Original Sin

Original Sin

I often wish my life more complete

Sadly still, I rise each morn, see I have to work to eat

Instead I’d rather sit and think

How nothing matters, how life stinks.

Good God Almighty, you gave us paradise

And took it back in a trice.

The problem, You say, is original sin

I think the logic a little thin

What sin was mine to lose it all?

Was not the problem Thine, that caused man’s fall?

If an apple is a tempting fruit,

Knowledge is a loftier pursuit


I really ought to quit this silly quest,

But first I thought a final question

A plaintive plea from me to Thee

Blame Adam or Eve or the snake if you must

Dammit, why me, why make my life a bust?

Fear and Conscience

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all...

Hamlet, Act III, scene i (58–90).

Poor Hamlet, his uncle murders his father, the King, and marries his mother, the Queen. Hamlet beset by his father's ghost frets on what course of action he should take. Hamlet soliloquizes - "To be or not to be, ..." what makes action impossible. 'Tis “conscience [that] does make cowards of us all . . . thus the native hue of resolution / Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.”

Shakespeare's Hamlet was concerned with the question of morality. Can the murder of his uncle appease the murder of his father? What then is to become of his mother? What part in the deed does she play?

What of those who are amoral, those who have no conscience? For them, the Old Man thinks that fear itself makes us cowards. It is the fear of uncertainty. What consequences do our actions engender? "Ay, there is the rub," for who knows what may come.

The Old Man is not alone to be amazed by Shakespeare's wisdom. Wisdom suggests experience. Maybe the idea for the words are created in The George Inn, 77 Borough High Street, Borough, London, one of London's oldest pubs and situated near the London Bridge. It is the Winter of 1599, Shakespeare is sitting at a table with his best friend Richard Burbage for whom he wrote many of the parts of his plays including Hamlet. The two of them have a decision to make, their theater lease is up and a new location has been found across the river. But they lack the funds to purchase the lumber for a new theater. One of them poses the suggestion, that they dismantle the theater that they currently lease, one that they built with their own funds and haul the lumber across the Thames over the ice and though the snow to the new location.

Does fear of the law, uncertainty of the legality of their act, cross their minds. Surely, it does. Fortified in the choice by a pint of bitter, was it William Shakespeare or Richard Burbage who said, "Fie on the consequences, let's do it." They did and the Globe Theater was built.

The Old Man must make a decision, indeed he makes many decisions every day whose consequences may be uncertain. This decision seems a simple one, for The Old Man is updating the web pages for Traditions Furniture. Simple as it may seem, the Old Man knows that the coding involved is extensive. Multiple pages will be added. New links and new images will be uploaded. Mistakes can be costly. Google, the monolithic god that determines search placement may not smile on the new changes.

Still, like Hamlet, the Old Man must march ahead, for to not act is to act. It is to choose the same course of action in a world that moves on. By not acting, we fall behind.

Check out the changes on Traditions Furniture and tell the Old Man if he was right.

History Never Repeats

"History," Voltaire said, "never repeats itself, man always does."

There are three players in this earlier French historical drama. The point of which is that even intelligent adults will find a way to squabble.

François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire (1694 – 1778), was a French writer, historian and philosopher, famous for his wit and willingness to tweak the noses of the establishment. He was one of the bellwethers of the Enlightenment, steadfast in his advocacy of civil liberties, including freedom of religion, freedom of expression, free trade and separation of church and state. Madame Françoise de Graffigny, née d'Issembourg Du Buisson d'Happoncourt (1695 - 1758) was a female French novelist, playwright and salon hostess. Madame Graffigny earned her own way though life, but she did so with difficulty. In 1738, needing a temporay place to stay, she managed an invitation to Cirey, the château where Émilie, marquise Du Châtelet, had been living since 1734 with her lover, Voltaire. Two women and one man in one household rarely works well. There were jealousies.  Eventually, a prise de bec, (literally in French a beak or nose tweaking, in English, a tiff or spat), split the two women. Presumably, Voltaire, master of the prise de bec, watched from the side, amused. As an aside, Gabrielle Émilie, marquise du Châtelet (1706 – 1749) was a French mathematician, physicist, and author during the Enlightenment. She translated into French Isaac Newton's work Principia Mathematica. She independently contributed to an understanding of physics that led to Albert Einstein's later Theory of Relativity. She died in childbirth, having been forewarned of its difficulty at her age.

Émilie Du Châtelet is not necessary to my story. I only mention her because far too few women are given credit for scientific advances. Hers, among others, a recognition of the fundamental law that energy and force are squarely proportionate to the speed of matter. Think of Einstein's famous formula: E = mc2. She is also an interesting study in human nature, for she proves the strong maternal instinct to preserve life, even at the risk of one's own.

I mention Madame Graffigny only because of her association with my family. The village of Graffigny in Haut-Marne,  once part of the larger independent Duchy of Lorraine, is where the French side of my family is from, dating from the Renaissance. The village of Cirey where Voltaire, Émilie Du Châtelet, and Madame Graffigny spent a few idealic months before their prise de bec is also part of the region of Haut-Marne, near Graffigny. The connections are admittedly tenuous, but it is still wondrous to wonder if a family member bumped into any one of the trio on the street.

Fast froward history to the year 2012.

My son is a senior in high school. He has three weeks to go before graduation and then we happily ship him out of state to college. His high school is a private parochial school where visitors are greeted with the message "God's Goodness is Everywhere."

My son is involved in a "spat" in his religion class which contains 28 students, both boys and girls. I call it a spat because I was not there. I don't know what happened. I read the redacted report from the substitute teacher and found it disturbing. Any parent would. Parents hope that they raise their children well. They hope that the school they send them to instills sound values. Then again, history intervenes and boys act up, inappropriately.

Students, boys 18 years old should treat any teacher, especially a female one, respectfully. Allegedly, my son is one of six male students who disrupted a religion class. That it was a class on religion, the letter said, was disturbing.  The disruption was "farting" and tossing tennis balls. One or more tennis balls struck the teacher, and one ball caused a red mark which was photographed by the school nurse. "It hurt!" she remarked. I don't doubt that. I don't like the disrespect. I don't like what happened. I am saddened that the teacher was put though this ordeal by boys who should know better. If I had been there, I would have taken the offending miscreants to the woodshed. That is what they did in my day, and in my father's day, and before that.

The teacher is female and a substitute. And the rule, now as always, is to give substitute teachers a hard time. History doesn't repeat itself, but the inappropriate conduct of the students does. There are inevitably the conflicting stories of witnesses, the involvement of authorities and parents. Eventually, it all gets resolved one way or another. History teaches us that.

There are few saints in life. Father Emil Kapaun, for whom the school is named, is one of them. And even he was a cut up in school. Unless one has been a saint though out one's life, a Joan of Arc, then at one time or another there is a clash with school administrators. Senior pranks, the movie Ferris Buhler, anyone. I for one was involved in incidents in second grade, fourth, and seventh grade. The history of each incident varies, they all do. And the way matters were handled by the school and my parents likewise varied.

The  historical perspective has changed. Now it is parent to child, instead of child to parent. In hindsight, I can compare my parent's reactions to my childhood foibles with my own reactions to my son's. In my case, things resolved themselves, mostly for the better. Sometimes changes were necessary, certainly on my part, and sometimes on the part of the school.

Hopefully, history is a predictor of the future.

Just think about it.

It's is the same old thing, being misunderstood, that is. I say one thing, the other person hears something else. Just think about it.

Communication is not an easy thing. We talk, we listen. That is it. But what happens once the spoken word leaves the lips and before it reaches the brain seems to be a mystery. I could give a hundred examples of being misunderstood. We all could. That is why miscommunication seems to rank high on the chart of human conditions that needs addressing.

I guess the problem stems from the old cliche that we hear what we want to. After all, if the message is not one that sings to the ear, change the tune. A mother listening to her child's plaintiff cry, hears a cry for help. A stranger hearing the same thing, finds the cries annoying, that is, unless the stranger has his or her own small child and has a visceral transfer of emotion.

If I had to put my finger on the problem, I would chalk it up to a lack of empathy. Empathy, the ability to feel someone else's pain. Speaking of which, isn't that what the life of Christ was all about. Jesus is born to humble beginnings, preaches a message of love and understanding, is betrayed and crucified. His crucifixion symbolizes an atonement for the sins of the world. But Christ did not commit those sins. Why then did God demand that he be sacrificed for our sins? Well, just another example of transference. Let someone else deal with it. It is another day in Paradise for those of us who are well off.

Excuse me, if for a moment I become political. Mitt Romney, Republican candidate for President of the United States says in an interview "I don't care about the poor." Yes, I know, he followed that up saying that there is a safety net, and, if that is broke' he'll fix it. Nor does he care about the rich, he just cares about the hard working Middle Class whose votes he needs to get elected.

I like Mitt, he is a likable guy, and if he had a Facebook page, I would press the like button. Mitt's problem is not just his choice of words. How, after all can a candidate announce that he doesn't care about a voter. And sure enough, silver-tongued Newt Gingrich announces the next day that he cares about everyone.

I guess it is another example of Mitt not feeling the pain. I can sympathize with him. He is well-to-do, never wanted for anything, except votes, and has a hard time understanding what it means to struggle day to day. If he is going to communicate to the electorate, he better get the message. We are all struggling, we all have problems, and we all need to be heard. Empathize.

Enough of politics.

So, I am over half way into this essay, and I find myself talking about how others fail to relate to me. That, in itself, points to the problem. The major problem with communication is not with the talking or the writing of words. Rather, it is with the listening. Christ spoke rarely, saving his words for important occasions. Most of the time he was all about dealing with the problems of others. His most famous words, "Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you." is itself a role reversal.

So, I will try to listen, and then, maybe in understanding, I will be understood. A good start is Phil Collins song, Another Day in Paradise. Here are the lyrics, You can also listen to it on Youtube in another window.

Just think about it. No, do something about it.

Another Day in Paradise, official version.

She calls out to the man on the street, "Sir, can you help me? It's cold and I've nowhere to sleep. Is there somewhere you can tell me?" He walks on, doesn't look back, he pretends he can't hear her He starts to whistle as he crosses the street, seems embarrassed to be there Oh, think twice, it's just another day for you and me in paradise Oh, think twice, it's just another day for you, you and me in paradise.

Just think about it She calls out to the man on the street, he can see she's been crying She's got blisters on the soles of her feet, she can't walk, but she's trying Oh, just think twice, it's just another day for you and me in paradise Oh yes, think twice, it's just another day for you, you and me in paradise

Just think about it, uh - huh, just think about it.

Hotel California

I mention this song perhaps too much, but Hotel California is one of the iconic songs of the 70's that anyone of my generation has listened to over and over again. Rolling Stones magazine ranks the song 49th on its top 100 list. And Guitar Magazine moves it up to 8th on its list of top 100 guitar solos. The songs lyrics are vague enough to let one put any kind of spin on the words, bringing back the "spirit of 1969" tempered by the disillusionment of the late 70's, and the excess of the drug culture.

"On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night..."

Last night my Garmin went blank, I was lost on highway 50 heading west through the middle of Missouri. The Garmin went blank because new highway 50 was not yet registered in the system. I was strangedly paralleling the old Highway 50, now business 50, my car a blue icon floating in grey on the Garmin screen.

It was late at night, I was tired and up ahead in the distance was the sign Motel California. Who could resist? After all, I had to stop for the night.

Winesburg, Ohio

Winesburg, Ohio by George Willard is a snapshot of  small town rural America at the beginning of the twentieth century.

The book was first published in 1919, a year after the end of the First World War. For many returning war veterans the book was nostalgic. These youths left the cities, small towns, and farms of America to travel to a decidedly different Europe and experience in one short year the death and destruction that Europeans had endured for four long years. For a few veterans who enlisted before finishing high school, at seventeen like my grandfather, it was perhaps something simpler. Perhaps it was filling in a few missing pages in their life story. What they had missed by enlisting before the end of high school.

The book remains relevant today. It is the story of the awakening of a young mind.

The book begins with the writer, an old man with a white mustache, who has difficulty getting into and out of bed. But once this feeling of nostalgia is created, the story shifts in time to when the writer, George Willard was a young man living in the small mid-western town of Winesburg, Ohio. There are two points in our lives when we discover the essential truth to the meaning of life. One point is high school, just before we begin our life's journey, and the other is when we are near the end of the long road of life. 

And the truth is like this:

That in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful.

...

And then the people came along. Each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them.

It was the truths that made the people grotesques....

Rereading Winesburg, Ohio after many years, I am struck by the how time and age act on the writer's words. Then, I was like George Willard, the central character of the book. George was a high school adolescent, the writer for the local paper of Winesburg. As such he was both an observer of people. His descriptions of  of the people who populate his hometown make up the stories that became the book. Then it was fresh in his mind, later the characters and their impressions grew and took on a particular color and meaning.

Grotesques, he calls them, not because they are necessarily horrible, but rather because many of them had been shaped into caricatures.Some might be beautiful or amusing, but all were shaped by life and forced to wear of face that was not of their own choosing. Each caricature a mask of an exaggerated emotion. Each character a one-dimensional image of life. Each character the revelation of a truth or not even that, a half truth.

 "Oh, you Wingbiddlebaum, comb your hair, it's falling into your eyes," commanded the voice to the man, who was bald and whose nervous little hands fiddled about the bare white forehead as though arranging a mass of tangled locks.

Words can convey meanings that are not always understood. And so an off-hand remark to Wing Biddlebaum in Hands, the first story in the book has a special meaning unto itself.It is important to note that the reader of these words does not at first blush understand their significance to Wing Biddlebaum.Only as the story unfolds do we realize that these simple words set forth a cascade of memories that frame the telling of this story.

Grotesques as a word seems a little harsh to describe the characters of Winesburg, Ohio. And even Sherwood Andersen in his introduction admits that the word is use only to describe how in time the characters of the book  became big in the author's mind. Understanding this nuance, grotesque seems the correct word choice. Each individual reveals an important truth in the life of George Willard. Bing represents on one level the admonition to youth that one must try to "forget all that you have learned. You must begin to dream. From this time on you must shut your ears to the roaring of the voices [of others]." The story of the Hands is also an admonition. Failing to heed Bing's warning, life can become a retreat into darkness in which one repents daily of a weakness in not choosing individuality.

Hymn of the Pearl

Within the Acts of Thomas is a beautiful poem describing the exile and redemption of the soul. The text is known as the "Hymn of the Pearl".

When I was a little child,
and dwelling in my kingdom of my father's house,
and in the riches and luxuries of my teachers,
I was living at ease.

[Then] from our home in the East,
after they had made preparations,
my parents sent me forth.

...

Then they made with me an agreement,
and they inscribed it in my heart so that it would not be forgotten:
"If [you would go] down into Egypt
and bring the one pearl,
which is in the middle of the sea
surrounded by the hissing serpent,
then you will put on your glorious garment
and your toga which rests over it.
And with your brother, our second in command,
you will be heir in our kingdom."

...

The Hymn of the Pearl.


The Apostle Thomas sings the hymn while in prison.

The hymn tells the story of a boy, "the son of the king of kings", who is sent to Egypt by his family to retrieve a pearl from a serpent. He is promised rich rewards on his return. During the quest, he is seduced by Egyptians and forgets his origin. Later, a letter is sent from the king of kings to remind him of his past. The boy receives the letter, remembers his mission, retrieves the pearl and returns. The boy is everyman, as spoken by Thomas; the "king of kings" is Jesus.

What is our purpose in life and how is it that we stray from that path? When we are young, it only seems that life is much simpler. Our parents guide us and instruct us in the ways of the world. We need not make decisions for ourselves. But as we grow older, we journey on, meet new friends, and make our own decisions.

What choice we make are often wrong, for the path of life is fraught with indecision, betrayal, and confusion.We are tempted by wealth and power. Material comforts become an opiate that distracts us from the true purpose of life. The pearl we seek is not wealth, but wealth as symbolized by our real values, the lessons we were taught as children. And that lesson is to serve others.