Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Boston Marathon Anniversary


Last year, the Boston Marathon bombings set the scandal of suffering and beauty down the street from me. Friends stumbling with ears ringing, wounds being dressed by flags, chapels crowded with runners still wearing their foil shock blankets—whether seen, heard, or felt, suffering was experienced with every sense, and yet there was no promise of it ever making sense. 

Then a kind of Spring came as spectators became heroes near the finish line, old friend friends who I thought forgot me long ago called to see if I was still alive, runners donated blood at hospitals, and whether shoes, rosaries, or prayers, we all left something at the Copley memorial. In a city where normally no one looks anyone in the eye, in the days afterward, every glance was imbued with gratitude that the other person was fine, with charity if they were not, and with compassion because not none of us was. 

I remember even taking stock of myself during a phone call that day, and I just felt utterly guilty when I realized I had no wounds, no tears, no dramatic stories to share. Why did my friends feel the street shake, while I was safe miles away: experiencing things from a distance, like everything else in a scholar's life? When my prayer asked, "Where is my suffering? Why do have to feel so fine? To feel nothing?" I just had the feeling that I was missing out on something. My dry eyes could not see what my friends' eyes clouded with tears could. Though, with time the shock and dam fell and it came to me too.

I would never say that suffering is "necessary" for such beauty to come to light, but when I remember the unprecedented strong yet tender love that followed the bombings, it's hard to say why exactly that's not the case.

A year has passed, this pain pricks our memories once again, and I ask myself a hard question: have we once again fallen so far and become so numb that it would take a bomb to make us grateful for one another and our city? Has our love become so weak that it only exists as a reaction to evil? I pray that's not the case, because that would be a tragedy worse than the one we already suffered. The fact is that we are all missing out on something—everything is gradually being taken away from us. That's the sad but true revelation of the Marathon; so please, let us be grateful for everything today even as it is leaving us, because it was given to us for some joyful reason at the present moment.

My heart goes out to Boston today, because in many ways I found it there and left it there one year ago today, and there's nothing I'd love more than to go for a long walk down to Copley right now to find it again. Κύριε ελέησον ημάς.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

The Tongues of Babes


I'm certain infants would speak if only they wanted;
but their lack of desire comes from being all too often
caught up in all that which we are too busy to behold.

When God perfects His praise on the tongues of babes,
it is very likely through an eloquence of silence that
their gaze proclaims His Mystery, and it is only when

they learn to look away (in a way they learn from us)
that they begin to fuss and cry for Him whom they've
lost. Each wrenched and contorted call is a fall into

speaking, which seems to us less a lapse from presence
into absence, but rather a growth and development, in
our manner of self-expression and -proclamation. Yet

mixed among jumbled attempts at restoring communion
through communication, this babe reaches up with eyes
and hands while it sucks from its mother's breast. With

its stubby nipple fingers it plays with its mother's lips
as if to ask, if she is also hungry, if she remembers
her own mother's milk and breast, and with its eyes

imbued with all severity, "Do you remember that love
which held and gave you life?" it, while drinking, asks.





Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Thomistic Posture



With his feast day now passing, I thought I should share this favorite passage of mine from Thomas Aquinas' Summa Theologiæ. For anyone who thinks Scholasticism is nothing but a bunch of hairsplitting rationalizations about trivial questions, look at how Thomas mystically answers the question of why we stand up straight:

An upright stature was becoming to man for four reasons.

First, because the senses are given to man, not only for the purpose of procuring the necessaries of life, which they are bestowed on other animals, but also for the purpose of knowledge. Hence, whereas the other animals take delight in the objects of the senses only as ordered to food and sex, man alone takes pleasure in the beauty of sensible objects for its own sake. Therefore, as the senses are situated chiefly in the face, other animals have the face turned to the ground, as it were for the purpose of seeking food and procuring a livelihood; whereas man has his face erect, in order that by the senses, and chiefly by sight, which is more subtle and penetrates further into the differences of things, he may freely survey the sensible objects around him, both heavenly and earthly, so as to gather intelligible truth from all things.

Secondly, for the greater freedom of the acts of the interior powers; the brain, wherein these actions are, in a way, performed, not being low down, but lifted up above other parts of the body.

Thirdly, because if man's stature were prone to the ground he would need to use his hands as fore-feet; and thus their utility for other purposes would cease.

Fourthly, because if man's stature were prone to the ground, and he used his hands as fore-feet, he would be obliged to take hold of his food with his mouth. Thus he would have a protruding mouth, with thick and hard lips, and also a hard tongue, so as to keep it from being hurt by exterior things; as we see in other animals. Moreover, such an attitude would quite hinder speech, which is reason's proper operation.

—S.T. I, 91, 3 ad 3

And as a post scriptum, I might add he goes on for the sake of thoroughness:

Nevertheless, though of erect stature, man is far above plants. For man's superior part, his head, is turned towards the superior part of the world, and his inferior part is turned towards the inferior world; and therefore he is perfectly disposed as to the general situation of his body. Plants have the superior part turned towards the lower world, since their roots correspond to the mouth; and their inferior part towards the upper world. But brute animals have a middle disposition, for the superior part of the animal is that by which it takes food, and the inferior part that by which it rids itself of the surplus.

Saturday, November 30, 2013

A Morning with Marmi


Suffused with this winter's morning light
the drapery glows a gentle eggshell white
casting stripes stretched across a blue floor
umbric bars breaking space up a little more.

The clock ticks and it tocks, the cars pass by,
the lone piano quietly drinks in their sound.
Its silent keys, its hidden strings give no reply,
but stand still with light and questions all around.

In the kitchen window a spindly naked tree
reaches beyond the curtains' faux floral lace.
Descending from her sun-basking, now I see
my cat climbing up the couch, and to my face.

She puts paws to my belly and begins to knead.
My hands brush her aside, but don't succeed,
as she deftly returns to the task at hand
for reasons only felines must understand.

It could be she was a baker in her former life,
who filled mornings punching dough for bread.
Away from pastry-cases, she was a devoted wife
even years-after her husband fell ill and dead.

Perhaps she also had a piano not unlike my own
where their faded photos and portraits would alight:
family, youth, and love, like birds who'd never flown;
and her hands would play by the curtains' white

simple scales and preludes to how things used to be
for her husband, for herself, for the naked spindly tree.

Now her paws have paused to rest,
and after purrs, her green eyes pour
a glance imbued with some request
to me, the piano, then the floor.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Eine Einladung

Freude und Freunde haben eine Wahrnehmung, 
wo ich gerne meine Wahrheit nehme. 
Leben ist ein Satz, ein Schatz, und sie die Übersetzung 
zu einem Brief, der fragt, ob ich käme.
Es ist schon geschrieben und schön geschrieben,
und er ladet uns ein, zu lächeln und zu lieben.
Unser Wein ist schwach heute und das Brot krustig,
doch bleib munter, aufgeschlossen und lebenslustig.
Denn das Warten ist nur eine kurze Zeit
in den frohen Augen der Ewigkeit.
Wir denken oftmals Leben ist Staub
und es gibt irgendwo einen Besen.
Aber sei nicht so müde, nicht so taub;

anstatt, versuch jenen Brief zu lesen.




Sunday, September 15, 2013

I Hear I'm Here

I laid my head down those early nights in Boston, when I was
still not used to how the street lights would seep in and bathe

the ceiling milky blue with an incessant, vigilant light whose
subtle warmth softly burned and blinded through the eyelids.

In those nights I pressed my eyes tight and my ears would
widen to hear that the wind was still while the cars still went

and in those passing wakes, they issued a sound that echoed in
my memory as the gentle crash of waves on shores I left behind.

And as the last trolley gradually trucked and thumped the bumps
and rails of Comm Ave, I could hear how squeals of the wheels

and the squeak of lines could recall in some rare way birds and
crickets I heard on rural evenings with solely stars for company.

With familiar tones and timbres the city could almost compose
a home out of its unacquainted places. But upon returning here,

to the birds, the bugs, and waves, I have found that when those
same sounds echo in me, the cars and trollies rarely come to mind.

Though they meet my ears all the same—whether they come from
here or from there—my soul listens closely and can tell me how
they belong to the one but were merely borrowed by the other.


Monday, June 10, 2013

A Sunday Sketch

My success lies in Sundays,
when the sun lays its rays
warmly on me reclined,

while my body hums a
eucharistic hymn and my soul
remembers how to sing.

Bread and wine linger in
my flesh and memory and
I wonder if what could be
did in fact happen to me.

I take stock of myself and
all there is while the breeze
breathes and my collars lap
like waves upon the shore.

Blessings are measured in
grateful sips—a mug lifted to lips.
I spill ink and I will think
of how richly he arrays my days

and when the sun's light dyes
the buildings rose and gold
I know the eve is not far

with which he dazzles the eyes
today as in those times of old
with many a precious star.