Postmodern Odysseus (Homecoming)

Odysseus' Ithaca, Greece

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery


Now that the time has come
Soon gone is the day
There upon some distant shore
You'll hear me say

Long as the day in the summer time
Deep as the wine dark sea
I'll keep your heart with mine
Till you come to me


May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time;
Arriving there is what you're destined for
But don't hurry the journey at all


There like a bird I'd fly
High through the air
Reaching for the sun's full rays
Only to find you there

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey
Without her you wouldn't have set out
She has nothing left to give you now

And in the night when our dreams are still
Or when the wind calls free
I'll keep your heart with mine
Till you come to me

Wise as you will have become,
so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then
what these Ithakas mean



Ithaka, Constantine Cavafy
Penelope's Song, Loreena McKennitt


For the journey in all of us. For the people who wish us happiness along the way. For the people we leave behind. For the people who await our return.

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Schrodinger's Newspaper

I push open the creaky screen door
and stoop down to pick it up
because I must know.
It comes rolled up with the headlines inside
a fortune cookie stuffed with misfortunes.
Crack it open and suffering will spill out.

I hesitate. Until I smooth the paper flat
tyrant and victim hover, suspended.
Until I read, the bullet hasn't left the gun,
the hammer hasn't hit the skull,
the suicide bomber hasn't pushed the button.

The nails and gunpowder will stay
packed tight in their satchel under the shirt.
The girl in the market will stand forever
with her hand on the melon, smiling.

The odds are clear. Death will take his share
and not be cheated. I open and read.
I ache, knowing I can't stop what already is.

And yet, every morning, my front steps are still here.
My screen door, the wet grass, the neighbor's cat, still here.
The rolled baton of newsprint on the step
is cool proof that the presses ran all night,
in that big building downtown, also still here.



poem by Cheryl Gatling
art by LIzard Incognito


And we are still here, both villain and victim, tossed about by the vicissitudes of fate...

Pie Jesu, miserere nobis, dona nobis pacem. Dona eis requiem.
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The Arrival

The Blue Door, Paris. Photograph by L. Style.

I saw you leaning against my door. When you heard my footfalls on the flags you turned your head and uncrossed your arms.

I allowed myself to take a step. You smiled, and it reached your eyes.

"Hey, ninja-girl."

I took another step toward you, marveling at how my heart can stand still at a voice. A face. A name.

And then I was running.


Under the lambent glow of every streetlight, at every distant doorway - I look for you. I will be waiting for your knock. I will be hoping.

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"I'll come to thee by the moonlight..."

Rutland Water, with a view of Hambleton Hall, Rutland, UK

I'm currently billeted in a 17th century hunting lodge in Rutland. This was a great idea of my travel agent's who wanted me to experience the English countryside. I'm enjoying it so far, including my room, which the innkeeper claims is haunted. Perhaps in deference to my otherworldly roommate the innkeeper told me to read Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman". She left an illustrated paperback of the poem on my nightstand to read at my leisure. After she'd left, I read the words out loud like a mantra, hoping to keep any unusual energy at bay. It's a moody and tragic piece, like any proper ghost story.

As I worked late into the night, I found this video interpretation of the poem online:



The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.


In memory of Clara Herrera and Rodrigo de Monsegur
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Should you choose to accept it...

The Accolade, Edmund B. Leighton, c. 1901

I assign you to be a beautiful, good,

kind, awakened, soulful person,

a true work of art as we say,

ser humano, a true human being.

In a world filled with so much darkness,

such a soul shines like gold;

can be seen from a far distance;

is dramatically different.

Want to help?

Show your deepest most divine self to the world.

There is nothing more rare, more strange, more needed.

Why would you wait? Not worthy? Oh piffle.

Not ready? Okay, so when? Next lifetime?

Don't be silly with me about this.

Inferiority complex?

Okay, let me put it this way to you:

you're not good enough to think you're not good enough.

Have you forgotten that you made promises

to your Beloved before you ever came to earth?

The time to fulfill these is truly now.

You want to cease feeling helpless,

and you want to help the aching world?

Serve someone and something.

Everyone on earth serves someone and something.

This means being your truest self now,

fulfilling the promises you made to heaven long ago.

Anything you do from the soulful self

will help lighten the burdens of the world.

Anything.

You have no idea what the smallest word,

the tiniest generosity can cause to be set in motion.

Be outrageous in forgiving.

Be dramatic in reconciling.

Be off the charts in kindness.

In whatever you are called to, strive to be devoted to it

in all aspects large and small.

Fall short? Try again.

Mastery is in increments, not in leaps.

Be brave, be fierce, be visionary.

Mend the parts of the world that are "within your reach."

To live this way is the most dramatic gift you can ever give to the world.

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Clarissa Pinkola-Estes, Your Assignment

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To Lola* C., on your 86th...

Le Barroux, Aix-en-Provence

Birthdays are like beginnings, you said. Last year I was with you on that hilltop off Mulholland drive where you marked the restarting of your life, under a vista of staggered stars.

You told me that evening reminded you of another one long ago, on that same spot. It was your first birthday far from home, in a new country, and you felt a trepidation that came from having to start over so late in your life. You drove through the poorly-lit bends on that narrow strip of road, unmindful of the steep drop on one side because up there the night looked more luminous, the moon and the stars more vibrant in their usual configurations (or did it seem that way because you were with the one you loved best?). You lingered until dawn, when the sun lazily opened its orange-red eye, and watched as the first sunrays splayed out across the sky in a riot of soft pale hues. As you reveled in the peace and stillness of a new day, your companion, who was not particularly devout, broke through his usual reserve to say," It's like being in the palm of God."


Nobody else I've known can tell a story like you. You are so generous with the details, for each one is deeply rooted in the landscape of your heart. Sometimes you would get so immersed in the recollection of a story that it scares me that you would disappear into it completely.

I told stories of my own that night. They came out as an avalanche of disordered thoughts and feelings, the kind that make people shake their heads and look at you funny should you have the misfortune to almost cry while telling them. These were the things that wallowed in silence for so long that when they finally found expression they were reduced to hackneyed bits of sentiment. And you listened anyway. It's as if you decided, at that moment, to indulge me like it's 1983 and I was a little girl in pigtails running up to you, grieved over my latest offense: I had scrawled my big and ungainly loops on almost all the pages of Lolo V.'s first edition Dillard with a thick-nibbed marker. I cried for days after he told me, rather morosely, that while he appreciated my artwork he'd have a bit of trouble reading his favorite book. Yeah, I miss him too.

I told you about my decision to move across the sea to the continent. What I considered a necessary passage at this stage of my life was looked at by many as an inexpedient attempt at displacement. I couldn't really explain why I felt that way, except that I wasn't ready to stop changing. You didn't immediately reply to that, but just gazed down at the expanse of city lights below. And when you finally did answer you told me that to willingly disconnect myself from the familiar is a tenuous freedom, fraught with a lot of uncertainties, a lot of risks. "But in the end it may be the only way to get you to that place of contentment within yourself. And there is no better time to go than when you feel that pull the strongest. The journey won't change you as much as you'd want it to if you even delayed another day. Besides," - and you looked at me as you said this -"you can't die knowing that you haven't even begun to live."


Some weeks back I was at Provence for my birthday. As soon as I arrived I was greeted by the phenomenon called the Mistral. A dry, violent wind from the northern regions, it is renowned among the residents as le vent qui rend fou or the wind that drives people mad. And indeed, it did not leave me alone, gusting heartily beside me on the street on my way to dinner, then took to rattling and bullying the doors, locks and rafters around the inn when I retired for the evening. I spent the night sitting in a corner with my head on my knees, hands clapped to my ears, thinking what a way to celebrate, and even then I couldn't hear myself think for all the howling outside as Le Mistral bent and twisted everything to its will. Finally in a fit of exasperation, I threw open the shutters. The wind whipped past with its usual ferocity, but when I looked up what I saw was nothing short of wonderful: a sea of blue-black cracking into tendrils of peach and rose that stretched towards the shell of the sky. It's as if the wind blew so hard it drove the twilight to relinquish its darkness and coaxed the dawn into being. As I looked on this confluence of elements refashioning creation I understood how you had felt a year ago on that peak over Mulholland. I experienced an ineffable sense of renewal, and to some degree, hope. I witnessed my beginning.


Happy birthday. May you be blessed with many more years. Many more beginnings. I love you very much. I miss you.

Card's in the mail :)


P.S. I'm sorry I can't be there to play your favorite songs on the upright, but I do have something for you. Happy listening :)

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*Lola is the Filipino term for "grandmother"


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Gifts

To: My kids, "Team Y.O.U. " ( Ives, Gia, Dai et al ), the volunteers - "Ambassadors" from Korea ( JKim, "Bebo", ChinH et al ) and the lovely K.L.L.

You guys are the best. I'm so grateful and humbled by all the love.

It's going to be a great year. We have so much to do. Bigger facilities, a nursery, additional educational resources, more counselors, 2 new vans, more streamlined food and medical programs, literacy outreach to the outlying villages are all in the works. No task is too great when your heart is in the right place. Please keep up the excellent work. I'm sending prayers and blessings your way.

"Let the little children come... and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these." Mark 10:14

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