A NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION

Last night Patience and I saw the movie, The Kite Runner, a story of the lives of two boys growing up in Kabul, Afghanistan, before, during, and after the tragedies of Taliban rule.  It was a powerful film evoking a range of emotional responses - sorrow, grief, and disbelief, but the most intense was an overwhelming sense of appreciation of my own circumstances.

It reminded me of how fortunate I am to have been born in this country at this time.  I have never experienced a war fought in our cities and countryside, have never experienced the horror of an oppressive military or government regime, and have never had to fear for the safety of myself or my family on a daily basis.  I have never been without a home, without food, or without cloths.  And probably more important than anything else, I have never been without hope for the future.

It would be difficult to stand before all those who have suffered so much in their lives, but it would be even more difficult to do so if I felt I deserved or was entitled to my good fortunes, and that I not only took them for granted but squandered them.

I have had opportunities my parents never had.  My children have opportunities that most of the children alive in the world today will never have.  I no longer ask myself why this is; the answers, if there are any, are beyond my comprehension.  But I do feel a strong sense of responsibility to those far less fortunate than me.  Although as one individual I can do little to make changes in the world’s circumstances, charitable support, voting, and civic participation not withstanding, there is something I can do.  I can show my gratitude and appreciation for my good fortune by taking advantages of my opportunities and circumstances.  This film reminded me that they are too valuable to be wasted.

I have always felt this responsibility to my parents, not a burdensome obligation, but one that I have embraced as most worthy of my efforts.  The Kite Runner reminded me that my responsibility extends far beyond my parents.

I wrote these words seven years ago, and hold them up every year as my New Year’s Resolution: to make every effort to remain mindful of my blessings and to take every day as a gift, too precious to waste.

FRIENDSHIP CEMETERY

One of the many wonderful benefits of growing up on a farm was the absence of boundaries.  Alone, or with friends, I was free to roam and explore our small town and the surrounding countryside.  Less than a mile from our farm, and easily reached by bike or pony, were the Donato brother’s orchards with delicious apples and peaches hanging from the trees begging to be picked. Just beyond the northern edge of the orchards was the Friendship church and cemetery. The white clapboard one-room church was nestled under the umbrella of a stand of old Oak Trees.  Nearest the church were the time worn headstones from the mid 1800s.  Somewhat later came the stones with familiar names, including my grandmother, Angelina Renzulli, her two children that did not survive infancy, and my uncle Marx Renzulli.

At the entrance to the cemetery was a hand pump that with a little effort would produce the coolest, sweetest water to quench the thirst that accompanies bike rides on hot summer days.  I don’t know if it was the cool water, the shade from the Oak trees, the sweet fruits just a stone throw away, or the white Jersey sand beneath my feet, but that small spot in the midst of the south Jersey woods and truck farms was like an oasis for me; and it still is. Over the years other family members would join my grandmother: my grandfather, an uncle, 2 aunts, 2 cousins, and most recently, my mother and father, next to whom my own piece of real estate is reserved.

Since moving to Kentucky I don’t get back to Friendship as often as I used to, but when I do, I still feel the magic of the place, and my entire life feels compressed into one moment in time.

Returning there several years ago I was saddened to see that the orchards had been abandoned.  The once proud rows of fruit laden trees were now dead or dying in neglected fields overgrown with weeds and shrub trees.  The church, no longer serving a parish, remains well kept, and the cemetery continues to serve the community.  But the magic remains. 

Friendship Church - watercolor rendering by my artist friend, Julio Rodrigues

DAVID

Re-visiting a post from  January, 2008.  The sadness has lessened, but the anger remains.

Friday, January 11, 2008

DAVID

from my journal, 1-10-08

The two young men walked into the gallery for the first time about two years ago. As I do with all visitors I welcomed them to Gallery 5, introduced myself, and learned that they were members of the 101st Airborne stationed in nearby Fort Campbell. They were interested in art and were visiting the Lowertown galleries for the first time. They were quiet, but not shy, and spent a great deal of time looking at all the art and seemed to enjoy just being in the gallery and studio. Yes, they had served in Iraq and were glad to be back home. I remember being impressed at how nonplussed they were about that, as if it was all very routine. I also remember the uncertainty I felt trying to understand what appeared to be a contradiction, these tow young, very professional soldiers so interested in art.

I told them I would take 50% off the price of anything they wanted, and Richard bought a small clay mono type. David told me how his father, an artist for the major studios in Hollywood, would enjoy seeing my work.

Over the next 12-18 months they returned 3 or 4 times, each time spending no less than 30-45 minutes looking at the art and talking about how they enjoyed the opportunity to do so. David spoke frequently and fondly about his father who obviously instilled in his son the appreciation of art. They were both anticipating returning to Iraq in the fall of 2007 with their now familiar casualness. David’s wife accompanied them on these visits, and on their last visit his dad was with them. He seemed to enjoy the art just as his son said he would and that visit lasted well over and hour.  When they left my last words to them were, “take care of yourselves and come back to see me”. I admired them for their uncomplaining commitment to their tasks as soldiers, simply doing what was expected of them.

This morning the studio phone rang and the caller ID listed an out of town number I did not recognize. As soon as David’s dad identified himself, his voice flat and halting, I knew, and the tears began as he told me that “David fell”: he was killed by a sniper’s bullet while on patrol 2 days ago. The pain and grief in his voice was palpable. My own grief was immediate and uncontrollable, made worse when he told me how much David enjoyed his visits to my gallery and would I please send a copy of my book to David’s wife, and one to him. It seems such a small thing to do for such a great sacrifice.

That was early this morning. Now my sadness is accompanied by anger. I am angry that we are told we are at war, and yet nothing is asked of us. Our military is at war, the thousands of young men and women who are in Iraq, and those that have been there are at war. Their families, parents, spouses, children, and other loved ones are at war. Richard is at war and David was at war. David’s death has made the war personal for me.

An “I support our troops” bumper sticker doesn’t do it. All Americans should be sharing the sacrifices that these young men and women and their families are bearing. It is the responsibility of our leaders to show us how. Instead we are not allowed to see and feel the tragedies of war; it is hidden from us, presented only in a sanitized form. And that is a disservice to David, his family and his comrades. My anger is not about whether or not this is a justifiable war, it is about the way in which it is not allowed to truly enter into our collective consciousness. It is about the leaders who are afraid to ask the country to make any real sacrifices because we have this wonderful all volunteer military, and they can bear the pain and the grief for all of us.

GO BACK? NEVER! A "guest post" by a dear friend

I plan on inviting guests to post on my blog periodically.  My first guest, Hal Owens, has been a special friend, counselor, and spiritual guide for over 40 years.  In his own words he is "Now liberated after 30 years as a chaplain in the Air Force Reserve, 45 years as a United Methodist minister, 28 years as pastoral director of the Yokefellow Center in Rising Sun, 15 years as executive director of Yokefellows International Prison Ministry, and 30 years as a traveling minister for Yokefellows of America.  Now I'm free.....

                                               Go Back? Never! 

Three years ago, a young woman came to our door handing out political propaganda and announcing the formation of a new political action group in our county.  She called the new group “The Patriotic Committee.”  The young woman said, “We’re going to take our country back!”  I didn’t respond  to her (she would not have heard me anyway) but my inner spirit has been responding to her statement ever since.  “Take our country back?”  Where “back” are we going to take it—back to what, when, and to whom?

Shall we go back; way, way back?  Since we are presently in the Christmas season, how about going back to the first Christmas when King  Herod massacred the Innocents of Bethlehem and Rachel wept for her children who were no more?  Or why don’t we go back to the Protestant Reformation or the Spanish Inquisition?  I understood what the young woman wanted.  She wanted to “take our country back” to some idyllic time when things were better.  (No one seems to know exactly where “back” or “better” is, however). 

Back to what, when, whom?  Shall we go back to the time of the Civil War, when brother fought against brother and this nation was torn asunder?  Take our country back to where, to what, to whom?  Back to the Twentieth century?  Back to World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, or Korea, or Vietnam?  Take it back?  Back to what, when, to whom?  Back to the time when a people were enslaved in this country where all people are supposed to be created equal?  Or back  just a few weeks ago to the Grand Jury in New York or St. Louis?  Where “back” do you want to go?”

Do you want to go back to a time when women could not vote?  Or back to a time when people of color could not vote?  Take our country back to when, to what, to whom?

If nothing else, this idea of “taking our country back,” suggests how ignorant we are of history—the history of our own nation—the history of the whole world.  There has never been a better time than the present.  Every time, place, and leadership group of the past has been soiled. Every time, place and leadership group has had its share of darkness.

So, no thanks!  I don’t want to take this country back to any other time, place, or political leadership.  I don’t want to take this country back to any earlier day, or any other period in its complicated and often despicable history.  I want this country, this nation, to move forward.  I want to be a part of shaping a new history.  And not only do I want that for this land I love, but I also want the whole world to shape a new history.  I surely do not want to take this country or the world back to any other time or place.  I do not even want to hang on to the present time, for it too has its own darkness.  But again, I would repeat for those who can hear:  this country and world is better than what has ever been before.  Go back?  Never!

Hal has a blog of his own...While It Is Day

The Mother of all Naps

I adjusted the canvas shoulder bag under my head as I reclined in the cool spring grass of the park.  There were enough young leaves on the trees to keep the bright sun out of my closed eyes.  As I pushed aside all thoughts, the street noise gradually retreated and I found myself in that wonderful place between consciousness and sleep.  I awoke shortly, startled, by the realization that I had been sleeping on the ground in Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Square early in the afternoon on that late spring day in 1979. 

After walking the streets with my camera all morning and consuming more lunch that I really needed, sprawling on the grass in the park seemed like the only civilized thing to do.  None of the many people strolling about seemed to pay any attention to those of us seeking such comfort on God’s green mattress.  I hope I wasn’t snoring.

REGARDING THE URINARY STREAM

Men have it much easier than women when it comes to emptying their bladder.

Access to the outlet apparatus is easier, requiring only minimal disruption of clothing, and the task can be performed almost anywhere while standing up.  Boys can have fun aiming their stream at happenstance targets or seeing how far it will reach.  With a full bladder and the right name, they can even spell it out in the snow.  However in their middle age, men must be content with only their initials, and when they reach their 60s and beyond, most men are happy if they don’t get their shoes wet.

There is price to pay for this youthful convenience, and it is called Prostatism or BPH for benign prostatic hypertrophy.  The prostate gland is located at the outlet of the bladder and surrounds the urethra, the tube that carries the urine from the bladder to the end of the penis.  While most living things tend to decrease in size with age, the prostate has a tendency to grow (hypertrophy), and in doing so it can impede the outflow of urine from the bladder.  The result is a weak urinary stream, difficulty starting the stream, and incomplete emptying of the bladder requiring frequent “pit stops” and getting up several times at night to pee.  About 40% of men experience this problem.

Unfortunately I fell into that 40%, and for a while the only thing keeping my shoes dry was the daily medicine I took.  But the writing was on the wall (no pun intended); I knew I would eventually need some form of surgical intervention.

And that is how I came to enter the world of “TUNA”, transurethral needle ablation of the prostate. Actually not the entire prostate, just the rim of tissue so inconveniently compressing the urethral outflow. Sensibilities prevent me from going into the details of this procedure, only to say that they do things that civilized people should not do to one another. Probes, needles, catheters, and radio waves are employed in the most creative manner. The good news is it is over in an hour. The bad news is a catheter remains in place for a week.

Fortunately when it comes to pain and discomfort I am a tiger!  OK, so I felt a little faint when I got off the table after the procedure - even tigers get a little woozy at times. But during the procedure I cried for ONLY 3 minutes when the good Dr. injected my prostate with Lidocaine. And during the transurethral treatment I did not scream and kick him more than 3 or 4 times. Well, maybe 5.  I really don’t recall with certainty, but I got the distinct impression when I left that he was less than happy with the prospect of seeing me again for follow-up.

My dear wife Patience drove me home, and between her tender care, Percocet, and my steely constitution, I survived the entire ordeal.  It is now 7 years later and my shoes are still dry.

January 16, 2008... revised 12-2-14