Grow Mercy

The beginning of Love

2 comments July 2nd, 2009 09:11am Stephen T Berg

Daniel Stanley is a homeless man. But he’s not in any apparent hurry to find a home. We sat on the grass together along the Railtown strip, with his two friends Curtis and Devon. Friends, I’m guessing, he helps support.

I had met him earlier. He had called me over to see a piece of art. We squatted beside the sidewalk. Devon, who had been carrying it, unfolded and lifted off the red-plaid blanket. A three-foot frame surrounded a smallish portrait, painted on foil–of what was a shining totem…a communion of nature…a heritage.

This time when I met him he had a half dozen or so of larger, unframed works, in a plastic Save-On bag. We sat on the ground and he told me the story of each painting.

Daniel uses a collection of fine-tipped pens to fill heavy, semi-gloss paper with micro-dots. That’s his method. His art, like most aboriginal art, is rich in symbolism. He explains patiently, pointing to the circle of grizzly cubs in one, to a wolf swirling out of itself in another, and to the profile of a chief in yet another. 

One captures me more than the others. An extravagant eagle towers, a rose is superimposed…there’s a cleansing sweat lodge beneath, beside which rises the pipe’s nourishing smoke of peace. Everything is in motion and enjoined, loose and lively. To the left, a spiraled circle of beads proves the interconnection of all people groups. Daniel tells me the painting is called "The beginning of Love." 

He speaks to me as a friend. I’ve known him for 15 minutes. His hair, pulled into a ponytail, heavy eyes set in full, worn, features, a quiet voice… I feel the elder in him as he speaks. He is younger than me.

There’s a transaction to be held. We barter and trade. He’s given me a lens and patient counsel in the ways of his culture–some First Nations pre-school. And picture to remember–Love’s beginning. I’ve given him some time and money.

Daniel is from the Shell Lake reserve in Saskatchewan which would make him, if my research is right, part of the Ahtahkakoop First Nations. But he roams western Canada. He paints what he sees, putting it together with what he remembers.

Gospel tunes ears to victim’s voice

2 comments June 27th, 2009 10:22am Stephen T Berg

Another raid on a world that is, for the sake of a world that could be:

Here: The Edmonton Journal Religion - Offerings

Or here: click article

Scattershot

2 comments June 26th, 2009 08:36am Stephen T Berg

A lady in a pink blouse is holding herself. Her arms are crossed and wrapped tightly around her waist. Her blonde hair is uncombed and hangs past her face in torn sheets as she watches the sidewalk move beneath her. She is walking west on Jasper–without plans. She has walked many blocks and many hours.

A native man in a nylon red jacket has bought a small coffee–and bought himself some time. Enough time to place chin on chest and sink, as far as possible, into his wooden chair. One arm has fallen and hangs limp by his side. Soon, the Railtown bench where he sleeps will be warmed by the sun and he’ll return.

I recall that I haven’t seen Brian for months. He had plans. So I’m hopeful.

Later…two young women, annoying even to themselves one would think, have mastered scattershot-blather. With one dramatic "oh-my-god!" head shake and convulsion after another… Like, oh m’god, I’m gauging my annoyance levels. They’re in the orange.

Now a tall slender woman has come in. Black hair pulled tight and fastened behind her head with a broad orange hair-clip, red-orange lipstick, tight white blouse, tight orange crop pants and orange leopard-print stilettos upon which she balances and awaits her coffee. The two young women are: LIKE-OH-M’GOD!

A swad of joggers run east into a low sun awaiting their endorphin-high.

Edgy-Tuesday

4 comments June 23rd, 2009 08:44am Stephen T Berg

It’s an edgy Tuesday. Found a bug in my bed. Window was open to the wind. One gust at the right moment hurled its skinny thorax through the screen and one flip of the curtain sent it sprawling onto my pillow. No damage to its head during passage however. Either that or it came back riding one of the camping mattresses… So now I’m imagining dealing with an infestation on top of just trying to make work.

It’s a Tuesday that has its teeth on edge. Like Monday ate sour grapes. The sun’s six o’clock slant had no salubrious effect on my walk to Starbucks–what with a norwester clipping along ricocheting off buildings and pavement and sticking me with grit. The wind in its old battle with the sun. You would think it would give up already.

So I’ll wait. Not like I have a choice. But one morning it’ll be back again–the sun–reaching in and flowing down the spine, flooding cells, fibres, corpuscles, with warm light-waves, skin doing a slow ripple-tingle…that’s the sun I like. Me, a Lite-brite–the sun a big warm bulb. It’ll come.

It’s looking forward to things that keeps us going. I don’t like the idea, but it’s the way it is. I don’t like it because I live with the romance of learning to be so in tune with the moment that future plans have no bearing on my emotional state. I imagine my "second naiveté" to be just over there, only a season of meditated Psalms away. And when I get to that enlightened place, worry will melt and I’ll meet every blustery day with a knowing smile the size of St. Theresa’s serenity.

Thing is, there are methods and meditative movements that sweeten the prospect of being liberated from life-unhinged-from-place. And I’m an advocate of anything that moors us to our bodies–pasting us to the present–living our lives. But that’s a discipline that takes discipline. Like any.

Perhaps however, no matter how nirvana-nated, no matter how well the ectoplasm emanates, docking us to now, we still need some reflection of future to keep us kicking and alive. After all what is native possibility? Is it not a posture of leaning hopefully into the foreground of time? And this leaning doesn’t necessarily have to tip into anxiety. Does it? And anyway, is not this view-to-the-new perfectly human? And that precious unencumbered moment I long for, is it not hyper-linked to both polls of time? Can I really experience placement, the place-of-place, outside of a place beyond? No, I’m thinking we are all tuned telologically. All our time-capsules are tensed by contingency.

So edgy-Tuesday, you’ve got me shakin’ like a leaf, but I’ve got a date with Hawaii in October, so still yourself.

Joseph McLaughlin - Vibrant Earth

3 comments June 20th, 2009 02:13pm Stephen T Berg

You can’t transcribe a flower. Instead, a flower inscribes itself within until you feel its cool corona against your arm, smell its perfume, and sense its joy. A flower–bud, bowl and blossom–is its own reason… These were things that registered as I stood viewing Joseph McLaughlin’s oil paintings.

A dozen years ago Joseph’s house burned down. In his new place, surrounded by bone-white walls, he sat with the question about how–on paper-thin resources–to bring the comfort of colour and light, and the feel of home to a house. His answer was to paint a single flower on a large canvass and hang it on in his living-room wall. That was the beginning.

Today, with that original canvass having profusely flowered to its edges, and his home now filled with completed paintings, Joseph is holding his first exhibition. An exhibition he needed to be arm-twisted into participating in, owing to the strong attachment he has with his paintings.

There is joy in these paintings. There’s a kind of spontaneous celebration that attends all of his works. I asked him about this and he told me he usually only paints when he’s in a good mood.

It shows. And for Joseph, it works. His echoing greens, his blues of twilight, the way he generously spends colour reminds me of William Blake’s sighting of "…a heaven in a wild flower."

The exhibition which includes paintings by Darlene Adams is entitled Vibrant Earth, and is at the TU Gallery. It runs from June 20 to July 4.

One more thing about Joseph is that he works for Edmonton’s Hope Mission–has done so for several years. His current position has him looking after part of the Breakout recovery community program.

Common well, Commonweal

Add comment June 18th, 2009 09:13am Stephen T Berg

Now Jacob’s well was there. Jesus therefore, being wearied with his journey, sat thus on the well: and it was about the sixth hour.

When there is nothing left but a hot, confused, addled body and mind, you sit down and rest. And if you should have something like a well, sit there, and rest. It’s a good place.
The well I remember the best was at my cousins. It was deep and at the height of summer, the water was still pure and cold. In summer, on those hot sweaty afternoons we’d haul on the rope and bring up the bucket. And we’d drink out of a tin dipper.

In a world weary with unrest, tense with high-noon rivalry, virulent with hate and contagious with reciprocal violence, abscessed with guilt and inflamed by grief and unshed tears, we need a well to sit on. We need its communal nimbus, where Samaritans sit with Jews. Where all sit with all. And we need clean cool water to drink and share.

Finding hope one step at a time

Add comment June 15th, 2009 11:23am Stephen T Berg

Here’s a couple of great media profiles/stories concerning Hope Mission’s Breakout recovery community.

Check out the video here: 

And here is a corresponding article.

The hope reflected in these stories is what the Mission desires to be about.

So saunter already

3 comments June 12th, 2009 03:10pm Stephen T Berg

Friday’s here and with that my weekly Vue Weekly purview.

Of particular import is this week’s Well, Well, Well, column. (Can you tell yet I’m a fan?) Ah, but especially this week. It’s right up my perambulating alley.

Check it out here. Then grab your scrambling stick and get your butt outside…and promenade, saunter, or just stroll your way to well-ness.

Oh, and here are a few pics of last weeks hike down to Mystic beach. (with Deb, my sis Joanne, & Dan)

Obama’s Cairo speech

2 comments June 9th, 2009 08:58am Stephen T Berg

I can’t imagine George Bush quoting from the Koran, using the language of Muhammad. Yet this American president is at ease doing so. Well, some–particularly some Christians–will say, he’s too at ease.

The suspicions about Obama’s allegiances will probably increase as the result of the Cairo speech. The Republican Mike Pence (CNN) wasted no time in criticizing Obama’s supposed "pro-Palestinian" bent. For Pence, his words are a betrayal of an ally. 

At the same time, Israelis must acknowledge that just as Israel’s right to exist cannot be denied, neither can Palestine’s. The United States does not accept the legitimacy of continued Israeli settlements. This construction violates previous agreements and undermines efforts to achieve peace. It is time for these settlements to stop.

But to those tied into a Zionist view, balance will look like bias. At the same time, to those blind to the anti-Israeli policies of Hamas, balance will also look like bias.

Hamas does have support among some Palestinians, but they also have responsibilities. To play a role in fulfilling Palestinian aspirations, and to unify the Palestinian people, Hamas must put an end to violence, recognize past agreements, and recognize Israel’s right to exist.

What Obama is saying is what any honest and fair-minded politician would say. Thankfully so, because fair-minded is not the adjective that springs to mind regarding the previous administration.

But Obama will need to be more than not-Bush. And there’s the rub. How, practically, will Israeli settlements be stopped? How will the Palestinian Authority develop its capacity to govern so as to render the prescriptions and actions of Hamas a thing of the past? These, now, are the critical and urgent questions.
In all I was genuinely encouraged by the speech. Yes, there were some platitudes. But emphasizing the possibilities, the connections, doesn’t mean Obama is naïve–a charge immediately leveled by the neo-cons. It means he is injecting hope into old stalemates.

So long as our relationship is defined by our differences, we will empower those who sow hatred rather than peace, and who promote conflict rather than the cooperation that can help all of our people achieve justice and prosperity. This cycle of suspicion and discord must end.

That means of course that the "Jihad-watchers," the Christian-cons, and the far-right Republicans seek out or at least recognize points of connection and recognize that the Muslim faith is not monolithic but diverse. And it means that moderate Muslims, reformist Muslims, stand up and denounce the assertions of people like Anjem Choudhury. (Choudhury interprets passages in the Koran literally. Passages, apparently, that not only allow but encourage the killing of non-Muslims, because there are no "innocents" outside of Islam. Of course, it needs to be pointed out that passages in the Old Testament command the wiping out entire populations as well.)

Finally, it was refreshing to read these comments of Andrew Sullivan, a conservative: (TheAtlantic.com)

At its heart, the speech sprang, it seemed to me, a spiritual conviction that human differences, if openly acknowledged, need not remain crippling. It was a deeply Christian — and not Christianist — address; seeking to lead by example and patience rather than seeking to impose from certainty.

Fly in spring

Add comment June 3rd, 2009 04:55pm Stephen T Berg

Fly in spring. Late spring. Fly over new planted prairie grain fields and you’ll spot your tartan crest. Fly over mountains and you’ll spy hidden lakes–like jade-ice gems set in stone broaches.

So many mysteries still reside at this height and in this air. Like the high dark line that runs straighter than the horizon separating nothing in particular except perhaps colliding atmospheres.

And land in spring. Late spring. Land under an elm tree.

There are secrets in the Wych elm that lives here, outside the Mocha Café. The tree appears as though it was here before the city was planted. Erosion from thousands of Victorian feet has exposed its thick veiny root system. From its hard rippled base, a trunk the size of a garden shed rises and separates itself for the sky. Verdant, it rides the seasons.

A few blocks south are the saltwater waves. They batter and break over rocks and gather themselves to batter again. The sea answers to no season. Yet it gives seasons their being. That the sea harbours a core mystery, is no mystery. The sea abides. We change–and fly away.