Author: frankisemptiness

August, 22nd, 2018

“Nice beard, Man!”

A young man in the psych ward at VA hospital had called that out to me. It took me a moment to react to his comment.

The patient went on , “That’s gnarly! How long did it take you to grow that?”

I replied, “I don’t know, maybe three years or so.”

The vet smiled. “Cool. I thought it would have taken a lot longer. You braid it?”

“Uh no…it just kind of dreads itself.”

The young man nodded. “Yeah, cool.”

Karin and I just got home yesterday from a short religious retreat. We were at the Sinsinawa Mound Center, which is run by an order of Dominican sisters. Before we left the retreat house, we went to join the sisters in their morning prayer. As we were entering the chapel, an elderly sister stopped us and questioned me,

“I just have to ask you this: does your beard have some sort of spiritual significance?”

“No, I’m just too lazy to cut it.”

The woman nodded. Then she turned to Karin and asked,

“Don’t you ever get the urge in the middle of the night to turn to him and just cut it off?”

Karin smiled nervously. She had heard that exact question from a number of other women. They all seemed eager to remove the offending braid of matted hair from my chin.

After morning prayer, Karin and I went to breakfast with the sisters. I got my toast and eggs, and sat down. Karin went to get her daily cappuccino. When she came to our table, she said,

“Well, your beard is a topic of conversation. One of the sisters wanted to know if you were Muslim.”

I just shook my head.

August 19th, 2018

She looks better in blue than in orange.

I thought about that as I sat across from the girl , and looked at her through the Plexiglas divider. Yes, Navy blue suits her well, especially since her hair is currently blonde. Orange would clash too much.

“You look good”, I told her as I spoke over the phone.

She lifted one eyebrow quizzically.

I shrugged. I said to her,

“I talked to your probation officer on the phone yesterday. She does NOT plan on sending you to prison. That is not what she wants to do.”

The young woman gave me a barely detectable smile.

“So, she is working on finding temporary housing for me?”

“Yeah. She can’t cut you loose until she finds you a place to stay.”

I looked at the young woman’s eyes. She has the deepest, brownest eyes. They are almost black. She says that my eyes are hazel. Usually, mine are just bloodshot.

The jail is remarkably drab. The county must only buy institutional, soul-killing types of paint. The walls are all a bureaucratic beige. Even when the walls are clean, they look dirty.

Karin drove us home from the jail. She took Highway 32. It runs close to Lake Michigan. I could see the lake at time, pale blue near the shore, and then gradually darkening as as I looked further away.

Karin pointed out different plants and flowers as we drove along. She thinks of plants mostly in terms of how they might be used to dye fiber. She is obsessed with that. Right now, the Queen Anne’s lace and the chicory are blooming along the roadside. The chicory has small blue flowers. Karin is very curious to find out what those flowers would do.

Once we got home, Karin decided to play the alchemist. She went out to the back patio where she has her pots and jars, and her propane cooker. She put a kilogram of choke cherries into a pot of of water, along with a skein of yarn. The choke cherries grow in our backyard. She was hoping that they would turn the yarn a deep red. After several minutes of simmering of the propane fire, nothing happened.

Karin said, “Maybe I should have put the berries into the blender first!”

Later, she brought out a bottle from the basement.

“I am going to add some water softener. The last time I used choke cherries, I put them into distilled water. Maybe that makes a difference.”

I guess that it did. She called out to me that the water was starting to get a pink tinge.

Karin was also checking out some blood root that she had been fermenting for the past few days. It hadn’t turned red, but it had turned the water a deep orange. She wanted to see what the blood root would do to the wool. She was hoping for a ruddier tint.

Karin pointed some plants growing amidst the willow bushes. She asked,

“What do you think those leaves are? They are such a dark, shiny green. I bet they would make a cool green color!”

I don’t doubt that.

The goldenrod will be blooming soon. Karin is excited about that. Goldenrod always produces a spectacular bright yellow.

I went outside with Shocky, and I saw that Karin had hung up some skeins of yarn on the clothes line to dry. There were several loops that had an intense rust color, with a hint of orange.

I told her, “I like those.”

She smiled, “Yeah, I like how the color is not consistent all the way through. It’s not so boring that way.”

It was nearly evening. The moon was already high. It looked cold and white. Soon, the shadows would lengthen. The light would dim.

The colors would fade.

August 18th, 2018

“It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.” Hebrews 10:31

Karin and I had a friend, Joe Tripoli, who was wise and well-read. He also had a low tolerance for nonsense. He used to teach a religious education program for adults at our church. He would quote Hebrews 10:31 when a member of the class would get all warm and fuzzy about their relationship with the Lord. He tried to make the point that a true relationship with God can be comforting and reassuring, but it can also be scary as hell. Most people, Christians at least, want the sweet Good Shepherd who is most often found in the stain glass windows. They want the God who will give them hugs and smiles.

It doesn’t work like that.

There are very few examples in Jewish or Christian scriptures of God telling people what they want to hear. Generally, when God speaks to somebody, it is to say “Hey! I have a job for you!” or “You need to get your shit together!” Even when God or his angels announce the “Good News”, it comes in the form of a challenge. In the Beatitudes, Jesus talks about “Blessed are the poor in Spirit” and “Blessed are those who mourn”. Hmm…those words do not sound the Prosperity Gospel. There is no example (that I have found) in the Hebrew Bible where somebody willing accepts a task from the Almighty. All of the prophets initially ran for cover, or made lame excuses to get out of the job.

Any direct contact with the Divine seems to entail some kind of work, often of an unpleasant sort. Even in non-Abrahamic traditions, this is obvious. In the Bhagavad Gita, Arjuna converses with the god, Krishna, and finds out from that deity that his job is to fight and kill his relatives in battle. That’s not so good.

Prayer and meditation are often avenues for connecting with God, or something. Unfortunately, prayer and meditation do not guarantee a blissful experience. Thomas Merton makes this plain in his book, Seeds of Contemplation. Meditation is not the spiritual equivalent of lighting up a blunt. Sometimes there is a sense of peace and well-being. Sometimes there is nothing.

My relationship with God is tenuous at best. I get the most intense feeling of God when I read from the scriptures in front of the congregation during Mass. At times I cease to exist, and God speaks through me. I am not saying the words any more. Somebody else is in control. That does not happen very often, but it happens enough that it freaks me out. When I finish reading, I step down from the pulpit feeling exhausted. Sometimes I break down in tears. It can be frightening.

On Tuesday I went for coffee at the Fuel cafe with my friend, Ken. I know Ken from the synagogue. Years ago, Ken would make the priestly blessing on certain holy days. The process is called “duchining”. He told me that sometimes he would feel a power working through him. It had the same effect on him as the reading does on me. It freaked him out.

This following link explains the Jewish ritual. It is from Chabbad. It’s best for you to learn about it from people who actually know something.

https://www.chabad.org/multimedia/media_cdo/aid/676133/jewish/Birchat-Kohanim.htm

It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.

August 16th, 2018

I woke up at 3:30 AM. That isn’t all that unusual for me. At best, I sleep fitfully. Shocky, our border collie/lab mix, was making restless noises in the bedroom. She needed to go out, and I certainly wasn’t going to doze off while the dog whined in the dark.

I took Shocky for a walk. We went for a mile or so down Oakwood Road, and then back home again. We wandered past the cornfields and the subdivisions. There are not many streetlights along Oakwood. Shocky and I walked part of the way in the dark. It wasn’t complete darkness, because there is no such thing where we live. It is impossible to get away from lights entirely. However, there is a portion of the road, alongside the marsh, where vision fails and the other senses take over.

When I cannot see, then I hear things, and I smell things, and I feel things. I heard the cricket chorus. I could hear the flap of the heron’s wings. I heard the sound of a muskrat diving into the water near the edge of the street. The air was musty and sweet. It had the faint scent of over-ripe fruit, as if summer was tired, but autumn was ready yet to to take its place. Even at that time of the morning, well before dawn, it was warm and humid. I could feel my t-shirt stick to my body. The hot season was clinging to me, refusing to let go.

There was already some traffic on the road. People driving off to work at 4:00 AM. I remember doing that. I used to get up at one in the morning to start my shift. I would be barely conscious when I was behind the wheel of the car. I took care to be seen as I walked with Shocky this morning. Some of those folks on their way to their jobs were probably not terribly alert.

The commuters probably weren’t very happy either. They all seemed to be in a hurry to get to a place where they didn’t want to be. Drivers on Oakwood, especially a bit later in the morning, tend to be a surly lot. There are no sidewalks on the road, so when I am walking the dog, I take up a couple precious feet of asphalt. If there is traffic going both ways on the street, then sometimes a driver is forced to stop momentarily to keep from hitting me and Shocky. I’m glad that I don’t often see their facial expressions. If looks could kill…

The sky was overcast when we started our walk. As we came home, the clouds parted overhead, and I when I looked up could pick out some stars. I could briefly see Cassiopeia, Perseus, and Pleiades.

Shocky didn’t look up. She was sniffing at a dead frog.

August 13th, 2018

“Brain Damage”

Is the universe rational? Are people rational? Am I?

Does it even matter?

Humans are thinking creatures. That is how we are hard wired. We cannot not think. In Zen we are sometimes told find to the “mind before thinking”. We might as well try to find the body before breathing. Thinking is who we are. It is an essential part of our being.

There is clearly a value in seeing the world as it is without judging it, or critiquing it, or even trying to make sense of it. There is a value in just seeing the color red, or just feeling the raindrops on the skin, or just tasting a fresh peach. There is a value in just being. 

I over-analyze almost everything. I try to figure things out. I was trained to do that from a very early age, and usually I am quite good at it. However, it is a dead end. Logic can only take me so far. Reason slams into the brick wall of chaos. Eventually, my mind can no longer find the results that I seek. In particular, I can not answer the question “why?”

Complete understanding is impossible. I will never understand the world. I will never understand other people, or even understand myself.

I might be able to love what I can’t understand.

Throughout history, there have been men and women who have loved in ways that made no sense. I am thinking of Francis of Assisi and St. Clare and Hildegard of Bingen. I am thinking of Hafiz and Rumi and Ibn Arabi. I am thinking of Maximilian Kolbe and Sophie Scholl and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. They all lived in times and places that made no sense at all. They acted in ways that seemed completely irrational. They all did the right thing.

I took our daughter’s dog outside this morning at 4:00 AM. I looked up at the sky and found the constellation Perseus. I saw a single shooting star. The burning stone in the sky had no meaning. It was only beautiful, and it was only there for a moment.

It was the only thing that mattered.

August 12th, 2018

I sat on a bench outside of St. Rita Church this morning. A woman walked up to me and said,

“You really look tired.”

I rubbed my eyes, and replied, “Yes, I am.”

Two days ago, when I was sitting with the Syrian kids and reading stories, Nizar said the same thing,

“Hey, Frank, you look tired! Are you tired?”

Earlier I had mentioned to Nizar’s mom that I was tired, in Arabic. (“Ta’abaan”)

I do feel worn out. I look into the bathroom mirror and red eyes stare back at me.

I am convinced that most of this weariness is the result of the interactions I’ve had with the girl we love, especially during the last several weeks. Since the end of June, my life has been chaotic. So has Karin’s. We have gone from one crisis to another with scarcely a pause in the action. It feels like an Indiana Jones movie. It has been nearly impossible to plan ahead, and we cringe every time the phone rings. In particular, the last week or two have been brutal. At one point we did not know if the girl was alive or dead. We have spent days talking with cops and the young woman’s probation officer. We grow weary. At least, I grow weary.

Yesterday Karin and I attempted to celebrate our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary. We were married in Karin’s home village in Germany back in 1984. A lot has changed since then. Maybe everything has changed. I am hard pressed to think of anything that has remained constant other than the fact that somehow we are still together.

Karin and I had simple plans for our anniversary. We wanted to go to Mass together in the morning, and get a blessing from our priest. Then our ways would diverge. Karin wanted to go to the State Fair grounds to look at the sheep and wool exhibits. I wanted to go to the synagogue to pray, and then to have a long-postponed kosher lunch with my friend, Ken. In the afternoon, we were thinking of going to a German restaurant for dinner. Karin had suggested the idea. Karin had also bought a bottle of Riesling for later in the evening. As background, Karin was raised in the Taubertal, a wine-making region of southern Germany. We didn’t have a Riesling at our wedding, but we drank something similar. We had numerous bottles of Markelsheimer Propstberg, a slightly-sweet, full-flavored, fruity wine. I remember it well.

Mass on a Saturday morning is a bit odd. Most churches do not even have a liturgy at that time. The only reason that it is available at St. Rita is that the parish is run by a group of Augustinian priests, and they have a school for novices on the site. Saturday morning Mass tends to be an intimate affair that draws mostly an older crowd ( a much older crowd). There are sometimes a few younger people in attendance, but they tend to have a peculiarly intense sort of Catholic religiosity that is both impressive and rather irritating. Father David, the new novice director, celebrated the Mass. He’s a thin man of fifty years who wears large, horn-rimmed glasses that give him an owlish appearance. He’s a quiet man who displays a quiet sort of compassion toward others.

At the end of the service Father David called Karin and me forward. He announced to the congregation that we were celebrating our thirty-first anniversary. Thirty-one years? Thirty-four? At this point in life, does it even make a difference? He gave us a blessing, and then he said to me,

“You may now kiss the bride!”

Karin and I kissed.

It was a nice touch.

I dropped Karin off at the fair grounds. The girl we love was supposed to have a phone interview with a local sober living house at about that time. She was calling the sober living house from jail. I had set up a pre-paid phone account in order for her to do that. I was hoping that it would all go well, and that the folks at the house would allow the girl to join them. Karin hoped the same thing. Once I stopped at the curb, Karin walked away from our car in search of sheep, and maybe cream puffs.

I drove across town to the synagogue. As I parked, I got a series of text messages from Karin. Apparently, the phone interview had not gone well. The residents of the sober living house were not entirely convinced that the girl really wanted to stay sober. In one text, Karin asked me if we should visit the young woman at the jail in the afternoon, between one and three o’clock.

I groaned. Can’t we be left alone for even one day? This meant that I couldn’t have lunch with Ken because Shacharit in the Shul goes until at least 12:30. I texted back to Karin and reluctantly told her, “Yeah”. Odds were that our girl was expecting us to visit, even if Karin had not actually promised that. There was no way to let the young woman that we were not coming, since we couldn’t call into the jail. The girl could only call out. Karin told me to pick her up at noon.

I figured that I had about an hour and a half to spend at the synagogue. I put on my black yarmulke and walked inside. (Side note: Karin had knit the yarmulke for me. She does that sort of thing.) When I got there, they were still waiting for enough Jewish men to make up a minyan. They were momentarily disappointed when I showed up. I’m not Jewish, so I literally don’t count. The guys were happy to see me, but not as happy as they would have been if I could have been a Jew for a day.

I stopped to talk with Ken. I told him that lunch was not happening. He was okay with that. I wasn’t. I was upset, partly because I had been looking forward to a meal and conversation at his house, and partly because I knew that, as an Orthodox Jew, Ken has done all the meal preparation the day before Shabbat. All his culinary efforts had gone to waste. Ken knows about the struggles that Karin and I are having. He spoke to me about how God never places too heavy a burden on to a person, but it sure feels that way sometimes. He gave me a quick hug.

A couple more congregants showed up, and they could get the service rolling. Yesterday they read the Parsha Re’eh from the Torah. I have only a minimal understanding of Hebrew, but I know enough that I can follow along with the English text in the Chumash. I can usually also keep up with the prayers in the Siddur.

In the text from yesterday, Moses said to the Hebrews, “I place before you today a blessing and a curse.” Somehow that struck me. I don’t know why.

The reading of the parscha is interrupted briefly after the first three aliyahs. At that time the rabbi prays for those people who are ill. The Jews always pray for our young woman. Every Shabbat, without fail, they pray for her healing. They don’t even know her (well, Ken does), but they say her name each and every week. Every time they pray for her, I feel like crying.

I had to leave after the reading of the Haftorah. I think it was from Isaiah. On the way to the Fair Park, I had to stop at a traffic light. There was a young man on the side, holding a sign saying that he was homeless. He was munching on blueberries. I called to the young guy. Then I pulled out some cash and handed it to him. He thanked me.

I asked the guy, “What’s your name?”

“Tim.”

“I’m Frank. So, how did you get to be homeless?”

Tim replied, “I have a drinking problem. I lost my job a year ago, and I’m trying to get my act together.”

The light turned green.

“I hear you, Man. I got to go.”

I drove off.

I got to the State Fair, and picked up Karin. I was in a foul mood. She noticed that quickly. She has known me for a while. It is an hour drive from State Fair Park to the jail in Kenosha. That gave me plenty of time to stew. As an added benefit, traffic sucked hard.

We had been to that jail many times in the past, so Karin and I knew the drill for getting to see our loved one. We filled out our paper slips with the stubby pencils provided by the Sheriff’s Department.  We slipped the papers and our ID’s to the woman behind the Plexiglas window. She had issues. She had to make a couple calls and consult with  a number of people. She finally told us,

“We can’t let you visit this woman. She is under a suicide watch.”

“You got to be fucking kidding me. Now what happened?” (This was thought, but not spoken.)

She gave us back our ID”s. The woman continued to speak in her clipped, bureaucratic voice,

“Next time you should call ahead before coming.”

I mumbled, “Yeah, okay…”

She kept talking, “I didn’t ask for this. Don’t be upset with me.”

I sighed deeply, “Yeah, fine…”

“Just call next time, and make sure that she is available.”

“Ooookay…”

I wanted to strangle a puppy.

Karin and I drove home. My mood was black: a rancid combination of anger, sorrow, and fatigue. I radiated Sith energy. I let Karin know that I really didn’t want to go out to eat.

We kept away from each other for a couple hours. I laid on the bed and read parts of The Healer of Shattered Hearts, a book of Jewish spirituality. Reading that often helps. Somehow, Jewish spirituality feels so real. It just does, especially with regards to suffering.

In the evening, Karin asked me,

“Do you want me to open up the bottle of Riesling? We could have a couple glasses, and eat some snacks.”

“Sure.”

So, Karin and I sat in the kitchen. We lit the wedding candle that we got from her Onkel Kurt and Tante Aga back in 1984. We light the candle every year. It might be the only thing we still have and use from the wedding. Well, the wine glasses are from then too. We filled those with the Riesling.

Karin wanted to look at old photos. Those are melancholy for me. Many of the people in those pictures are long dead. Those who remain alive are very different now. Karin and I are very different now. We only vaguely resemble the newlyweds from three decades ago.

We sat and talked, as old married couples do. We are an “Alte Ehepaar”, as the Germans would say.

I asked Karin, “You want to watch a movie?”

She brightened up a bit. “Sure, what?”

“Kung Fu Panda.”

“Oh, that’s on Netflix.”

“Good, let’s watch it. We need something like that.”

And we did.

August 10th, 2018

Earlier today, I was driving slowly south on Cesar Chavez. It was late in the afternoon. Traffic crawled. I downshifted from second to first gear. I looked up ahead, and I could that the light was still red at the intersection with Greenfield Avenue. There were about ten cars ahead of me. I probably wasn’t going to make it through the intersection when the signal finally turned green.

As I waited, I checked out the stores along the street. One of them had a flashing sign that said, “Abierto”. I tried to read some of the Spanish advertising. I know only a minimal amount of Spanish (“un poquito” ). However, I know what “panaderia” and”carniceria” mean. I like to eat, and bread and meat are of interest to me. The corner of Cesar Chavez and Greenfield is the beating heart of the Latino neighborhood in Milwaukee.

In a way it’s odd that I know this area so well, especially since the people I visit here speak Arabic. My Syrian refugee family lives only a block from the intersection. I was on my way home from a session of reading with the kids. They were glad to see me. I had been gone for a few weeks. Yasmin insisted on showing me how well she could read. Her little brother, Yusuf, sat next to her and giggled. Um Hussein brought me hot, sweet tea. Ibrahim, Nizar, and Nisrin watched TV. They didn’t want to read today. That’s okay. They will probably read the next time I come.

As I sat in traffic, I suddenly remembered a phone call I got a few weeks ago from somebody that I love. As usual, the caller was in a state of utter panic when she phoned me. It’s strange, but I am getting used to that.

The girl called me at home. After I picked up the phone, she cried out,

“I’m lost! And I have to be back at the sober living house in forty minutes, or I’ll miss curfew, and they will kick me out!”

I hate calls like that.

I tried to remain cool and collected. I asked her, “So where do you think you are?”

She yelled over the phone, “I’m somewhere in Little Mexico!”

“Okay…okay…are you outside?”

“Yeah”, she replied sobbing.

“Is there a street sign?”

“Yeah”, more sobbing.

“What does it say?”

“Hang on, let me look.” (pause) “It says ‘Scott Street’ “.

“Scott Street. I know where that is. So, Scott Street and what?”

“Huh?”

“What is the cross street?”

“Oh, let me check…”

“Okay, tell you what…call me back when you know exactly where you are.”

“NO! Don’t hang up! I’ll ask somebody!”

There was the sound of muffled voices for a minute or so. Then,

“Scott Street and Cesar Chavez.”

“Okay, you want me to get you?”

“Can you get me to Riverwest by 6:00 PM?”

“Hmmmmm, I get you close.”

More sobbing. “Okay.”

I told her, “Just wait there, I’ll leave home right now and pick you up.”

More sobbing. “Okay.”

I was pretty stressed at this point. I told Karin that I was on a mission. I got in the car and headed toward Milwaukee. Two minutes later, my cell rings. It was the lost girl.

I answered, “What?!”

She spoke calmly, “I got a ride.”

“So, now you don’t need me?”

“No, but thanks anyway.”

I turned around and went home.

Now, whenever I am near Cesar Chavez and Scott, and I cannot help but recall that conversation. It’s burned into my memory.

August 9th, 2018

I sat in the temple. I like sitting in the temple. I don’t know why. It just feels right.

The Sikh Temple of Wisconsin is in Oak Creek, just a couple miles from our house. Every couple weeks I go there just to sit on the floor in their sanctuary. They don’t have hardly any chairs, so almost everybody sits on the floor. Maybe I pray, or maybe I meditate, or maybe I just slump back against the wall and try to rest. When I am overwhelmed by life I go there. I’ve been going to the temple for years. I am that stray white guy who shows up every now and then.

The Sikhs are both very hospitable and very clannish. The Sikh religion claims to be universal, but it is also intensely tribal. Usually, everyone in the temple is from the Punjab, except for me. I don’t mind. Neither do they.

I don’t understand much about the Sikh religion. I don’t need to. I do know some of the basics. Years ago, I cornered a Sikh and asked him for the abbreviated version of their practice. He told me this about their beliefs and customs:

1. “God is all-powerful and He is good.”
2. “We always share our food.”
3. “Everybody should have a job.”

These three ideas permeate the practice of the Sikh religion. The Sikhs are monotheistic. Although they are almost exclusively from India, they do not share the polytheistic  views of the Hindus.

They do share their food. An essential part of every Sikh temple is a kitchen. The temple always smells like an Indian restaurant.  Going to the temple is like going to Grandma’s house: you will not leave without eating something. Part of the ritual upon entering the sanctuary is to take some prashad, which is kind of like Punjabi cookie dough. Prashad consists of flour, butter, and sugar. It is sweet and very oily. A person coming to the temple is expected to eat it. Often I fail to take any of the prashad out of the bowl near the altar. An older priest, Gur Tan Singh, without fail, will scoop up some of the dough and bring it to me. Also, the Sikhs always have curry and rice simmering in the kitchen. They are adamant that a visitor, like me, go into the kitchen and eat some of it. They usually have tea and milk available too. A visitor will share a meal. That’s all there is to it.

I heard that the original Sikh guru, in his travels through India, observed the practices of many other faiths. He saw numerous wandering mendicants, holy men and women who begged for their daily meals. The guru didn’t like that. He thought that people should work for their food. So, the Sikhs that I have met all have an almost Puritan sort of work ethic. Everybody hustles. The model for the Sikhs is the householder who works hard, raises a family, and supports his or her community. Everybody has a job.

The temple is a sacred space. It has that feel. The altar is decorated with colorful cloth coverings and a canopy. The holy book of the Sikhs sits on the altar. The sanctuary is quiet and welcoming. The priests greet me when I come, but they don’t evangelize. They are like the Jews in that way. It’s not like when I went to Elmbrook once and the Baptists there couldn’t wait to get me on their mailing list.  The Sikhs never turn anyone away, but they respect the privacy of a visitor. They will urge a person to eat, but not to convert.

I generally do not stay very long at the temple. I pray and sit and think. Then I go.

I went out to the foyer when I was done sitting. I was putting on my shoes when a young priest spoke to me. He was tall and dark, with deep, penetrating eyes. He asked quietly,

“Are you doing well?”

In a burst of honesty, I replied, “No.”

The priest looked confused for a moment and asked, “No?”

“No.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Somebody I love is in jail.”

“Oh”, he replied.

“She tried to kill herself last week.”

The priest nodded. Then he said,

“Do not worry. We will pray for her.”

“Okay”, and I shrugged.

He said firmly, “We will pray. It will be okay. It is not to worry.”

I asked his name.

“It is Rajinder…Singh”. (Among the Sikhs almost everyone is named “Singh”).

“I’m Frank.”

We shook hands.

I left the temple believing him. It will be okay.

August 5th, 2018

This is confusing, very confusing.

I have been slowly working on the take home exam from the class I took about immigration law. The questions all require short, but detailed answers. I really wonder if I will pass this test. It’s open book, but that fact is not much comfort. Finding the rules for a particular immigration issue is like entering a labyrinth. There are plenty of twists and turns, and many dead ends. It is easy to get lost and choose the wrong path. In a real life situation, the wrong answer could ruin somebody’s life. The Minotaur lurks in the details, hides among the statutes and regulations, and waits to pounce on the person who does not venture deep enough into the text.  This is a scary place.

It is frightening for a number of reasons. First and foremost, this is scary because so much is riding on it. People who walk into a non-profit, like Voces de la Frontera, with an immigration problem are usually worried. They don’t often come to visit just because they feel like saying hi. They come in because I.C.E. is breathing down their necks, and they don’t know what to do. They are hoping that somebody at Voces does know what they should do. At this point, I am not that somebody. I don’t know what they should do, and I cannot legally give them any advice. I don’t even know what questions to ask.

I ask myself how deep I want to get into to this maze. How much responsibility do I want? At my age, how much can I learn and utilize? Most of the thirty-eight people in the immigration law class were relatively young. They all have some experience in this area already, and they are eager to work as immigration layers or para-legals. I’m not young and I’m not going to be a lawyer. As I told the main instructor, “I’m retired. I’ve already had a career.”

The situation seems weird because I never requested to go to this class. I was asked by somebody else to join it. I said yes. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, and I still don’t. All I know is that it feels like I got on to a roller coaster, and now I can’t get off until the ride comes to a complete stop. Something beyond my control is now in motion. I find that disconcerting, and a bit exciting.

Is this a path I should follow? I have no idea. All I know is that I need to finish this take home exam. If I pass it, then I have more decisions to make. If I don’t, well, then immigration law is not my path.

I don’t know.

August 5th, 2018

Fuck.

She’s back in jail.

Actually, it is a relief to know that she is behind bars. The other options were much more frightening. She could have been on the run, or in the ER, …or dead. Karin and I have spent the last two days seriously considering the possibility of this young woman being dead. The young woman did call Karin very early on Thursday morning to tell her that she thought she had alcohol poisoning. She had that once before and came very, very close to dying. I was with her once in an ER when her kidneys were failing. I was with her in another ER where the nurse told me that this young woman had come into the hospital with a blood alcohol level of .398%. That is as close to dead as a person can be without crossing over to the other side.

The girl was released from jail in the last part of June. She was out and about for almost six weeks, and she was doing well. She really was. She had a place to stay in a local sober living house. She wasn’t necessarily happy there, but none of us had any better ideas with regards to housing for her. She had health insurance. She had a therapist. She had food stamps. She aced a job interview. It is true that the young woman had some serious obstacles to overcome, but none of these seemed insurmountable. Karin and I tried to provide whatever help we could muster. And yet, it all unraveled. It apparently ended in a hotel room with this girl cuddling a bottle of hard liquor for comfort and solace.

Why?

She sent me a four word text on Wednesday evening. It was the last thing I heard from her up until yesterday. It was cryptic, but I understood her right away. It’s hard to explain, but she pointed out poor choices I have made, or that she thinks that I have made. She often, in times of crisis, goes back to picking at old wounds. I do that too. It is not an uncommon way of dealing with issues. The past is dead, but not quite. For some reason we can never start fresh. We can’t let go, so we can’t move forward. The cycle repeats.

I am convinced that people seldom hurt others out of spite or malice. We hurt others because of weakness or ignorance or fear. We desperately want to do the right thing, but we often do the thing that causes the most harm. Perhaps I should not say “we”. I know that I operate that way. I suspect that others do the same thing.

I cannot repair the damage that I have done. Neither can she. There are things that we simply can not fix. Maybe we can forgive. Maybe.

She called us from jail yesterday afternoon. She asked us to help get her stuff from the police station. She apologized for what had happened. I had been upset with her. Now I’m not. I cannot maintain a feeling of outrage. It’s not because I am compassionate and forgiving. I just don’t have the stamina to stay angry.

When Trent Reznor sings, “I will make you hurt”, I hear other voices too.

I hear mine, and I hear hers.