Frank is Emptiness

October 27th, 2017

Hussein greeted me at the door. He’s a sophomore in high school. He looks like any other high school kid. He’s skinny with dark hair. He speaks English with barely any accent. A person would not know that he is a Syrian refugee, not unless he mentioned the fact.

There are eleven kids in Hussein’s family. People are constantly in motion. His mother is perhaps the only one who remains stationary for any length of time. I suspect that she is in a chronic state of exhaustion. Her older children help her to keep track of their younger siblings. I did the same thing with my six younger brothers many years ago. The Syrian family reminds me of my childhood in many ways: the relative poverty, the dumpy old house, the noise and the chaos. Except for the language barrier, it all feels familiar.

I walked into the house and said, “Assalam alaykum”.

Hussein replied, “Wa alaykum assalam.”

Um Hussein nodded to me, and I gathered some of the children to come upstairs and finish their homework. Nada had math to do, so we sat next to each other and tried to solve problems. Yasmin came over to us, and Ibrahim sat on the other side of me.

Nada had to add these numbers: 5+(-13).

I asked her, “So, what should we do here? Plus or minus?”

She looked at the numbers and said, “We add the 5 to 13, and get 18.”

I shook my head, “No, that’s not quite right.”

Ibrahim yelled into my ear, “I know the answer! I can do it!”

I told Ibrahim to quiet down. “I need Nada to do this one.”

Nada’s freckled face frowned. She shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“Look at the numbers. The 13 is a negative number. You see the minus sign?”

Her eyes brightened. “Oh, so it is a minus number. Then it should be -8!”

“Yeah, that’s right. Try the next one.”

A little boy with sandy hair came up to us. He wanted to see what we were doing.

I asked him, “What is your name?’

“Muhamed.”

“Hi, Muhamed.”

I thought to myself that Muhamed is going to grow up tough. He’s going to catch hell for his name. Nada and Yasmin, they will be able to slide by. Maybe even Ibrahim will be able to blend in with his peer group. Muhamed is going to meet a lot of bigots as he goes through life. People will hate him just because of his name.

Um Hussein came upstairs to find out what we were studying. She brought me a glass of hot, sweet tea. She set it on a metal tray on a chair in front of me.

“Shukran,” I told her.

She replied “Afwan”, and then she went back down the stairs.

Nada was struggling with a problem: 12-(-3).

“Do you see what to do?” I asked her.

Nada shook her head.

“You have two minus signs. Those are like having a plus sign.” I crossed out the two minus signs with a pencil, and I drew a plus sign in their place.

“Oh, I see”, said Nada.

She didn’t see.

We worked on some more problems. Eventually, Nada got the hang of it. She’s a smart young lady. Her siblings are sharp too.

The kids were tired of doing math. I asked them if they wanted to look at a book. I had brought along a book about San Francisco. I had bought it over thirty years ago when Karin and I lived in California. There were plenty of pictures to see.

I showed them the Golden Gate Bridge. One page had a large photo of the strip joints in the Tenderloin. We skipped past that page, and I didn’t attempt to explain what that picture was all about. We found an old photo from the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906. The picture showed damaged buildings, leaning and burning.

Nizar piped up and said, “Like in Suria (Syria)!”

Yeah, I bet. But not because of an earthquake.

We looked at pictures of Golden Gate Park and Chinatown. I asked the kids to tell what me they saw in the photos. I tried to explain to them about cable cars. They didn’t understand what I meant. They were impressed with the steepness of the hills in San Francisco. They liked all the bridges.

I asked them, “Do have any other books?”, and I drank some tea.

Nada brought me a book about volcanoes. We struggled through that one. Nada can sound out words, but she didn’t have enough vocabulary to make sense of a lot of the book. Her brothers and sisters tried to read along with us.

The book took us a long time to read. I didn’t mind. Somehow it’s easier to be patient other peoples’ children. I can’t remember any more if I was patient with our own. I kind of doubt it.

It was time to go. I walked downstairs. The rest of the family was eating. There wasn’t enough room around the table, so Hussein was eating near the TV, with a plate on his lap. He looked at me and thanked me for coming. I told him that I would be back the same time on the following Thursday. Um Hussein actually smiled, and she thanked me too. I left.

We will try it again next week.

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 30th, 2017

St. Patrick’s Cathedral is an impressive structure, taking up an entire city block. Its neo-gothic architecture and soaring spires are worth seeing. However, it might not be worth going to Mass there.

While Jules, Tracy, Rose, Karin, and I were finishing up our Soviet-style lunch at the Ukrainian restaurant, Jules suggested that we all go to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and take in one of the seven Masses that they celebrate every day. Karin had shown interest in visiting St. Patrick’s, and Jules had initially thought Karin and I would make the excursion on our own the following day, a Sunday. However, since we were already within subway range of the cathedral, and it was kind of on our way back to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, he reconsidered and thought that we might as well check out the church after we were done eating. Everybody agreed with the revised plan.

Jules was raised Jewish, but he is currently a secular humanist, so I don’t think that he was expecting to receive any kind of religious epiphany during the service in the cathedral. He was going there as a favor to us, and we are grateful for that. Tracy, according to Jules, is some flavor of Protestant, so I don’t think she was expecting much either. Rose is Catholic. Karin was raised Lutheran, but converted to Catholicism sixteen years ago. I am a cradle Catholic with strong Buddhist tendencies. We were a rather odd group to be attending Mass at St. Patrick’s.

I think we entered the church off of Madison Avenue. There were plenty of tourists in the cathedral, besides us. There was also a wedding going on. We sat down in a side pew to watch. It seemed strange for people to have a wedding while being surrounded by milling crowds of strangers on the periphery of the event. I asked Jules how much it would cost to have a wedding there.

He said drily, “More than you can afford.”

Once the wedding was over, preparations for the next Mass began. I was intrigued by the ushers. They had professional ushers there. The man on our side of the church was over six feet tall, and probably tipped the scales at 300 lbs. or more. The ushers all dressed like characters from “Men in Black”. They had ear pieces like the Secret Service agents. The guy on our end looked more like a bouncer than anything else.

There were also cops in the church, officers from the anti-terrorist team. They made the liturgy slightly less spiritual than it might have been. Perhaps the police were necessary as a safety measure, but they made everything a bit less friendly.

The Mass itself was celebrated in a professional manner. It was technically perfect, but somehow soulless. The church was crowded, but there was no sense of community at all. We were surrounded by strangers, who seemed quite content to remain strangers. The Mass is supposed to provide a sense of connectedness. At some level, the participants should all feel like members of the Body of Christ. It wasn’t like that in the cathedral.

At one point, just prior to the beginning of the service, Rose remarked to me,

“I couldn’t believe that right at the entrance to the church there were vending machines.”

“What?”

“Yeah, there were these vending machines where you could get a commemorative Padre Pio coin.”

I told her, “That’s the sort of thing that started the Reformation.”

I left the Mass feeling underwhelmed. It had felt more like a tourist attraction than a religious event.

The next morning Karin and I went to Mass again, but this time we went to St. John the Evangelist Church, just a couple blocks away from Jules’ house. Bergenfield has a large Filipino population, so many of the pews were filled with members of that community. There were also quite a few whites and Latinos. The church was full, like St. Patrick’s had been. However, in this church it felt like the people belonged together. People interacted with each other. People sang. People cared.

At St John’s we were at a Mass. I’m not entirely sure that we were at St. Patrick’s.

 

 

 

 

 

October 1st, 2017

Jules suggested going on a very minor excursion. We had spent the two previous days running full throttle through Manhattan and Queens, and Jules thought we could do something at half-speed. Karin and I liked the idea.

Jules took us to the Palisades Interstate Park along the Hudson River. The park is a thin sliver of land at the water’s edge. It follows the cliffs on the New Jersey side of the river for miles and miles. Jules explained to us the origins of the park. Apparently, at the beginning of the 20th century, people were mining the stone on the Palisades. The rich folk on the other side of the river resented the fact that their scenic view was being demolished. Through the efforts of early environmental activists, and a healthy influx of old money, the land of the Jersey side was eventually all bought up, and the mining operations were banned. A win for everyone involved, including future generations.

From the top of the Palisades a person can see for miles. From our perch we could look south and see Yonkers, and maybe the northern edge of the Bronx. If we looked to our left, in a northerly direction, we could see the Tappan Zee Bridge in the distance. The water is brown and murky. The river is very broad and slow-moving. If we looked straight down, we could see the tiny images of boats on the stream. Jules joked that he had told the kayakers far below to launch just for us to see them.

Karin and I kept following the Hudson River north. We drove into New York State from Bergen County, and we followed 9W north along the west bank of the river. We saw signs for West Point.

Karin asked me, “I guess you aren’t planning to stop to visit West Point?”

“Uh, no”, I replied, and I just kept driving north.

West Point really is a scenic location, full of history and tradition. However, for me, it would be like returning to prison. No, that story is done. I’m not going back to reminisce.

After visiting the Peter Maurin Farm and staying overnight at Boughton Place, Karin and I drove into Highland to find breakfast stop. We initially parked next to a restaurant/bar that looked to be open. It wasn’t. There were just some people cleaning up in there.

An old Italian guy came out to talk with us. He had that Joe Pesci look. The man pointed down the street and said,

“You see that place over there? They serve breakfast. They’re Mexicans, but they are good people. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. Really. They are good people, and the food is good there. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

Okay. We went to the El Paso restaurant and had breakfast. The old guy was right. The people were nice and the food was excellent. Before we left, Karin bought some Mexican snacks for the road. Got to have snacks.

After that, we stopped at the Rail Trail, a former railway line that is now a foot and bicycle path across the Hudson. The Rail Trail connects Highland, on the west side of the river, to Poughkeepsie, on the eastern shore. There is a gorgeous view from that bridge. Karin marveled at the wake of a barge heading north on the river. The mountains on either side of the river are densely wooded. There was still morning fog in the distance as we stood on the bridge.

Karin and I crossed the Mid-Hudson Bridge (and paid a toll) to get to eastern side of the river. Karin wanted to drive north to Rhinebeck, the home of the New York State Sheep and Wool Festival. We were actually three weeks early for the festival, but at least Karin could tell her fiber friends that she had been in Rhinebeck.

Rhinebeck is a village with downtown that extends for two or three blocks. It has a touristy feel to it. There are a variety of restaurants, shops, and boutiques. With the exceptions of Stickles Variety Store and the CVS pharmacy, there are no stores that sell things that people need. Karin and I stopped in Stickles. Oddly enough, Karin found “The Yarn Garage”, a yarn shop tucked into the back of the store. I not sure how she finds these places. The lady running the shop was originally from Düsseldorf, so she and Karin could talk about knitting in German. Obviously, Karin made a purchase there.

Eventually, Karin and I found ourselves in a pricey shop where they sold free trade fabrics and hand made soaps. Women sniffed bottles of essential oils while their husbands wondered if there are any bars open yet. There were many items from many countries suitable for decorating an already over-filled American home. It was a store for people who had both time and money to burn.

I found myself conversing with the girl working in the shop. She had dark hair and large, black-rimmed glasses. A nose ring sparkled in her left nostril. She had a serious, thoughtful expression on her face.

I asked the girl, “Would you say that most people living in this town are well off?”

The girl shrugged, and “Yes, probably.”

I looked around. “I have never felt comfortable in this kind of place. I grew up in a gritty, industrial town. The town is still gritty, but there isn’t any industry left there. I just feel more at home in a working class environment. This feels alien to me.”

She stared at me.

The girl said, “A lot people have been here for generations, but new people with money are moving in, and that raises the home prices and taxes”.

“So, some people are rich and some are just hanging on?”

“Yes, my grandmother lives here in town. She is just barely making it.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“By the way, my name is Frank.”

The young woman smiled, “I’m Cassandra.”

“Cassandra?”, I asked. “Like the woman in the Greek myths. From The Iliad I think?”

The girl smiled again. “Yes! It’s from The Iliad. Cassandra was pursed by one of the gods. He gave her the gift of prophecy. When she refused his advances, he cursed her so that nobody would believe what she predicted.”

“That is a common fate of prophets.”

Cassandra was confused, “How so?”

“Well, in the Bible, most of the prophets were ignored. It goes with the job.”

She nodded.

Then I remembered watching “Antigone” at West Point forty years ago.

I asked Cassandra, “Have you seen one of the old Greek plays on stage?”

She shook her head.

“They are really interesting.”

“Why?”

“Well, the plays are a lot like life.  When the original audiences watched the plays, they already knew the stories. They already knew how the tragedies would end. But they still watched the show. They couldn’t look away. Sometimes, in life, you know how the story ends, but you can’t look away.”

“Oh.”

“It was good to meet you, Cassandra. I have to find my wife.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

Karin and I saw the Hudson once more, heading west. It was up in the Adirondacks, near Speculator. We were weaving through the mountains when we crossed a small bridge. A turbulent, foaming stream flowed beneath us. The water was clear and swift.

It was the start of the Hudson.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

October 2nd, 2017

Jules took us to a park in Tenafly. It’s an urban park, which means that its open space really isn’t that open. There are houses up against three sides of the park, and a railway hugs the fourth edge. However, the park is a welcome patch of green, with mature trees and a walking path that goes around the perimeter. The park gets plenty of use. Even in the early morning, there are people exercising and walking on the trail.

It was our last morning with Jules, and he wanted us to walk with him and his friend, Curtis. We left Jules’ house at 6:45 AM. It was cool outside, and the ground was covered with dew. It was sweater weather. We met Curtis in the parking lot next to the walking path. Curtis smiled and greeted us.

Curtis is an old black man, tall and thin. He shook my hand when we met. His hand was strong and gnarled. Somehow, Curtis reminded me of an old hickory tree. Curtis has been around for eighty-six years. I would never have guessed that he was so old. He was alert and talkative. He was alive in a way that I seldom see in people half his age.

The path forms an oval that is a little less than a mile and a half in circumference. Jules and Curtis like to make two trips around it. They walk rapidly. Karin was only able to make one of the two round trips before she got out of breath. She retired to Jules’ van after the first cycle. While Jules, Curtis, and I made the second journey around the track, Karin said her morning prayers. She just managed to complete them by the time we returned.

Curtis is a vet. He was in the Army a long time ago. I mentioned that I had stationed in Germany. He told me,

“I was supposed to go to Korea, but the shooting was over before they could send me there. So, they shipped me to Germany instead. I was at Ulm, way in south Germany. I saw them mountains with all the snow on them. I ain’t never seen nothing like that before.”

He went on, “We was always in the field, nine months out of the year. I carried everything on my back. I was Infantry. Sometimes, those tankers, they gave us a ride, but mostly we walked everywhere.”

Jules and Curtis made an interesting pair. They were obviously close friends, but I am not sure what they all had in common. They just walked together almost every morning. I guess that’s enough.

We weren’t alone on the path. Other people were walking or running alongside of us. Jules and Curtis greeted an older black man who was resting on a bench. This guy walked a bit every morning too. He didn’t go as far as Jules and Curtis, but, hell, he’s  ninety-one years old. As we got near to Jules’ van, a jogger passed us by. He was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, running shoes, and a black yarmulke. Only in New Jersey.

On the way back to Jules’ house, I looked out the car window to view the neighborhood one last time. We passed the yeshiva and the Brazilian jujitsu school. We went by the New Jersey National Guard Armory, with its antique tanks rusting in front of the building. We drove near the Chicken and Rib Crib. I saw Bergen Pizza and the kosher deli, the Korean grocery store and the Filipino restaurant.

It’s a world of its own.

 

 

 

October 5th, 2017

“Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can’t go on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song.
Oh I hope you run into them, you who’ve been travelling so long.”

Sisters of Mercy by Leonard Cohen

 

We took the back roads from Pete’s home in Pottersville, New York, to the retreat house in Rochester. The highway first took us through the Adirondacks with the trees flaming  autumn colors.  Flashes of scarlet, yellow, and burnt orange greeted us at every turn. Once we got past Rome, the landscape flattened out a bit, and we skirted the shore of Lake Ontario for a couple hours. Lake Oneida was on our left. We took a break to gaze at its waters and then eat a late lunch.

Karin and I had never been in Rochester before. I had been imagining a rust belt city, grimy and tired. We didn’t get to see much of the town, but what we did see did not match my expectations. The Mercy Spirituality Center occupies a huge house on Highland Avenue, a busy street that runs through a pleasant residential area. Highland Park is close by. The house itself dates back to the 1860’s. It has been used by the Sisters of Mercy since 1986.

Karin and I had not originally planned to stay at Mercy. We had hoped to spend a night or two at a Trappist monastery close to Buffalo. Unfortunately, the monastery’s retreat house was full. However, the house of mercy had a room for us.

The Sisters of Mercy (Hermanas de la Misericordia) were founded in Dublin almost two hundred years ago. They came to Rochester back in 1857. The nuns actively work on environmental issues. They run the retreat house to provide an oasis of quiet in an urban setting. They do a good job. The house is peaceful and inviting. When Karin and I arrived, a group of women were just completing a centering prayer retreat.

A lay woman named Karen greeted us and gave us the tour of the house. Our room was the only one with an attached bathroom/shower. The house is kind of set up like a bed and breakfast. Well, it’s a bed and breakfast with a chapel on the first floor, and an extensive library on the second floor. Karen showed us the dining room and the kitchen, and she explained that we could make ourselves a continental breakfast when we got up in the morning. We could eat whatever we wanted. Karen also showed us how to set the alarm system, since none of the staff would remain in the house after 4:30 PM.

After Karen from the Sisters of Mercy left for the evening, Karin and I had complete run of the house. It’s kind of wild to be all alone in a strange house. It was also interesting to have complete strangers place all their trust in us.

I wandered about the house, exploring it. I was tempted to be like Goldilocks, and try out every bed in every room. I checked out the chapel. It felt very Catholic with a slightly Buddhist sensibility. Karin noted that the chapel had prayer cushions just like in the Zen Center back home. The chapel also had a singing bowl to start and stop meditation practice. The library was well-stocked and comfortable. I read a book for a while lying on a couch. Eventually, Karin woke me up.

One thing that struck me about the house was the excellent taste in artwork displayed. There was a wonderful mural depicting the Book of Ecclesiastes. The nuns and their lay partners obviously had a deep love of beauty, and an intuitive understanding of it. I saw nothing there that looked cheesy or sentimental. It all fit into an attractive whole.

The Sisters of Mercy are dying out, in a literal sense. Young nuns are hard to find.  Karen told us the sisters are gradually passing their work and mission on to lay persons, especially lay women. For now, the sisters still exist, and they still bring Christ into the world.

I hope you run into them, you who’ve been travelling so long.

 

 

 

October 6th, 2017

Niagara Falls is a circus. It’s loud and boisterous and tacky, and most things there are designed to relieve the visitor of some of his or her money. I’m not talking about the falls themselves. Those are awesome works of nature, and absolute wonders. I am referring to the human aspects of the Niagara Falls experience: the vendors, the tourist attractions, the cheesy novelties. I am thinking of the shameless exploitation of a beautiful vision of earth’s power and glory.

Maybe this is just the American way. It seems to be so typically American to try and make a buck regardless of anything else. I’m not saying that everything at the oldest state park in the United States is a rip off. People need to eat. People want to ride boats into the mist of the falls. People want to buy souvenirs. That’s all cool. It’s just that it is so overwhelming. Why does every tourist trap have to have a wax museum? Is there a legal requirement for that? Is it necessary to be blaring loud rock songs from the 1980’s into the parking lot? Do we really need huge signs on neighboring buildings that say: “Buy AMERICAN here!”? Can’t we just pay a fee to the State of New York, and look at the damn waterfalls in peace?

Apparently not. Actually, the Canadians don’t seem to be any better.  A look across the falls will show the observer a Ferris wheel and monstrous sign that screams: “Casino!” Yeah. Nice.

Okay, back to Mother Nature. The falls are amazing. That’s just a fact. Karin and I paid $2.50 to go down to near the water’s edge and look at the American Falls from below. There was a narrow staircase that led from the shore of the river to near the falls. The stones were wet and slick, and I needed the handrail to go up the steps. The air was full of mist. To our right, the water tumbled over the edge of the falls, roaring and churning in turbulence. Now that was impressive.

The park was crowded. Like at the Grand Canyon or Yellowstone, there were foreigners in abundance. Karin and I talked to Romanians and people from India during our short time at the falls. The whole world comes to see these falls. I don’t mind that. I’ve done the same sort of thing. I have gone to see the pyramids in Egypt. I have seen the Eiffel Tower in Paris. I don’t begrudge people from overseas coming to see our sites. I’m just making an observation.

When I can filter out all of the human activity that surrounds Niagara Falls, I remember just the falls themselves. Then I remember incredible power. I remember something savage and uncontrollable. I remember something beautiful and violent. I remember God.

 

 

 

 

 

October 2nd, 2017

The Peter Maurin Farm is easy to miss. We passed it by. Karin and I dutifully followed the GPS to Marlboro, New York, and we still got lost on the way to the farm. After we cruised past the correct exit, we finally turned around and drove to the end of Cemetery Road. The farm is tucked away behind the cemetery on the left and some houses on the right. There is no sign for the place. Even when we had parked the car in front of the white house, we weren’t sure if we were at the correct location.

I banged on the door at the White House (the farm has two houses: white and green). Heather came to the door. She is a woman from Virginia with big glasses, long hair, and a healthy sense of humor. She invited Karin and myself into the house. There wasn’t anything in there that struck me as being extraordinary. There was crucifix on the wall, but that is kind of standard for the Catholic Workers. A older man was shelling beans at the dining room table. In the back of the house was a large deck. A guy named Dan was sitting in one of the chairs on the deck, just soaking up the sun. He gave us a listless greeting.

Heather took us across the yard to the Green House. She led us into a tiny kitchen. It was crowded. An older woman, Monica, was there. So was her son, Tom. Tom’s father, also named Tom, painfully walked into the kitchen. Tom the elder is the pater familias of the farm. I had the impression that everyone else deferred to him.

Monica and the two Toms were deep into a serious discussion when we arrived. Apparently, Karin and I had stepped into the middle of a minor crisis. One of the residents of the white house was an elderly man who does not take good care of himself. Monica and Tom the Younger were waiting for a visiting nurse to make her visit. They didn’t have time right then to show Karin and myself the farm. Tom the Elder walked haltingly with a cane, and he obviously wasn’t going to lead a tour. Monica and Tom Jr. decided it would be a great idea if Karin and I sat in the drawing room, and conversed with the elder Tom until things settled down a bit. So, we did.

Tom Cornell Sr. is a man of eighty-three years. When we sat with him, it was obvious that he was in some pain. He mentioned that he had had shingles and that he was still hurting. Tom has had a full and active life. He has been in the Catholic Worker movement many years. He led the very first protest against the Vietnam War. He is a co-founder of Pax Christi, USA. Tom is a deacon of the Catholic Church. Tom has made working for peace and serving the poor his vocation.

Karin and I didn’t speak much. We spent most of our time listening to Tom. Tom had a continuous flow of stories. I occasionally had to interrupt him at times in order to ask him what he was meant. I think that Tom assumed that Karin and I knew all the legend and lore of the Catholic Worker movement. We don’t. So, when Tom would refer to people or events that were unfamiliar, I had to stop his monologue to get some clarification. I believe that Tom also assumed that we agreed with all of his opinions.  I don’t. Our lives have been radically different, so there are a few points where we don’t connect. Overall, Tom’s stories were fascinating. He’s lived in an entirely different world from me.

Tom insisted on showing us his office. It’s a small room, crammed with books and papers and pictures. Socks were hanging up to dry in one corner of the room. There was barely enough room on Tom’s desk to work, and there was barely enough space for us in the room for us to move. Tom pointed out some of his mementos from the past. He showed us his presidential pardon from Jimmy Carter (I believe it was for burning draft cards). He also told us about a letter he had framed in red on his wall. The letter was from Archbishop Oscar Romero, sent to Tom just a couple months before Romero was assassinated while celebrating Mass in El Salvador. Tom’s office reminded me a lot of Dorothy Day’s office at Mary House in New York. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by that.

Monica came back later, after the visiting nurse had visited. Monica was not a happy woman. The visiting nurse had requested an ambulance to take the elderly man to the hospital. The nurse clearly did not think that this man was doing well at all.

We had lunch at the Green House. Tom the Elder warmed up some vegetable soup, once he got the reluctant gas stove to stay lit. I ate a couple tomato sandwiches (we eat what’s there). I think that Karin ate the same. Tom Sr. had some soup, which he ate with gusto and exclamations of “Delicious!”.

Heather ate with us too. She talked about her community in Virginia (the name of which I have unfortunately forgotten). She emphasized that it was an “intentional community”, a group of people that choose to live together.

Being a smartass, I asked Heather, “I was in the Army for ten years. Does that count as an ‘intentional community’?”

Heather was silent for a moment. Then she said, “We have some really good Army people with us.”

I took that as a “yes”.

Enter Tom the Younger.

Once the drama with the visiting nurse was over, Tom Jr. was available to show us around. He did.

We walked from the Green House to the gardens on the hill slope. The Peter Maurin Farm is primarily concerned with gardens. There are chicken coops there, but those are peripheral to the main activity, which is vegetable farming. They occasionally move the chicken coops around. Then they use the soil that has been permeated with chicken dung for future gardens. There is a slight time lag between moving the birds and using the guano-filled soil. Tom told us that it takes some time for the chemicals in the chicken guano to be diluted by rain and snow. It has to “mellow”. After that, it’s all good.

Tom the Younger gave us a long and detailed tour of the gardens. It was obvious early on that Tom was an expert in his field. He told us many things. He showed us the rows where they had planted carrots, daikan radishes, and dill all together, seeing as they were all from the same family. The radishes helped with tillage; they break up the soil with their roots.

The farm uses soybean meal for fertilizer. The ground needs it. The soil there is of glacial origin: silt. The best thing to grow in the Catskill Mountains of New York is rocks. God knows they have plenty of granite stones in their fields. As Tom said, “Silt has none of the advantages of clay soil, but all of the drawbacks.”

Tom showed us the rows of tomato plants, some of them damaged by a blight. They grow chard and cylinder beets together. Tom mentioned that they grow vegetables at the farm that the folks at Mary House can’t get easily. It is a goal of the farm to provide healthy food for the Catholic Worker soup kitchen in New York.

We looked at a section of the garden that was full of garlic and potatoes. Tom said that portion would later be used for turnips and carrots. The soil would be ready for those plants. It was fascinating to me that so much was planned in advance. Other parts of the garden were set aside for cantaloupes, collard greens, horseradish, zucchini, and asparagus.

Heather was with us in the garden. She is a seed expert. Heather and Tom conversed in a technical language that was foreign to me. Heather wanted to harvest some of the string beans. They grow rattlesnake beans at the farm. Tom told her which ones to take, and which ones to leave until later. Both Tom and Heather know how to farm. They understand the process. I felt very much left out. I just don’t know this stuff.

At the time of our arrival, there were seventeen people living at the farm. Some were just visitors, some were more long term. Some of the folks there were making great contributions. Some of them weren’t running on all four cylinders. It didn’t matter. They were all doing what they could. Somehow, they all contribute what they can. Honestly, I would have to live there for a while to get a feel for the group dynamics. A few hours isn’t long enough to understand how it all works. However, I could see that this was a family of sorts. It was a family as dysfunctional as my own, but a family nonetheless. The Peter Maurin Farm really is a community, in the best sense of the word.

The farm was full of people, maybe overfull. Karin and I had hoped to spend the night there, but that was not possible. Monica showed us some floor space in the basement of the Green House, but that didn’t look good to us. We didn’t know where to spend the night. Tom the Younger had a plan.

There is a home, twenty minutes north of the farm, called Boughton Place. There is a connection between Boughton Place and the Peter Maurin Farm. At one time, there was  a Catholic Worker community at Boughton Place. That community collapsed after the woman who led the group died of cancer. Boughton Place also has a history as a home for psychotherapy. In the 1930’s, Jacob Moreno fled from the Nazis to start a psychotherapy facility in Beacon, New York. Later, his work moved to Boughton Place. Psychotherapy still goes on at this new site. There are rooms available at Boughton Place for patients to stay overnight. Tom found us a spare room at the house. He talked to the caretaker, and he got us a place for the night at Boughton Place.

It was kind of a weird feeling to sleep in an unknown house in an unknown town, based on the recommendation of a man who we had only known for maybe four hours. However, it was really nice. Boughton Place is an rural area. It was quiet and rather dark at night. Very peaceful. It was kind of cool. We gave the caretaker, Tom, a cash donation when we left in the morning. We said goodbye to his dog, Sasha. It felt strange, but somehow it all felt right.

Tom the Younger came to check on us before we went to bed that night. He brought us some information on other Catholic Worker farms, one of which is here in Wisconsin. That was good of him. He’s a good man. Everybody at Peter Maurin is good.

Thank God we met them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 24th, 2017

I had two interviews with Zen Master Ji Haeng during the last Zen retreat. I hadn’t had an interview for a long time, probably ten years or so. Previous Zen interviews had been underwhelming for me. I never got the point. Maybe I still don’t. As a Catholic, I always felt that visiting the Zen Master was a cross between going to confession and meeting the Great and Powerful Oz. Other people in the sangha were quite eager to spend time with Zen Master Ji Haeng. My response to their enthusiasm was, “Yeah, whatever.”

Both priests and Zen Masters possess some kind of spiritual authority, at least in an official sense. A priest is ordained and shares a lineage that goes back to the Apostles. A Zen Master has inka, and he or she can trace themselves back to Bodhidharma. They embody their respective traditions. They start off with some credibility and authority. How long those things last depends on how these persons preform their duties. Credibility is often fragile and short lived. Authority is likewise ephemeral.

Since my two recent interviews, I have revised my opinions on the value of the Zen interview. I have noticed some odd similarities between a Zen interview and the Sacrament of Confession. Now, I have been to confession with a priest many more times than I have spoken with a Zen Master, so my observations may be inaccurate. Also, there are many differences between the two processes that can’t be reconciled, but I tend to look for connections.

Both a confession and a Zen interview start with ritual. I’m not sure why that is. It might be to establish a clear delineation between the outside world and a sacred time/space. Both the priest and the Zen Master wait for somebody to come to them. They both have certain symbols of their office: the priest wears a stole, the Zen Master has his robes and his stick. There is a ritual greeting that the person making a confession gives to the priest. The sangha member bows to the Zen Master. All these things set the stage for the coming exchange.

One of the first things that a Catholic tells the priest during confession is how long it’s been since the last time he or she received the sacrament. Sometimes the priest asks that question at the very beginning. The first things that Zen Master Ji Haeng asked me were: “What is you name”, “How old are you?”, Where do you come from?”, and “Where are you going?” These questions give both the priest and the Zen Master a feel for where the person is. It’s a starting point.

To backtrack a bit, a Catholic preparing for the sacrament is required to make a ‘thorough examination of conscience”, that is, to take a hard look at recent thoughts, words, and actions. A Zen practitioner may be musing over the meaning of a kong-an prior to going into a Zen interview. Is there a similarity between pondering one’s mistakes and pondering a kong-an, an ambiguous riddle? Maybe not. If anything, both exercises force the person to be conscious. Both forms of meditation are invitations to wake up.

Sin. Confession is all about sin. It is about getting rid of sin. One of the Hebrew words in the Bible for sin is “chatta’ah”, which comes from the verb which means “to miss the mark”, as in archery. Using this word, sin then means to miss the target, which implies that the person is not seeing clearly. Sin is sort of a blindness that must be cured. What is the point of Zen? It is to see reality as it is, to see things clearly. Confession and a Zen interview share a common goal.

Traditionally, a person goes to confession with a laundry list of transgressions. That list may or may not be helpful. It can be useful if the priest can connect the dots and perceive a common theme behind the roster of sins. A Zen Master likewise should be able to find the source of attachments, and to recognize the blind spots of the person being interviewed. The person sitting across from the priest or the Zen Master cannot easily see the pattern. That is why that person is there. The priest or the Zen Master has to help them to understand.

Zen Master Ji Haeng told me something that resonated deeply with me.

He said, “People like us, we are attracted to Zen because we don’t like book answers.”

Right on, Brother.

A good priest, or a good Zen Master, cannot hand out ready made answers. They cannot be superficial. They usually don’t tell the other person what to to do. The person sitting in the other chair or on the other cushion knows what they need to do. Deep inside, that person knows what is broken, and they already have the answer. The Zen Master and the priest need to draw that answer out. That’s the challenge. There isn’t a book that teaches how to do that.

Dear Zen Master Ji Haeng,

Thank you for your teaching.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 27th, 2017

I was standing on the shore a just few yards from the ocean. The sand felt cold under my feet. There was a stiff wind out of the west blowing at my back. It was still dark. The morning star hung over the restless water like a glowing jewel. Above me and to my left, I could look up to the sky and see Orion and Sirius.

I looked straight ahead at the waves that crashed against the shore. I could hear the breakers better than I could see them. In the distance I could make out the edge of the horizon. There was a dim, orange glow coming from there. The orange color wasn’t consistent. There were thin lines of darkness between the bands of orange light. It reminded me of a diffraction experiment.

Karin came up from behind me. She was still in her bed clothes. She looked at the eastern sky in awe. She shivered. She told me that she was cold, and that she needed to get dressed. She would be back soon to watch the sunrise.

Jules had been up and awake before I came out to the beach. I talked to him as I left the beach house. I told him,

“I’m going out to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic.”

Jules smiled, “Go ahead.”

“Well, I don’t know if I will ever see it again.”

Jules smiled again, “Yeah, you’re right. Go on out.”

The beach house wasn’t actually on the beach. It was one house way from it. It was a quick walk from the door of the cottage to the ocean. I heard and smelt the sea before I saw it.

Once I got to shore, I just stared out into the distance. My eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. I noticed that I was not alone. Other people were with me on the beach. One man held a rod and reel. A woman stood on the beach far to my left.

Karin came back out. She was excited. She started taking pictures with her phone. The orange light gradually grew brighter. There was the outline of a ship in the distance. Oddly enough, as the light grew stronger, the waves seemed darker. The water looked black except where there was foam.

I noticed clouds on the horizon. They were dark on top, and were illuminated pink underneath. The glow spread and turned slowly to a bright yellow.

The yellow spread and grew brighter. Then an intense light pierced the sky’s edge. It started as a small point and then it became a blinding semi-circle on the horizon.

The sun.

Soon it was a circle of dazzling light, white and yellow mixed. I couldn’t look at it directly. I gazed around and saw my surroundings take on form and shape. Seagulls were suddenly visible. Sounds were muted as my eyes became my dominant sense. Karin and I went from a dreamscape to a sharp reality.

Karin and I stood on the shore for a while longer. We savored the sunrise. We lingered there. Then we turned back to the beach house. Jules was making tofu eggs for breakfast.

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 26th, 2017

Jules lives in Bergenfield, New Jersey. Bergenfield is close to the Hudson River, just a bit north and west of New York City. Jules’ hometown is just one of an seemingly endless parade of suburbs. As Jules mentioned to us, a person is hard-pressed to notice the end of one borough and the beginning of the next. Teaneck flows into Bergenfield which merges into Tenafly which blends into another enclave, ad infinitum.

Jules told us that Bergen County, where he lives, holds over a million people. I asked him if there were still any empty lots in the county. He said that there were a few. If there are empty pieces of land in his part of the world, I didn’t see them. My impression of Bergenfield and its environs was of compactness. Everything there is wedged in tight. True, there are trees and grass and small parks, but all the space is used in some manner. It is the opposite of Texas, where everything is absurdly spread out. In Bergen County many people and their activities are concentrated into a tiny area.

Jules’ house sits on Main Street in Bergenfield. I don’t think that Main Street is actually the main street in that town. Washington Avenue seems much busier. Jules’ house is on a residential street with mature trees and crumbling sidewalks. The homes seem to be mature too. I doubt that anything on that street was built during my lifetime.

I asked Jules what style of house he owned. He shrugged and said that he didn’t know. I am guessing it would be best described as a bungalow. I am not sure what the original structure looked like. Clearly, there have been various additions and renovations over the years. Jules estimates the the building is one hundred years old. He’s probably right.

A home usually reflects the personality of its occupant. This is the case with Jules’ house. When Karin and I first arrived at his address, we went up to his front door. Apparently, nobody ever does that. The front door leads directly into an enclosed porch. We rang the doorbell and Jules invited us in.

The porch was full of books. The living room was full of books. The dining room was full of books. There were stacks of books on the staircase. One bedroom was packed with books. Other rooms had bookcases or shelves overflowing with books. Jules had a bookcase set in front of his fireplace to hold yet more books.

It came as no surprise to learn that Jules had owned a bookstore for twenty years, and the contents of his house were the residue of that enterprise. Jules has thousands of books, in every conceivable style, and containing all types of subject matter. Jules lives in a library. He is selling his books online, a few copies each day. If he lived to be one hundred, he would still have plenty of reading material.

Jules isn’t yet one hundred years old, but he’s well on his way. His father was elderly when Jules was born, and a family legend says that the father was a soldier in the army of the Czar during his youth. Jules is spry for a man of seventy-nine. I would like to be as active and healthy as Jules when I hit that age, but I expect to be horizontal at that point. I met Jules on a peace walk a few years ago. He still moves along at a rapid pace. Jules is sharp in mind and tongue. He is obviously well-read.

Jules’ house is not merely a book depository. It is also a showcase for peace walk memorabilia. Most of Jules’ wall space is covered with posters and pictures. He has been on walks in Scotland, France, Belgium, Holland, Japan, Korea, and all over the U.S. He has a series of small paper peace cranes (origami) hanging from the ceiling. A person can read Jules’ history just by looking at the walls of his house.

In some ways, Jules’ house reminds me of our home. There are scarcely any open horizontal surfaces.  His tables hold books. Ours more often hold yarn, or half-finished knitting projects. Jules’ home has the appearance of disorder verging on chaos. So does our house. That just means that somebody lives there. Neat houses are the tombs of boring people.

We are not boring.