Grow Mercy

Our real journey

2 comments September 30th, 2008 09:27am Stephen T Berg

Like you, I love an adventure. I love the anticipation of a new experience. I love seeing new and different things. I even love the travel involved. I like all kinds of roads. I like hotels and lobbies and lounges. I like airports, ferry terminals…even bus stations–but especially train stations. I have romantic memories of all the train stations between Melville, Saskatchewan, and Montreal.

I love words like journey and junket, expedition and excursion. I place a great deal of import on place. And even while I believe that all ground is holy, I also believe there are sacred places, or places made sacred, and to journey to such a place–whether it’s under a birch tree in the river valley, or an ashram in India–is spiritually forming. And of course, that is pilgrimage.

But, however much importance one places on a geographical journey, it is crucial to remember, as Merton reminds us, that, "Our real journey in this life is interior; it is a matter of growth, deepening, and of an ever greater surrender to the creative action of love and grace in our hearts."

In 1968, when Merton penned these words, he added, "Never was it more necessary for us to respond to that action." It was necessary then, and it is necessary now.

Bangkok bound

7 comments September 28th, 2008 08:29pm Stephen T Berg

I’m on a journey to Bangkok. And even though I don’t leave until Thursday, (Oct. 2) I have an itch to begin today. Ostensibly, I go to represent Hope Mission at a board of directors meeting with Project LIFE, a kind of "sister" mission that works in the slums of Bangkok.

I’m interested to see the work that Project LIFE does with women and children–and am prepared–although apparently it’s never possible to prepare–to see the madly wretched conditions that Bangkok’s poorest of the poor live in. Does one worry about multibillion dollar bailouts when visiting such slums?

Having been given a week in Bangkok my hope is to absorb as much of the city as I can, without vexing about seeing it all. It worked for me in New York. I simply wandered around Manhattan for several days and picked up the energy of the place. Well, Bangkok is not New York, and that’s good, but whether I can "wander," I won’t know until I get there. Of course, guided tours to start.

First stop will be Wat Phra Kaew, the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, and the adjoining Grand Palace. I’m interested in Thai Buddhism, that is, Theravada Buddhism. It is generally regarded as the oldest, and "purest," form of Buddhism, and I’m hoping to soak up what I can.

So I expect to visit any number of wats. A wat, I learn from the glossary of Thomas Merton’s Asian Journal, comes from the Sanskrit word "Vata," meaning "enclosed ground,"  and is a monastery or temple in Thailand. 

I thought that no better preparation for the trip would be to reread Merton’s Asian journal.

Incidentally, on October 17 it will be exactly 40 years since Merton landed in Bangkok to begin his fateful journey. Two months later, having visited India, the Himalayas, Ceylon (Sri Lanka), he arrived back in Bangkok for a conference of Asian monastic orders. On December 10, 1968, after giving his talk and retiring to his room, he somehow received a fatal shock from an electric fan. He was 53 years old (my age) when he died. His last words, given at his address, were, "And now I shall disappear."

The above photo was taken in Dharmasala, India by the secretary of the Dalai Lama, a month before Merton’s death. The Dalai Lama is 33 years old here.

The examined life

2 comments September 25th, 2008 12:10pm Stephen T Berg

Socrates had it wrong. The examined life is…well, it just keeps you up at night. It’s the unexamined life I want to live–the one children live.

The examined life is confusing, implacable, raises regrets, and harbours all kinds of darkling shadows. And in the end, it’s inscrutable. The unexamined life, on the other hand, just is. Thing is, as Socrates no doubt knew far sooner and better than most, is that the examined life is not an option.

I recall looking out of a frost covered upstairs window–I may have been eight, I’m not sure–but the experience itself I can call to mind with ease. I was standing absolutely still, watching the light of a grey winter day settle on snow covered rooftops, and without warning, a trip-wire went off in my mind. Questions came: Why am I me and not someone else? Why am I here and not there? It was as though I was outside in that bracing air, looking back in at myself. And there was no going back. No retreating from this crack of self-awareness. Like it or not, the examined life was upon me.

But now, decades of examination later, the frost gilded window that framed those explosive questions is stained and dry and mostly opaque.

And I’m left with this: The only way Socrates’ examined-and-therefore-worthy life can work—as far as I can see, and the way I’ve worked it out–is as life examined on the third level. Not the the first level with it’s regrets and ghosts and all its concern for identity and security. And not even the second level, where aesthetics moves the shadows away–although the second level is pleasant and let’s you sleep and in fact I could probably get happily stuck there–but the third.

This third level, I’m thinking, is the level St. Paul was caught up into when he heard and saw things he couldn’t repeat because he didn’t have the words. It’s the place of paradisal mystery, where depth is brought to aesthetics and meaning to the quotidian. This is the naked place, deep within us all, where the quark of our soul rests in utmost silence and peace…but with company. The love within, and the intimacy of this company, that is, of your life with this life, can only be described as, not two, but not one.

Of course this third level examination of life is mystical, and usually, I suppose, involves forms of contemplation and meditation. But it’s also the way of child’s play. The difficult way of simply living.

And, so, it seems I’m back in agreement with Socrates. An unexamined life, which is that kind of distracted examination of life on the first level, is, in fact, not worth living. The truly examined life, which turns out to be both, the non-examination of a child at play, and a grown-up inner encounter, is exceedingly worth living.

Help end extreme poverty

Add comment September 24th, 2008 01:03pm Stephen T Berg

Seven years (that’s halfway), into the Millennium Development goal to end extreme poverty, and we find a few leaders dragging their feet:

They are: President Sarkozy, Prime Minister Berlusconi and our own Prime Minister Harper, who, because of "a busy schedule," won’t be attending tomorrow’s, let’s-see-how-we’re-doing meeting at the UN’s General Assembly.

Amidst the talk about multi billion dollar bailouts of financial institution, global poverty, risks being forgotten.

France, Canada, and Italy, are threatening to slash their development aid budgets and break their promise to assign a mere 0.7 % of national income to the world’s poorest. 

It’s a small thing, but signing this online petition is something. Of course don’t stop there. Keep the pressure on. Join in supporting the implementation of Bill C-293 on aid accountability as a way of strengthening Canada’s contribution to the UN’s Millennium Development Goals.

What are the goals?

Andrea House - The Same Inside

Add comment September 22nd, 2008 08:15am Stephen T Berg

A plug for a friend: This Thursday, 7:30 PM, at Edmonton’s Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Andrea will be celebrating her new CD, The Same Inside. (Tickets)

Having worn laser grooves in her last CD, Heart’s Hotel, I’ve been waiting patiently for this release–as has a crowd of others.

Knowing Andrea, The Same Inside is a perfect title. Andrea’s same-inside, is a blend of grace, compassion, humour, and large-hearted humanism, with a kind of, well-behaved-women-seldom-make-history honesty. And it’s honesty that comes out in her music and her voice. A voice that’s soulish, earthy, and wise–and sweeter than sangria.

Buy the CD. And enjoy. 

Below are a few excerpts from Andrea’s interview with the Edmonton Sun’s, Fish Griwkowsky. (Click here to read the entire interview)

…on the CD’s title:

….the title might make you wonder, well, what exactly is the same inside? The obvious answer is House herself, having successfully become an adult and a mother. Hey, she even got married this month - but more on that later.

…on the gifted Chris Smith:

I’m a songwriter who needs a good producer," House offers. "Chris Smith knows how to take my songs and colour correct them, and he can talk to musicians in a way that makes sense to them. In fact, he’s so good at it I married him last week. Seriously, Chris and I actually got married on Monday, Sept. 8.

…on why the CD release party is in a church:

I have a romantic obsession with churches. I learned to sing with my grandma in a clapboard church in Arrowwood, Alta. My dad carved the alter table. It’s the size of most people’s living rooms. I miss it.

(btw: Lovely wedding picture taken by your’s truly…not anybody at the Sun.)

For tour dates and any other information, check out Andrea’s website as well as her Myspace site (See sidebar Links and Blogs).

The meaning of a day-moon

2 comments September 19th, 2008 09:17am Stephen T Berg

Yesterday I walked to work watching a day-moon. The morning was awake and shining, and the sky was powder blue, and the gibbous moon–even in that broad light–stood above the high-rise condos and the bank towers, like Atlas at peace.

He seemed a wiser but sadder Atlas–bearing the sky upon his shoulders, and bidding us to look up. But we were all in cars, or checking ourselves in store windows. And anyway, looking up, past the steel right angles, is hard in the city. The towers loom and our eyes are only used to the dim light.

Dimly, to my left, out of my small dust spattered window rises one more condominium. It’s a testament to progress, ingenuity, and function.  And like the city itself, it’s also a testament to a flood of fabricated meaning. The city says that only what is fabricated is real. Only what is engineered counts. Only the mechanical is actual. And the condo says, that this condominium, a community doth make. 

Caught in the lie that mass-mind is community–the bewitchment of fabricated meaning is entire. And so–Atlas is sad. His sky and moon unseen because they are not real. Their speech, all the moon’s beautiful words, and the sky’s phrasing, silenced. Only the hammering and riveting and the hum of power, signify.

I have decided I can put up with the noise, dampened through glass. What I, what we, must not put up with, and hope we will never put up with–even though the temptation (the bewitchment) is always there to put up with it–is the kind of dehumanization that fabricated meaning, and progress, and misdirected ingenuity, creates. When the moon goes unseen, when the sky is unreal, collective dehumanization ensues.

If it were not for those few sky and moon watchers, who dwell in the bush and in inner-cities, who understand the uselessness of their sky-watching task, but who do it nonetheless, as they’re compelled to do, our world would long ago have ended. Their "uselessness" stands as an accusation against–even infuriates–all our manufactured meaning, and our reducing-all-to-function. It’s this tower, that needs dismantling.

Still I know, as Rumi and Purdy, and Merton and Morton, have always known, that confessional formulas, apocalyptic declamations, will not work. This is the time for poetry and irony–but mostly poetry. Or at least, poetic irony. Oh, and beauty…the meaningless and message filled beauty of a day-moon.

Well, Well, Well

2 comments September 18th, 2008 10:33pm Stephen T Berg

If you don’t read Connie Howard’s Well, Well, Well, weekly–well, your missing out–not only on some superb writing, you’re missing out on a refreshingly sound approach to understanding your body and your health.

After being away, and having just caught up with Well, I’m inspired to link this article (click here). But I must confess that my pointing it out is somewhat selfish. You see, being referenced is always fun, in this case…gleefully so.

(For her current article, see Connie Howard in Links and Blogs on my sidebar.)

Step by Step Hike

2 comments September 16th, 2008 10:36pm Stephen T Berg

Thick morning fog couldn’t restrain the sun. And frost, thick as felt, melted off the green metal chalet roofs and came down in small rivers. The bus ride up Sunshine mountain took us into a white world that would return to full colour that afternoon.

We were here to take part in the Step by Step — On Top of the World for Schizophrenia fundraiser hike.

We climbed, walked, wandered, scanned sky and rock and valley, and watched where we put our feet. We bunched up, or fell back for a solitary moment. We took pictures that never captured anything close to the moment.

Like Itchycoo Park, it was all too beautiful. (Yes, you can touch the sky there, and yes, you can get naturally high there.)

Thank you to organizers, Colleen Scissons, Carol and George Perkins, and others. (Here’s to reaching your fundraising goal) And thank you to Kent and Tash Werner (guides extrordinaire) and our hosts Glen and Liz Werner.

View pictures on the Front Porch. Look for the Sunshine Meadow album in the nature category.

Breath out

Add comment September 10th, 2008 08:00am Stephen T Berg

There was a moment in this morning’s meditation–while breathing out–when all the niggling doubts, confined frustrations, genuine worries, regrets, and all the everyday things to do–and things forever left undone, were released.

I rarely have these moments. Probably because my meditation is sporadic and shallow. But every once in a while, a moment, be it ever so brief, caught in that ethereal dream catcher, stops, turns in on itself and sweeps a body clean. Almost like the exhale of John Coffey in The Green Mile. But without the black flies and fatigue.

It does give one renewed hope, not only in the practice of meditation, or centering prayer, but hope that the power of everyday anxiety is not fixed, or indeed, always real. And hope, that in small moments, life still breaks in and reverses entropy and age. That once in awhile, the inexorable movement of energy to mass in mind and body, is stalled…and that a soul can be unencumbered.

A hike along Mission Creek

Add comment September 8th, 2008 10:38am Stephen T Berg

A lone bat decides on a day time hunt. We catch the flash of his dark wings as he flies, helter-skelter, like a leaf in a breeze. He’s in pursuit of insects that flit and weave above the deep pool in Mission creek.

The pool, carved out by centuries of silt-laden water, forced into an endless eddy by a rock the size of a house, is conspicuously deep and cool and attractive to rainbow trout–also in search of water borne insects. And the creek has its share. You can see them glint like fireflies when the sun angles its light through the trees and onto the dark water.

Mission creek–most likely named after the missionary endeavour at Lake Okanagan–is a rocky stream of iron-rich water that runs around boulders, sand and scree, through a canyon with 200 foot sides, and past hoodoos and small caves that hide brown bats. And like all creeks worth their salt, its water music mesmerizes. And like all humans and we are drawn to her ripple and rhythm.

The trail we take skirts the Mission Creek 8 Indian Reserve. The trek down to the creek is steep and must be taken with short strides. Walking stick or not, we step and slide. Slide more than step. When the trail levels out we come across bear scat–of which there is plenty. Old and new and full of chokecherry pits. On a broad trail in the valley, away from the dry cracked earth we spy deer. A doe and a fawn. The fawn’s spots are still prominent.

As we move past the trees and underbrush and onto the creek banks we see the rock horn. It’s independence from the cliff is pronounced as it seemingly lifts itself higher than the canyon walls. Silent and imposing, it’s a tower that confounds our finding names for it. Out of its side, just below the peak, grows a defiant pine tree. It somehow finds the requisite nutrients for life, even as its own roots help grind rock into soil. It’s nurtured, we imagine, by occasional morning mists and traces of rainfall trapped in crevices. But there is no reason for the tree.

We cross the creek. Six of us. Our friends, Terry and Sue, and their two children, Robby and Marissa. The calf-deep water stings us cold. And there are the rocks. Slick and covered by a thin film of algae. On the crossing back, Marissa slips and and crashes her right knee and dips her side in the cold white water.

Having hiked both sides and upper banks of Mission creek we settle back on the sand opposite the house-boulder. It’s here we spot the bat and watch it hunt–briefly. The daytime chase is a fateful decision. Silent as drifting pollen, a sparrow hawk picks him out of midair above the pool–just a few yards from where we sit. It’s the act of a practiced raptor. Natural and remorseless, she flies with the bat in her talons, into the shadows of the thick pines.

Only moments later a young black bear appears on the far ledge across the creek. A quick survey and then a crash through the bush and gone. No time to retrieve a camera.

We rest…our conversation is spaced. Later, we climb the steep trail back out of Mission creek. It takes a while to return to being human.