Conversations with Nana

This is part of my Sunday Sermons series, where I wrote rebuttals to the Baptist preacher’s sermons while I lived in Costa Rica.

Abraham and Isaac: the beginning of Jewish circumcision. I remember this story from my childhood, and I remember being confused and scared. How could a father do that? How could God? My dad, even in his alcoholism, would never willingly sacrifice me. When my mother told my father she was pregnant with me, my father said his only regret was that he wouldn’t live into my adulthood. Alcohol was his all powerful God. When it called for him he always obeyed, except on those few weekends I had a friend visit. He tried his best not to sacrifice me to his drinking.

Why didn’t Abraham say to himself, “This must not be God talking to me, but a false God, or a devil”? Or, why didn’t he say, “If this is God, I’d rather go godless”? What did he hope to accomplish – a place in heaven at the murder of his son? Maybe that bible writer was giving us a hint right there, in the implausibility of the story, that we weren’t supposed to live by the book.

The Ten Commandments say “Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother.” What does that mean for Isaac? Did Isaac humbly obey, or did he go kicking and screaming when he figured out what was going on? Did Abraham have to tie him down? Did they have a little chat beforehand where Abraham said, “Now, listen son, this hurts me as much as it hurts you. If it’s any consolation to you, I don’t like it one bit. But the law doesn’t say we have to agree, it just says we have to obey. Now, you can understand that, can’t you?” I remember something in the law about using the rod on willful children, and stoning them to death for disobedience. Where does the commandment say, parents nurture your children, love and honor them?

And what about Abraham and God? When God said, ”Abraham, go up on the mountain and sacrifice Isaac unto me,” did Abraham just say, “OK, boss”? Was there even a little pause, maybe a question: “Say what?” Didn’t God already know, being God and all, that after climbing a mountain, Abraham’s endorphins would be up and he just might not be in the same mood as when he agreed at the bottom of the mountain?

So, here is Abraham with a dagger in his hand. Isaac is either very obediently lying there, or is drugged or knocked out or gagged and tied. Abraham is really going to follow through on the down stroke when God says, “Whoa there, big guy. Just wanted to see what you would do.” If he were God, wouldn’t he already know? I mean, wouldn’t he be just a little bit psychic? Maybe God knew, but Abraham didn’t. “What would you do if God asked you to do something really hard, Abe?” “Well, I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to wait until the time comes.” Maybe the whole point is that God wanted Abraham to know what obedience meant. Like Jim Jones in Guyana who told people to drink poisoned Kool-Ade, and when they drank it, he said, “Just a test, a little run-through in case the time ever comes.” He not only made sure the people knew they had to obey, he made it so they knew they would.

This is pretty heady stuff for a little kid. If your parents are good, does that mean they are willing to murder you? Who exactly am I praying to here? It’s bad enough to have to say each night “If I should die before I wake,” but now I get to wonder how my death might come about. Makes me kind of glad my dad was just an alcoholic.

2009

From my booklet Thoughts From Cahuita.

The cutter has come

With roaring splendor

To chop the grass.

No time to talk.

No language to say,

This that is mine,

Is borrowed land.

2008

What if I told the truth?

How can I distinguish

between my changeable reality

and what is really real?

Have I spent too much time

discovering the basics?

Am I too late?

How can I develop true humility?

Why am I wasting my time?

Whose time is it anyway?

Do I have a purpose

other than my own will?

Why can’t I learn something useful

and keep it always?

Why do I forget?

Is this the dark night of my soul

or only the dim light of dusk?

There is something I could be doing right now

that would be a real accomplishment.

I wish I could think what it is.

1995

This, too

shall pass

is passing

passed

past.

2008

I am standing in the “Tree Ripened” section

of Joe’s Palace of Fruits and Vegetables,

trying to find just the right mix for a summer salad.

Little round peaches as hard as tennis balls sit in a corner.

I stroke one in a polite gesture of consideration.

But in my heart, I know these will never do.

I remember how peaches are supposed to be:

Fuzz as soft as a kitten’s belly and skin the color of an October sunset.

And the first bite, I can still taste it. The flesh firm but giving.

I am sinking into the sweetest sweet. Juice leaking out my mouth.

I am standing in the little orchard we tried to grow.

You are tanned in layers and I run my finger along each shirtline

as you strip down to meet the afternoon sun.

Each time you sink the shovel into the sticky earth

the skin of your Levis pulls tight and offers you up in smooth, firm portions.

I am calling out to the clouds, the starlings,

the woodpecker whom I hated only this morning.

“Yes!” I call to them, “This is it! Oh, yes!”

I am moaning and humming and the peach,

blessed peach, is surrendering every drop to me.

And another, and another.

There are only seven, for the tree is young and small,

so I save a few for you to taste, thinking, after all, they are yours, too.

You know this tree even though you left it far behind.

The leaves have started to curl into themselves,

making green bubbles along each surface.

If I think about it long enough,

I can still feel that hard fist of tears buried in my throat.

I am pouring water into the moat at the base of the trunk,

staring at the popcorn leaves. How could they change so quickly?

When next I see you, I give you the one remaining peach,

offering it up with outstretched arm, a sacred oblation.

I am proud to sacrifice this treasure. I tell you:

this is the sweetest peach you will ever eat, ever again.

You cock your head and study me, then the peach.

“Let me look at that tree,” you say, and we walk together to the holy ground.

You caress the leaves between your fingers

the way you used to stroke the denim seam along my thigh,

your mind having drifted far away from me.

You tell me that the tree is dying, the peaches are sweet from stress.

Knowing this peach is the last of its kind, still, I let you hold it.

I give it freely but with regret.

I can’t buy peaches anymore.

1982

Part I (March 2008)

A well-placed fist is not murder if in self-defense

But a blade is quicker than the hand.

A gun is more effective than a knife.

A bomb thrown from a distance Is easier on the conscience.

And from a plane,

mental damage to the bomber Is negligible.

There are always exceptions to The Rule.

Protect yourselves at all costs!

Part 2 (June 2008)

Thou Shalt not Kill

the spirit,

ridicule others,

tear them down,

trick them,

manipulate them,

bend them to your will.

Thou shalt not think thou art better than anyone,

Or higher, or more loved.

Nor shalt thou

humiliate,

subjugate,

degrade

or destroy.

Is that clear enough?

To the One we call upon,

in many tongues,

dialects,

and voices.

We use so many names

and we are heard,

we are heard.

Miracles,

energy,

spirit,

all from the same source.

The One,

manifesting itself

in all directions,

in all faces,

all voices,

all names.

All One.

March 2008

Imagine my surprise, at the committee meeting, in the living room,

To find him lounging on the coffee table like a sultan on his dais,

inspecting his own, perfect domain:

A magnificent being clothed like a king – bejeweled in his

jewelish waistcoat with floating feathers on his crown.

Tawny, tony arms, soft, strong hands, inviting eyes.

A prince of the court – a primate god – simian divine.

Have you ever fallen in love with a monkey? It’s in the eyes.

Brown and deep – even now they daze my memory.

The others saw him there – saw something – more like a camera snap -

but they kept circling and spiraling into their slippery agenda.

How rude, with such a presence in the room.

Now, none of that, he said, and paralyzed my gaze.

I could not move my eyes away, his half-lidded long look held me to

his marble skin, his gorgeous, rugged face,

his strokable everywhere-hair.

It was love at first I-will-follow-you-anywhere sight.

Take me, I said, I will worship your awesome eyes forever.

Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet, he said with a twinkly wink.

And with a sweep of his flickery, twitchery tail,

he lifted me into the lap of his glorious and brawny arms.

And we flew, oh, how we flew – to the vertical beyond

Across the horizontal edge of the world

Into the freedom of flying monkeys soaring everywhere.

Rusharounds are three times bigger than noseeums

five times smaller than regular ants

and ten times smaller than leaf cutters.

Rusharounds are the zygotic, nucleic, tadpoles of the ant world.

Blanketed inside transparent fuzziness,

a ciliated comma with invisible feet.

Like other ants, they deploy a few scouts,

Then march in orderly lines through tiny portals

To the cluster where they nosh to the last bite.

Unlike other ants, most don’t haul food for storage,

for hard times ahead, for the growth of the queendom.

They are live-for-today let’s-have-a-party ants,

eat-the-counter-clean scavengers of the ant world.

Big ants’ motto: load cargo until your back breaks:

It takes a village to feed a queen.

Rusharounds say: Eat as much as you want -

Until the next fellow comes along,

bumping into the sealed circle of munching brethren,

bumping out again having found no purchase.

But wait! A diner is backing out, giving over his place!

Now another. Ever changing circle of life.

Oh wondrous translucent little bubble of altruism (or instinct).

This army leaves no ant behind:

They live together, eat together, and die under the sponge together.

Oh glorious moment of anthood.

July 2010

Three brothers have been in and out of jail most of their lives – bad guys. Recently, the three were suspected of a rape. At their house the police found stolen goods, guns, and drugs. They handcuffed the brothers and took them to the police station. Out of town drug lords waited at the station and abducted the brothers upon arrival, either by brandishing weapons, or possibly calling in favors from the cops – either theory is plausible. By morning, one of the brothers was found in his car with his throat slit. The second brother was shot on the run and left for dead. The third brother got away. It’s a juicy story, ending with the two policemen being arrested because the ‘victims’ were found still cuffed, implying police complicity. The reactions of people around me were fascinating. “They should have all died.” “The police probably were tired of arresting the same folks over and over again, only to have them back home within days or weeks.” “They got what they deserved.” In response, I wrote two poems, inspired by the Vietnamese Buddhist monk, writer, and poet, Thich Nhat Hahn, and by Leda, after Sunday’s church service, when she responded to a negative comment: “Only God can judge them. This is a tragedy for the families of the boys.”

MY CONFESSION

I am the one who slit his throat.

And I am the one who had my throat slit.

I am the drug and the knife and the bullet.

I am the one who sells the drug

and takes the drug to blunt the despair of who I am.

I am the one who buys the drug with hope in my heart

that soon I shall know peace.

And I am the one whose peace is shattered

to read and hear of these,

my sons.

STONES

I cannot judge you.

The stone I so carefully chose to throw

burned hot in my hand until I had to drop it,

when I heard him say

only those of us who have no blame,

no hidden shame,

were allowed to throw.

How I would have loved to see your blood drain away,

spent in payment for your horrible crimes.

Instead I am left holding only

the stone in my heart.

June 2008