The time you grew unseen, Known but theoretically, Dependent and not guaranteed, Felt only by your mother. Hours your mother labored And brought you to the world, Hair, forehead, chin, one arm And then your voice. Weeks of embodied care Passed between toothless gums To the tune of infant breathing, Walking, rocking, singing, praying. Nights measured by a tiny Body's needs, By how much heart it takes to clean Each mustard-colored stain, When time, contingency, and choice Walked so close that they Forgot autonomy And started to resemble love. Previous  §  Next

There are few clearer breakings in  of otherness than parenthood. The blood and smell and frailty of life,  when caring becomes a constant expectation  instead of something  one feels good about on weekends. I realized I wasn't sure we'd all survive.  So I would wake and listen  or scrutinize the monitor  for signs our oldest was still breathing.  And I started to be grateful for the person  our daughter's presence formed me into. Previous  §  Next

The clock unhung marks seconds as they pass. Daylight begins to push away the dark behind the clouds. I stare at emptiness and ponder ash and spiderweb. A toddler starts to murmur in the other room. Previous  §  Next

Antony Gormley's "Sound II" in the  Winchester Cathedral  crypt, Winchester, UK, with tour guide, Angela Forder, in the background. Knowing then seems personal, not just because I am a person  but because coming to understand anything seems to require the same curiosity,  humility, and discomfort that is required to know another person. But here too we find a kind of contradiction.  Knowing is complicated by my neediness,  blindspots, assumptions, privileges. There is no me that is not also  me the grandson, me the father,  husband, neighbor, friend.  And yet I am distinct.  My story and my way of seeing  are not universal.  Some things are my responsibility and some things aren't. It takes something that doesn't fit my current stories  to make me stop and notice what I didn't know before. Previous  §  Next

Now on the street, I see a stranger's face. How will I give this other world it's space? Or will I stamp my image in her place? Grand Central Station, New York City, N. Y. Grand Central Station, New York City, N. Y. Grand Central Station, New York City, N. Y. Literary Walk, Central Park, New York City, N. Y. Bust of Ludwig von Beethoven, Central Park, New York City, N. Y. Sculpture of Sir Walter Scott, Central Park, New York City, N. Y. Bethesda Fountain, Central Park, New York City, N. Y. The New York Public Library, New York City, N. Y. Times Square, New York City, N. Y. Previous  §  Next

The truth of others and of things  seems to reside not in my mind  but in the others and the things themselves.  In conversations I was privileged to have,  David Vishanoff, associate professor at the University of Oklahoma,  stressed, as I recall,  not studying books that tell how others think,  but listening (or reading) and allowing others to explain themselves. To put it more precisely,  as he does in his paper, “Sacrificial Listening,”  “Knowledge in the humanities is good  if it enables ethical human relationships  characterized by integrity  and by an ongoing process of coming to understand the other.”  These thoughts and his family's kind inclusion of myself and others  in their holidays and Sunday afternoons exemplified to me an honest curiosity,  “a willingness to sacrifice the advantages of [thinking I already know],  so that the person I get to know is really the Other ...

We are the suicidal and less able, left behind by admonition to prosperity. We are the rich in shame, the living dead oppressive self-consumers. Unwanted by ourselves. “...you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Previous  §  Next

I miss Grandma, her spotless house, and running walk, her “Age is a state of mind.” I think of her hunched over, whispering back and forth, “Oh, God, help us.” Tears rolling down her and her daughter's cheeks. “...you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Previous  §  Next

Dreams blow away like smoke, and those gold touches turn to fools. Now I'm too lonely to remember taste; too tired to recompose; too busy to believe in doing things. I've lost my faith in what will happen next. “...you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Previous  §  Next

It seems like I was stronger once; and thought to understand. And I believed in doing good and thereby also doing well. But... “...you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Previous  §  Next

The Hebrew poets are most credible perhaps in their conflictedness  especially about the violence their history contains.  Psalm 18 celebrated King David's victories. But in 1 Chronicles 22:8,  Nathan the prophet tells David he won't build the temple. “...because you have shed so much blood in [God's] sight on the earth,”  echoing words God spoke to Cain in Genesis:  “...your brother's blood is crying out to me from the ground.” In Psalm 104, “...young lions roar for their prey,  seeking their food from God.”  But Isaiah uses similar images to hope for future peace: “...and the calf and the lion and the fattened calf together; and a little child shall lead them....” One might say something of this longing lives in “Bambi” and “Tarzan.” Previous  §  Next