Thursday, November 10, 2016


Is there art left? Don’t know, there is NASCAR, There is peach marble columns, and gold elevators. There are bad racist jokes that I made as a teen before I was a man and knew their shame. There will be WWE matches, football games and beauty pageants. Certainly these things have ascetic value of a sort, but are they art? There will be burnt effigies. There will be protest songs. Installations meant to remind us of the suffering of others. There will be choreographed political actions, die-ins, mock trials and the like. These will represent issues in creative ways, they will have an attractive and repulsive aspect to them by design. They will be intentional and thoughtful and point at things bigger then themselves, but are these art? There may be more sinister things as well. There may be the ruins of burn down buildings, standing silently reminding us of a world that was. There may be new uniforms, dark and clean, for a soldiers not yet minted. There may be empty fields and shuttered libraries. The skeletons of will have their own grotesque beauty. But are these art? There will be photography. Pictures of crying faces, of laughing fools. Pictures of raised fists and riot gear. Pictures of fires burning or rage made manifest and hatred given flesh. There will pictures of babies wailing and old folks looking away regretfully. Hell, most of these have already been taken. They will haunt us, they will pull at are humanity, awaken out empathy and inflame our indignation. They will affect us, but are they art? Since my oldest child first appeared on the sonogram screen I have written every day. I have chosen to participate in being by adding what I could to its collective beauty. Today I didn’t write. Not as protest, not because I had nothing to say, not because of my broken heart. Today I didn’t write cause the day simply passed by and beauty never raised her face to greet me. These words are born only from beauty’s new, and terrifying silence. Are they art? I look forward to the day beauty smiles upon us again, hopefully we will meet her as an old and sourly missed friend, and hopefully that day will be soon.

Thursday, October 20, 2016


I’m not sure that it is true but I have heard that in some cultures there is a traditional belief that babies know all things. That at birth we are privy to a total awareness of the universe, and that it is only in our development of language that we give away our omniscience. In learning to talk, and as such learning to talk to another person and develop relationships we relinquish this great power. Whether this is actually a held belief by anybody or not it is a beautiful idea. No matter what, the power of speech is something hard fought for. My daughter who is learning a new word or so every day has gone from a sweet little child to a monster, in her frustrating struggle to master the English tongue. But in that gaining of speech she has gained the ability to talk with those around her and to allow those bonds between her and others to grow. Relationships are often weak and flimsy things and yet we risk so much, and give up so much, and push ourselves so hard to form that connection to the other. When we meet our patients often the battle for speech is already lost, the words turned to ash in the mouth before they can be spoke. Yet the bonds formed are still alive. We see it in the child knowing their mother’s needs before she asks. In the husband responding to his wives slightest gesture of pain, in the wife knowing what her husband’s goals without him saying a word. We see the bonds of relationships strained to their furthest and yet strengthened by this test. May we always be aware of the blessing in seeing another’s care, and may we always do all we can to hold the dying up, even if we do so without a word.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Blood on Your Hands

The other day I’m leaving my buddies house and his neighbor comes running up. She says that a man is laying out on the train tracks that run behind the house and it looks like he needs help. So thinking I’m some kind of hero I dart through the yard, scrabble over a fence and trudge through some brambles to the rocks where the man is indeed lying, bleeding, unable to get up and drunk as a skunk.

                I walk up, hand the guy his shoes which have inexplicably fallen off. He holds his hand out to me and mumbles and slurred request for me to help him up. I step back and look the guy over, hesitating to offer a hand. 50’s, skinny, lots of tattoos, maybe homeless and definitely a mess. He’s bleeding from his arm but his hand looks clean so I grab it and help him up. As he is still trying to steady himself on his wobbly legs I notice a drop of red clinging to end of his middle finger. I look down at my own hands and sure enough, right down the middle of my pawn is a streak of this man’s muddy red blood.

                Immediately my mind jumps to Hepatitis C, HIV, Ebola, the flesh eating bacterial, SARs, and every other illness I can conjure up on the spot. This man’s blood, the very source and sustainer of his own life, had tainted mine. In my mind his blood had made me dirty, impure and possibly contagious. Reaching out a hand to help another can be a dangerous thing.

                Perhaps, so often, when we don’t help another we do so to protect ourselves, to keep ourselves safe, pure, clean, to keep the other’s blood off our hands. Today you will reach out. You will do that dangerous thing of extending our hands to the other, to the one in need, the one who might be dirty, might be contagious, might be impure. You will expose ourselves fully aware the risk, because beyond the illness, beyond the dirt and the blood, beyond the things we wish to turn away from in the other we find a person whose life is worth the risk, a person who’s humanity begs us to extend out a hand, to reach out and take a hold of the other, and to allow them to take ahold of us.