A (Short) Sojourn in San Diego

 

There is so much to write. But, after a packed weekend, I am too tired to write it, yet too entranced not at least to begin. It wasn't intended as a spiritual weekend. But, for me, it ended up being one. One of my friends, and a friend of hers, wanted to see the Dead Sea Scrolls which were being featured in San Diego. We had been talking about this potential trip for months now. None of us seemed to know that the Scrolls had been shown in Los Angeles, the Bowers Museum, a few years ago. But we did know that such opportunities don't come often. And so it was more or less set. The day before we were to go to San Diego to spend the weekend (since our Saturday tickets were fairly early 9 a.m. at the Natural History Museum), I had some trouble with my eyes. I had been having a small infection that ebbed and flowed for a few weeks. It was more irritation than crisis, but it was damping any desire for travel of any kind, even two and a half hours south particularly after a full work day. Truth be told, I am not much of a traveler anyway. I like being in a place, but I hate the getting there, so I tend to avoid  the process, and I guess foolishly avoid the rewards of the destination. Bad habit. My friend is persuasive, though, and my guilt spoke to me anyway--so I went. I get car sick when others drive, a resurfacing of a childhood problem, so I originally intended to drive by which I am spared nausea, but ultimately, I became the front seat passenger, hoping that my problem would not surface. It didn't. The whole weekend was kind of like that from my point of view, for I speak for no one else, things sort of just went right, more or less. By the time we got to San Diego it was after 12 a.m. and not being a morning person, an 8:15 call to be in the lobby of the Sheraton Suites, particularly as I woke up cozy in my suite's (with living room courtesy of Priceline.com) bed, was quite the test. But there I was with my coffee, on time, and ready to go. The trip out of the serpentine garage took longer than the trip to the museum, but we were there fifteen minutes ahead of time, security checked and in on time. We joined the Essenes at Qumran for two plus hours,-- that meditative, monastic set of Jews who pre-dated and co-existed at the time of Jesus. They hid in earthen jars discovered only in 1947, Aramaic, Hebrew and occasionally Greek versions of the Torah they transcribed and prayed over. Or, as some, less entranced, scholars speculated, the scrolls were brought in from elsewhere to what was nothing more than a pottery plant. There is Isaiah, Ezekial, the Psalms in the steady hand of a long dead scribe, demanding the purification of the Jewish community in anticipation of the Messiah to come. We stand before fragments bathed in dim light, papyrus, and parchment, delicate, cracked, faded, and painstakingly translated by a competetive community of scholars of different faiths who did not want their foundations shaken. Jealous and guarded they did not share to the professional public for so many years after the finding in the 40's to the late 1990s. What was found by a simple bedouin shepard in a cave in 1947 became a complex cause celebre. But reading the words and just a glass away from the ability to touch the ancient texts, I felt something, no more, perhaps than a spiritual vibration, but also a sense of the power of the idea, of the word, of the Word, and its many permutations that lead at once to contemplation and to confrontations unto death.  

There was so much to absorb and I found my mind awash such that only a book or two could quell and organize all that I had seen. I have yet to read these books. And hope that I do. I only know that we are brothers in the same search as that of the Essenes. The search that some, including me, think was jump started mightily by the act of Christ on the Cross, if only we cooperate and join and accept, but a search that life itself commands per se whatever the philosophy or faith, even if that faith is atheism, the fight against belief.

I had no further plans or wishes for the trip. Anything was fine, but when someone suggested the Mission of San Diego de Alcala, the very first mission in California, founded by Father and Saint Junipero Serra, I was intrigued. I did not push, but I hoped for the visit. I know the controversy over Serra, and his treatment of the American Natives. But I sometimes question the insistence on judging someone from, in this case, 1746, with the sophistication (and are we really all that sophisticated, let alone different), and retrospection of 2007. And then, we were about 4:30 in the afternoon, strolling the gardens, and taking in the simplicity of the church itself (the third Church is from the 1800's, since the earlier ones were burned down), and the history from the small museum bearing the name of Serra's successor at the mission, Father Jayme, martyred on a space on which we stood (we did wonder, skeptically, how they KNEW that was the spot). All seemed so quiet and perfect there. Even the grass and the flowering shrubbery had a peace about it, perfect in form, well tended.

I had no idea that this was not only an active, but a vibrant, modern parish. Where most parishes seem to be reducing the Masses celebrated on Sunday, this one has nine between the SaturdayVigil and Sunday. I had no particular intent to go to Mass there, and hold up my friends from our next activity, but I could not stand the idea of not attending, the more I saw the red candle that, as always, marks the Presence of Our Lord, amid the breeze washing through the old adobe church, the birds, the setting sun that streamed through the wooden windows. I had to stay. My friends, who had loved the place as well, drawn by what, the simplicity, the beauty, the sense of peace,  were receptive to waiting for me not far away. And sitting in a pew right by the door that opened into the garden with its statues of St. Francis, of Father Serra, I felt safe, secure and happy. My friends and I had been discussing faith, and spirituality and I had been unsure of my points, because it is unsure in this Cloud of Unknowing, but for forty five minutes, no proofs were needed and I did not have to try to articulate anything. I just had to be there and accept the Presence accepting me (this thought comes from a book, so let me give credit to it, "The Strangest Way"  by Robert Barron). I had no sense of foolishness in seeing myself a sinner and less in those moments of simple ritual prayer with a crowd that seemed so joyful in its praying of the prayers that in my own parish seems lethargic. It was packed. They sang. They participated. It was good. And I was grateful.

There was so much else in the weekend, but these events alone set the tone, and today, returned in the early afternoon, my heart has been singing. My heart so rarely sings. And I am grateful.

 

 

 

 

We Will Never Forget. . . Please, Let Us Never Forget!

On the lampshade of a desklight in my office, I long ago placed a ceramic flag pin still attached to a piece of white cardboard given to us by our building management company after the attack that killed three thousand of our fellow Americans. It says, "September 11, 2001. We remember".  It  is just about six years since I put it there. I see it every morning when I turn on the light. Sometimes it registers. Sometimes it does not, as I sip my coffee and sit down to read the bevy of e-mails of the day. 

Last night, I happened across a documentary that I had seen once before, the memories of people who survived that day, barely, in many cases, interspersed with video of the gaping hole and the glowering flames and the billowing smoke before we all knew exactly how bad it was. A fireman or policeman who survived the full weight of the collapsing north tower on him along with some 12 other people, one of them a disabled person he had helped carry down to the sixth floor, tried to makesense of his living while so many others died. They all did. They probably all still do.

I cried again at the devastation repeated in front of me. I know I am not the only one who saw it again, and wept.

And yet, here we are six years later, we citizens, seduced by our i-phones and HD TVs. We clamor and argue among ourselves in self-entitled smugness, about Bushies, or a "Fate Worse than Bush" as Harper's put it , in Rudy Giulani, or horror of horrors, a Hilary presidency. We think it can all be solved by simply staying out of the way of the radicals du jour who would kill us with a smile and put our bluetoothed heads on a stick. While we say we support our troops, we do everything we can to guarantee their failure with our bickering. The tragedy of each death is compounded by our lack of will, and a comcomitant lack of strategic direction, as if no one is listening and biding his time on the other side of the world. And those who claim they would lead us, fight each other for that small territory on Pennsylvania Avenue rather than a serious defense of liberty.  Liberty costs. Just like Grace costs. And who among us wants to pay the price? It isn't like World War II, or, is it? The same things aren't at stake, or are they? Some people think that they are. Some don't. Most people would rather not think about it. Me, sometimes I am in all three camps, at different times, of course.

I noticed, driving to work today, that, in response to an Internet exhortation that we all demonstrate that we have not forgotten 9/11, about half of the cars had on their headlights in the broad daylight. I felt a certain pride in this small gesture. I did it myself.  But what are we really ready for when we say we want to preserve our liberty and the liberty of the world? We say "We will never forget!" Some stations won't even show the images that I saw yesterday, a protective censorhip, to spare us pain. But pain helps us remember. "We will never forget!"  Into what does that phrase translate?   

Personally all I can do is pray for the change of the human heart that can only come from an Intercession of the Divine, that I will be shown the right thing, and do it when I see it. Everything else is just chatter and confusion.

 

 

 

 

 

Tags: September 11, liberty, we will not forget

Intergenerational Rock On!

 

  I'm thinking this was the 70s. They were a little older on Saturday.

  Then and

 

   now

 

Originally, I was thinking of titling this entry, "Grandma and Grandpa Rock On!" because intially the women I saw on Saturday in front of me in Section M (nearly nosebleed section) of the Bowl (and the last outing for the season, alas), were at least sixty-five. The gentleman with them, looked to be, conservatively, seventy. Compared to them, me and my friends were bare youths in our early 50s, and heck, I was having difficulty comprehending just how fast the time had past since our headliners had even seen Billboard Magazine let alone be on the top singles list. So I was including myself in the grandma and grandpa crowd that looked to be wending its way into a Hall and Oates night, with the opening act, the Spinners. It also looked like it wouldn't be close to a full house as we scanned the upper and lower levels and the spaces around us. But then, not only did the baby boomers plus, the baby boomers, show, but the Xers and maybe even a few Ys. I won't count the 6 and 7 year old brother and sister behind us, cause they did not come of their own volition and probably don't know who Justin Timberlake is, let alone, Hall and Oates.

The Spinners spun as of old, one quite bald member giving his all, with the dripping sweat visible to my low level binoculars. But every song, save one, I recognized , had been a hit, is still on every oldie station, and, I could place in a moment of my life. One of the last in their lyrical litany was Rubber Band Man, which brought me back to my Assistant Music Director Days (courtesy of a friend who was music director) in between college and law school at WXLO in New York, 99X, then. My time there, smack in the middle of a staff shake up, re-listing the same 40 songs for the play list, quelled my yearning for radio work, but was a joyous experience, if only for the chance to see Barry Manilow being interviewed and to get an ambiguous grunt of hello from Jay Thomas, then a pretty popular DJ. And while I was working there, I did get a chance to see Queen--we are the champions of the world- for free at Madison Square Garden. I have come to appreciate them more in later life than I did at the time. I am a really late bloomer. . . .

The Spinners had hit after hit---their songs permeated my college and early working life. When Hall and Oates came out, after what one of my companions called "the shortest Hollywood Bowl intermission in history" (I was still at the concession stand and contemplating a purchase of something that flashed colorful light at the Bowl store, in commemoration of my last sojourn there for the year), the audience was primed. And, except for the fact that "Private Eyes" was never played, they delivered. It wasn't until the first encore that the 30 somethings behind us finally had their shouts of "Rich Girl" quelled. And they did a couple of songs, like "Me and Mrs. Jones" that weren't originals to them, but we didn't care as we sang the chorus together, all generations, "Me and Mrs. Jones ssssssssss, we have THANG goin' onnnnnnn on." At the more energetic moments, the audience, even in the circle, where they are usually the most well behaved staid, got up and danced.

It was-almost-raucous. I felt positively ageless. My friend said that there were going to be a lot of people taking geritol in the morning from all the retro bumping and grinding.

I was fine in the morning. 25 of my 50 something years had melted away!

Arrivederci Luciano

 

 

I saw Luciano Pavarotti once, at my beloved Hollywood Bowl.  It was not long after he had joined Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras on tour as one of the "Three Tenors". The night I saw him was a charity event, and he was solo. "The instrument" as opera singers call it, his voice, it was said, was no longer reaching the heights it once had, but it was and remained magnificent enough for me. He was my age's Caruso and he could do no wrong. 

I hadn't thought much about him in recent years. I was surprised that he had sung my favorite and his most well known aria Nessun Dorma, from Puccini's Turandot, at the February 2006 opening of the Olympics in Torino. It would be his last public performance.  I missed it and did not remember having missed it. It was no surprise, when I think about it, how sad I was upon hearing of his death this week. Though I had never met the man, one key part of him had been among those cultural things that formed the tapestry of my life. No, it was more, part of my emotional tapestry.That one part of him felt so whole as to almost be a knowing, or maybe, as well, a regret that I had taken the presence of his talent for granted, as if it would always be here. I don't think I am unique in this. Maybe that is why some 50,000,people showed up to his funeral in Modena, Italy, where he was born. I wouldn't be surprised if he were baptized in the same church in which he was eulogized and given final earthly farewell.

I love certain arias but I cannot say that I am an opera fan. Still, Pavarotti's passionate version of Puccini's Nessun Dorma, has never failed to bring me to tears. It did tonight, as always, as finally I watched him sing it at the Olympics, courtesy of YouTube. I think he was sick then, and yet, what a wonder that the instrument was in full bloom.

There is something cosmic about the last words of the aria, "At dawn, I will win!" I  think now of Pavarotti in the dawn of his new life, a tenor in Heaven. There can never be too much singing in heaven and Pavarotti will be a lovely addition.

 

 

 

  

 

Perfect Prelude

Downtown LA faded in view, and then in my mind as the miles passed.  I emerged from the tunnel at the end of the 10 Freeway and the beginning of the PCH North, greeted by the glistening  ocean. I breathed in air and freedom. It was the Thursday of the Labor Day weekend. I had decided to take off Friday so I could fully enjoy dinner and my friends from the East Coast at Duke's Malibu, without the anticipatory responsibility of another work day. The traffic was surprisingly light, and I arrived 45 minutes early for our reservation for seven at seven. I savored my Beach Boy dacquiri  (it would be my only alcholic beverage) and watched the early suppers and the waves and the gulls intermittently begging with fixed looks and scratching their beaks with a webbed foot. I love sea gulls. I know that they are grouchy, even mean, birds, but boy they are a joy to look at. When it got close to reservation time, my little buzzer buzzed, but my friends weren't there yet but I sat alone at the big table, closer to the picture window and the gulls still hoping for a morsel out of one of the slight opening cracks to the outside. It occurred to me that even if no one showed up, as much as I missed the planned reconnection with college chums I hadn't seen for about two years, I would just stay and eat and watch the birds and the waves and the setting sun. And it got better. About seven dolphins appeared at my left eye level, maybe a quarter mile out or less, jumping, cavorting really. Their actions mirrored my internal sense of  play.Diners stopped. There were ooohs and ahhs, and some got up, and stood near where I was sitting. We bonded over the sight of dolphins doing the magic of simply being. A waiter said with a happy realization that he has something that we land dwellers usually do not, "They do that all the time!"

They leaped and splashed until they moved right of my view, then were out of sight.

A perfect prelude. My friends came and we ate and reminisced and laughed. A perfect main event.