If there is a God,  this is where it might be possible notice. This world God might have made from overflowing reckless generosity would not have to be.  And if God is as big as we imagine he would be  in order to be God, we might not expect to catch him peeking around the moon  or to trip over him in the living room.  We would expect God to be the ground reality  of all being, which could feel to us  like he did not exist,  because we'd not be able to imagine without being first. God's activity might even look like natural processes.  We would experience them like we experience  rivers and valleys or chickens and eggs.  We might not know which came first.  We would be subject  to the contingencies of human being but we might glimpse God in the counterintuition of forgiveness  or the unexpectedness of beauty. Previous  §  Next

I had been running. Motionless, He stood just off the trail Seen suddenly, Yet maybe Having been there all along. October sun, Deep blue sky, Between afternoon and dusk, Grass belly high, Wild rose hips, willow thicket, Reds, greens, golds. His coat, a silver brown, White collar Underneath his chin. Black-liquid eyes, A charcoal visor, 'Neath his sweeping crown. I paused; He watched me pass And then we disappeared again. A whispered breeze  Tugged at the trees; The lake lapped at its bank. Mule Deer, Photo by Tupper Ansel Blake,  United States Fish and Wildlife Service,  2001 (Public Domain) Previous  §  Next

“From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king.” Liv Tyler voiced these words  in Peter Jackson's "Return of the King,"  and they became a kind of hope,  embodied in the physicality of ash. A hope all woven through with sorrow, the kind of hope that does not end even when Frodo's wounds  never fully healed. As Ulmo said to Tuor before “The Fall of Gondolin,” "...in the armour of Fate...there is ever a rift,  and in the walls of Doom a breach, until the full-making....  a light where darkness was decreed." Hope that remembers in the face of “reckless hate,” that there are lights beyond the shadow's reach, and that would make an end “worthy of remembrance.” Or as Tolkien wrote in “Mythopoeia,” “Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme.... They have seen Death and ultimate defeat, and yet they would not in despair retreat, but oft to ...

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

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

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

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

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

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