Being Thankful

The other morning I watched the sunlight bayonet through the remaining leaves of the backyard elm, brilliant blades of light, whitely radiant, and somehow, for some reason, I remembered that old monastic phrase, “vacare deo,” emptying oneself for God.  I wanted to empty myself for that light.  I wanted it to pierce me.  I wanted to be a pane of glass through which it passed.  I was thankful for that light.

*     *     *

A student offered this evaluation of a literature class he had taken from me: “I did not like this class.  I had to work too hard.”  I was thankful for that student’s comment.

*     *     *

When the pain comes from the pinched sciatic nerve, when that tasering jolt of hurt spasms in my lumbar and travels, clamoring and saw-tooth-edged, down my right leg to gather around ankle and shin, I am pestled  into writhing, tears-in-the-eyes, moan-out-loud immobility.  Like Job, I am “smote,” want “to let the day perish wherein I was born,” feel the arrows of the Almighty within me,” “speak in anguish,” feel a “burden to myself.”

But when that moment comes when the pain, just a little, barely perceptibly, loosens its hold, when its tide ebbs, when the promise of its surcease, when the redemption from its blowtorching agony, begins, if I can steel myself and hold on, only hold on, I am thankful.

*     *     *

Like some confectionery conciliator, I bring together in sweet concord, in surgared harmony, in candied peace, the rival houses of Mars and Hershey.  No doubt Poe is right: ours “is a world of sweets and sours.” And given that the sours all too often outnumber the sweets, I am thankful, in equal measure, for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and for M&Ms, in all the original’s subsequent mouth-not-hands-melting incarnations, except coconut.

*     *     *

The kitchen faucet, which I installed about 10 years ago, was leaking from beneath the bonnet covering the hot water cartridge.  I had made this fix before—a simple matter of replacing the cartridge O-rings—and, in fact, not two weeks before, I had replaced a spring and rubber seat to stop a persistent drip.  I duly closed the shut-off valves under the sink, removed the bonnet and lock-down nut, and pulled out the cartridge.  I heard a gurgle and a rushing sound.  Suddenly, hot water geysered from the socket.  I rechecked the shut-off valve.  Closed.  I darted to the basement to close the water valve but could not budge it.  Back upstairs and a panicked call to a local plumber who, leaving his lunch behind, arrived ten minutes later, closed the water valve, reinstalled the spring and rubber seat, and replaced the worn O-rings.

To lessen my embarrassment, he assured me that the water valve was indeed very hard to turn, and that the hot water shut-off valve “was shot” and needed replacement.  The fault lay in the mechanism, not the mechanic.  Still, I was thankful for the humiliation.  We need to be abashed periodically, if only as an aileron to prevent ourselves from rolling into a self-regarding spin, if only to feel that abrading scrape of uncertainty that forces us inward, makes us take stock of our often impenetrable self-reflexivity, if only to nudge us away from being a loiterer in the order of things.  I am more thankful, however, for plumbers, especially ones willing to abridge their hard-earned lunch hour and still find the heart to attend to the fraying self-consciousness of a failed DIYer.

*     *     *

My dreams sometimes involve discovering hidden rooms in my house.  Such dreams are sometimes interpreted to mean the dreamer’s potential has yet to be realized, that the complacent, self-containing shell of the dreamer’s life needs to be breached, that some new direction needs to be travelled, some errand into the widlerness undertaken.  Such dreams symbolize our lives calling out for a greater share of us.  I am thankful for these dreams.  They tell me that, even six decades after my initial appearance on the planet, I am unfinished, unfinalized—maybe, even, unfinishable, unfinalizable.

*     *     *

I have a history, but I do not know, will probably never know, the conditions of my probability.  I am a small story, a subplot, perhaps, embedded in a much larger story whose denoeument stands veiled in mystery but whose plot is powered by the gifts of an existence and capacities I had no hand in creating.  They were bestowed.  How, or by whom, I do not know.  As David Bentley Hart notes, “What lies most deeply within us also comes from impossibly far beyond us.”  And though I do not know to whom, to what, for that I am profoundly thankful.

Leaves, and All

Looking out the kitchen window this morning,  I notice that the backyard is carpeted with leaves—carpet bombed, actually, leaf-assaulted, for it was clear the day before.  And I find myself feeling a pleasant anticipation.  I cannot wait to begin raking them up.

I’m not sure why, exactly. 

Sure, there’s the exercise of it, the simplicity of rake and arms, the technology of tool and muscle, briskly applied, haloed in the pale-gold light of an autumn afternoon.  And there is the sight of my shadow, now cast forward, now behind, always connected, and me wondering whimsically, who is the me.  And there is the coming, the unannounced, unaccountable coming, of thoughts, urged perhaps by the rhythm of repetitive motion, re-emerging from the deep recess into which they had silently slipped. And as much as I like watching the tumult of leaves falling, the abandon of it, the mad whirl and drift and tumble of it, the air-skidding intoxicated somersaultedness of it, I relish the neatening raking involves, the restoration, the feeling of satisfaction in looking back when done and seeing the visible change I have made.  But there’s more to it than that.

Each of those leaves is a tongue; my backyard speaks in tongues.  Each of those leaves is a calling card, a keyboard key, a communique of blades and petioles and veins and midribs and waxy cuticles and stipules.  Each of those leaves, scissoring itself at its axil, casting itself adrift, tells how long long enough is.  Each of those leaves is the tree’s self-wounding, an absence in the now making way for a presence to come, a leaving that makes way for an arrival.  Each of those leaves is a sign of transformation, the trees’ summery green chatter turned autumn’s red-yellow-bronze-brown solemn expression turned acrid-woody incense slipstreaming from the thurible of the fire pit.

But more than those things, even, is this: ceasing for a moment, standing still, I will imagine I can feel, slightly but perceptibly, the earth tilting away from the sun, and then I will resume, bending back into the work, lost in the sheer embodiment of it, the feltness of its physical motion, the being in the doing.

Raking the leaves.  It is, for reasons I can enumerate and rank but cannot definitively connect or comprehend, the very thing that, at this particular time, I find it necessary to do.  It is the customized piece for some jigsaw-puzzled need.  What that need is, I cannot with confidence say.  But, then, perhaps not to understand is to understand that which is necessary, that which is true.

 

The Wildflower

 

One morning it was just there.  It hadn’t been there the previous day, as far as I can recall.  But this morning, there it was, as if some nocturnal sorcerer had cast a spell.  A wildflower in my garden.  Bayoneted yellow petals, center-buttoned by a bronze, pixilated bud.   A Golden Ragwort, possibly, or a false sunflower; maybe a thin-leaved sunflower.  The name isn’t important.  Its presence is all that really mattered, the abrupt advent of this alien infiltrator within the landscape I had so mindfully, so vigilantly shaped and managed; this stranger in my familiar landscape; this rebellious bohemian scandalizing the well-mannered guests at my garden party;  this wild intruder, this invader and interloper, this trespasser and marauder, this uncultivated barbarian who breached the gate of my elaborately-planned, assiduously-tended garden. 

And I was perfectly OK with that.

I was OK with it because that wildflower was a shard of sun fixed on a spade-leafed stalk.  I was OK with it because that wildflower was a doubloon of burnished gold strewn by some charitable hand.  I was OK with it because that wildflower was a shout of yellow in the green murmur of my late summer, soon-to-be autumn garden.  I was OK with it because that wildflower reminded me that though we are told a garden was the site of our fall, our loss of innocence, we gained an intellect, a knowledge of true things.  Lucifer fell from heaven.  Our fall was garden-level merely.

Were my garden a mind, that wildflower would be an edict recalling the imagination from parched exile.  Were my garden a heart, that wildflower would be an unsludging odd beat, an arrhymic swashbuckle to disrupt sclerotic drift.  Were my garden a soul, that wildflower would be a spindle entwined with golden yarn to darn its robes.  Were my garden a cathedral, that wildflower would be a steeple, a spired sign of human aspiring. Were my garden an alphabet, that wildflower would be the letter before “A” or after “Z;” were it a sentence, that wildflower would transform it from simple to unparsable compound-complex; were it a word, that wildflower would be an extra syllable, a prefix to undiscipline stale discourse.  But it is a garden after all, a hybrid place, a zone of indistinction, a fist bump between artifice and nature.   The wildflower stands resolutely on the side of nature, a warning of sorts against my becoming too big for my britches, lest in my frontal-cortexed pride I forget that I, too, am a biological being, a rooted creature.

I’d like to think that wildflower chose my garden, considered it a hospitable place, a sanctuary, maybe, to stop and stay a while.  But I know its arrival was purely random, a chance deposit blown by the wind.  Still, as with genetic mutations, randomness is sometimes a strategic procedure.  “There are some enterprises,” Ishmael tells us in Moby Dick, “in which a careful disorderliness is the true method.”   A wayward seed, invisibly riding an invisible current of air, made its arcane way to my garden and took on another form, became a visible presence, an enigma made material, provoking wonder, deepening my familiar garden, reminding me to pay attention to the cryptic beauties that appear all about us, who knows why or how.  That wildflower—an ambassador from the far-off and elsewhere, from the kingdom of mystery, toward which we should travel, must travel, even though it is a kingdom in which, finally, we cannot dwell.

What Mysterious Covenant

 

Looking from the kitchen nook windows into the backyard garden one morning, I saw a cat, a tabby, familiar in the neighborhood, appear from around the trellised, purple-detonating clematis and make its nonchalant way up the flagstone path.  Suddenly, it froze, then slowly swiveled its head toward a corner, dense with ferns and hostas, where the breezeway abuts the garage.  It stared, intently, for perhaps ten seconds, then took several steps toward the corner, each paw deliberately, delicately, placed.  It stopped, raised its nose, and began sniffing.  The another couple of stalking, gingerly-placed steps forward.  More staring, more listening, more sniffing.  Slowly, its ears moved back, its tail lowered, and its body hunched.  And it stared, still, calculating, anticipating, pounce-ready, preparing tooth and claw to incise its red gashed calligraphy. 

And in that moment, all I could wonder was, what must it be like to have every sense, every heart pulse, every muscle fiber, every glandular secretion, every corpuscle in every capillary, every synaptic exchange, come to one compacted point of convergence, one massively dense moment in time, wholly present, wholly singular, wholly coincident with itself. 

And then, as did the poet Alexandre O’Neill, I wondered, of what “obscure force” was the cat “the dwelling place?”  To what wordless “law” was it an “accomplice?”  A William Blakean mood possessed me.  Did He, I wondered, who made whatever small, shivering creature hid amid the ferns and hostas, also make thee?

But obscure forces and laws and purposeful creation suggest the cat acted only within the carapace of instinct, a feline marionette stringed and tugged by its evolutionary past, its actions baked in and thoughtless, habitual and reflexive rather than calculated and purposefully imagined, without consciousness, without self-knowing, without concepts, without the symbols by which, according to Susanne Langer, thought escapes its cinctures “from the immediate stimuli of a physically present world.”

And that made me wonder if the cat really was devoid of an interior life, really was incapable of forethought, memory, emotion, awareness, symbolic imagination.  Namit Arora wonders, too, in her essay “The Inner Lives of Animals,” pointing out that many animal behaviors, in a human context, would suggest the sophistication of symbol use.  Squirrels gather nuts, which could indicate the conception of oncoming winter and the lack of food resources it brings.  Beaver patiently gather construction materials well before actual construction begins.  Magpies recognize themselves in a mirror. Crows create and use tools and make future plans. Elephants mourn their dead.  Prairie dogs use alarm calls that distinguish gun-toting humans from those unarmed. Vervet monkeys have three distinct calls to warn of the approach of eagles, leopards, and a snakes, each call arbitrary, in no way related to any sound made by the three predators. Various animals practice deception by playing dead.  Do animals form concepts, employ symbols, make plans, or are they mired in the shallows immediate sentience only?  How can we know, really?  I’d like to think they do experience themselves phenomenally, experience what it is like to be themselves, to have sensations with qualities that are mentally represented and spur action.  What’s the harm, other than to our pride? We humans dislike extras in our vanity production.

I wondered all this, was led to wonder all this, because I have had experiences of contracted, fully charged, thrumming attention that mirror the cat’s.  I, too, have been seized by experiences—in the classroom, while raking or mowing or woodworking, watching leaves ruffled by a breeze or children at play—where I have fallen deep inside myself, somehow liberated from the sealed circle of the clockface, lulled into a mental cadence that resonated with the rhythm of my actions, the outer and inner confluent, compressed, concentrated into a palpable point of being, of unthought thought, of displaced emplacement, of suffused and radiant aliveness. 

And I could only wonder what bandrity stole me from then and padlocked me in now, what dispossessed me into a mustered self-possession, what deep grammar spoke me.  I wondered, of what obscure force was I the dwelling place, to what unsayable law was I an accomplice, to what sorcerer was I apprenticed, to what intimate economy of exchange, to what inscrutable liturgy and mysterious covenant, to what more than literal truth, had I yielded myself to?

 

 

Greetings and Salutations

Could it be that, although I heard no rushing mighty wind, nor saw anything cloven and fiery, tongues of some sort have descended upon me, enabling me to speak the languages of grump and grouch, in their various dialects of peeve, churl, spleen, crab, and curmudgeon.   What makes me think I’ve been thus linguistically gifted?  The churning irritation I experience with the checkout clerk at the local grocery store, that’s what.

For more than eight months now, Philip has plied the register when I make my customary lunch hour “small shopping” run to the store to restock necessaries prior to the next “big shopping.”  And for more than eight months, as I deposit my basket on the counter, Philip has said the same thing: “How you doing today, sir.”  Always.  The same thing.  Exactly.  For more than eight months, Philip has taken my checks and listened to me discourse on the merits of braeburn apples and sprouted-grain bread and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  For more than eight months he has heard the produce manager and butcher and assistant manager and manager and other customers address me by name, ask after the family, inquire how my classes are going or the progress I’m making on my latest home-improvement project or whether I’ll take up golf again.  Eight months, and still he remains quarantined behind a practiced smile and the frayed cuff of a phrase: “How you doing today, sir.”  And not just me.  He uses the same greeting for everyone, varying only the last word if the customer is female: “How you doing today, ma’am.”

Perhaps my irritation is shamefully self-absorbed, or trivial, or even wasted, there being so many other things far more irritation-worthy.  Still, it’s real enough, palpable enough, and it’s got me thinking about the way we greet each other in our culture, why is has to be so impoverished, so flat-souled; why anything beyond the brisk and passing “How’s it going” or “How are you” and the bright, upbeat response “Fine” is a breach of decorum so outrageous it’s beyond the reach of the confessional; why, as with Philip’s, our greetings and salutations are so manufactured and   homogenized and rinsed clean of all particularity; why they are Lysoled to sterility, dehydrated of personal significance; why they are such Disneyesque simulacra of inquiry and concern, such gestures of exchange rather than the full-blooded reality of exchange; why we tune ourselves to the frequency of social interaction while engaging in woefully abridged and illusory version of it.  And that’s if we even get a chance to offer a greeting: so often, we encounter others so intent on  some smartphoned attraction or so involved in some cellphoned conversation that a greeting seems a punishably intrusive  breach of privacy.

Now, I am aware that our greeting style is a species of what linguists call “phatic communication,” nonreferential salutation rituals not intended to solicit or convey information but, rather, to meet social expectations.  They are culturally coded interactions, designed to  politely acknowledge another’s presence, nothing more.  They are inessential essentials, impertinently pertinent, unassailably decent and decorous and courteous and civil, to be sure, but so astringently impersonal, so devoid of warmth or at least the flavor of the person who utters/mutters them.  We encounter each other and, like threatened hedgehogs, we roll ourselves into  protective balls.  We meet and greet and quickly retreat. We occupy a shared space without being much occupied about it.  We pledge ourselves to sociality while disavowing our participation in it.  And to go beyond the formulaic response, to breach the ritual requirements, to actually explain how one is doing or how things are going, seemingly makes one a fit subject for police surveillance. 

And yet, I can’t help but wonder how it is that we accept such cultural conscription so compliantly, why we give it such snappy salutes.  Perhaps the problem is that I am so bad at it.  Perhaps I want too much.  I am insatiably curious about others.  I really do want to know how things are going for them, how they see and feel about things.  If we’re going to open a hailing frequency, it ought to be for a moment that feels whole, not an eighth or a sixteenth.  If we pay the price of a greeting, we should get some value in return, not a distanced and distancing “Fine” or “OK”  or a flutey “hello” that hangs in the air a beat or two after the speaker has hastened on. Where is it we hasten to?  What summons us away with such importunity?  Why are we in such desperate haste, Thoreau asked.   More than two millennia ago the Greek philosopher Heraclitus observed, “We share a world when we are awake; each sleeper is in a world of his own.”  Our greetings a sleeptalking, and what they say, what lies coiled implicitly within them, is, “You’re marginal, a matter of peripheral vision, worth no more than a sidelong glance, only to be engaged as ritual requires, an inhabitant of a parallel world that is momentarily contiguous to mine and which I am obliged to acknowledge but only in the most formulaic manner.” 

Every meeting with another, every encounter, is a moment of connection.  Why not make it several moments, just several, and hem them together into an economy of exchange with more solidity than interstellar dust?  It would seem a shame to waste them, especially if the many chroniclers of our waning social connectedness, are correct.  If, as they assert, we yearn for social contact, need it, why is it we become bystanders in the very act of initiating it?  Why not make those encounters more consequential, less frictionless contact; why not make them denser with recognition, less an impassive passing? 

My colleague Brian greets every student that appears at his office door with a hearty, surprised-and-delighted “hi,” that rings down the hall.  My colleague Barbara sweeps students into her office, offers them a chair, slides her computer aside and asks about important past or upcoming events they may have previously mentioned.  Another colleague, coming up behind me as we toiled up two flights of stairs to reach our classrooms, said, “You know, I’m convinced that every summer, in the dead of night, some malign elf enters the building and adds one step to each flight.  It’s the only way I can account for why each year I grow more fatigued climbing these stairs”—a slyly revelatory comment which got us talking about age.

I use a strategy suggested by the poet Jon Cotner’s Spontaneous Society, which is dedicated to making “gentle interventions” that puncture “urban anonymity”: initiating a social exchange by making observations about what others are doing or what is happening around them.  Last week, as I walked through the science and math building, I came upon one of my students looking frazzled before an open organic chemistry book.  “O-Chem has to be the hardest subject of all,” I said.  The student looked up and smiled wryly: “It’s so complicated; I can’t keep it all straight,” she said.  “I know exactly what you mean,” I replied; “I barely passed it when I took it in.  What’s the hardest part for you?” 

It is hard, exceedingly hard, maybe impossible, to make the phatic emphatic, to make greetings occasions, to be fully present in them, to fashion them into instants of authentic inquiry and regard.  The mundane has its own insistent demands.  They muddle our mindfulness, meander it, loosen its tensile grip.  It is hard.  But it is important.

Small talk in small moments in small encounters, fleeting, to be sure; but also, I’d like to think, small transfigurations, the melody of greeting in sync with its music, a momentary bond hijacked from the cubbyholes of fragmentation and isolation. 

Banished Words

As it has every year since 1976, Lake Superior State University has released its latest “List of Words Banished from the Queen’s English for Misuse, Overuse, and General Uselessness.”  The annual list, the impish brainchild of LSSU’s Public Relations Office, contains the twelve most nominated words among the thousands sent mostly by folks from the United States and Canada.  The 2012 list of unfriended words includes the following: amazing (the most nominated), baby bump (a close second), shared sacrifice, occupy, blowback, man cave, the new normal, pet parent, win the future, trickeration, ginormous, and thank you in advance. 

Of more interest than the list, however, are the comments that accompany the nominations, for they reveal a rather flinty linguistic conservatism, a curmudgeony sense that words have gone wild, have wrinkled proper discourse beyond the smoothing ministrations of even a steam press.  Like beleaguering lexical Visigoths, the comments suggest, the nominated words have battered down the gate and spread their rampaging, disarray within the sacrosanct wall of the language community.

One large group of comments asserts that overuse, especially by celebrity culture, has led to a degradation or even possible loss of the word’s original meaning and has usurped a simpler and better word.  These commenters see overuse as a kind of lactic acid buildup leading to meaning muscle fatigue.  They appear to assume a meaning checkpoint beyond which a word should not stray, lest it wander into a Claymore-filled semantic field .  Martha Stewart is particularly pilloried for overusing “amazing.”  “Every talk show uses this word at least two times every five minutes,” writes one commenter.  “Hair is not ‘amazing.’  Shoes are not ‘amazing’. . . .  I saw Martha Stewart use the word ‘amazing’ six times in the first five minutes of her television show.”  Writes another, “I blame Martha Stewart because to her, EVERYTHING is amazing.”  Perhaps we now know one reason Hallmark Channel’s cancelling Stewart’s show, due to its paltry average of 225,000 viewers.  And lest we think such criticism is gender exclusive, another commenter notes that “Anderson Cooper used it three times recently in the opening 45 second of his program.” 

Other indictments of celebrity culture include “baby bump” (“I’m tired of a pregnancy being reduced to a celebrity accessory”), “the new normal” (“Often hosts on TV news channels use the phrase shortly before introducing some self-help guru who gives glib advice to the unemployed and other people having financial difficulties”), and “man cave” (Overused by television home design and home buying shows” and “has trickled down to sitcoms and commercials”).  We adore our celebrities.  We despise our celebrities because we despise ourselves for adoring them.  Do we contradict ourselves?  Well, that’s OK; we’re large; we contain multitudes.

Other commenters note that overuse has diluted they take to be the word’s true signification.  For “amazing”: “People use ‘amazing’ for anything that is nice or heartwarming.  In other words, for things that are not amazing.”  “There are any number of adjectives that are far more descriptive.”  “The word which once aptly described the process of birth is now used to describe such trivial things as toast, or the color of a shirt.”  For “baby bump”: “Why can’t we use the old tried-and-true ‘pregnant?’  For “occupy”: “It has been overused and abused even to promote Black Friday shopping.”  For “blowback”: “the word ‘reaction’ would have been more than sufficient.”  For “trickeration”:  “What’s wrong with ‘trick’ or ‘trickery?’”  For “ginormous”: “This word is just a made-up combination of two words.  Either word is sufficient.”

Alas, language changes whether we want it to or not.  They have to: things change, we change, and language changes so we can talk about it all.  As University of Illinois linguist Denis Baron says, “Like all living languages, English is always changing: new words are coined and old ones are modified or discarded, as we scramble to keep up with the human imagination and an ever-changing world.” And that means words broaden and narrow their meanings, or we metaphorically extend words ready at hand.  “Holy Day” became “holiday;” “cool” once referred to a specific style of jazz rather than a general expression of approval.  “Meat” once indicated any kind of food, “deer” any kind of animal, “vulgar” once meant ordinary, “girl” any young person.  We “surf” the Internet, likely using a “mouse” to do so and hoping to experience no “bugs” or “viruses” or “worms.”  Language is irrepressibly mutable, gloriously so, I think.  The only immutable languages are dead languages.

And “trickeration”?   You can find it in the Oxford English Dictionary, which records it as part of African American Vernacular English, first used in 1940.  Langston Hughes’s 1951 Montage of a Dream Deferred contains the lines, "I believe my old lady's pregnant again! Fate must have some kind of trickeration to populate the cullud nation."  And “ginormous?”   It’s included in the 2007 update of the Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary and was first used in 1948 in a British dictionary of military slang.  And “blowback?”  Sure, it means “reaction,” but that meaning has been extended to include effects and practices in such areas as forensics, jurisprudence, helicopter rotors and smoking marijuana—as well as being used as the title of three books, a film, and a role-playing game.  And “baby bump?”  Could it not be an attempt to make “pregnant,” which has no gradations to denote more or less, a gradable term meaning “just a little bit pregnant”?  We see such an attempt when folks say “very pregnant” to indicate a late, quite noticeable stage.

The fact is that words are always prone to vandalism, to being pilfered from their secure semantic niches and made the possession of others, to serve their own particular purposes.  And amid this linguistic leveraging, it’s unlikely that whatever prototypical meaning a word  has will be lost.  After all, we all know, and will continue to know, what “pregnant” means, even if we do use such phrases as “a pregnant pause,” or “a pregnant question” or describe a thundercloud “pregnant with rain.”  And we will continue to find it amazing.

Many of the comments on the banished twelve centered on their sound, specifically, the disagreeable sensation the word provoked.  Banish “amazing,” one commenter said, “to stop my head from exploding,” while another claimed it made her “teeth grate” and her “hackles rise” and “annoyed” her dog to boot. “Baby bump “makes pregnancy sound like some fun and in-style thing to do.”   “Pet parent” is “cloying” and “capable of raising my blood sugar,” “trickeration” “sounds unintelligent,” “ginormous” “makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck every time I hear it” and “just sounds ridiculous,” “the new normal” fosters “cynicism about the ability of government to improve people’s lives,” and the overuse of “occupy” is not “palatable.”

Linguists will tell us that words are simply strings of sounds, and that those sounds in no way determine the words’ legitimacy.  An opera in Italian is not better than one in German because you dislike the supposedly “harsh,” guttural, deep-in-the-throat sound of German.  Being put off by the soundscape of a language is a matter of taste, a subjective experience of its words, not an objective fact about them.  The bickering such judgments foster leads nowhere, for every person’s experience is, finally, true.  Still, it is interesting that we do more than see and hear words; we feel them.  Language is embodied, not just a baked-in set of abstract principles.  Words have physical impact, a texture, a sensation.  They are visceral, and perhaps this helps explain linguistic conservatism: any change is felt, not simply noted.

But, as Columbia University linguists John McWhorter maintains, language is “disheveled,” logically untidy and convoluted enough to send an efficiency expert scrambling for the exit.  According to McWhorter, language conservatives are textbound; they cleave to the change-resistant written word and view deviations from it as a ginormous trickeration toward language traditions they cherish and, therefore, wish to preserve.  For journalist and author Robert Lane Greene, such “aggrieved conservatism” is blowback against a change of style they feel should go out of style.  But, as Greene notes, “Yesterday’s abomination is today’s rule.”  As the life of any language reveals, language conservatism is a position cannot be long occupied, is thankless in advance, and will not win the future.  Language change is the old normal.  The spoken word always has and always will amble blithely away from its written tradition, with scarcely a backward glance.

Rest Stop

I make a point of stopping at the Interstate 35 south-bound Story City, Iowa, rest area each time I return from a trip north.  It is not my favorite rest area.  That distinction belongs to the Enterprise rest area, midway between Austin, Minnesota, and LaCrosse, Wisconsin on east-bound Interstate 90.  The Enterprise rest stop is a forest-nestled collage of architectural styles and accents, and features a deck that juts out over a cliff edge, affording a view some quarter of a mile below of tree-surrounded, meadowed valley so eye-addlingly beautiful that it causes a retinal chorus of hallelujahs.  I once tried to throw a stone into the stream that meanders through that valley and succeeded only in throwing out my shoulder.  Son of Adam that I am, I had overreached and, for several days, anyway, was disarmed for my transgression.

The Story City rest area lacks the Enterprise’s dazzling and dizzying spectacle, but it has its distinctive attractions nonetheless.  Its theme is transportation, particularly, the history of transportation in Iowa and the role of Iowa and Iowans in the transportation industry.  When the state undertook a renovation of the original 1960s-constructed rest area, it included an artist on the redesign team.  That artistic influence is apparent: wheel-shaped windows and benches, highway marker-like pylons depicting various modes of transportation, a terrazzo floor displaying the intersection of I 35 and U.S. Highway 30, and text and image blocks displaying Iowa’s transportation history set into the walls.  A tree-lined concrete walkway provides opportunity for a leg-stretching saunter, and, most significantly, for my purposes anyway, there’s a carved-through-the-woods spur leading to the Skunk River Greenbelt, a ten-mile nature trail.

Before rest areas, there were waysides and roadside parks.  Before waysides and roadside parks, there was wherever travelers spotted a likely place to pull over—usually places that eventually became formalized in waysides and roadside parks.  The best rest areas preserve that historical texture.  And, like all manufactured things, they have a functional use and a cultural symbolism.  Rest stops testify to the midcentury sense of an expansive America, one in which the space of travel lengthened to the point where rest areas were necessary, and one in which the means for leisure travel were becoming commonly available. 

But for me, the best thing about rest stops is the opportunity to stop and rest, to get back into my body, to unkink pianowire-tight back and neck and shoulder muscles, to redirect my attention from the concentrated focus of driving interstate speeds, to give myself away for a bit, for a while, to something looser and more loping, something that relinquishes attention only to find it denser, more crystallized .  During my most recent stop, as I was stretching my hamstrings, a car pulled up next to me, and through its open windows I heard the driver say to his wife and two teenage sons, “Hurry up; we’ve got a ways to go and I want to keep on schedule.”  I could only smile at the irony: a rest stop where no resting and virtually no stopping is permitted.

When I stop at the Story City rest area, I always take the spur to the Skunk River Greenbelt and sometimes venture a half a mile or a mile onto the Greenbelt trail itself.  I build that walk into my schedule.  It’s one of the best things I do.  Something happens to me, in me.  Perhaps it’s simply the contrast with the rush of driving; perhaps it’s the solitude, for I have yet to encounter another person on the spur; perhaps it’s the sheer motion through a setting that shouts aloud its greened summer vitality.  I wish I could see through language more than darkly.  I wish I could find the words to adequately express the subjective experience of my waywarding pilgrimage, words to convey the physical stimulation, the sensual satisfaction, of moving through rhythms of sun and shadow and feeling their alternating warmth and coolness, of hearing burbling bird song and wind soughing leaves, of smelling tree resin and wildflower and faintly, oh so faintly, from somewhere away, a whisper of suntoasted ginger.  Something happens: a cherishing.  I think “pleasure,” is as close as I can come to describing the experience of the experience, of what the quality of the sensations add up to, are like.

Something happens.  Time thickens, congeals with the arrowroot of consciousness, no longer swings me from its sweeping hands.  It’s like an aperture narrowing, like a camera shot irising in.  The subjective edges shrink toward the center.  It’s like a focus, an intense focus, that somehow glances at a widening scope, a broader space.  Pure pleasure, purely contextual and fleeting, a refugee moment, I realize, but, who knows: bead enough of these ephemeral moments together, leaven them with habits of the heart, and maybe doing will become being, maybe the unfinished poetics of pleasure will become a ligature-strong narrative of a good life.

Thoreau says that “time is but a stream I go a-fishing in.”  He does not say what he caught.  Perhaps that’s not important.  Perhaps, sitting and waiting for a nibble, pursuing an inner odyssey, self-baited, he caught himself.

Orbital House Painting

Every summer I paint a section of the house, methodically working my way around, until, by the time I arrive at my original starting point, it is ready to be repainted.  Now, you might ask, why not paint the entire house and just be done with it.  Well, for one thing, that stealthy huckster age, who promises wisdom has, instead, steadily fleeced my stamina, intent, seemingly, on gradually turning me into a tattered coat on a stick.  Muscling around and emplacing a 24-foot extension ladder equipped with a stabilizer bar, in sometimes tight and awkward spaces, on sometimes uneven ground, during days when the heat index loiters above 100 degrees, pretty much dwindles what diminished strength I still possess. 

For another thing, I am a serial multitasker: I do a variety of things during a day, devoting several hours to each.  There is laundry to do and carpet to vacuum and grass to mow and books to read and essays to write, and fall classes to prepare and pantry shelves to build and porch floor boards to replace and a breezeway to sheetrock and grandchildren’s ballgames and concerts to attend.  As Ishmael says, “I try all things; I achieve what I can.”

But the main thing that confines my painting to a section at a time is that, given the process I follow, the summer does not contain enough days for painting the entire house—unless, as in Joshua 10:13, “the sun stood still in the midst of heaven and hasted not to do down.”  Of course, house painting is hardly a holy cause, and the heat, being unbearable, would surely haste me to the house’s air-conditioned interior.  However, as I do not anticipate divine intervention, I follow my painting process, which is not just finicky; it is finicky spiking the ball in the endzone.  It is anal retention’s anal retentiveness.

Having clamored up the ladder, I first inspect the siding for what the experts term “paint adhesion loss.”  Has the paint alligatored, blistered, cracked, flaked, chalked, ghosted, peeled?  Each type of problem indicates some inadequacy in surface preparation or primer/paint application.  Once the problem is assessed, the scraping begins.  I use three different types and sizes of scraper, all carbide edged, each designed for a particular type or area of adhesion loss.  I am a ruthless scraper, dissatisfied with removing just the obvious flakes and peels.  I want the near-flakes, the perhaps or maybe-could-become flakes, too.  The mere possibility of a flake is spur enough to prick the sides of my scraping intent. 

Then comes sanding.  I use my DeWalt finishing sander, fitted with 80 grit sandpaper, to remove rust from the nail heads, to feather out the edges of the scraped sections and to abrade the remaining painted surface, which provides a purchase for the new coat.  I pull popped or loose nails, replacing them with galvanized wood screws, and caulk any gouges or apertures in the clapboard overlap.   The next day I wash away accumulated dust and grime, using a chemical-free dishwashing liquid and a telescoping device originally intended to scour bathtubs.  I hook two buckets of water to each side of the stabilizer bar, one to rinse the scouring pad, the other to load it with detergent.  When that’s completed, I hose it all down, wait a day for it to dry, and then prime the bare spots, employing a kind of Goldilocks procedure: not to thin, not to thick, just right.  A day later, I paint, careful not to miss a spot, concerned with an even application and flowing brush strokes.  The following day, I ratchet down the ladder and begin again, following the same ritual until the section is completed, and I can step back, take it all in, and pronounce it good.

Did I mention I am fastidious, fussy, persnickety, particular, stickling?  Am I obsessive, possibly masochistic, potentially addled?  Have I studied the Puritans too long, too sedulously, such that the unsweetened jelly of their grim Calvinism has injected itself into the very core of my being?  I don’t know.  But I do know this: I enjoy the painting process, enjoy the discipline of it, the unwavering constancy and steadfastness of it, the essence of it, which, as Aristotle suggests about all essences, derives from pursuing excellence in the purpose of it.

Lao Tzu advises us to keep our “mind from its wandering/ and regain first oneness.”  I’m not sure what “first oneness” is like, or how to regain that which I’m uncertain I ever had to lose.  But I do know that as my painting process unfolds, I enter a space within a space, a space wedged deep in the dense now, a space where I do not indiscriminately give myself away, piece by piece.  I am gathered and mustered for the work at hand--though I allow that at times my mind meanders a bit.  Sometimes, gazing at the hairline fissures in the paint I imagine them some kind of hieroglyphic, some deep-time rune that, could I decipher it, would answer the big questions that plague us all: how to create a just society, does life have an overarching purpose, how does one make perfect al dente pasta.  Mostly, though, I am undistracted, fully focused and unfalteringly attentive.  “When,” John Berryman asks in “Song 384,” “will indifference come.”  My answer, at least while engaged in my painting process, is “never.”

I even like the fact that, having worked my way around the house to the origin, the natal section so to speak, of my painting process, I must begin again.  “Permanence,” Emerson says, “is but a word of degrees.”  Every end is a beginning. We are always setting off, seldom settled.  Only as far as we are “unsettled,” Emerson maintains, “is there hope for” us. There is even a kind of poetics in this ongoingness, this refusal of finishedness--a kind of heroic verse epic, a tragicomedy perhaps, in my battle against the elements, against the effect of acid rain, against the nature of paint and wood itself, for in the street fight between paint and weather, paint is always predestinated to suffer a groin kick.  We may call a halt to things, but, hopefully at least, they do not end.  They accrue meaning, become more than a simple chronicle of ever-receding events, become infused with consequence, with significance.  They resonate and endure; we resonate and endure.  And in that resonance and endurance, our selves remain open-ended questions in search of answers, narratives still being written.

So, like a planet circling the sun, like an electron orbiting a nucleus, like clay on a turning potter’s wheel, I work my way around the house, on an errand that is always in progress, always to be carried out.

The Graduation Party

My second-oldest grandaughter’s recent high-school graduation party offered me the opportunity to meet and to reconnect with members of the many-corridored factions of my family, near-family, and almost-family.  I got caught up with my ex-wife’s aunts and cousins, whom I had not seen in twenty-five years, with my ex-wife and her new partner and her old partner, and I was introduced to my son’s ex-wife’s mother, grandmother, uncles, and cousins.  My son’s ex-wife’s husband was not in attendance.  He was stewing at home, in a fit of pique, because he was late getting ready and my son’s ex-wife, fearing that guests would arrive at the party with no one to greet them, would not wait for him.  She and my ex-wife and my son had spent the better part of the previous evening decorating the shelter.  He had sat in front of the TV drinking beer.  Thus his tardiness in getting ready.  “What a douce,” my oldest grandson said, and I had to agree.

Typically, I enjoy gatherings of this sort, where most of the attendees pursue walks, runs, hits, and errors of life different from my own academic filter bubble.  I like to chat them up, and I like to listen—well, eavesdrop would be the more correct word.

*     *     *

As I sat outside park shelter where the party was being held, bowered from the 90 degree heat by the embracing shade of a hawthorn, drinking a condensation-beaded Bud-lite that my oldest grandson procured from the ice-chest of one of his uncles, watching the wind quarrel with the treetops, thinking that life seldom offers more satisfying moments, my attention was drawn by the following dialog between my son’s ex-wife’s grandmother and her son Arlen. 

“Mom, we’re gonna go to dinner after the party”

“I don’t want to go to dinner.  I won’t be hungry.”

“Yes, you will.”

“No, I won’t”

“You’re gonna go to dinner.  And we’ll have a drink or two before.”

“I don’t want a drink”

“You’re gonna have a fucking drink!”

“I’m not.  And why are you using the f-word?”

“I always use it.  You just don’t listen.”

She lit a cigarette and glared at him.  He polished off his beer and glared at her.  They scoured each other with their glares.  I felt embarrassed.  Here was a family dynamic that would no doubt have sent Freud running for the exit.  I headed for the entrance to the park shelter.

*     *     *

I discover that the beer my oldest grandson scored for me came from another of my son’s ex-wife’s uncles, Ted.  I thanked him, he said, “No problem.”  I told him I was the father of the father of the graduate, and he asked me what I did. 

“I’m a teacher.”

“Yeah?  Where do you teach?”

“In Lamoni, Iowa.  It’s a small, southern Iowa town near the Missouri border.”

“High school?”

“No, at Graceland University.”

“You’re a college professor?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you teach?”

“English.”

He looked at the man next to him, who had been listening.  He smiled; no, he jeer-smiled.  The other man smile-jeered.  The same thought had evidently occurred to them simultaneously.  Both sang, “Hey! Teacher! Leave them kids alone!”

Charming.  I felt unfortunate that I did not have an appropriate lyric for a Culligan Water Softener installer.  Ah, well, just another brick in the wall.

*     *     *

My ex-wife’s cousin Mickey is a pipefitter, and a union man.  A gentle, soft-spoken man, he turned into a semi hauling a volatile mix of raging scorn when I mentioned Wisconsin governor Scott Walker’s having survived a recall vote for his legislative push to strip the public unions of their bargaining rights.  I attempted to draw him into argument, not because I am anti-union, but because I relish conversation and believe argument is a truth-seeking enterprise, not a zero-sum debate.

“Well, Mickey, you know a lot of people who are hurting economically look at the wages and pensions the public employees get, and think they’re pretty cushy, and because their taxes fund those wages and pensions—well, I can understand how they’d find Walker a kind of standard-bearer.  It’s like he voices their anxiety and discontent.”

“Shit,” Mickey replied.  “Walker’s a stooge in the pocket of the corporations, and the people who support him are stooges, too.  Christ!  How ignorant can people be?”

I understand.  We all need our monsters, if only to feel the strength of our irresistible otherness. And I don’t know, maybe it was the epithet “Christ,” but I wondered what Jesus would have though, or thinks, about unions.  Would Jesus have been a union man or a right-to-work advocate?  He did claim that a camel would have an easier time passing through the eye of a needle than a rich man passing through the gates of heaven.  He did say that “whatever you did not do for the least among you, you did not do for me.”  He did concern himself with common people living common lives, and ate and drank with people of the lower social ranks, violating Roman and Jewish eating rules.  And, in his name, that first-century Norma Rae, Paul, created one of the largest unions ever, one with great benefits if you forego the wages of sin.

*     *     *

At breakfast the next morning my youngest granddaughter was glum.  I attempted to lift her mirthlessness by sending some cheery words her way, but halfway there they collided with the impenetrable force field of her gloom, splintereened, and floated to the floor.  Her cellphone vibrated: a text message.  She read it and ran crying from the table.  I looked at my son who shrugged and followed her.  When he returned, he said she had received a text from her boyfriend, Chad, who told her he no longer wanted anything to do with her.  His words, exactly: he no longer wanted anything to do with her.

I am three continents away from being a violent man, but at that moment a blinding rage flared in me, a rage so large it cast a shadow before it.   I wanted to confront Chad and cure him of his cruelty.  I wanted to place a hand on his neck, pinion him to a wall, get marine-drill-sergeant in his face, hiss that I did not appreciate his making my granddaughter cry, curse him for his cruelty, and knee him, hard, several times, in the groin. 

This dark capacity in the face of cruelty has visited me before.  Several weeks ago, my step-daughter’s son came running into the house, holding his head and sobbing uncontrollably.  A wasp had stung him while he was out raking leaves from the garden.  My wife cut an onion in half and held the exposed portion against the spot of the sting.  His mother explained that he needed to calm down: his agitation sped the spread of the poison.  That was correct, of course, but not what he needed at the moment.  I gripped his arm and said, “Those wasp stings, they hurt like hell.”  And then I headed outside, determined to slaughter that wasp, any wasp, all wasps, for making my handsome and strapping 14-year-old grandson cry, until my wife called after me and returned me to reason, and the shameful irony that in some uncurated annex of me lay a barely kenneled capacity at odds with the very end I sought.

*     *     *

At my second-oldest grandchild’s graduation party, my grandfatherly pride would have easily filled the Big Room at Carlsbad Cavern: straight-A grades, including every Advanced Placement course her high school offered, a stack of plaques memorializing her scholarly and marching band accomplishments, and a scholarship to the University of Minnesota in the fall to major in Chemical Engineering.  Her curiosity is incandescent; her desire to learn, shoreless.  She is experience-tranced and expectation-imbued and hope-infatuated. 

Unlike most, maybe all, of us in attendance, she is not jacketed by the comforting fit of the familiar; she wants to be surprised rather than flattered, vulnerable to the risk of a different perspective rather than armored in certainty.  She refuses to consider the world necessarily what it is, refuses to occupy it without being much occupied about it.  She wants the world to make sense and make it make sense so it doesn’t break her heart.  I hope it does break her heart, but only in the sense that Mary Oliver describes in her poem “Lead:” “that it break open and never close again/ to the rest of the world.”

The Click Point

Derek settled himself in the chair on the other side of my desk.  This was our second conference about his autobiographical narrative.  At our first meeting he had told me he simply couldn’t think of an event in his life memorable enough, arresting enough, pivotal enough to support a narrative that unspooled toward a moment of  unanticipated meaning or insight.  But if I had listened well, if I had interpreted correctly the shadow language laired beneath Derek’s words, his problem was reticence, a reluctance to reinhabit his past experience.  That past, that experience, was, it seemed, not a burbling stream he wished to go a-fishing in.  To complete the assignment, he needed to be distanced from it.

I had told him that the experience did not necessarily need to be personal; it could be something he had witnessed, something that involved someone else.  The important thing was that it had a “click point,” a small, resonant rupture of emergent meaning; a sudden, perhaps initially inexplicable, sense that what he was seeing, had seen, was somehow revelatory, somehow cargoed with insinuation; that, in some fashion, what he had beheld pointed suggestively beyond its immediate context.  The ladenness of these click points, I explained, their significance, often becomes explicit upon reflection.  I recommended that he trawl his past, recent and distant, for such an experience, consider its potential for containing a click point, and come back to see me in a couple of days.

“Dr. D., I did what you said, and I think I may have something.”

“Terrific; good for you, Derek “

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure though.”

“Okay; tell me about it.”

“Well, I was at this baseball game, watching my little cousin.  He was nine, and it was one of those peewee leagues, you know, before they’re old enough for Little League, the kind where one of the coaches pitches, real slow, so the kids can hit it.  He played shortstop. Well, a batter hits a grounder to him, a pretty hard one, and just before it gets to him it takes a hop and hits him right on the chin.  And he kind of crumples to the ground and curls up and starts to cry.  I mean, really cry.  Sobbing.  His whole body was shaking.

But here’s the thing.  It’s like everything stops; everything comes to a standstill.  It was like one of those things we made back in grade school, a diorama.  The wind stops and the flag in left field stops waving, and the sunlight, it’s like it freezes, and the sounds stop, and nobody moves.  Everybody is just standing there watching him.  The coaches and the other players.  And his mom and dad, they’re in the stands, and they just sit there.  And it dawns on me that they are embarrassed.  They’re embarrassed that their son is laying on the ground crying.

Finally, his dad gets up and walks toward him.  Not fast; just kind of strolls out there.  And he stands over him—doesn’t squat down or touch him or anything.  Just stands there, and says something.  I couldn’t hear what.  Then my cousin stops crying and gets up and follows his dad off the field.  He’s like walking in his dad’s shadow.  And when his dad gets back to the stands, he says something to his mom, and she takes my cousin to the car and they leave.  And his dad goes back to the stands and watches the rest of the game.

What do you think, Dr. D.?  Is this something I could write the essay about?”

What did I think?  I thought it was a cluster bomb of a story, a detonation of horror and cruelty and crushing sadness.  I thought it spoke of an inability to love hard enough, or enough, or even at all.  I thought of a self-regard so hermetic that it induced emotional anesthesia. I thought of America’s storied pastime hidden behind a carapace of mockery, the fabled diamond a broken space, a scoured terrain.  I didn’t say this, though; Derek needed to make his own meaning.

“This is definitely something to write the essay about.  Now, what’s the click point for you?  What’s the big-picture insight it afforded you, the realization you came to because of it?  What’s its emotional temperature, its moreness?  What’s it telling you about?”

“Well, for me it’s saying something about how parents forget kids are kids, even if they are playing a grownup’s game.  About how kids cry when they hurt because they’re not old enough yet to have learned not to.  And how getting all protective about our image doesn’t leave any room for feeling what others feel.  You think that’s kinda getting at it?

“Derek, I think you’ve written the essay.  Go put it on paper.”

Derek gets up, heads to the door, then stops.  With his back to me, he says, “Dr. D., I did fudge that story a little.”

“How so?”

He turns to face me.  “That little boy.  That was me.”

And then he was gone.  I wanted to call him back.  I wanted to run after him.  I wanted more.  But I knew that, for Derek, there is a benediction in the shadowed, a blessing in some things only glanced at.

Mass Changes

I am old enough to remember when, as a consequence of Vatican II reforms in the 1960’s, the Catholic Mass transitioned from being said in Latin to being said in vernacular English.  I preferred Latin.  Even as a young boy I felt the elevated and solemn beauty of a language that would remain incorruptibly sequestered on an island time, and I somehow understood—and was enchanted by—the way Latin connected me to an incomprehensibly deep and mysterious history.  Even today, Latin, for me, is indissociable from golden patens and jeweled chalices and incense and light shafting through stain-glass windows and words and music rising up to and resounding in dusky high-vaulted ceilings. 

So, it was with no small interest that I read  that on Sunday, November 27, 2011, at the beginning of the Advent season and the official start of the Roman Catholic Church’s liturgical year, churchgoers participated in a different Mass than they had the previous Sunday.  On that day a new translation of the Roman Missal, the Latin book of prayers upon which the Mass is based, went into effect.  The new translation traditionalizes Catholicism’s most significant ritual by cleaving much more closely to the Latin original.  The often-repeated congregant response, for instance, to the priest’s “The Lord be with you,”—“And also with you”—has been altered to “And with your spirit” because it is both a literal rendition of the Latin “Et cum spiritu tuo” and it acknowledges that the priest is about to perform an action reserved only to those who have received the sacrament of Holy Orders.  In effect, the Church intends the new translation to darn with the formal stitch of its official language a community gathered under God’s authority to hear His word and witness the spirit of Christ channeled through His ordained representative on Earth.

Of even more interest, however, were the reactions of some of those in the pews.  Despite the changes not being an immaculate inception—churchgoers were advised well in advance, and “cheat sheets” containing the altered prayers and responses were available—they were not pleased.  Like the last Incan emperor Atahuallpa, who cast away the Catholic breviary because it would not speak to him as it did the priest, they disowned what they did not understand.  “I am furious with the Church,” one congregant declared.  I am so tired of being told exactly what I have to say, exactly what I have to pray.  The changes are so meaningless.”  Such a view articulates, precisely and with unconscious irony, one motivating reason for the changes: a sense of worship-style entitlement that fits well with an ethic of individuality, but not with the Church’s view of a gathered, worshipping community.

Another, “distraught” by changes that seem “ridiculous” and “stupid” in their trivial concern with “semantics,” refused to “learn the damn prayers.”  Who, he asked, wants “to go to church and be confused.”   A third, also semantically-challenged, wondered about the change in the Nicean Creed from Jesus being described as “one in being with the Father” to “consubstantial with the Father”: “Consubstantial?  What is that word?”  Quite a bit, as it turns out, for its temporal arc reaches back to the Arian Heresy, a 4^th-century controversy in Church history that involved nothing less than the nature of Jesus Christ and the mystery of the Trinity.  Arius, a priest from Alexandrine, Egypt, claimed that the Father and Son were of like being but not like substance: the Son came after the Father and was created by Him.  Such a position contravened the officially endorsed teaching that the Son was of the same substance as the Father and co-existent with Him.  The Council of Nicea in 325 settled the matter in favor of the traditional position: the Father and Son were of like substance, consubstantial.  Arius was declared a heretic. The change to “consubstantiation,” then, purposefully anneals the semantics of here-and-now with the there-and-then, reestablishing a doctrinal matrix of meaning that the more vernacular and less literal “one in being” does not express.

I cannot help but wonder, though, if the stiff-spined resistance to the Mass changes mask a deeper issue for which the aggrieved denunciations are a surface token.  Could it be, I wonder, change itself, that atomizing centrifuge within which we spin with what seems ever-increasing speed, that beleaguering sense of Rocky Horror time-warping discontinuity, that has provoked the outcry?  In the abstract, as a word merely, or as an observed but safely-distanced phenomenon, change presents us with few problems.  It is not hard.  Making it, however, is.

We are creatures of habit, remarkably adept, as Thoreau notes, at “easily and insensibly” falling “into a particular route.”  Routine beckons, the customary solidifies, and revolutions in behavior, as Thomas Paine knew, are tumultuous: “a long habit of not thinking a thing wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right,” raising, as a result, “a formidable outcry in defense of custom.”   The habitual is unrecognized decision making; routine is unacknowledged choice, insensible because it has become so heavily muscled over time that we think it a natural fact, just the way it is, the way things are.  History, context, explanation, contingency all are swept away, and we find ourselves contentedly housed on a cul-de-sac of time.  We cohere, our lives emplotted in a narrative, seamless and durable, whose theme is the who we are.  “Our notions pass for true,” as William James observed.

But change confronts us with the rupturing awareness of time’s hissing passage.  It threatens, reminding us that we are not left handed or right handed, but minute- and second-handed.   Tempus fugit, as Latin has it, and we don’t like the fugiting, don’t like the curled lip of time that mocks us with our smallness, that unsettles all we have settled, and reminds us, with a kick-drum thud, of the inevitable event horizon of our days and ways.  My father-in-law once told me he considered computers stupid contrivances.  “I don’t know how to work one,” he said, “and I don’t want to learn.”  But underneath that curmudeonly bravado, that defiant individuality, lay a fear that he couldn’t learn; that it eclipsed his capability; that “behind the times” was indelibly calligraphied across his forehead; that he was antiquated, obsolescent, time’s relic, carelessly discarded by a culture careening relentlessly forward; that he had been abandoned in a wilderness, beyond the orienting needle of even the most sensitive compass, bereft of rock and refuge and harbor and keep.  What my father-in-law was saying, really, was “I’m afraid.”

“Change,” the poet Wendy Videlock writes, is “the new,/ improved/ word for god.”  And in an oblique sense at least, that is the end for which the Mass changes were designed.  But as Videlock also says, while change is “mighty enough/. . .to shelter” and “ bring together,” it can also “estrange us.”  We experience that estrangement, that unfamiliarity, that unbelongingness, most forcibly from ourselves, with ourselves, to ourselves.