in my car in a hospital parking lot,
I could feel the wind blow through me. 

I was tired of life, but afraid to die; 
I loved, I hated, and I feared. 
I remember this well, look inside me and see
I was surprised by my own fear. 

But you are the dawn 
and you are my home. 

I could go away, sail across the sea. 
I could live on an island far away. 
It's a strange place but I'm learning to live
with the weight of bright sadness. 

What is withered in me will flower again
and all my illness be made well, 
and what is flowing and wasting away 
will regain its shape again.

For you are the dawn
and you are my home. 

This is a song I wrote recently for my friends J, T, and B - though it uses some of my own history and much of my own thought. The concept of "bright sadness" seems paradoxical, maybe. Is there such a thing as joyful mourning? Or bitter joy?  Melancholic celebration?  It's a truth that seems to defy logic. And it's a phrase found in the writings and prayers of many in the Orthodox church, especially during this season of Lent - a time of reflection on both suffering and death as well as hope and renewal.

I've also cribbed, somewhat, from the Confessions, of Saint Augustine - from IV. 6 and IV.11 in verses 3 and 5 respectively. For, as Augustine himself wrote, "often... while turning over haphazardly the pages of a book of poetry, one may come upon a line which is extraordinarily appropriate to some matter which is in one's own mind, though the poet himself had no thought of such a thing when he was writing..." (Confessions, IV. 3 - translated by Rex Warner 1963)

It Was Spring and It Was Lent

It was spring and he struggled against the wind as he walked his route. A storm had blown through recently and the lingering winds still buffeted. There was trash and debris in the streets, empty pizza cartons tumbling across yards and fallen tree limbs across the sidewalks. He stumbled occasionally over broken bricks and dislodged chunks of concrete. These things, however, would not keep him from his appointed rounds.

It was spring and it was Lent and somewhere overhead a hawk was screeching. Was it a warning? He thought about the passion and the pain that waited in the next few weeks. “Not everyone can carry the weight of the world,” he said to himself and was reminded of a song.

He thought of T. and of J. and C., his friend, his colleague, his brother, all of whom had reached out to him in the past year to say something of their struggles with life and their wrestling against death. “How can I carry that weight,” he thought to himself and he remembered his own occasional suicidal contemplations. “I can barely handle my own.”

He’d always felt like the family failure – with no college degree and two failed marriages. “How can I carry this?” He shifted the load he carried and stretched. His neck popped twice. He stretched again and his back popped as well. He sighed and continued along his path.

J. was there along his route, out for his regular morning walk. “How are you, J?” he called out to him. 
            “Not too good,” J answered in his halting manner. “I’ve been thinking about God and it hurts.” Then he let out a long and warbling wail. “It’s not been a good day.” He offered what solace and comfort he could to J. and promised to see him again the next day. Perhaps things would be better then…

Somewhere overhead the hawk was still screeching. Was it a warning? Was it a comfort?

Later, as he neared the end of his route, something triggered the memory of the way old Mrs. D. would play the piano in the lounge area of the nursing home. She kept her foot constantly on the sustain pedal so all the wrong notes – and there were many of them – continued to ring. And he remembered her singing through the dissonance:

“Let peace begin with me; let his be the moment now.
            With every step I take, let this by my solemn vow:
            To take each moment and  live each moment eternally
            Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.”

It was spring and it was Lent and he had miles to go before the end, but he would walk. He would carry what weight could shoulder and he would talk about the passion.  

Let There Be Peace on Earth – words and music by Sy Miller and Jill Jackson
Talk About the Passion - words and music by REM 

The Lenten Prayer of Saint Ephraim

The Lenten prayer of Saint Ephraim is said by Orthodox and Eastern Catholics during the weeks preceding Easter. 

Oh, Lord and Master of my life, take from me the spirit of sloth, faint-heartedness, lust for power, and idle talk. 

But give the spirit of chastity, humility, patience, and love to thy servant. 

Yes, Lord and King, grant me to see my own transgressions and not to judge my brother. For you are blessed unto ages of ages. Amen. 

 

Screaming into the Void 3

 Does it seem like the void is growing at an alarming rate these days? As if the void were an all consuming void engulfing the whole of reality?

Scream louder. Scream louder.  

But also do something nice for your neighbor. Donate to a good cause. Give of yourself. 

Today Was One of Those Days

 Today was one of those days when my feet felt heavy but my song was light. My hips ached a little maybe. My heart … my heart was somewhere in between, but what can you say with the world the way it is? I walked through glass, broken glass, following someone else’s memories. I tried new keys for unknown doors. This allowed me to improve my performance. 

I ventured, unaccompanied, into questionable places , into the lair of untrustworthy forces. Ring the bell and a gun appears. I was insulted from a great distance. The words came clouded but I could hear them - mostly/ “That Jeff Carter is a … loser!”

There were infrasonic wind chimes too low to hear; the vibrations were felt, not heard. I paused for cats and played with dogs. I spotted owls. I walked in and against the wind. 

Today was one of those days…

Backstage

 

Some Related Problems

 

Screaming into the Void 2

 It is time again for screaming into the void -  that vast, unknown, and frightening darkness that engulf us - a darkness for which  we are completely unprepared. Whoever screams into the void should see to it that in the process he does not become a void himself. For if you scream long enough into the void, the void will scream back at you.

Reflections on Forgiveness Sunday

 

The echoes of paradise still ring 
memories of a place I've never been
from the garden they were thrown
still trying to find my way back home again, again, again. 

You went missing years and years ago
and where you've gone I could never know
I've seen your face a thousand times
but never in the New York Times, oh no, oh no, oh no. 

The mountains loomed so large out there
when I was breathing in the desert air
I would call to apologize
and to forgive your lies but you don't care, don't care, don't care.

I'm happier than I was before
since she walked through my front door
but here's a great mystery 
that the shape of you is still in me, oh, oh, oh. 

She is sleeping now so whisper
but when she wakes I will kiss her
in the noon and twilight times 
I will sing in broken rhymes for her, for her, for her. 

I wrote this song as I was delivering packages yesterday afternoon - on Forgiveness Sunday (also known as Cheesefare Sunday in the Orthodox Church) - the last Sunday before lent. 

Crucifixion

 

Is this Glory?

It's dark, but it's time 
get up now, get ready. 
Don't let the day slip by
not tomorrow but today. 

It's all been said before;

say it again so they can't ignore.
The paradise of the rich 
is built on the hell of the poor. 

Is this glory? Is this pride?
Have we our love denied? 

They want us to close our eyes.
They want us to believe their lies.
But we won't bend the knee
or salute thier tyranny. 

Is this glory? Is this pride?
Have we our love denied? 

A Trump is blown in the city
but the people there are not afraid. 
The prophet spoke of the mercy of God
but the citizens would not be swayed. 

Is this glory? Is this pride?
Have we our love denied? 

- with thanks to Victor Hugo, the prophet Amos, and Bishop Budde.