Archive for the ‘Saints’ Category

Wednesday, December 13th, 2023

“Indeed, it is perhaps the notion of possessiveness that characterizes the fundamental problem of the human being. True freedom involves a kind of self-dispossession, and a letting go of the attachment to the ‘mine-ness’ of one’s actions… We need to be ‘still,’ to empty ourselves of worldly distractions and illusory attachments, to be able to ‘hear’ and come to understand the Word that is eternally communicated by the Father in the ground. In this sense, it is not as though God is absent in us and then becomes present due to some action of ours that we undertake of our own initiative. Rather, for Eckhart, our task as human beings is to come to be able to listen to — and thereby apprehend — the Word that is eternally and always poured out into us.”

Amber Griffioen, on Meister Eckhart, 5/1/23

The world without her remains a world full of Mombo.

Sunday, January 1st, 2023

This past month was dominated by the earthly departure of my mother. The role she played in my becoming an artist and the approach I bring to my practice cannot, and should not, be understated. What a debt I owe to her, and to pay it forward will require that I live as long as she! I might’ve started “giving back” much earlier, if it had been my basic nature. I can be a quick study for most things, but it often takes me far too long to learn the rest, especially when it involves stepping beyond my own creative urge. Her life was a lesson in putting others before self. In order to support her parents’ household in a world at war, she turned down a full scholarship to the same University of Cincinnati that I would eventually attend. Decades later, in a nest recently emptied of seven children, and just as she was about to explore her own personal interests, she followed her family to a remote part of a rural Kentucky county. As a widow, she built an ethical foundation for a land-based legacy that is now set to endure for generations. When she faced a grim medical prognosis that would break the spirit of others, she maintained a zest for life, an obvious concern for how it might affect others, and an astonishing diligence to push back against it. The world of my youth had shouted, “Be cynical, or pessimistic, or both,” but she would always be my reliable source of optimism, like a spring which never dries up. I could’ve become a quitter early on, but she helped me to overcome discouragement born of self-doubt and to fulfill commitments. If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Why not always do your very best? And then you will automatically get better. Along with my siblings, everything was done to provide the care she needed to continue living at home, until it became no longer possible. Those years — what could be mistakenly judged as sacrificial — strengthened our family bond in a way that will last us for the duration. To separate that from my activity as an artist was unnecessary at the time and foolhardy in hindsight. Above and beyond the value of artisanship, she taught me that a creative life without love for others is devoid of meaning. Of all the souls I have intimately known, hers is the most worthy of imitation.

March Ex(clusion) — third day

Thursday, March 3rd, 2022

“A man is never such an egoist as at moments of spiritual exaltation, when it seems to him that there is nothing in the world more splendid and fascinating than himself.”
– Leo Tolstoy, The Cossacks
 

Last night’s documentary provides a burst of self assurance for today’s outlook. I decided to create a miniature for the local Tiny Art fundraiser — a “prime-the-pumper” that fits my current momentum in the studio, with no lasting significance intended. On the other hand, after having seen my show in Lexington, Danny handed a copy of The Cloud of Unknowing to me, out the window of his truck. “This is going to sound over the top, but it’s just the way it is,” he said, a whiff of diesel exhaust hanging in the unseasonably warm air. “I’m loaning this book to you for ten years.” Something suggests that it may be one of the most important things to happen during this interval of my life.

Today’s sight bite— Luminous, high-altitude popcorn clouds sailing above vessels of deep purple-gray, —c-l-i-c-k— as Apollo’s blazing chariot plunges beyond the edge of the world.

Saturday, February 6th, 2021

 
Earlier this week, Dana and I traveled to Ohio with Terie to pay tribute to her grandmother, Jane. I like to point out that Dana found only one satisfactory mate in life, but she was blessed to have two first-class mothers-in-law. Saints, like all human beings, have imperfections, although they best emulate the only perfect example known to us, and show us how to live. Jane was that kind of person.

It was an emotional trip for another reason. Jane’s street-level funeral procession, from Moraine to North Dixie Highway, will stick with me for a long time. I can’t recall ever having seen such a disturbing progression of urban blight than what I witnessed from the back seat as Dana drove. We were all acutely aware of our surroundings. Every red light was bypassed within the supervision of local police. The steady, harrowing vision outside was that of a sad wreck — a city that I knew so well in the ’80s as Dayton, Ohio.

“Oh, the humanity . . .” (in the true spirit of the original lament)

 

 

Wednesday, February 3rd, 2021

Jane Booton
 
Jane Booton
 

Jane Lou Hovis Willoughby Booton
1 9 2 5 – 2 0 2 1
a life of faith, kindness, strength, and dignity
R
I
P

kia walaia

Tuesday, June 18th, 2019

I’ve reached page 179 of In Search of Robinson Crusoe and Tim Severin finally brings tears to my eyes with his description of Marco’s farewell (kia walaia, which translates from Miskiti as “to smell, to understand”). An adequate substitute for O’Brian this summer, I discovered this writer and true-life adventurer while cutting up an old Outside magazine. When I finish this, I must find his book on the North Atlantic voyage of Saint Brendan, a feat which Severin dangerously re-enacted with an authentic skin-covered boat.
• When I thought, “What is the purpose of all this?” as I was taking care of a completely disoriented and feeble Mombo, the only possible answer is what John Paul II called “the law of the gift” — the giving of oneself as the path to true happiness. It aligns with the single greatest of commandments, to love. But it also requires the conscious awareness, consent, and acceptance of the giver, or the gift becomes something else, and can be perverted so readily into resentment, or the sense of injustice. And so, it is not just the doing. It must be the mindfulness behind it, too.

Thursday, July 28th, 2016

March Exercise IX ~ day seventeen

Monday, March 17th, 2014

After a night’s rest, I found an image of two beach shells to refine my unfinished collage miniature, and (presto!) it was done. More often than not, it is necessary for me to continue layering before declaring victory. Today is St. Patrick’s Day, the flimsiest excuse to get drunk that ever was invented. The alcohol ban inherent in the CLEAN regimen takes that potential out of commission for me. We are over halfway done with the program. I missed Juliana’s birthday. The push for larger artworks has decimated my card-making practice, even for family. The end of an era is at hand (or probably already over, and I am just getting around to admitting it).

Who dat?

Sunday, February 7th, 2010

There have been years in the past when I couldn’t have told you the teams competing in the Super Bowl, even if the fate of my eternal soul had depended on it. Fast forward to today, when I awaited the big game with immense anticipation. What changed? First of all, I spent enough time with a great football-watching friend to understand that NFL players are the most amazing athletes in the world. Jacob, 2010And then, when Bruce was gravely ill and we spent a good portion of a year hanging out around Indianapolis, I began to favor the Colts. The clincher took place last year, when I worked professionally with local star Jacob T, a second-year back-up tight end and special team starter for the team, following his brilliant career at the University of Kentucky. After that I was hooked on Indy, deriving much pleasure from watching their “almost-perfect” season and playoff success. Nevertheless, despite my desire to see Jacob be part of a Super Bowl victory, I’m not sad that the Colts fell short against the Saints tonight, because my heart is with Kristi and the Hornsby family as they enjoy a wonderful celebration in New Orleans.

J O H N

Sunday, December 27th, 2009

Fisherman, Disciple, Evangelist, Visionary

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Crash Bucket Chronicles — Epilogue

Friday, February 20th, 2009

“Death is at all times solemn, but never so much so as at sea. A man dies on shore; his body remains with this friends, but when a man falls overboard at sea and is lost, there is a suddenness in the event, and a difficulty in realizing it, which give to it an air of awful mystery.”

—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
 

We navigate in a sea of souls…
    Grim reality has a way of sweeping aside all the self-absorbing trivialities that clog a journal like this, but rather than ask myself — “What’s the point of it all?” — why not scratch ahead with a continued search for meaning? Maybe for me. Maybe for you. Maybe, maybe not. If I stopped believing it worth a try, this would be my final post.
    Not long after the bulk of our community had shaken off the surprise of our shared crisis, most of us were shocked to learn that the life of a respected local leader had been tragically lost. If his name was added to the list of Kentucky’s weather-related deaths, it is unknown to me, but what is clear is that he was found in a vacant house where he’d been working with a generator. The coroner said the circumstances were consistent with carbon monoxide poisoning. It was a mild day. He wasn’t attempting to heat the building. People speculated that the wind blew the door shut while he was operating a sump pump. The precise circumstances remain a puzzle. I didn’t know anyone active in town affairs that didn’t consider him a friend. He covered the leadership bases—from business to social service. He made multiple trips to the Gulf Coast as a volunteer to help with the Katrina response. He was highly intelligent, compassionate, and knew how to do almost anything. The Chamber of Commerce named him “outstanding citizen” over fifteen years ago, but he never slowed down. He took to his grave an unmatched knowledge of the County’s industrial development history and infrastructure. He was the last of a breed of quiet men who had made a truly significant difference. The abrupt vacancy was painfully felt. I spent two hours in line to offer his family a few words that wouldn’t sound trite. I’m not sure that I succeeded.
    I didn’t attend the funeral the next day, but paid a visit with my friend Danny to the Abbey of Gethsemani. It was my first time there. It was raining and in many respects would have been considered a dismal day, but others were also making the same pilgrimage, and I found a sense of peace in the setting that defied personal understanding. God is everywhere, but keenly present in some places, and that suggests to me the appropriate use of the word “sacred.” We also stopped at the Saint Rose church in Springfield to meet Father Murray, and I had my first look at the extraordinary Bavarian-style windows. Father Murray is extraordinary, too. At age 87, he looked to me to be in his mid 70s. He told me, “Well, I’ve always gotten a lot of exercise.” He pointed out 70-year-old trees damaged in the ice storm that he helped plant when he was a novice. The seminary was moved east long ago and the associated buildings demolished, but the church remains, a splendid structure full of artistic treasures, including a 13-figure Last Supper and a 12-figure Pentecost, all wood carved in the Italian fashion. Danny wanted to show me the Convent near Loretto and to check on any damage to the outdoor Way of Sorrows. It was evident that huge limbs from the tall grove of surrounding trees had crashed all about, but the only casualty was The Crucifixion. We marveled that each figure of Our Lady had escaped harm, but that “Christ took the hit.”
    Several days before, Joan had an opportunity to meet Danny when he joined Joan, Dana, and me at the Hub for coffee after one of Hayley’s high-scoring victories. It was another meaningful, in-depth discussion about heavy subjects. Joan thought she might have intruded and skewed the conversation. Nothing could be further from the truth. Danny told be later he was pleased to meet her and said that my sister was a “strong soul.” He is correct, of course, but I’ve already known that for some time. Danny is quite a soul himself. The word I would use is “magnanimous.” Yesterday he brought over his pole saw and tied himself to my chimney so he could deal with the big branches that were still jack-knifed on our rooftop. One of his earliest memories is watching his father top trees as a lumberjack in the high Sierras. He seems to have the right tool for everything and knows how to use them safely. I can’t say how much I appreciate that in two hours of work together, his generous favor of skill has saved me hundreds of dollars in tree-service fees (or maybe more, from what I’ve heard around town about what people have been charged since the storm).
    So, with power now restored for Mombo and Clan Valley and the last of my storm-related headaches resolved, can I say that circumstances have returned to normal? “Not hardly,” as the expression goes. I think I’m battling the same virus that put Bruce back in the hospital yesterday with pneumonia. We’re sleeping on the floor because we made the blunder of giving away our old mattress before FedEx delivered the complete replacement set (and, wouldn’t you know it, they lost part of it). I have no complaints. Things are picking up in the studio, and I have a fun project to work on with KK & K. It’s time to put the Crash Bucket away and begin preparing for the March Exercise.

Happy, happy

Wednesday, February 13th, 2008

Big Sis Birthday!

On the eve of departing for Guatemala, Jerome made his special fried fish as part of her celebration dinner. How can brothers hope to compete with that? (We don’t even try.)

Joan’s MO-JO is the place to GO for the latest “Molina Alert.” I’ll be staying glued to it for the next week! (Lord Michael above, Lord Michael below…)
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The day’s sweet vanity

Saturday, March 17th, 2007

March experiment—day seventeen— Today has been a strange day, in a sense, full of subtle contrasts, not as I expected it to transpire, but the nets of artistic progress are full to the bursting point. I haven’t spent so many hours in a deeply intuitive mode for a very long time. The relentless momentum of decision making set the stage for many days of labor, and I was able to preserve that orientation, even though I took TV breaks to watch four different closing contests between men’s NCAA basketball teams, including one that almost went into triple overtime. All the way through this, I felt the tension born of knowing what I wasn’t doing, and, piled on that, the awareness of how odd a vein of aesthetic ore I’m mining, for God knows what reason. The more I get into this, the more I wonder what it’s all about, what part of myself I’m paying tribute to, what meaning or lack thereof I bring to others. On Saint Patrick’s Day, there isn’t a beer in the house, just the words of William Butler Yeats scratching at my soul—

The Choice

The intellect of man is forced to choose
Perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.

When all that story’s finished, what’s the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day’s vanity, the night’s remorse.

Two spirits, one heart

Monday, April 17th, 2006

• A first son, he was named for his father, so he also named his first son after himself. The world can always use another John.

• He would have been 83 today. His birthday didn’t fall on Easter this time, but Resurrection was always in the air as he turned a year older. He was blessed, like me, to have his favorite season at birthday time. He loved the spring—preparing the garden soil, and sharing his awe at the rebirth of each living thing. Although winter never kept him indoors, his mood always brightened perceptibly when the woods and river bottom came back to life.

• He often hid his sorrows, but never his affection. He could be fierce when setting strict standards of excellence, but his strong regard for personal initiative and the special destiny of the individual was always clear.

• He battled his demons, like most men—did the saints not engage, spar with, and confound them; did the Savior himself not find it necessary to cast them out? He silently carried the secrets of others, but held out his mistakes as lessons to those he loved, in the generous spirit for which he was known.

• A magnanimous man who put others at ease, it was never easy to see him as the lifelong warrior he proved to be. His dedication to country was intertwined with his love for his kin. He didn’t need to look upward to cathedral heights or forest canopy to connect to his Lord, but he would be at peace equally in both sacred places.

• We were very different types of individuals in many respects, but shared a similar temperament, for better or worse. While he was alive, I really had no other mentor. There are sides of myself I wouldn’t or couldn’t discover until he was gone. I would have liked for him to have seen some of those aspects.

• He is my namesake, and among those who are dearly missed, he was the great catalyst in my life. His legacy is strong. His influence will endure. His Clan will live long.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my “Dadbo.” I love you, forever…

Love one another

Tuesday, December 27th, 2005

I generally don’t pay much attention to the calendar that honors the saints, but I always take special note of the “feast day” that falls on this date. This holy person, familiar to all Christians, is referred to as “John the Apostle” or “John the Evangelist,” but I know him as “John the Beloved.” The only one of the Twelve to endure his Master’s passion until the end, the well-being of the Blessed Mother was entrusted to his guardianship, and, perhaps less obvious, Jesus also committed his mother to caring for John as her son (John 19:27). How singular his role! The Father would preserve his life to an advanced age after all the other Apostles were long slain.

Why do I regard John so highly? Yes, my name is John and have held this attachment since childhood, plus I’ve always taken pleasure in the Easter moment when John wins the footrace to the tomb against Peter. I also like how he comes to our attention as a seeker, transferring his interest (with Andrew!) from the Baptist (another John) to Jesus—hey, gimme a break, I’m named after two guys who weren’t against going where the path took them. But I know myself well enough to see that it’s the sacred personality of John that holds deep spiritual appeal for me. His fundamental message of love is more powerful than intellectual arguments, and he influences my conviction that love in action may be the only true religion. He was also the strongest—before the Holy Spirt came into the picture.

There are times when I think that there are two kinds of Christians, those that say to themselves, “I’d have been scared, too, and stayed away,” and those who say to themselves, “I’d have stayed with Jesus and let the chips fall.” For those of us who believe we might have had the courage to stand there and watch, the “disciple whom Jesus loved” is our saint. But I’m a man, and must now remind myself that Mary Magdalene also kept the vigil with Mother Mary. And then there are times when I think that this notion is flawed, for, as Robert Benchley wrote, “There are two kinds of people in the world: those who divide the world into two kinds of people, and those who don’t.”

On behalf of Bruce

Tuesday, March 22nd, 2005

my son, and brother in Christ…

“Let not your heart be disturbed. Do not fear any sickness or anguish. Am I not here, who is your Mother? Are you not under my protection? Am I not your health? Are you not happily within my fold? What else do you wish? Do not grieve nor be disturbed by anything…” —Our Lady of Guadalupe to Juan Diego

“Thou seest, O my Lord, Thy suppliant waiting at the door of Thy bounty, and him who hath set his hopes on Thee clinging to the cord of Thy generosity. Deny him not, I beseech Thee, the things he seeketh from the ocean of Thy grace and the Daystar of Thy loving-kindness…” —Bahá’u’lláh

“O, Mother, in thy Heart, I come to bury my anguish and to seek strength and courage. O, Mother, may my heart be hidden in thine and have no other love but the good pleasure of my Divine Master…” —Saint Bernadette

“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgiveth all thine iniquities, who healeth all thy diseases, who redeemeth thy life from destruction, who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies…” —Psalms 103:1-4

“I AM the Flame of Resurrection blazing God’s pure Light through me. Now I AM raising every atom, from every shadow I AM free. I AM the Light of God’s full Presence, I AM living ever free. Now the flame of Life eternal rises up to Victory.” —El Morya