Category: growth into humanity

The War Prayer by Mark Twain

On By MaryIn ethics, growth into humanity, Peace, social justice4 Comments

 

Mark Twain surely was one of America’s great authors. He may be best known for his books “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and “The Adventures of Huckleberry  Finn.” Both are fine books, not without their flaws or controversy, but quite fine. However, my favorite piece of his writing is the War Prayer. It too is not without its flaws or controversy. All the more reason then to give it a read. …

So, here it is, please have a read – all the way to the end if you would, please? Then, do let me know what you think? it is after all a think piece…

 The War Prayer   by Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory with stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener.

It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety’s sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender!

Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation:

God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest,
Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!

Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory —

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, “Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord and God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!”

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside — which the startled minister did — and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

“I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty God!” The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. “He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import — that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of — except he pause and think. “God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, and the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this — keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon your neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain on your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse on some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

“You have heard your servant’s prayer — the uttered part of it. I am commissioned by God to put into words the other part of it — that part which the pastor — and also you in your hearts — fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard the words ‘Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!’ That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory — must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

“Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth into battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it —

For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!

We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits.”

…

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

Chop Wood, Carry Water; Lay down your burden, then pick it up again

On By MaryIn growth into humanity, Koan, social justice, stories for social change3 Comments

 Each moment is part of an era. Each era is part of a time. I like to think of myself as a child of the ‘60’s. In my mind, the ‘60’s were dramatic and romantic. The ‘60’s were the era of hippies, they were the time of free love. They were the time of deep social unrest and protest, of fighting for civil rights and to end the Viet Nam war. The ‘60’s culminated in Woodstock, “An Aquarian Exposition: 3 Days of Peace & Music” at at Max Yasgur’s farm in of Bethel, New York.  Woodstock happened in 1969 and brought the ‘60’s to their fulfillment.  I wanted to be a child of the ‘60’s. I wanted to be at Woodstock. I found out about it after it was over. I was a child of the ‘70’s.

In college I discovered Asia. I took a course in world religions, and discovered Taoism, Buddhism, and Zen. I fell into deep infatuation with Zen Buddhism, and began to aspire to enlightenment. Some of that occasionally seeps into this blog, I think.

Today I am remembering a book I read a while back: Chop wood and carry water. The essence of the book is that before enlightenment we must chop wood and carry water, after enlightenment we continue to chop wood and carry water.  In my youth I used to play with this and say that we should chop water and carry wood. Then it was funny because it was clear that I was playing with the words. Now that I am older, when I play like that people are inclined to think about early onset Alzheimer’s. I am a bit more aware of who and where I play now. It is important to remember and respect the era within which you walk as you play. If you would be with me, it is also important to be aware of the depth and luminosity of the twinkle in my eye. Sometimes playing is just playing.

There is a Zen story that I’m fond of (there are many actually, but here is one of them). It reminds me of “Chop wood and carry water.” The story is called “Lay down your burden then pick it up again”

A troubled woman named Tan could not figure out how to live. So she began meditating to find some answers. After many months she felt no progress, so she asked the temple priest for help. 

The priest said, “Go see old Jah.” 

So she hiked to old Jah’s village and came upon the happy-looking old man coming from the forest under a heavy load of firewood. 

“Excuse me, honored Jah,” she said. “But can you teach me the secret of life?” 

Jah raised his eyebrows and gazed at Tan. Then with some effort he twisted out from beneath his great bundle of firewood and let it crash to the ground. 

“There, that is enlightenment,” he said, straightening up with relief and smiling. 

The troubled woman looked on in shock at the prickly firewood scattered over the ground. “Is that all there is to it?” she said. 

“Oh, no,” said Jah. Then he bent down, collected all the scattered sticks, hoisted them carefully up on his back and made ready to walk on. “This is enlightenment, too. Come. Let’s go together for tea.” 

So Tan walked along with Jah. “What is old Jah showing me?” she asked. 

Jah replied, “this is life, this is enlightenment. First, yes, you suffer a heavy burden. Many do. But, as the Buddha taught and many have realized, much of your burden and much of your joylessness is your craving for what you can’t have and your clinging to what you can’t keep. 

“Then you can see that the nature of your burden and of the chafing you experience as you try to cling to it are useless, unnecessary, damaging, and then you can let it go. 

“In doing so, in awakening to this awareness you find relief, and you are freer to see the blessings of life and to choose wisely to receive them.” 

“Thank you, old Jah,” said Tan. “And why did you call picking up the burden of firewood again enlightenment as well?” 

“One understanding is that some burden in life is unavoidable — and even beneficial, like firewood. With occasional rest it can be managed, and with freedom from undue anxiety about it, it will not cause chafe. 

“Once the undue burden is dropped, we straighten up and see and feel the wonder and power of being. Seeing others suffering without that freedom and blissful experience, we willingly and knowingly pick up their burdens out of compassion joining and aiding others in their various struggles for liberation, enlightenment and fulfillment.” 

“Thank you, Old Jah,” said the exhilarated Tan. “You have enlightened me.” 

“Ah-so,” said Jah. “Your understanding is enlightened. Now to make it part of your living and your spirit, you must go follow the eight practices and meditate. Then you will learn to detach yourself from your useless burden of cravings and to attach yourself to the profound source of being out of which life, creativity, joy and compassion form and flow.” 

And so Tan went and did. And understanding the truths gave her comfort. And practicing the good behaviors kept her from harming herself or others anymore. And concentrating on the deep blissful potential of life gave her a continuing sense of companionship and joyful awe and of well-being in his spirit, no matter what else of pain she had to deal with. 

So it is as well with our work for social justice and human rights. It is a process, a path we choose to walk. Some days we feel like Sisyphus  continually pushing the rock of fairness up the hill only to have it roll back down on us. But, as we let go of our attachments to what should be and open our hearts and minds to what is and what can be, we can begin to notice and celebrate the progress that together we are achieving. We are each of us a drop in the ocean, and together we are the waves that wash ever more powerfully on the beach of fairness and dignity. Let no one doubt the power of the ocean and the tides.

We may lay down our burdens, and we will take them up again. We will chop wood and carry water. The times they are a-changing. Peace, justice and dignity will reign across our land.

Michelangelo and The Stonecutter

On By MaryIn alchemy, growth into humanity, vision and perspective3 Comments

The path to greatness is seldom smooth or straight. Indeed, excellence is a hard won standard. When I think of greatness and excellence in art, Michelangelo is certainly one of the names that fairly quickly comes to my mind. But art was not Michelangelo’s most predictable career, it was his most passionate calling.

On March 6, 1475 Michelangelo was born Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni in  Caprese in Tuscany, Italy. For generations the men in his family had been bankers, his father was a banker, and everyone expected that Michelangelo would carry on the family tradition, and that he too would make the honorable and respectful choice – that he would become a banker. Banking was in his blood after all. But life is not always predictable. Life is often not predictable.

In 1481, when Michelangelo was 6 his mother became very ill, and died. This was more than his father could bear, and that year Michelangelo was sent to the country to live with a stonecutter and his family. Michelangelo was fascinated with the work of the stone cutter. He was entranced with the man’s ability to step up to the side of a mountain and elicit from it blocks of stone which the man then transformed into shapes and figures. Michelangelo would watch the stonecutter for hours, noticing how he held and used the tools, how he stood and moved in relationship with the mountain.

But Michelangelo was six and had just lost his mother. For a young boy, love and hate are very near neighbors. One day Michelangelo’s grief at his loss of his mother exploded as he witnessed the stonecutter’s happiness. If he (Michelangelo) was miserable and unhappy, it was not fair that this man should have such peace and contentment in his life. (Of course Michelangelo could not have put these words to his feelings, but in later years, he found his way to a similar expression as he thought back on this day.) He raged at the stonecutter. He berated him for his lowly station in life, for the lack of comforts, for the lack of power and influence that the stonecutter had achieved.

The man listened thoughtfully to the young boy. He let him go on until his emotions were spend, and when the anger and run its course and became tears, the stonecutter gathered Michelangelo into his strong arms and hugged him tenderly as if he were his own son. Then he sat down with Michelangelo on his lap and told him this story.

Michelangelo, the things you say to me are nearly true. They are matters that have come to my mind in the past, and I have considered them most carefully, for at one time I was quite dissatisfied with myself and with my position in life.

Then, one day I was walking by a very wealthy merchant’s home. Through the gate and past the door of his house I was more riches than I could ever have imagined. The man had important visitors coming and going all day. “How important and powerful this merchant must be.” I thought to myself. I envied him like no other, and wished that I could be him. Well, to my astonishment, I became the merchant. I was enjoying luxuries and power beyond my greatest dreams. I was envied – and detested – by those less wealthy than myself.

But then the Governor passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by servants and soldiers and musicians and dancing girls. Everyone bowed before the procession. And I thought, “How important and powerful this Governor is.” I envied him like no other, and wished that I could be a great Governor.

And before I could blink my eye, I was the Governor. I was carried everywhere in a beautiful sedan. I had servants, and guards and musicians. My wishes became commandments, and all bowed before me. And then one day was especially hot, and I became sweaty and sticky and uncomfortable in my chair. I looked up and saw the sun. The sun beamed magnificently in the sky, unaffected by my presence and commands, unaffected by anyone. And I thought, “How powerful is the sun.” And I wished that I could be the sun.

And as soon as I had finished my thought, I was the sun. I was shining brightly, fiercely on everyone. I scorched the fields and dried the ponds, and the farmers and sweating laborers cursed at me. And just then a magnificent storm cloud moved between me and the earth, so that my light could not be seen by anything below. And I thought, “How magnificent and powerful that storm cloud is.” And I wished that I could be the storm cloud.

I became the cloud, and I sent out my rain. I flooded the rivers and the fields. The villagers looked up and shouted at me. And as they did, I could feel myself being moved. It was the wind blowing me away. And I thought, “How powerful the wind is!” And I wished that I was the wind.

And in the instant of that thought, I was the wind. I was a splendid and powerful wind. I blew roofs off houses, uprooted trees. I was feared by everyone. But then I came up against something that I could not move, no matter how I blew against it, no matter how much force and speed I used. It was a huge towering stone mountain. And I thought, “How powerful that mountain is.” And I wished that I could be that mountain.

And, I became the mountain. Standing strong and sure, I was more powerful than anything else on this earth. But as I stood there, I heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the solidity of my rock. I felt myself being changed. “What could be more powerful than me? I am solid stone?” And I looked down and saw a stonecutter.

And once again I became how I was and always will be.

And Michelangelo snuggled into the stonecutter’s arms and murmured, “I will be who I will always be” even as he held onto the stonecutter’s chisel.

Michelangelo is often quoted as saying, “If there is some good in me, it is because I was born in the subtle atmosphere of Arezzo. Along with the milk of my nurse I received the knack of handling chisel and hammer.” Michelangelo grew to be one of the world’s most respected stonecutters.

with thanks to Benjamin Hoff for his version of the stonecutter in the Tao of Pooh, and to the myriad versions of the Chinese/Japanese/Indian parable on the web.

24 hours to die, 24 hours to live

On By MaryIn Choices we make, Cloister of the Sisters of Mary Magdalene, growth into humanity, vision and perspectiveLeave a comment

Back at the cloister a new postulant has just entered the cloister. Sister Beatrix was bubbling over with joy and enthusiasm to begin her life as a Sister of Mary Magdalene. Her enthusiasm was infectious, although it was becoming a bit taxing to some of the more sedate sisters. Mother Magdalene was aware of the emerging tension when Sister Beatrix came in to meet with her for her formative spiritual guidance. Sister Beatrix had barely taken her seat when she began, “Reverend Mother, why does my mind wander around to forbidden places? Why am I so inclined to gossip when none of the other sisters do? Why do I feel such frustration and resentment for others instead of a sense of compassion for all sentient beings like Sister Visentia?”

Mother Magdalene smiled to herself, recognizing that she needed to take the situation in hand and help Sister Beatrix to slow down and to find her pace within the flow of the cloister. Mother Magdalene took a slow breath and thought she might take a bit of a risk with Beatrix. “Sister Beatrix, your questions are thoughtful, but, it seems to me that in 24 hours from now you will die.”

Sister Beatrix looked startled. She stood up and started to walk out of Mother Magdalene’s office.

Mother Magdalene asked, “Sister Beatrix, where are you going? You entered my office with such vitality and enthusiasm, and now you look so down hearted.”

Sister Beatrix replied, “But Reverend Mother, you just told me that I have but 24 hours to live. I must go and say my goodbyes to the other sisters before I die.”

“Ah, but there are 24 hours,” said Mother Magdalene, “sit, and we will talk a bit more.”

“Please Mother,” Sister Beatrix asked, “I must go and gather myself and say my goodbyes.”

Beatrix quickly left Mother Magdalene’s office and returned to her own room. Sister Bryda saw her crying, and softly knocked on the door. Beatrix wept as she told her what Reverend Mother had said. Then Beatrix asked to be left alone, and she wept into her pillow. Time quickly flew by with Beatrix weeping, pacing and weeping. Before she realized it, there were only 3 hours left. Death had not yet arrived, but Beatrix was all but dead as she lay on her bed waiting.

When there was only one hour was left, Mother Magdalene came to Sister Beatrix’s room and knocked on the door. She said, “Sister Beatrix, why are you lying on your bed with your eyes closed, crying. Death is still a whole hour away! An hour is 60 minutes – 3600 seconds – long. That is a lot of time. Get up, wash your face. Let us talk a bit.” 

Sister Beatrix sat up and said, “Mother, why should we talk now? Please may I just die peacefully?”

“Oh, Beatrix my child, there is still time and our talk will be concluded before your final time arrives.”

So, Beatrix pulled herself together, washed her face, and sat waiting for Mother Magdalene to speak.

Mother Magdalene asked Beatrix, “Now, my daughter, in the past 24 hours, have you gossiped about anyone?” 

“How could I gossip? I was only thinking about death?!” replied Sister Beatrix.

“In the past 24 hours, did your mind wander?  

“How could it, I could only think of my imminent death” said Sister Beatrix.

 “In the past 24 hours, where you frustrated with others?” 

“Oh Reverend Mother, not at all, I was only thinking about death.” 

Finally Mother Magdalene said, “Dear Beatrix, I really don’t know when anyone will die. I do know that we all have to die some time. But understanding the ultimate truth – that every living creature must die – can be very liberating and enlightening. All the questions you posed to me have been answered by yourself because of the awareness of death that you experienced during the past 24 hours. The difference between you and the other sisters is that you were aware of death for hours; the other sisters here have been practicing that awareness for I have been aware for years. Be patient with yourself. Cherish the moments, spend your hours thoughtfully and with compassionate awareness.” 

“You know, Mother Magdalene,” Sister Beatrix murmured thoughtfully, “this reminds me of one of my mother’s favorite quotes, I think she said it was from someone named Gwen Brooks. Mom would often say to us when we complained that something was impossible, she would say, ‘You are alive until you are dead. Ten minutes before you are dead, you are alive. You could save the world in ten minutes.’ I guess mom and Gwen Brooks knew something!”

“Indeed.” Mother Magdalene thought outloud, “indeed.”

A little Celebration of Mother’s Love

On By MaryIn change, growth into humanity, laughterLeave a comment

Some years back this was seen on the wall of a toilet stall:

         My mother made me a homosexual

And, below it was written in a different color in a different hand:

          If I give her some yarn, will she make one for me too?

More recently this story was found floating on the internet:

A little while back Robert’s Mother went to have dinner with  him at his new apartment. Robert was living there with his roommate.

During the course of the meal, Robert’s Mother couldn’t help but notice how handsome Fred, his roommate was. She had been suspicious about her Robert’s sexual orientation, but being a good mother she felt that he would let her know if and when the time was right.  But seeing the two of them together, they way they interacted and worked so easily together just made her all the more curious.

Over the course of the evening, as she watched the ease and the playful, caring interaction between the two she wondered even more if there was more here than anyone was saying. Robert, sensing his mothers watchfully eye looked at his Mother and said, “really Mom, I can tell what you’re thinking and you can just get it out of your mind, we are just roommates and nothing more”.

About a week later Fred said to Robert, “ever since your mother was here the silver serving platter has been missing, you don’t think she took it for any reason, do you?”

Robert thought about it and said, “Well I’m sure she didn’t. She would have said something, but I will email her and ask just to be sure.” So, he sent her this email: “Hi Mom. I’m not saying you did take the silver platter from the house and I am not saying you didn’t take it but the fact remains that it has been missing ever since you were here for dinner. Love, ever your son, Robert.

Then next day, he received this response from his Mother: “Dearest Robert, I am not saying that you do sleep with your lovely roommate, Fred, and I am not saying that you don’t sleep with him. You know I love you and could care less either way.  But the fact remains that if he was sleeping in his own bed he would have found the platter under his pillow. And, when are the two of you coming for dinner? Love, Mom”

 Ah, the times and the jokes, they are a changin’. 

Here’s to more family dinners that celebrate love in all its shapes, forms and sizes.

Leonardo Da Vinci and The Story behind The Last Supper

On By MaryIn Choices we make, growth into humanity2 Comments

It seems I’m feeling a bit arty these days.  Here is a story, probably apocryphal, about Leonardo Da Vinci’s “The Last Supper.  

It is said that it took Da Vinci nearly 20 years to finish the painting because he was meticulous about the people he would use as models. From the beginning he struggled, because he could not find the right person to represent Jesus. Da Vinci wanted someone whose face shone with purity, nobility, compassion and strength, as well as strong physical beauty. He wanted someone who radiated virility.  Finally he found a young man with exactly these characteristics, and he was the first figure that Da Vinci painted into the picture. The he found and painted in the eleven apostles. He left Judas Iscariot for last since he could not find quite the right model.   For Judas, Da Vinci wanted a mature person whose face bore the marks of treason and avarice. For years the painting and Da Vinci waited. Then, he heard of a terrible criminal in the city jail. He went to see him, and the man countenance was exactly what Da Vinci wanted. So, the artist sought out the mayor as requested that the criminal be allowed to pose for him. At this point Da Vinci’s reputation was solidly established, and so the mayor gave his approval, and gave orders for two guards to take the man to Da Vinci’s studio. The man was to be chained and under the control of the guards at all times. Da Vinci thanked the mayor, and the entourage left for his studio.

As the criminal posed and Da Vinci painted, the man showed no emotion, but held himself quietly and dispassionately maintaining a defiant distance from Da Vinci and the guards. Finally, Da Vinci was satisfied with his work and the result. He showed the criminal the painting. When the man saw it, he stared, and then fell on his knees in tears.

Da Vinci was taken with the abrupt change in the man, and asked him what was going on. The man replied, “Master Da Vinci, do you not remember me?”

Da Vinci looked at him carefully, and replied, “I am sorry but I do not.”

The man continued to cry, and said, “May God forgive me for my life. I was the youth that you choose as your model for Jesus 19 years ago.”

The moral of this story is that no matter how much physical beauty you posses, it is the inner beauty and strength of character; it is the choices that you make that become etched in your face and your being. Your character is shaped by your choices and your action. That is what will ultimately show on your face and shine in your eyes.

If we will build a world where fairness and dignity are respected, we all need to learn to look deeply. We need to build our own characters with thoughtful, compassionate choices. We need to choose our friends … well, you get it, yes?

Would you work in the mines for your brother? Albrecht Dürer and the Praying Hands

On By MaryIn compassion, ethics, growth into humanity, love6 Comments

The Praying Hands is one of the more widely reproduced art works. Many people who are not aficionados of art and who don’t know who is responsible for the work could still describe the picture. There is an interesting apocryphal, mythological story about the image and the artist, some credit the telling of the tale to Og Mandino; Og credits Rabbi Louis Binstock for the story. Here is my version:

Albrecht Dürer is the German artist who drew the praying hands, probably around 1508.  Mythology has it that Albrecht and his twin brother Alexander were a pair among 15 siblings. Albrecht’s father was a hardworking goldsmith who took on any additional work that he could find to keep food on the table for his large family. Early on Albrecht and Alexander both showed considerable artistic skill. But early on it was clear that their poor struggling father would never be able to afford to send either of them to the academy to study art. The family barely had the ability to keep food on the table.

But their father recognized his children’s abilities. One Sunday, after church services and the noon mean, their father summoned Albrecht and Alexander and set out a plan. He proposed that they would toss a coin. The winner of the toss would be trained in painting and would have the opportunity to develop his artistic skills. The other would stay at home, take a job in the mines, and would support his brother’s education and apprenticeship. The boys thought about it for some minutes, looked at each other, and then both nodded in agreement even as they both exhaled a breath of hope and anticipation.

Alexander called heads, Albrecht took tails. Their father flipped the coin. It swirled high into the room, twirling for interminable seconds as it wound its way downward. They let it land on the floor, where it spun on its edge for seconds more before it finally came to rest, with the tail side up. Albrecht looked at his brother with tears in his eye, and promised to hone his skill to excellence. Alexander took his brother’s hands, squared his own shoulders, and promised to work diligently. “Come back to us, Albrecht, I will be waiting.”

Shortly Albrecht set off for Nuremberg, and Alexander went into the mines and worked to finance his brother’s study. Albrecht learned quickly, and very soon his work surpassed that of his teachers. His sketches, woodcuts, and oil paintings quickly became a sensation, and he was soon collecting commissions and earning considerable fees for his works.

As he concluded his studies, Albrecht returned home, and the Dürer family celebrated his return with a feast. They had roasted meats, and stewed vegetables, and freshly baked breads. There was much banter and laughter among the siblings. All were delighted to see Albrecht after his years away. And Albrecht was delighted to be home again among his much loved family. As the meal neared completion, Albrecht lifted his goblet, and proposed a toast to his brother, Alexander. Albrecht stuttered and stumbled over his words as he tried to express the depths of his gratitude. And then his stood a bit straighter, squared his shoulders, and pledged, “And now, Alexander, it is my turn. Now you shall journey to Nuremberg and begin your studies in earnest. And I will support you with the commissions of my work.”

Tears flowed down Alexander’s face as he shook his head. “No, Albrecht. It is too late for me. My dear brother, look at my hands. Every finger had been broken in the mines. My right hand pains me so badly that I cannot even hold a glass in it to return your toast. To hold a pen or a brush, to draw delicate lines on parchment or canvas, these are beyond me now. My brother, the inspiration and the art must flow through you. For me it is too late.”

When Albrecht looked at his brother’s hands, he too wept. He knew the debt that he owed his brother could never be repaid. In tribute to his brother, he meticulously drew his brother’s hands as he remembered them before the mines, palms together, fingers pointing to heaven, a simple, powerful tribute to love. Albrecht simple called this work “hands” but it quickly came to be known as “the praying hands.”

Over 500 years have passes since Albrecht Dürer’s painted “the praying hands.”  His paintings, sketches, woodcuts and copper engravings are in museums across the world. Nothing is known of Alexander’s life. But if it were not for the generosity of Alexander’s heart, Albrecht might never have become the artist he was. This story reminds us that no matter who we are, no matter how unique and powerful our gifts and skills might be, still sooner or later, we all need help. We all need someone who believes in us. We are all but threads in Indra’s Web . . .

No man is an island. Indeed, it does take a village. It is inspiring to look at Albrecht’s work, and to appreciate Alexander’s sacrifice. But, it is not so easy to stand in Alexander’s shoes and to see Albrecht’s life. And yet, there may well be inspiration to be found  from Alexander’s standpoint as well.

As I think about this story I find myself resonating first with the ‘working in the mines’ element, as I think about my own family. I grew up in Northeast Pennsylvania where anthracite strip mining was the primary source of employment for my grandparent’s and my parent’s generations. There are family stories of one of the mine shafts flooding, my uncle being in the mine wearing the new boots that he bought just the day before. As the tunnel started to take on flood waters the floor turned to muck — serious quicksand like muck — and he and his boots began to sink into the muck and stick. He was bending to unlace his boots to get a better grip on pulling them out of the muck, even as he sank deeper into the muck and the water lever began to rise. Two of his buddies grabbed him by the arms and carried him out of the mine kicking and screaming that he would make them pay for the boots they were forcing him to abandon – penny wise and pound foolish? and gratitude? Hmm. Well, and then the story about my father refusing to work in the mines, rather he enlisted in the army. My dad choose fighting in World War II rather than work in the mines. That kind of gives me a bit of a sense of what working in the mines must have been like – more dangerous than a war. And Alexander willingly agreed to work in the mines for his brother.

Bask in the love between brothers for a bit, and then since I really do intend for the blog to eventually come around to alchemy for justice,  think for a few minutes too if you will … Do you think this was an ethical plan? Why is it that we recognize and remember the brother who benefited from the love but not the one who made the sacrifice? What would render these actions ethical or unethical? Did Alexander really have the freedom to say ‘no’? If justice is fairness, what would be justice/fairness for Alexander? From Albrecht?  What would you have done in this situation – if you were the father? If you were Albrecht? If you were Alexander? Who would you go to the mines to support?

Tonto and the Lone Ranger, Where we see wisdom

On By MaryIn anti-racism, growth into humanity, laughter, vision and perspective1 Comment

Once upon a time, when I was but a child, there was a most wonderful television show called the Lone Ranger. The show featured a rather hapless cowboy, who was the star of the show, and his inventive, ingenious side kick, a Native American Indian called Tonto. In my youth I had no conception of the inequity embodied in this relationship. I also had no clue that ‘Tonto’ translates from Spanish as ‘stupid’ or ‘silly’. Ugh. Nice way to insult your friend. And yes, this is just a fine example of how some of my earliest pleasure and role modeling for friendship was grounded in racism. We have a very long way to go to build a world where all relationships are grounded in respect for human dignity. (And even further to go so that ALL relationships – relationships between and among humans and with other sentient and with non-sentient beings are grounded in respect.)

So, when I came across this little story, I have to confess that it brought a smile to my face, a twinkle to my eye, and hope to my heart.  I hope you enjoy it too.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto went camping in the desert. After they got their tent all set up, both men fell sound asleep. Some hours later, Tonto woke the ranger and said,
“Kemo sabi, look towards sky, what you see?”

The ranger replied, “I see millions of stars.”

“What does that tell you?” asked Tonto.

The ranger pondered for a minute then said, “Astronomically speaking, it tells me there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Time wise, it appears to be approximately a quarter past three in the morning. Theologically, Mother Nature is all-powerful and we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, it seems we will have a beautiful day tomorrow.

“What’s’ it tell you, Tonto?”

Tonto says,“Kemo Sabi, you dumber than buffalo shit. It means somebody stole the tent.” 

Wisdom is not always were you expect to find it. Yes, I very much agree with Thich Nhat Hanh that we should look deeply into the roots of events and experiences to fully understand the experience and the people involved. But, sometimes it is important to see what is (or is not) right in front of our faces. And always it is important to not take ourselves too seriously!

 

All the faces are mirrors

On By MaryIn growth into humanity, happiness, vision and perspective4 Comments

Long ago in a small, far away village in New Zealand, there was place known as the House of 1000 Mirrors. One day a small, happy little girl learned of this place and decided to visit. When she arrived, she skipped happily up the stairs to the doorway of the house. She looked through the doorway with hope in her heart and gleeful anticipation in her eyes. To her great surprise, she found herself staring at 1000 other happy little girls with their eyes glowing as brightly as hers. She smiled a great smile, and was answered with 1000 great smiles just as warm and friendly. As she left the House, she thought to herself, “This is a most wonderful place. I think that I will come back and visit it very often.” And she did, and each time she was greeted with smiles, and her life was richer and happier for it.

In this same village, another little girl, who was not quite as happy as the first one, decided to visit the house. She slowly climbed the stairs and hung her head low as she looked into the door. When she saw the 1000 sad and unfriendly looking girls staring back at her, she grimaced and snarled at them and was horrified to see 1000 little girls grimacing and snarling back at her. As she left, she thought to herself, “That is a horrible place, and I will never go back there again.” And she did not ever return to that place, but she continued to meet other people who were sad and grimacing where ever she went.

For Shakespeare all the world was a stage. Indeed, and also, all the faces in the world are mirrors.

Hillel, yoga and fairness

On By MaryIn compassion, growth into humanity, stories for social change7 Comments

Hillel and yoga? Really? In what world might there even conceivably be any kind of connection? Well, in my world where I have the time to let my mind ramble, wander, and bounce off  the walls a bit. So, here goes.

First, a bit of yoga. One of the more challenging basic yoga poses is Vrksasana the tree pose. You begin by standing in mountain pose – stand strong with both feet square on the ground, and your body nicely aligned square and tall. Then shift your weight slightly onto your left foot, keeping that foot strongly on the ground, and bend your right knee. Bring your right foot up and place the sole of your foot against your left inner thigh. Keep your pelvis directly over the left foot. Bring your hands to prayer position and take 5 slow, deep breaths. There you have it! The tree pose. Easy, yes? Hmm. You might think so. Just stand up, step away from your computer, tablet, put your smart phone down, and give it a try.

Now, Hillel. There is a wonderful story of someone challenging Hillel to teach the Torah while standing on one foot. It seems to me that there was some, shall we say reward (never a bet), if Hillel could accomplish this teaching.

And, here’s the link, at least in my mind: Hillel gracefully takes the Vrksasana, tree, pose, and replies: “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. This is the whole of the Torah. The rest is mere commentary. Go and study.” And, Hillel continues to breathe deeply for a few more breaths, and calmly places his right foot back on the ground.

Let’s have a look at how this injunction might be realized in an ah ha moment in India, the mother land of yoga….

Once upon a time, in a three generational family lived together in a small home in rural India, just on the outskirts of Bhubaneswar. Johar, his wife Mira, and their son Deepak struggled to keep home together and food on the table, but they were happy together even as they worked hard. Then Amar, Johar’s father moved in with  the family when Amar’s wife passed away. The family initially welcomed Amar, but his presence in their home was the straw that broke the camel’s back. There just was not enough space. There was not enough food. Soon the family’s harmony was replaced with discord. They all worked to make things work. But, the discord and frustration grew in spite of their best efforts.

One day Johar and Mira were working alone in the field and as the sun reached its zenith, they sat under a shade tree to take a bit of a break. Soon they fell into conversation about the conditions in their home, and they concluded that something must be done, and sooner rather than later. The situation was rapidly becoming intolerable. Shivaratri, the great festival of Shiva, was just a few days away. Johar and Mira lit upon a solution. They would carry Amar to the Lingaraj Temple in Bhubaneswar in a basket. During the night while the pilgrims were praying in the temple districts, they would leave him there in the basket, and hopefully one of the rich devotees would find him, and take pity on him and care for him.

Deepak was working among the trees as his parents spoke, and he quietly listened in on their conversation. His heart was broken as he heard their plans. Then he became angry. He decided to plan a way to punish his parents, because he had come to love his grandfather very deeply in the time that they had all lived together. Quietly, he went to his grandfather, and warned him of his parents plan. He told his grandfather of his desire to punish his parents for their cruelty.

Amar was a compassionate and kind man. He listened thoughtfully to Deepak. Then he helped Deepak to understand his parents struggles and frustrations. Together as Amar and Deepak talked, they formulated their own plan.

Later that evening, Johar sought out Deepak and told him of the plan to carry Amar to Lingaraj in the basket and to leave him there in the basket for a devotee to find. Deepak listened carefully, to his father. He nodded as he listened, and then he asked his father, “Pitaa Ji, could we leave grandfather at Lingaraj just as you say, but please, let us bring the basket home. Otherwise, what will I use to carry you to Lingaraj when you become old?”

Johar was stunned at his son’s words. Tears came to his eyes before he could speak. In his astonishment, he remembered the words of that Jewish fellow who practiced yoga: That which is hateful to you, do not do to your family or friends. And as he remembered, he went to his father, begged his forgiveness, and redoubled his efforts in the fields glean more food for harvest. He worked with Deepak to build a small additional room onto the family house for Amar.

Life was not nirvana, but a new level of community and harmony was built among the family as they more often remembered that which is hateful to you, they did not do to each other.