When I first started working with Afghanistan, one of my job requirements was to prepare a presentation for future advisors in the justice sector. These advisors were primarily American and international lawyers, judges, corrections officers, and a sprinkling of other experts.
My research uncovered amazing stories and records of a time in the mid-20th century that seemed surreal. The shock of what had been versus what was. To wit, Once upon a Time in Afghanistan.
This research led me to a jewel of a movie, that I considered a love feast for the eyes, because in a short time, it captured the beauty of the country and its people. I had witnessed it myself, despite my being confined to a limited area in Kabul. This was around October 2012.
I never forgot that film, and that’s why I share it today.
I always think of Afghanistan, and everyone I met there, and I still feel sadness at how all our efforts seemed to go up in flames. Sometimes I wonder whether it was all for nought. Maybe, maybe, I am too pessimistic and there’s a glimmer of hope. Miracles do happen.
I have journaled much about the role of friends, especially as it involves those “old old” friends that disappoint to the core. I am learning that the sting of disappointment is like being stuck with porcupine quills.
The barbed tip hurts, and removing by yanking on the quill is painful. However, like everything else in life, you begin to evaluate how to ease the pain of extrication. If I had only known when Milly got these quills what I do now, she would not have suffered so much. Tip: you first have to cut them in half so that they go limp, the fish-hook tip relaxes, and you can pull them out softly and with reduced pain because the quills become flaccid and pliable!
I am spending much time with good friends. Some I have known for a few months. Others, for a couple of decades. And some, for a few weeks. I value their support, compassion, and their reaching out when you least expect it. Most of all, I cherish the laughter we share together. A hearty good laugh is a balm for the soul.
Recently, I heard from friends from my youth. They brought back a torrent of emotions, for they helped me remember some of the “good old days” of yore, when we were studying and working and carefree. How lucky can one be?
I am blessed.
The Arrow And The Song
Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.
An amazing photographer, Kim Allen Goff, posted this beautiful photo on social media and commented,
“I’ve loved to peer into windows since I was a child and the older the house the better! The reflections on these windowpanes spoke the language of November.”
Immediately, her comment and photo reminded me of this Robert Frost poem, below. I read somewhere that, in this particular poem, “Sorrow finds beauty in its desolation”.
It is true.
Sorrow does bring forth reflection, and from that reflection springs clarity of understanding, and from that clarity -eventually- those turbulent waters reach their destination and may turn into a beautiful and calm and crystalline cove or lake. So there. I have to thank Kim for making me be happy about my birthday month! There is beauty in those reflections of the bare, the withered tree…
My Sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her simple worsted grey Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow, But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise.
Many a time I reflect on the true meaning of a cultural divide. It is so much more than one loving cilantro and spicy foods, the other loving bland and simple concoctions. Or preferring novels to autobiographies. Or fancying opera to rock and roll.
We dismiss that cultural divide to our peril. Sometimes, it can easily be bridged. But other times, we don’t realize that, while the crack to cross appears narrow, when you get close to it you discover it is an abyss, wider and deeper than expected.
Take the Argentine tango. Al Pacino in A Scent of a Woman, Arnold Scharzenegger in True Lies, for example. The truth is that the famous Argentine singer of yore, Carlos Gardel, composed this song, which actually refers to a gambler losing a horse’s race “por una cabeza”(by just a head).
Today, some would say the Hollywood movies engaged in “cultural appropriation” and some would be crying crocodile tears. The truth is that beautiful music transcends cultures and is universal. However, while we all can appreciate the rhythm, the exotic movements, the bandoneon, we might have a harder time fully understanding the meaning behind the lyrics.
Which leads me to another rumination of mine. Many times I find that certain melodies, lyrics, stories and poems that I used to love or made me ponder then, were somewhat pointing me to “something” that only now, at this stage in my life, I can finally begin to understand.
Were they part of what I call the tender tendrils of the cobweb of life that we don’t see until the sun hits the morning dew on that cobweb and then, BINGO, it appears in all its majesty? I’ve encountered this phenomenon countless times, ergo my conclusion that we, life, experiences are all linked in some way through those almost unseen tendrils until that light gives me that “Eureka” moment.
The song, raw and brutal, is the realization that a betrayal brought forth depredation. That devastation does not end in a “Hah, revenge is best served cold” moment. It only highlights the horrors of Dorian Gray.
The tango crooner (Carlos Gardel) cannot handle the awareness that he is now without friends, having lived a wrong and wicked moment, without honor. And the object of his downfall is devastatingly pitiful.
Whether man or woman, I think we can understand the angst. At the end of it all, I guess, when we sow with meanness and lies we reap bitterness, sadness and sorrow, and when reality hits it is but the awareness that its genesis is the grotesque and rotten fruit of an obsessive and wrongful yearning.
Unfortunately, no English translation captures the essence of the words. You have to understand the language, the slang, the setting, the idiosyncrasies. However, I merged a couple of translations below, to try and convey the tango’s ferocious punch to the solar plexus.
And, for the life of me, I know for a fact that I would not like to be remembered as a featherless rooster!
Alone, faded, worn out, I saw her this dawn Leaving a cabaret,
A full yard long of neck and A hanger of a neckline under the chin. Bow-legged, dressed like a young broad, Dyed and flirting her nudity.
Seemed like a featherless rooster Mockingly showing off her pecked hide.
I, that know when I can't take it anymore, Just ran away from there seeing her like that, Trying not to cry.
And to think that ten years ago she was my madness That I went as far as betrayal for her beauty. That what is now a wreck Was my sweetheart, where I lost my dignity.
That nuts for her beauty, I stole my mother's bread I became mean and sinful. That I was left without a friend, That I lived in bad faith.
That she had me on my knees Without morals, like a beggar when she left. I never thought I would see her in a requiescat in pace As cruel as today.
Look, if it's not to commit suicide, that for that old junk I was left as what I am now. Fierce revenge that of time That makes you see destroyed what you loved.
This encounter has hurt me so much That if I think about it more, I end up poisoned, Tonight I get drunk well, Thoroughly drunk, So I wont think..
On this Halloween Night, I reflect on All Hallows Eve, a precursor of All Saints Day (or Day of the Dead), which is followed by All Souls Day, when people pray for the souls of the dead.
Since death is the one thing we all have awaiting, and tonight we play spooky games with death props of ghosts, ghouls, skeletons, cemeteries, spiders and flies, I am ever conscious of what the Spaniards like to say, “A cada chancho le llega su San Martín”. This translates to “St. Martin will arrive for every pig” or “every pig gets its own St. Martin”.
The day of St. Martin of Tours was the date of the slaughter of the pigs, a festival to prepare the meat and sausages for the winter.
The popular saying then developed a secondary meaning: “those who do evil, sooner or later, will receive their well-deserved punishment.” In other words: karma.
So, wishing everyone, young and old, ghouls, ghosts, skeletons, grun reapers, devils and saints, a happy evening of fun and horror, I leave you with a few quotes. Enjoy!
“Everyone is a moon and has a dark side, which he never shows to anybody.” – Mark Twain
“We all go a little mad sometimes.”- Wise words from Norman Bates – Psycho
“Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do?” – American Psycho
“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.” – Charles Addams (cartoonist)
“Despite my ghoulish reputation, I really have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in a jar on my desk.” – Robert Block (writer)
“Wendy, darling, light of my life, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m just gonna bash your brains in.” – Stephen King – Imagine a loving Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
“Hell is empty. All the devils are here.” – Shakespeare – The Tempest
“Demons are like obedient dogs; they come when they are called.” – Rémy de Gourmont (French poet)
“Hope not ever to see Heaven. I have come to lead you to the other shore; into eternal darkness; into fire and into ice.” Dante
I am sorry I never had heard of Lost on a Mountain in Maine when my children were growing up. What a story of perseverance against all odds!
In 1939 a young boy went hiking with his Father and brothers in Ktaadn, Maine’s highest peak. Donn Fendler was his name. Only 12 years old, he lost his way in the wilderness when a fast-moving fog obscured his trail. He traversed about 100 miles in 9 days in 1939.
He wrote a book, which became mandatory reading for 4th graders in Maine. He remembered, from his Boy Scout days, that he needed to follow the stream he had found. Hundreds of people searched for Fendler, including troopers with bloodhounds from his home state of New York.
Recounting his ordeal, Donn Fendler reflected that he survived because of his faith in God and his will to live — along with what he had learnt from the Boy Scouts. His brother later remarked that,
“You know, we’d get together every evening and we’d say prayers and stuff like that. We’re Catholic and the church jumped right in. But for my mother and father it was, it was really tough,”
After his rescue, President Roosevelt presented him with the Army & Navy Legion of Valor’s annual medal for outstanding youth hero of 1939.
He studied Forestry at the University of Maine and served in the Pacific during WWII. He served with the US Navy in the Philippines and China and then. He then served with the U.S. Army for 28 years. He was a Green Beret and served in Vietnam for two tours. He lived to be 90 and died in 2016. Fendler was from “away”, having been born in New York City. He lived in Rye, NY and went to Iona Prep School in New Rochelle, NY.
“…unbelievable that that many people were looking for me…but I’m in Maine; that’s Maine people”.
Oh, and what does Rambo have to do with this story? Well, Sylvester Stallone produced the movie that will be released November 1. I hope my children and nephews get to see it. I sure will, God willing.
So, after the moon walked the night in her silvery shoon, I caught her last sliver of shine on a gloriously crisp Maine sunrise. I tried to capture the beauty, but the phone did not fulfill its promise. Pretty, yes, but not glorious as I witnessed it. I thought as I stared, how can one be sad peering at such majestic color and scene? And so early in the morning? I am in good company, staring at the moon, with ghost crabs and singing frogs.
Working on a concept paper to help a friend, I had been thinking about what constitutes a “drag” in the business world, as you want to speed things up in order to accomplish as much as you can in the shortest time available. Sometimes you need to do the right thing and get rid of excess baggage, so to speak, whether it is product or humans. As to the latter, it can be quite devastating to contemplate the process. I’ve had my share of having to tell employees that their end date had arrived, and, when the individual was decent and hard working, it was horrible to let go. That’s one of the reasons I opted not to pursue management. As a lawyer, I liked the solitude of research and writing and not the upheaval of directing hiring and firing. It is so very true in one’s personal life as well.
Upon reflection, yesterday morning, I realized that not only am I entering the “death cleanup” stage in my life, trying to sever the balls and chains that tie me to “things” – in itself a huge “drag”- but I am discarding “dead wood” and all that constitutes what I finally see as useless or dangerous detritus. Sometimes, it takes an ugly trauma to accelerate this process. Other times, it just happens.
At the end of the day, I don’t need nor want dead wood, be it memories or people that draw me down to complacency or ennui or despair. More importantly, it is the awareness that some of my dead wood are the so-called “friends” I thought I had, that either were Judas goats and very treacherous, or complete idiots that I put up with because of circumstances of life. I don’t need dead wood, rotten apples belong in composts, and weak idiots are just a drag. It has taken me a long time to finally reach this conclusion, and it is liberating. My only regret is not having figured this out sooner. But then, wisdom sometimes is slow to arrive. Yet, it’s better late than never.
It’s amazing how the above musings are all thanks to staring at the silvery light of the sliver of moon as I savored a serene sunrise and thought of Walter de la Mare!
Silver
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon; This way, and that, she peers, and sees Silver fruit upon silver trees; One by one the casements catch Her beams beneath the silvery thatch; Couched in his kennel, like a log, With paws of silver sleeps the dog; From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep; A harvest mouse goes scampering by, With silver claws and a silver eye; And moveless fish in the water gleam, By silver reeds in a silver stream.
I noticed the boy keenly observing me through a glass door as I walked to a friend’s house for dinner the other night. I smiled at him, and he darted inside. But after all the initial hellos among the adult guests, the little boy quickly approached me and stared at me. So I introduced myself, and he looked me up and down, and then we began an enchanting conversation that basically lasted a couple of hours!
He is 10 years old, loquacious, inquisitive, and ready to share what he knows. He sat down next to me and proceeded to tell me all about a racist bully he has to contend with in school (the boy, as he explained to me, is a mix of white and black, and that’s why he has light coffee-colored skin and there are very few blacks if any at his school. The bully is 9.).
He then moved on to talk about the video games he enjoys playing, the collection of Pokemon cards that one day will cost $500,000 on Ebay because they are collectors’ items, and the beauty of ghost crabs that only come out at night time to stare at the moon. “They are shy, you know”. He tried to play the ukulele that was on a chair, but with no success. “Hah, I’ve never tried to play the ukulele!”. I told him about my “charango”, an Argentine ukulele-sort of instrument made out of a real armadillo body. “Wow!” I promised him I would show it to him.
He then darted off somewhere and quickly returned with his second most prized trophy: a brown cap with a gold medal insignia that belonged to a member of the military, part of the uniform in World War 2. (I believe it is an USAAF officer’s visor crusher cap with a round insignia). He ruefully admitted it was not in such great shape, but it was ancient he said, so he loved it because he will be joining the Special Operations Command Forces. No ifs, or buts. He can’t wait.
He gave me a side glance and asked me if I liked Snoop Dogg, because he is his favorite rapper. I could genuinely answer yes, miracle of miracles! And he smiled. I told him I didn’t really know the songs, though. “Oh, yes”, he said. “ If you know of him you’ve heard his songs. I will play you some of them next time we see each other”. “It’s a deal”, I said. Dear God, I thought. What are the chances that I would know Snoop Dogg? But the boy was pleased.
He gave me a quizzical look and said, “You are very Christian, huh?” “Well”, I replied, “I do believe in Jesus and that there are good people and bad people who ought to know better. But I probably could be a better Christian”. “Oh! One of my Grandmothers who is not related by blood says she is very Christian but is mean to me, and says she doesn’t like me”. And barely pausing, he then mentioned the poisonous scorpion that he owns, but had to leave with a friend because, well, it’s poisonous and his Mother did not want it in the house. I mentioned the story of Coyotito, who is stung by a scorpion in Steinbeck’s The Pearl. Wide eyes stared at me.
Then, with the biggest smile, the boy said “Well, I want you to meet Curly”. “And who is Curly?” I asked. I thought of a labradoodle or poodle. “Oh, she is my best friend, a curly haired tarantula bigger than my hand. I can bring her over right now”. And with that, I snapped: “Oh, no, you won’t. I have a phobia about spiders. And I am not staring at a hairy thing before bed tonight!”. He burst into peals of laughter and then, calming down, he said he would bring me to his house the next day, during day time, to show me his most valuable possession, Curly, and that she is the sweetest, gentlest creature that ever walked the Earth.
Today, I heard a soft knock on the door, and I opened it surprised, because it was early evening and I was not expecting anyone. There was my new friend, holding a box with a couple of slices of pizza. His Mother was waiting in her car. He smiled and said he had thought of me while having dinner with his Mom and that he knew I would like pizza. “So here! Oh, and by the way, tomorrow I come to take you to meet Curly. You’ll love her!”.
I just found a sermon a Presbyterian pastor once shared with me, because it made such an impact on me after the many deaths I had witnessed. It was his love song about the famous Psalm 23, The Lord is my Shepherd.
Beholding a most beautiful sunrise over calm waters this morning, the serendipitous encounter with the sermon I received in March 2019 made me reflect on a myriad of things. I share one paragraph of a series of many that the Reverend encapsulated as the essence of life:
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life”…
So what about the mess I have made of my life from time to time? What about the loved ones I disappointed, the people I deceived, the compromises I made with my conscience, the scars I left on those I harmed? No one likes to be followed, but in this case I take comfort in the possibility that goodness and mercy might not get too far out ahead of me, but might follow me, picking up the broken pieces of my past and putting them back together again. The assurance here is that goodness, which is the benefit of forgiveness; and mercy, which is the basis of every new chance at life, will follow me all the days of my life.
I’ve never been to Mt. Katahdin, but I have heard stories about the place, seen video taken by my nephew via drone, and watched my nephews traverse what’s called (I think) Knife’s Edge. Even today, the Wabanaki look to Katahdin as a sacred place, where the Spirit roams freely and powerfully. Because I was privy to some nightmare stories of scoundrels soiling the beauty of the place and violating the mountain’s sanctity, I sometimes have thought of Edgar Allan Poe and Alfred Hitchcock and what a tale the two combined could tell. Horror and torture.
I hope one day to go explore Ktaadn with someone who is a curious and kind soul, with a lyrical appreciation of majestic beauty and sensitive enough to have read the author and absorb the spell of what Thoreau and others tried to convey. And treat the place with the respect it deserves.
Thoreau climbed Ktaadn, but never made it to the summit. However, he did actually go fishing and caught his own trout!
“In the night I dreamed of trout-fishing; and, when at length I awoke, it seemed a fable that this painted fish swam there so near my couch, and rose to our hooks the last evening, and I doubted if I had not dreamed it all. So I arose before dawn to test its truth, while my companions were still sleeping. There stood Ktaadn with distinct and cloudless outline in the moonlight; and the rippling of the rapids was the only sound to break the stillness. Standing on the shore, I once more cast my line into the stream, and found the dream to be real and the fable true. The speckled trout and silvery roach, like flying-fish, sped swiftly through the moonlight air, describing bright arcs on the dark side of Ktaadn, until moonlight, now fading into daylight, brought satiety to my mind, and the minds of my companions, who had joined me.”
Dum Spiro Spero 