(This is an essay related to the poem Penance posted on the
fiction side of this blog).
My 82 year-old aunt is one of perhaps a handful of people
who could get me to watch a church sermon. In fact, she may be the only person
right now. She does not use that power lightly or frivolously. She may not know
she has it.
Several days ago, for the first time in more than a decade,
I sat in a virtual church and listened. Because she wanted me to. Because she
thought it was important. She was right.
What I heard was a story of someone's personal family history.
An affirmation of the things I've been thinking and feeling since the election,
discussions we've had and half-joking plans we've laid.
The minister wasn't joking. I heard talk of refuges,
networks and vigilance. Not radical talk, measured discourse based on his
deeply personal experience. Discussions I never thought I’d hear outside of a
fantasy role-playing game.
I'm not sure whether watching it more heartened me or
scared me. The congregation was sober. These were thoughtful, upstanding,
rational people, not reactionaries, pundits or demagogues. It's not that
his ideas were new. It's that they touched some of my deepest fears. Fears I
actively try to hold at bay because, although I've learned to trust my
instincts, I am wary of giving in to them too far.
I suppose at its heart, it confirmed what a church is
supposed to be about, a community looking out for one another. My aunt’s
denomination in particular is much more focused on the here and now than what
comes after. They are progressive and proud, and have a longstanding tradition
of standing up for their beliefs, beliefs in others and their potentialities,
not just themselves, even when those beliefs are unpopular.
Watching brought back some memories of going to church as a
child. Good memories. Memories of the church I was raised in rather the
churches that soured me to the tradition based on their radical interpretations
that I just couldn't sync up with either my own experience or the world.
It's not that I see myself going back to that. When so many
of my friends and relations renewed their church affiliations after 9/11, I
found that I'd already tread a different path. One that works for me. One
that's seen me through some hard times. Not always comfortably but
successfully.
The crux of the sermon, without getting into detail, was a
quote by Faulkner. “History is not what was, but is.”
The minister spoke on two levels, one being his family’s
personal experience in the Holocaust, the other being our related current
situation. I think that is the point of Faulkner’s quote, that history is not
what happened in the past. It’s what’s happening right now. As each moment
slips by, the decisions we make become history, ours and someone else’s.
So how does that relate to either Imbolc or the poem I
posted. Well, perhaps that explanation is a bit more roundabout. Though perhaps
they are also intertwined.
I can’t tell you why I wrote Penance but I can tell you exactly
when. It was the first poem I ever wrote. I started it on scraps of paper over
one summer while I was third shift in a convenience store. I have no idea what
inspired me other than wanting to play around with a sense of irony, and for it
to have a particular feel. I do remember that was the summer after a good
friend’s mother died and he came up to see me once in the middle of the night to
talk, I think because he was awake and he knew I would be too. I can’t say
whether my listening helped him. I can only hope it did.
I kept poking around at that poem for another three years,
transferring it from one page to the next. Adjusting a word here, a bit of
formatting there whenever I ran across it. Mostly absently, more like a
meditation or a distraction than a purpose. The only thing that mattered was
that I kept it and kept it in my mind.
My senior year in college, I took a course in creative
writing as one of my electives. I forget if it got designated as my one and
only free elective or whether it was one of several necessary humanities
electives. Either way, I think I was the only electrical engineer in my class who
sought out various humanities and literature courses because I enjoyed them and
still couldn’t get enough. Since there were only fifteen of us who graduated
(out of 60-100 who started my freshmen year), I’m almost certain of it.
At the beginning of the course, we had to submit a piece of
writing, a short story, the chapter of a novel, or a poem. Something we wanted
to work on and improve. Something that would be read and reviewed by the class,
then revised and resubmitted at the end.
Instead of writing something new, I dug out Penance. I still
liked it and wanted to see where it stood. Time probably played a factor. By
then, I was deep into engineering courses and a senior project that demanded a
fair piece of my attention. Or I was just skating.
Either way, my draft got trashed pretty hard, from
formatting to phraseology. Though even as I was getting crushed in a very
public forum of about twenty other students, some of whom were quite talented,
I was noting ideas on what I could improve. I continued working on it through
the spring.
When I resubmitted it at the end of the quarter, the
instructor seemed happy enough with the revisions. Of course, he still didn’t
like it, which he told me right after the final reading as he assigned his
grade. He said it sounded “too D&D.” Fair enough, though I suspect some of
his personal feelings leaked through.
He used to party with the guys in the apartment below mine.
Theirs was a Bohemian frat house while ours was more of a geek enclave. Every
now and then when they got out of hand after too much alcohol, I took to
pounding on the floor with giant duct tape wrapped PVC and insulation foam
hammer left to me by a former roommate. That usually settled things down, but
only into conspiratorial, gin-soaked whispers. I suspect they were plotting our
demise. Thankfully, they had all the motivation and planning skills of alcoholic
artists.
As well, at one point he’d taken a good portion of class
session to rail against the university administration, his department chair
(who was a friend of mine and a wonderful teacher) and the Secretary of
Education. I called him out on it in private after class. He was not amused and
opted to give me an impromptu lecture on satire. Which might have been ok if
that’s what it had been. It was more of a personal rant against the unfairness
of it all and how much he was disliked by the department. And how they were
plotting to get rid of him.
So we had history. Or he was right and my poem was what it was
which wasn’t fine literature or a postmodern examination of a personal
existential crisis. Either way, I was happy with the result of my effort and
didn’t care about the grade.
I’ve always felt a bit funny about this poem. Because it
went through a public reading and summary execution, and because I took notes
and suggestions as I cleaned up the corpse, I never felt it was completely
mine. So I’ve always been a bit reluctant to claim it and share it.
But as I reread it as I came up with the idea for this set
of Celtic holiday messages, it still sent a little chill up my spine. I can
picture this individual, the choices he’s made in the past and how they affect
him in his present. That, like Sisyphus, he is doomed to revive a garden that
his previous actions ensure will die again. His personal boulder pushed up his
personal hill as penance for what he’s done. It’s a story as much as a poem.
It’s not my story but it is one I can empathize with even if I’m not quite sure
where it came from.
History is not what was, but is.
So why share it now? Why today? Why at Imbolc?
Well, Imbolc should be obvious if you’ve read these messages
before. Imbolc is also known as Candlemas. Early Christians poached it from the
festival of Brigit (who got co-opted into St. Brigid), the Celtic goddess of
fire and poetry among other things. So it’s a poem to share on a day of poetry,
one that seems to fit with the winter and its discontents.
As to why I’m posting it at this very moment, that, too,
should be obvious. We, as a nation, have made a choice. We have turned in a
particular direction. Not in a measured, thoughtful way where reasonable people
can disagree. In a divisive, potentially disastrous way. I see already deep
rifts deepening. Both sides seem tamped and primed for revolution. Their
positions are entrenched along the River Somme or a Maginot Line. Or the
outskirts of Petersburg.
People all over the world are facing that same choice,
whether to turn toward or turn away. Many are scared. Or frustrated. Or feel
neglected. Some justifiably so, others perhaps not. With the latter, there are
men well gifted in exploiting their fears.
I cannot say where this choice will lead. My hope is that
it, like many things, ends up being better than we think, better than we fear.
That it provides a measure of good along with the perceived bad. A measure of
balance. A measure of progress as we stumble forward through this life,
hopefully wiser than we began.
But that outcome is far from certain based on the early portents
and cycles of history. I was reminded of that as I sat and listened to the
sermon. The time of storms is near again. Watchfires burn the northern sky.
History is not what was, but is.
In an instant, the choices you make become irrevocable, at
least for that particular moment in time. You can’t go back to undo those
decisions, you can only move forward from that point. Only if you are extremely
fortunate will you get to choose again and discover a portion of the road not
taken. More often not.
There are consequences to our actions. So in the seasons ahead,
be sure to choose wisely.
© 2017 Edward P. Morgan III
