This is how silly I am:
Just yesterday, I caught an ant on a sticky trap. That trap has many little fruit flies (or whatever they are) stuck to it. I didn’t care about those, but the ant…
The ant wasn’t around the sticky trap. It was scouting the area, just doing its job. But I was in a frenzy over eliminating gnats (which are way more bothersome than ants) and I flipped the ant onto the trap.
His backend stuck, his front end did not. So, here is this little ant moving its antennae and front legs searching for a way out. I put the trap back where it belonged but the sight of the struggle would not leave me alone.
I went back to the trap, saw that it had successfully moved a tiny bit - a big surprise to me - and decided that I was going to try to free it.
Him. I was going to free him.
I rolled up a corner of paper towel into a tight log and put it in front of him. He grabbed on and pulled himself off of the trap (he didn’t even lose a leg) and I took him outside and lightly flicked him onto the welcome mat. He floated gently down.
I hate to see things struggle to live. I can no longer watch videos of African animals hunting, surrounding a still-living creature and eating it alive. The face of a lion or tiger caked in mud and blood, much weakened but still trying to fight. The expression of genuine fear - an expression they’ve never made - the laid back ears, the widened eyes and open mouth - a new, desperate realization tolling like a bell - I just can’t take it. It is in that expression that I see myself. Their faces desperately want the situation to just change, just give them space, just breathe, just stop, just stop.
But no. There is no leaving that dusty spot in the grass. That patch of hot ground is the last of it they will ever know, the borderless savanna shrunk now to a few yards ringed by four-legged machines whose eyes know nothing of mercy. No more sleeping under the stars, no more lapping up water after a rain, no more naps at mid-day, no stretches and yawns. No more anything except confusion and pain.
No hope.
I want it to end.
I think of my family members who are ailing, how much we’ve laughed in the past, the grudges we hold, and how all that seems to lie ahead of them is hospital visits -
I want it to end.
I think of the neverending flashing cacophony of meaningless materialistic existence - one cheap thing after another, one needless convenience after another, all making us weaker, softer, dumber
and I want it to end.
I see Democrats and Republicans make their loud, shameless circuses parade through our consciousness in a neverending stream of blind cheerleading, misplaced vitriol, and hateful one-upmanship, not giving an inch, saying it’s their way or destruction, can’t you see?! -
and I want it to end.
I am a soft weakling of a human, unremarkable in every way, disappointing in most, and cursed by a knowledge of mercy because I think that, surely, as I spin to protect my flanks from claws, it will end well. Everything will be ok. Situations and circumstances will clear up and I’ll get some breathing room. If I can just do this thing, they will be proud. If I can just get my pay up, I can provide better. If I can just be different, life will be better. The division between my spirit and flesh, my hopes and actions, vows made and promises kept -
I want it to end.
No divisions, no strife, no confusion.
When asked why I paint, I say, “I want to bring the innerman up to the surface of the skin so as to speak with one voice, to become unified, a whole person, a real human being.”
Trying to do that - to become unified and whole - is like being a gnat surrounded by sticky tape and trying not to land or to be biting and clawing my way through life, restlessly hunting, even if I’m hunting for peace. It is exhausting, and I want it to end.
With a mud-caked face, my eyes open to Resurrection. With gladness, I think of my own passing. With gladness, I recall the words in red. With gladness and hope - even if tinged with weariness and pain - I pray
How long, O Lord? How Long?
If you have read about the crucifixion of Jesus at all, you will have searched out what he cried from the cross. Many times, the first line of a passage was meant to call to mind the entire passage. So, when Jesus says, “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me…”
He is referring to the entire passage we know as Psalm 22.
This psalm breaks my heart when I connect it to Jesus.
The Good Shepherd, the one who cupped the faces of little children with joy, who healed the loved ones of faithful people with a word, who welcomed the woman at the well and taught us of the good Samaritan, who wept over Lazarus - this man - this good man - in all of His lovingkindness is thinking of this:
Psalm 22:10–24
[10] On you was I cast from my birth,
and from my mother’s womb you have been my God.
[11] Be not far from me,
for trouble is near,
and there is none to help.
[12] Many bulls encompass me;
strong bulls of Bashan surround me;
[13] they open wide their mouths at me,
like a ravening and roaring lion.
[14] I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are out of joint;
my heart is like wax;
it is melted within my breast;
[15] my strength is dried up like a potsherd,
and my tongue sticks to my jaws;
you lay me in the dust of death.
[16] For dogs encompass me;
a company of evildoers encircles me;
they have pierced my hands and feet—
[17] I can count all my bones—
they stare and gloat over me;
[18] they divide my garments among them,
and for my clothing they cast lots.
[19] But you, O LORD, do not be far off!
O you my help, come quickly to my aid!
[20] Deliver my soul from the sword,
my precious life from the power of the dog!
[21] Save me from the mouth of the lion!
You have rescued me from the horns of the wild oxen!
[22] I will tell of your name to my brothers;
in the midst of the congregation I will praise you:
[23] You who fear the LORD, praise him!
All you offspring of Jacob, glorify him,
and stand in awe of him, all you offspring of Israel!
[24] For he has not despised or abhorred
the affliction of the afflicted,
and he has not hidden his face from him,
but has heard, when he cried to him. (ESV)
If Jesus is teaching us to hope in the face of death, then I shall hope.
If Jesus is teaching us that our cries are heard even if they are literally cries, then I shall cry.
This is how I can look at the end of one’s life and carry on. If Jesus is Truth, then every little bird that falls, every beast killed and eaten, every plant, every molecule of every thing
is known to God and will be made right. Our cries, our hurts, our regrets, and lessons unlearned and sore to the touch all have an end.
Walking in cemeteries reminds me of this.
PAINTING
(Above shows a close up of the work in progress)
I have chosen to paint an old cemetery from Stowe, Vermont. I like the skinny headstones, the angles, and the blooming plant. Also, I don’t see many paintings of this subject, but I think of graveyards and cemeteries as gardens. I often walk our dog in a cemetery because it is quiet, and peaceful, and I can let him off leash. We take our time. What’s the rush?
The end is coming, but it is an end greater than the grave. No flags stuck into the ground, no toy trucks on top of graves, no date ranges or quotes.
A choir is being assembled day by day from tragedies and partings, confusion and tears. Voices long unheard are warming up behind the curtain, and the low rumble of instruments tuning can be felt if not heard. We part from those who know us, rising from our space in this Earthly audience, squeezing by others as we make our way to the aisle, turn toward the stage, and walk forward. All creation waits for the Conductor to return to this stage and raise his baton. There is a chorus coming. A crescendo of ages.
I have a title idea for the painting, but there is no single word for what I have in mind - not that I can find, anyway, and I have searched in other languages as well. So, the second thing that came to mind was from a poem that everyone has heard of. I don’t mind if it isn’t original because it’s honest and I love the poem. Read it below.
Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
BY JOHN DONNE
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
I would pull three words from this poem to use for my title.
Any guesses?
Any guesses what my first choice would be?
Endings and Beginnings. Below is something I wrote when thinking of my wife.
POEM
July 23 or 24 2012
For Laura
I chose you from the face of the Earth.
Standing by them,
Looking out over the face of the waters, watching the passing.
I listened to the bending branches,
To trees rubbing against one another,
Animals scurrying,
Shuffling leaves,
Listening for what I would know when I heard it.
I saw the sun brighten the fields
And the moon’s bluesilver blanket.
I fed calves and goats from bottles,
Watched them grow.
Saw creeks overflow.
The crashing of icy limbs in the night
Brought no fear,
For I did not choose it.
It held no power in me.
As water makes its way in the Hurricane,
So I made my way to you.
Shallow and slow
Its surface seems –
But old it is –
And True.
It can always be found.
Low by its banks I looked for what had come,
What was coming.
Low by its banks I filtered many sounds
While listening for your approach.
And, Lo,
By a Spanish doorway,
I saw the pool of its ending,
And its beginning.