“War is a poor chisel to carve out tomorrow.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
“Elusive dreams and vague desires fanned to fiery needs by deadly deeds of falling empires.” -Joni Mitchell
A reasonable argument can be made that the United States is more of an empire than a republic. We don’t possess vast tracts of land throughout the world like the British did (“The sun never sets on the Union Jack”). However, we do have economic, political, and military interests all over the planet. The difference between being and “empire” and a “superpower” is probably semantic. In any case, we have our fingers everywhere.
One of our fingers just got burned.
Kabul is falling even as I write this essay. Our twenty year occupation of Afghanistan is coming to an ignominious end. Thousands of lives (both American and Afghani), hundreds of billions of dollars, and two decades of time have been wasted on trying to turn Afghanistan from a tribal society into a functioning, Western-style democracy. Was this venture doomed to fail?
Probably.
I am certain that thousands of articles will be written about this period in our history. I am sure that any number of people will be blamed for this debacle. It is guaranteed that our nation’s efforts to transform Afghanistan will be analyzed and over-analyzed for years to come.
I might as well get started. I am only going to pick one aspect of the war in Afghanistan. I just want to look at how long we have been there.
Twenty years to an American is forever. Our country is like a teenager with ADHD. We simply cannot remain focused. We are completely unable to take the long view on anything. What amazes me is that we stayed even that long in Afghanistan. However, it wasn’t long enough.
Successful empires stay in place for long time. The Roman Empire lasted from 27 BC to 476 AD (or until 1453 AD, if you count Byzantium as being a vestige of the empire). The Romans put an indelible stamp on the peoples they ruled. Consider how many countries speak languages based on Latin. The British were no slouches either. They ruled areas of India from 1757 to 1947. That is almost two hundred years. How many countries in the world have more English speakers than India?
I read once that the reason the Israelites wandered in the desert for forty years was so that no one would remain alive who remembered the bad old days in Egypt. God apparently wanted no nostalgia for the bread and fleshpots of Goshen. The people who entered the Promised Land were a fresh generation, ready to start something new.
If we had really wanted to change Afghanistan, we would have committed to stay there for forty years, or maybe one hundred years. We would have remained until nobody remembered the Taliban. We would have occupied the country until the culture there was so different that nobody would have wanted to return to the old ways of doing things.
We never made that kind of commitment. Maybe we, as a people, were just unable to hang in there for the long haul. If we couldn’t go all the way, then we shouldn’t have gone there at all.
“God never gives someone a gift they are not capable of receiving.”
– Pope Francis
Jim came over to our house on Tuesday evening. He comes here almost every Tuesday around 6:00. Jim is an older gentleman who goes to our church. He is a member of the parish’s St. Vincent de Paul Society, a Catholic organization which serves the poverty-stricken in our community. On Tuesdays Jim helps out at the meal program in Racine. The people at the meal program feed the poor and the homeless. At the end of the program, Jim packs up a couple meals, drives to our home, and brings us supper.
In a way it’s strange that Jim would bring food to us. Karin and I are not, by any objective standard, poor. We have a house, two cars, and every material thing we need in order to live comfortably. We do not lack money.
We lack time.
Karin and I are full time caregivers for our grandson, Asher. Asher is eight months old. He is a wonderful little boy, and we love him dearly. However, he is high maintenance. Babies are like that. We almost never have time to cook ourselves a meal. It just doesn’t happen. Jim knows that, so he brings us food.
On Tuesday Jim pulled up into our driveway while we were on our front porch. Karin was sitting in her rocking chair, holding Asher on her lap. I was standing next to her. Jim brought us two plastic grocery bags with Styrofoam containers in them. Jim smiled and handed me the bags. He looked happily at Asher and said,
“Asher always has a smile for me! I really get a kick out of that boy!”
Asher did have a wide grin on his round face. he often smiles at people.
Jim asked us how we were doing. Then he turned to leave. He shouted,
“God bless you all!”
We yelled back, “God bless you too!”
Jim got into his car and said,
“See you at church!”
The food in the Styrofoam containers was good: hot dogs, potato salad, and baked beans. It occurred to me that what Karin and I ate was exactly what a homeless person was eating that day. It made me think and remember.
Several years ago, Karin and I volunteered at a meal program, which was also run by the St. Vincent de Paul Society. This particular soup kitchen was on the south side of Milwaukee in a building that was once a library. Food was provided each evening by a variety of churches and civic organizations. At that time, Karin and I belonged to a church that served a meal on one Tuesday every month. Our church always, without fail, brought spaghetti with a meat sauce. We also brought along bread, salad, fruit, and dessert. We made sure that we had a big plastic bucket of parmesan cheese. We had to have cheese.
The folks at St. Vincent de Paul set up the serving line for us. Those of us who were from our church took positions on the line. One person served the spaghetti, one person served a salad, one person gave each guest a dessert, etc. I usually wound up serving the parmesan cheese. Once we were all at our posts, the St. Vincent de Paul people let the guests into the dining facility. It was like opening the flood gates.
It was impossible to predict how many people would come for a free meal. Sometimes only one hundred people showed up. Other nights we had almost four hundred hungry customers. We made sure that we had more than enough food, just in case traffic was heavy. But somehow, we never had enough parmesan cheese. I always had to ration that. I had to use a tiny ladle, and it never seemed like I could give out enough cheese to satisfy our guests.
The population that wanders into a meal site is eclectic. Some guests look clean and sober. Some look rough, really rough. People come to the soup kitchen for a variety of reasons, not just for the food. In winter they come in simply to have a warm place to sit for a while. Some come inside just so they don’t have to be alone. Some really like spaghetti.
When people would come to me for their dollop of parmesan, I would first ask them if they wanted any. Some didn’t. Some would say, “No, my doctor tells me that I shouldn’t eat that.” Some would just shake their heads in my direction. Some would give me a blank stare like I didn’t exist.
Most of the guests wanted the parmesan. They would say, “Hey, just spread it over the sauce. There, that’s good.” Or they would ask, “Could I get another scoop of the cheese? I really like that.”
It was hard for me to decide if I should give a guest extra cheese, because there might be a couple hundred people behind him or her. I usually ladled out a bit more to them, and then they moved on to the next station. Sometimes they got irritated and asked, “Is that all? Are you paying for it with your own money?” I tried to explain that I had to make the cheese last so that everyone would get some. Often, that reasoning made no impression on the cheese aficionado.
For a long time I wondered at how much importance these people put on a spoonful of grated cheese. It was always a big deal to them. I hard trouble understanding that.
Finally, I realized that they really didn’t give a damn about the cheese. They just wanted somebody, anybody, to care about their desires and needs. These folks had probably spent the whole day wandering the streets, where other people were doing the best to ignore their existence. Some of the guests were invisible to the rest of the world until they got into the serving line. Then somebody (me) actually saw them and heard them. For a brief moment, I cared about them, even though they were total strangers to me. These people were definitely hungry. They came into the meal site starving for respect and love.
The people at the meal site in Racine don’t know Karin and me. They feed us anyway. For a long time Karin and I gave. Now we receive.
Karin and I were watching a movie on Netflix. I had to get up to make Asher, our baby grandson, a bottle. As I was warming it, Karin called to me and said,
“Hey! When you come back here, you have to see this scene in the movie! This is really funny!”
Karin and I (and Asher) were viewing “The Awakening of Motti Wolkenbruch”, a Swiss film about an young Orthodox Jew who, well, expands his horizons. In the movie Motti gets a schickse, a non-Jewish girlfriend. This leads to awkward moments with his overprotective mother.
The story takes place in Zürich, and the dialogue is mostly in German, with some Yiddish and Hebrew mixed into it. Karin and I watched the show in German, since we both speak the language (Karin is from Germany). Yiddish is similar to German, so we could understand most of that. The Hebrew was too much for me, even though I know a few words of it. It helps me to watch a film in the original language. Too many small things get lost in translation.
The part of the movie that Karin mentioned to me really was quite funny. In that scene, Motti imagines bringing his schickse to meet his mother. His mom is cooking in the kitchen when Motti introduces his gentile Liebling. Motti visualizes his mother flying into a rage and threatening to kill them both with a carving knife. Motti reacts by telling his mother,
“Mama! No! Don’t use that knife! It’s for cutting cheese! Use the knife for cutting meat!”
Motti’s mother pauses in shock. She puts down the cheese knife, grabs a meat carving blade, and proceeds with her attempt to murder her son and his main squeeze.
If a person is Jewish, or has been hanging around with Jewish friends for a while, they will know that many Orthodox Jews essentially have two separate kitchens; one for meat and one for dairy. Each section of the kitchen has its own cooking utensils, dishes, pots and pans. These things are never, EVER, mixed or used together. That is strictly verboten under the rules of kashrut.
So, on one level the movie scene is funny for pretty much everybody, but it is hilarious to somebody who knows even a little about Jewish culture. It is an inside joke.
I have been an unofficial member of an Orthodox synagogue for about a dozen years. Does that mean I understand Jewish culture? No, not really. I do have a vague sense of it, but I would be lying to say that I completely comprehend all the subtleties. I understand enough that I can get the jokes.
I think that a person has a good feel for a particular culture if they can understand the humor. Some people watch shows from the BBC, and say that they can’t understand British humor. The implication is that they don’t understand the British culture overall.
This reminds me of when I was wandering around the United States three years ago with some Native Americans from AIM. I traveled with a ragtag group for a couple months, going from reservation to reservation. For me it was like a very intensive immersion program. Two of the younger members of the group, Tony and Suzi, turned me on to YouTube videos from a Native American comedy team, the “1491s”. The videos were hysterical (I especially liked the video entitled “The Slapping Medicine Man”). What struck me was that they were funny to me partly because I had been hanging out with the Indians, and I could recognize some of the inside jokes. I don’t pretend to understand the Native Americans. I only got a brief taste of their culture, but I got enough that I could get their humor. That felt good.
There was time, many years ago, when I was first learning about Buddhism, that I attended a dharma talk. A dharma talk is a lecture about Buddhist meditation practice. Andy, one of the teachers, gave a short presentation. He was remarkably serious during his talk, and he made it clear to everyone present in the Zen Center that meditation was extremely important. At the end of his monologue he paused and said,
“I want you all to know that everything I just said was meaningless bullshit.”
Then he placed his palms together in gassho and bowed to us.
I laughed, and I was completely sold on Zen at that moment. At one level, Zen is an extremely earnest effort to find enlightenment. On another level, it is theatre of the absurd. Zen has an underlying foundation of paradox, and somebody is always trying to fuck with your mind. If a person takes Zen too seriously, then they don’t get the joke.
I am by ancestry a Slav (a Slovenian to be exact). Slavs have a decidedly dry (and occasionally morbid) sense of humor. It is, like anchovies, an acquired taste. Years ago, my brother bought me a t-shirt with a picture of Joseph Stalin on it. The shirt had the following quote from the Soviet dictator:
“Dark humor is like food. Not everyone gets it.”
That’s totally twisted, but funny in Slavic sort of way.
I have found these sorts of peculiar humor to be true with other people I have encountered. I have a friend from Tunisia, Mohamed. He is a devout Muslim. I was helping him to deliver some furniture to some Rohingya refugees when he made a comment to me about how Muslims often qualify future actions by saying “insha’allah” (if God wills).
Mohamed laughed and told me, “When we say ‘insha’allah’, it means we will never get around to it.”
“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” – 1 Corinthians 13:12
“The most difficult thing in life is to know yourself.” – Thales
“Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.” – Alan Watts
I got a text a couple days ago from my sister-in-law, Shawn. She wrote:
“You were in the Eagle yesterday.” (“The Eagle” is the local newspaper in College Station, Texas. That is where Shawn resides.)
She continued in her next text:
“A much edited version of what I had written on my blog.”
I wrote back to her, “That’s disturbing.”
I got a “LOL” back from her.
I did not know what she was talking about, so I asked her to send me a link to the article. Shawn writes a regular column in “The Eagle”. She generally writes about religion.
Shawn wrote about my interactions with members of various faith traditions. Everything she wrote was positive. However, reading the article made me uneasy. I kept thinking,
“Did I actually say that? Did I do that? Is this what I am like?”
It was like the feeling I get when I hear a recording of my own voice. It takes a moment for me to realize, “Oh yeah, that’s me.”
There is nothing in Shawn’s essay that struck me as being incorrect. I am certain that she was as accurate as she could be. It just felt weird to see myself through someone else’s eyes. I write about other people all the time (I’m doing it right now), and I assume that I am being objective.
Maybe I’m not.
I don’t really know other people very well. The fact is that I don’t myself very well either. As the Apostle Paul said, “We see through a glass darkly.” Maybe God knows me, but He doesn’t like to pass on that information.
The Buddhists insist that there is no “me” to know. The “I” that I think I know is simply an illusion, a mirage. Maybe they’re right.
Maybe my goal in life is discover who I really am.
I haven’t figured that out yet.
Here is her article. Read it if you want.
“Journey through other beliefs leads to better understanding of personal faith”
Sitting on cushions at a low table, enjoying shisha from a shared hookah, I have set out to interview Frank, my first late husband’s oldest brother, about his experiences of inter-religious dialogue.
Shawn Chapman
I have been reflecting on Nostra Aetate, the Vatican II document on the relationship of the Catholic Church with non-Christian religions. It seems to me that Frank is a living example of what respectful friendship between the faiths could look like if taken seriously and personally, lived out in individual relationships and respectful, curious overtures, even shared prayer.
Francis K. Pauc is a West Point graduate, Army veteran, father and volunteer. He is a recently retired dock foreman of a shipping company, a devout Catholic who is active in his parish, and he agreed to talk about his journey.
He is also the token Catholic at the Buddhist Sangha at Milwaukee Zen Center, frequent attendee of the Orthodox Jewish synagogue in his area, and he now and then hangs out at his local mosque. He is a regular visitor at the Sikh temple in his neighborhood.
Fortunately, his journey learning about other faiths is among his favorite subjects.
When did he first learn about other religions, I ask.
Frank says his first real look at another religion was learning about Islam in the Army, since he had to learn Arabic. Then he took a refresher course in Arabic, years later, at a Muslim culture center. He made friends there. They didn’t talk about faith all the time. They moved from learning Arabic to talking about their kids, their wives, their work, their daily lives.
After 9/11, Frank wanted to do something personal to cross the widening divide in our country between non-Muslim Americans and Muslim Americans. He ended up going by the mosque. He found the front locked so he went around back to the kitchen. “I thought you guys might need friends.”
“Are you Muslim?”
“No. I am a Catholic.”
Frank is the only person I know who would show up to an unfamiliar place of worship and ask, “Anybody want to talk about God?”
Years ago, Frank says, he became curious about the Sikh temple in his neighborhood. He smiles when he remembers his visits there. “They always feed you. You never leave without eating.”
The desire for contemplative prayer was what got Frank to visit the Zen Center in the first place. He had tried to find a place to learn forms of Christian contemplative prayer and practice in a group and had not found one. So he went and sat with the Buddhists. Frank became part of the life of the Sangha, even though there are some things that as a Catholic he can’t do.
He decided to learn more, and he loved hanging around. They appreciated his thoughts as a Christian. He liked sitting in silence with them.
Going to “Zen practice” regularly brought visible changes to Frank. He became more open, peaceful, even playful, less grumpy.
He says getting to know his friends at the Zen Center helped him delve into his own faith and prayer traditions all the more.
“It’s made me a better Catholic.”
He says learning about how other people love and understand God is an act of love.
I asked him what drew him to visit the Orthodox synagogue in particular. He said it was because that was the closest synagogue to his house. “What made you want to learn more about Judaism?” One of his more rare expressions crosses his face; an innocent, child-like look. “Because I wanted to understand.”
He says he became close with the rabbi there and began to take Hebrew lessons. He was often invited to dinner at the rabbi’s house, and even to Passover. He says he doesn’t think anyone can have the fullest appreciation for their Christianity if they don’t get to know Judaism. He said attending their liturgies changed him as a lector at his parish. He grew in his appreciation of the Scripture and reading the Old Testament at Mass was a more profound experience after seeing the solemn and reverent way it is read in the synagogue.
He still likes going to the synagogue regularly.
Frank says Jesus was a good Jew, and that he thinks of Jesus as his older brother. I smile, remembering that is what John Paul II said about the Jewish people. They are our older brother.
I say that it strikes me that his inter-religious ministry and journey seem to be about making personal connections, about being a friend. He agrees with that, though he says he is less conscious of that than just wanting to understand others and share with them. He feels compelled about this.
He says he is most impressed by the people who are deeply and “completely sold” on their religion. He respects those who have “their faith woven into the fabric of their everyday life. When it’s just who they are.” Those are the people it’s easiest to talk to, and who return the interest he gives to them about their faith.
At times he has wondered if he should stop hanging around Buddhists and the Orthodox Jews. They were quick to say they needed him around and enjoyed what he had to say. They felt spiritually uplifted by him.
At one time in his life, following a series of crises, he struggled with his faith. It was his friends at the Zen Center and the synagogue who said, “Whatever you do, don’t leave the Catholic church.” They cared more than anyone else, he said.
(Bryan resident Shawn Manning Chapman, a twice-widowed mom of two daughters, is a Secular Discalced)
“Privacy is dead. We live in a world of instantaneous, globalized gossip. The idea that there is a ‘private’ sphere and a ‘public’ sphere for world leaders, politicians or anyone in the public eye is slowly disintegrating. The death of privacy will have a profound effect on who our leaders will be in the future.”
Gavin Esler
“Yeah, I’m an open book.” – Amy Winehouse
Are the Internet and social media destroying the whole idea of privacy? Maybe. Maybe not. They did not begin the process. The erosion of privacy started long before these things existed. The forces of our digital age have simply accelerated the trend. It requires very little effort to learn something about almost any person living on this planet. A few well placed clicks can tell you whatever you want to know about someone. People could be anonymous a generation ago, if they wanted to be. No more.
There is no place to hide.
In 1975 I applied to go to West Point. The U.S Army put together a rather extensive file about me before the military ever agreed to let me join up. This was back in the days of rotary phones, typewriters, and filing cabinets. God only knows what the government can do now.
Is there any information about a person that is sacrosanct? Is there anything that is still considered personal and private?
I’m not sure. I doubt it.
I taught a citizenship class for several years. Immigrants came to me to study for the interview with USCIS. They usually had already filled out their application for U.S. citizenship, the N-400. The N-400 was (and is) a tremendously complicated document. The U.S. government wants to know everything about the prospective citizen: arrests and convictions, work history, names and status of any children, travel to foreign countries, etc. The government even wants to know personal information about the applicant’s ex-spouse(s). Who keeps track of their ex-spouse’s current address? If you want to become a U.S. citizen, you do.
Does the government really need all of this data? Who knows? The Department of Homeland Security can justify asking damn near any question in the name of national security. In any case, the Feds already know most of this information, because the applicant had to supply it when he or she got their green card to live in this country as a permanent resident.
When immigrants would ask me for advice about what to put on the application (if they had not already completed it), I would just suggest to them to tell the truth and to omit nothing. I encouraged them to assume the government already knows the facts, or can easily find them. The Feds look for fraud on the applications. If an applicant lies on the N-400, they’re done. Game over.
The applicant for U.S. citizenship has no privacy, and has no alternatives. The person seeking to become an American has to tell the bureaucrats in the U.S. government everything they want to know, no matter how intrusive. If the applicant balks at this requirement, they do not become a citizen. It’s that simple.
I have a similar situation with the State of Wisconsin. I am applying for certification as a foster parent. The state wants this more than I do, but I understand that I need to be certified in order to care for a small child. The state’s vetting process is at least as thorough as that of the Feds. I had to fill out two “safety surveys”, forms which ask intimate questions about my life from my earliest childhood until the present moment. Then I had to participate in an interview to go over my answers in more depth. The interview was like a warm and fuzzy interrogation. I talked to the licensing specialist for over two and a half hours about things in my past that I didn’t even want to remember, much less discuss with a stranger. The session was extremely stressful for me. I felt emotionally naked by the end of it.
In applying for the foster parent certification, I gave my entire life story to the State of Wisconsin. There are now people working for the government who know as much about me as my wife does. I am not happy with this situation, but I did what I had to do. Like the immigrant seeking citizenship, I had no privacy and no alternatives.
I have been railing against the government here, but it is not the only institution invading our privacy. Corporations do it all the time. I saw that every time I applied for a job.
As far as I am concerned, there is really only one place in Milwaukee to go for barbecue. That place would be Speed Queen. Speed Queen has been in business on the north side of town since 1956. It’s current location is on the corner of 12th and Walnut, just west of I-43. The restaurant is easy to miss. It is a rundown building in a rundown neighborhood. The customer base mostly comes from the local Black community. I think there is a sign, but I don’t know where it is. To find Speed Queen, you already need to know where it is. Even then, you could easily drive right past it. I did.
Speed Queen used to have a microscopic dining area. I don’t know why they bothered with that. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone sitting in there. Speed Queen has always been primarily a place to get take out. You order your meal, pay for it, and leave. If you’re an old white guy, you leave quickly.
Speed Queen is peculiar in a number of ways. For instance, they only take cash. They used to have a thick plexiglass window in front of the check out counter. You slid your money under the glass, and they slid your steaming plate of heaven back out to you. Now, since COVID, the restaurant only has a drive thru. It hardly makes any difference. The process is the same.
Speed Queen has an extensive menu. You can get ribs, tips, shoulder, beef slices, chicken, or catfish. They have a variety of side dishes: collards, mixed greens, coleslaw, yams, black eyed peas, etc. You can mix it up.
I generally go for a big pan of ribs. A pan of anything usually costs about $50. That’s a little pricey, but then you get what you pay for. A pan contains a lot of food. Their ribs are excellent. The meat just about falls off the bone, and the sauce has a sharp, tangy flavor that is addictive.
I went to Speed Queen yesterday afternoon, after I visited my friend, Ken, who I know from the synagogue. Speed Queen is kind on my way home from Ken’s house. Ken has never been to Speed Queen, probably because there is absolutely nothing there that would qualify as kosher. Ken prefers to go to a vegan BBQ place that he knows. Vegan BBQ is a strange concept, but I’ve tried it, and it’s really good.
I got to Speed Queen at about 3:30. It wasn’t busy yet. Later in the afternoon, the line of cars in the drive thru is long, very long. I ordered the ribs and slowly moved forward with the other cars. The check out window is like a cylinder. You put your cash into the window, and the window gets turned 180 degrees. A minute later, it gets rotated to its original position, and magically there is a brown paper bag full love covered with BBQ sauce. The aroma from the bag stung my nostrils as I grabbed it. It was hard to leave it closed until I got home.
I gave our son, Stefan, half of the ribs. He picked them up after his shift was done. He truly enjoys Speed Queen food.
Asher is taking a nap. He is lying on his back, his mouth open, and his cheeks rosy. His breathing is steady. From a distance I can see the gentle rise and fall of his chest (and his big belly). The chubby fingers of his right hand clutch the edge of his blanket. Asher’s body is near to me, but his mind is far away.
It fascinates me to watch Asher sleep. If I look closely, I notice many things. Occasionally, he will cry out in his sleep, and then relax again. Sometimes, he flashes a smile that fades away almost immediately. He is generally on his back with his arms spread out wide. That position makes him appear like Christ on the Cross. If I am near to him at the right time, I can see the movement of his eyes as they dart back and forth beneath his eyelids.
What do babies dream about?
Karin gets Asher to sleep by holding him in his arms. I lay him down on the bed and put a pacifier into his mouth. Both techniques work.
Asher fights sleep. He struggles to stay awake, even though he’s tired and whiny. When I have him in bed, he kicks his legs and sucks ferociously on his pacifier. He hangs on to a bib or a the edge of a blanket. Asher grasps two fingers on my right hand, and holds them tightly. his hands are remarkably strong.
Slowly he fades. His eyes close by degrees. His breathing becomes more regular. His legs grow still. He hangs on to one of my fingers until the very end. Even after he has fallen asleep, his tiny hand keeps a vicelike grip in the end of my pinkie. It is only when Asher has entered the deepest part of sleep that he finally, slowly, lets it go.
He needs my hand to feel safe. He needs to know that I am with him until the end.
I just finished watching the last of six online training modules that the State of Wisconsin requires me to view in order to become certified as a foster parent. CPS is adamant that new foster parents complete this minimum numbers of lessons before certification. I would like to say that these training modules were all useful to me. That, unfortunately, would be a lie.
Timing is important. The six modules are listed on the WCWPDS Caregivers website under the title of “Foster Parent Pre-Placement Training”. The key word here is “Pre-Placement”. The implication is that the prospective foster parent will watch these videos prior to receiving a child into their home. For my wife, Karin, and myself, that has not been the case. We took charge of our grandson, Asher, on February 2nd of this year. We found out about this training requirement on April 7th. I finally found the time to start watching these modules last week. It would have been helpful for us have been able to study these online lessons a bit earlier. However, Asher became our responsibility in an emergency situation, and we are still catching up on the training.
Asher is seven months old. He can be high maintenance. Since this is the case, Karin and I have struggled to find time to do the necessary online training to become certified. We have already raised three kids of our own, but that apparently does not count as training in the eyes of the state. Wisconsin, like the other 49 states, has certain rules that are peculiar to itself. The modules point these out, and give links to the pertinent laws and regulations. These regs are mostly to be found in the Wisconsin Administrative Code, Ch. DCF 56, a truly daunting document. Much of what is in the DCF 56 and the training lessons has little to do with raising the foster children. The material has everything to do with satisfying the state bureaucracy.
I think that these Pre-Placement lessons are designed for people who are seriously considering becoming foster parents, but have not made a firm decision about it. The modules give them things to ponder before they turn pro.
Karin and I did not wake up one morning and decide to spend the rest of our retirement years as foster parents. That was never our desire. The role of foster parent is being thrust upon us. It’s true that we could refuse this duty, but then who would care for Asher? Events caught us off guard and we are still trying to get our bearings. We are committed to caring for Asher as long as he needs us. For us, being a foster parent is not a career, it is a calling.
The first module is a course introduction. Most of it is innocuous, but there was one slide presentation that disturbed me. A veteran foster parent spoke about being “a working professional of 22 years in this business”. His use of the term “business” bothers me. “Business” is generally about profit, about making money. So, are Karin and I going to be part of this “business”? Is profit what this is all about? That seems to be the implication of the foster parent’s poor choice of words.
Module 2 is about what is expected of foster parents. I think foster parents are expected to possess superhuman powers. That’s what I got out of it. Module 3 is about how to care for foster children. Basically, you care for foster kids like you would care for own your kids. Most of material presented is just common sense.
Module 4 is about developing and maintaining family connections. This is an interesting section. The relationship between a foster parent and the biological parents is complicated. It is especially complicated if the foster parent and the biological parent are related by blood. Karin and I are in that particular situation with Asher’s mother. We have to be sensitive to the mom’s needs and feelings. There is often tension. There is a common history with its attendant emotional baggage. We all are walking through a minefield.
Module 5 is about foster family selfcare. That part made me laugh. There is all this emphasis about the foster parents keeping themselves healthy. When are we supposed to do that? We are busy with the baby 24/7. When are we going to do all this selfcare stuff? This module is full of advice, no doubt well-meant. I got to know about a lot of support groups that I will never contact. I learned about great websites that I will never visit. It’s kind of a pathetic joke.
There was information in the training that I did find valuable. There were a few “aha” moments. So, maybe it was worth the six hours of my life.
Karin and I have a friend in California who has a knack for asking perceptive and penetrating questions. She is our age (60’s), and she is considering the possibility of remarrying. She is wondering what the purpose of a marriage would be at this time of her life. With that in mind, she wrote to us and asked,
“How do you see your purpose as a married couple ?”
After I read the question, I gave her a one word answer:
“Asher.”
We are caring for our little grandson, Asher, 24/7. We became his full time caregivers at the beginning of February of this year. The boy is seven months old. He’s a wonderful baby, but raising him is rather labor intensive. We do almost nothing in our lives now that is not Asher-related.
Our friend wrote back to us,
“I thought you would say just that. Your purpose is clear.”
It’s good to have a clear purpose in life. It doesn’t happen very often, at least not with me. It seems like I have spent most of my life floundering. I’ve met some individuals who apparently have always had a mission, or a calling. I don’t know many people who are like that. I think that most folks spend their entire lives trying to answer the question:
“Why am I here?”
The various religious traditions try to respond to that question, but without achieving any kind of consensus. Maybe it’s because they try to look only at the big picture. Buddhists look for enlightenment. Many Christians say the goal is to get to heaven. In a way, the cosmic answers don’t really help. I think the question of purpose should be reworked to ask:
“What am I supposed to do here and now?”
The Christian answer to that is: “Love God, and love your neighbor as yourself.”
The Buddhist answer is similar but it doesn’t bring God into the equation. A Buddhist might say the purpose of his or her life is “to save all sentient beings”. It is the same general idea: We are in the world to serve others.
So, how do we love our neighbor? How do we save all sentient beings?
The specific answer to those questions is situational. It changes from moment to moment. In five minutes from now, the answer for me might be to change Asher’s diaper. Right now, the answer for Karin is to feed Asher some mashed bananas. Our purpose in life is often very obvious and very simple. We just need to open our eyes and see how we can help.
“Introduce a little anarchy. Upset the established order, and everything becomes chaos. I’m an agent of chaos…” ― The Joker – Heath Ledger
I started doing meditation back in 2005. Usually, it has involved sitting silently on a cushion for an extended period of time in the company of other Zen practitioners. COVID put an abrupt end to group meditation, and the arrival of Asher into my life put an end to sitting quietly in any kind of peaceful setting. Asher is our seven month old grandson, and my wife and I care for him 24/7. He is a wonderful little boy, but my time spent with him is not conducive to any of the standard meditation methods.
Asher is an agent of chaos, albeit a remarkably cute one.
So, have I given up on Zen practice? Actually, no. I just use Asher as my kung-an (koan).
A koan is defined as: “a paradoxical anecdote or riddle, used in Zen Buddhism to demonstrate the inadequacy of logical reasoning and to provoke enlightenment.” The classic example of a kung-an/koan is the question,
“What is the sound of one hand clapping?”
There is no logical answer to that question, and none is intended. I’ve never been any good with these verbal puzzles. Mostly, I don’t have the patience to work through them. After a short while, I just say “fuck this” and move on to other things.
Asher is koan that I can never solve, but I can never stop trying either.
Zen involves a few basic ideas. One of them is the necessity to be in the moment, to be right here right now. When sitting on the cushion, it is often easy for me to let my mind wander to far off places. However, the piercing cry of a baby is an extremely effective way to focus the mind on what is currently happening. A baby in distress brings me back to the present situation much better than the ringing of a bell or the slapping of a stick. With Asher, I am almost always in the here and now. I have to be in order to care for him.
Zen has the basic question: “How can I help?” Asher provides an answer to that question for me continually. Sometimes the answer is “Feed me”. Sometimes it is “Change my diaper”. Sometimes it is “Cuddle me”. Because Asher cannot yet speak, I have to guess at the answer to what he needs. I often guess incorrectly. An action that answers the question “How can I help?” one time may be totally wrong five minutes later. Asher is a constantly evolving riddle. Caring for him has no set solutions, no pat answers.
Zen is all about transience. Everything changes. Asher is always developing and growing. I never wake up in the morning to meet the same little boy. He literally changes before my very eyes. Whatever I know about this little guy is instantly outdated. He is a moving target for my mind. He doesn’t stop, so I can’t either.
Zen is about compassion. I feel nothing but compassion for Asher. He is inherently lovable, even when he is screaming like a police siren. When he suffers, I suffer.
Zen practice is designed to enable a person to know how to act without thinking. Asher teaches me that. I flounder a lot, but eventually I tune in to his wavelength. I now know his “hungry” cry, and his “wet diaper” cry, and his “I’m really tired, but I refuse to take a nap” cry. We can communicate without words.
I will never really understand Asher. That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I love this little boy.
Frank is Emptiness 