“. . . do not resist an evil person.” (Jesus of Nazareth, quoted in the Gospel According to Matthew)

The following is my response on Facebook to the following news story from the Texas Legislature.

In Texas, it soon could be legal to bring a gun to college

I wish I could say this is unbelievable. But since carrying a gun seems to be the norm out here in the wild west, I guess all I can do is pray for a retirement home in the UK. I would like someone to explain this to me on purely ethical grounds without resorting to the 2nd Amendment. Why is this acceptable as a matter of morality without the childishly petulant, “I have a right?”

Saying that anyone – especially a college student in class – is safer if people are toting guns is absurd.

An acquaintance pointed to the incident of a “mad gunman” being stopped on the campus of UVA. (This was, of course, a hoax–which so much “evidence” of the need for guns is.) How many millions of students spend how many millions of hours per year in class and on campuses without any incident? One lone “mad gunman” (even if it were true) being stopped does not justify the danger of a kid sitting in class next to a gun-toting vigilante.

BUT EVEN THAT IS NOT THE POINT! My hope that someone can explain the MORAL truth behind “open carry” still stands. At best it is expediency, not morality. It is expedient because we know that we have failed so miserably at creating equality (in race, in economic opportunity, in gender, in religion) that we perceive, perhaps rightly, that some people are angry and disenfranchised enough to be violent. And we have also failed so miserably at caring for people with emotional problems that we need to be ready to shoot them when they lose control.

It’s the worst kind of utilitarianism. It has nothing to do with “Thou shalt not kill,” or “love justice, do mercy, walk humbly with your God,” or “You have heard that it was said, ‘Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.’ But I tell you, do not resist an evil person.” We have, according to Antonin Scalia, the constitutional right to be gun-toting vigilantes — ignoring not only the moral injunctions of the tradition most of those who speak the loudest for the right espouse but also the moral philosophies of all civilized societies.

Being “in the right” means being willing to forgo that “right” for the sake of the greater good.

“. . . more life and more adventure for the brave. . .” (Godfrey Fox Bradby)

Gibbons  and hymnal gibbons

Gibbons and hymnal Gibbons

I’m a coward.

That shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who knows me. But then, most people who know me well are cowards, too. The people I hang with are pretty run-of-the-mill, don’t bother me I’m busy making a living kinds of folks.

If I had even a modicum of courage, I would be living in Bethlehem or Freetown or Mosul or Lake Providence. I’d at least be volunteering at the North Texas Food Bank or The Stewpot.

My default earworm is a tune by Orlando Gibbons (1583 –1625) published in 1623, his “Song 1.” It’s the tune for a strange hymn in the Episcopal Hymnal 1940 (number 470, I will remember ‘til I die).

The hymn is strange because it begins with a heretical statement,

Where is death’s sting? We were not born to die,
Nor only for the life beyond the grave.

It’s heretical because, even though people think Christians believe we will die and then immediately go to heaven or hell, and that’s the purpose of life, true Christian theology is that when we die, we’re good and dead! St. Paul says we will be raised “incorruptible” when the trumpet sounds, but until then we’ll be dead. No Rapture there!

The statement, “We were not born to die,” is heretical.

I don’t care one way or the other what anyone believes about death. I think the orthodox Christian theology is correct—at least that we’ll be dead when we die—and I expect in 14.07 years (by the Social Security actuarial table) to be dead.

As earworms go, mine is pretty strange. I’ll bet no one reading this can sing it. No one who didn’t grow up Episcopalian between 1940 and 1982 has ever heard it . Not more than 5% of those folks can sing it.

I learned the tune when I was a junior in college, 1966. Dr. Spelman, Director of the School of Music, gave me his copy of the complete works of Orlando Gibbons from the Tudor Church Music collection. He bought it when he was a student in Paris in 1931. In 1966 I thought it was a venerable antique. He gave it to me because the University Choir, for which I was one of the organists, was singing the little Gibbons anthem, “O Lord Increase My Faith.”

The book was (and is) one of my prized possessions, a hefty tome. In order to show me it was not simply a historical relic, Dr. Spelman showed me “Song 1” from the volume was used in The Hymnal 1940, which the University Choir used. It immediately became my favorite hymn tune.

When I was pursuing my MA in composition four years later, my first extended work was a brass quintet, and the second movement is essentially a chorale prelude on “Song 1.”

The hymn may have been omitted from the Episcopal Hymnal 1982 as much because it is confusing as because it is heretical. After beginning with the statement that we were not born to die, it closes with the stanza,

Fullness of life, in body, mind, and soul:
“Who saves his life shall lose it,” thou hast said.
A great adventure with a glorious goal;
Nothing that lives in thee is ever dead:
Brave living here: and then, beyond the grave,
More life and more adventure for the brave.
“Beyond the grave, more life?”
Nothing that lives in God is ever dead?

Wait! We are—according to the most orthodox Christian theology—dead until the trumpet shall sound and we shall be raised. Now, lest anyone think I worry about the fine points of Christian theology, I must get back to my original topic. Bravery. Or was it earworms?

Brave living here: and then, beyond the grave,
More life and more adventure for the brave.

So, according to Bradby, if you want life and adventure beyond the grave, you must live bravely here. Sounds vaguely like something a “Jihadist” suicide bomber would say, no?

It probably means Bradby would say I’m not going to heaven because I don’t live bravely here.

My favorite autograph

My favorite autograph

I’ve thought a lot about that for 50 years. Because of my earworm. Really. I’ll bet five days out of seven I hum at least the first three or four bars of the tune, and I have to consciously substitute some other earworm to take its place. That often turns out to be not much better, the hymntune “Salzburg,” with the original words, Alle Menschen müssen sterben (“all people must die”).

I’m a big baby. Scared of everything. Scared I’m going to hurt my hip again, so I walk with a cane (actually, about every 10th step does hurt, so that may not count). I never do anything dangerous. Never have done.

And, for the most part, my friends haven’t either. I have one friend who climbed some mountain in Tibet, but that’s not danger, that’s foolhardiness. I know a guy who races stock cars. Again, foolhardiness.

I am acquainted with a woman who travels all over the world saving girls from sexual slavery. She’s brave. A close friend has been in an Israeli prison for helping to feed kids in Palestinian refugee camps (Gaza and Lebanon). She’s the bravest person I know.

I saw on the PBS Newshour a couple of nights ago the attorney Nancy Hollander, whom I have met several times, who is representing Mohamedou Ould Slahi whose book about his imprisonment at Guantanamo has just been released. Nancy is brave. So is Mohamedou.

I hope it’s evident where I’m going with this. I don’t have much use for people who climb mountains or worry about heaven or hell—whether or not there are such things and/or whether or not they’re going there.

Bravery, in my book is doing something FOR someone else—probably someone you don’t even know—that might (probably will) make other people hate you and probably harm you.

Where is death’s sting? We were not born to die,
Nor only for the life beyond the grave.
All that is beautiful in earth and sky,
All skills, all knowledge, all the powers we have,
Are of thy giving; and in them we see
no dust and ashes, but a part of thee.

Laughter is thine, the laughter free from scorn,
And thine the smile upon a cheerful face:
Thine, too, the tears, when love for love must mourn,
And death brings silence for a little space.
Thou gavest, and thou dost not take away:
The parting is but here, and for a day.

Fullness of life, in body, mind, and soul:
“Who saves his life shall lose it,” thou hast said.
A great adventure with a glorious goal;
Nothing that lives in thee is ever dead:
Brave living here: and then, beyond the grave,
More life and more adventure for the brave.

I’m pretty much chicken-shit.
photoApropos of almost nothing. This photograph was in the Gibbons volume when I opened it. Three of the players in as production of the Wakefield Cycle of Mystery Plays, the play for the Feast of the Ascension, produced my my choir at Grace Church Episcopal in Salem, MA, 1983. Jesus (not pictured) was played by a Cabot (yess one of THE Cabots), and God sat on the high altar throughout the drama. Some people didn’t like that she sat on the high altar. Some people didn’t like that she was African-American. Hardly anyone complained that God was she.

“. . . something difficult lifted, pressed or curled, Power over beauty . . . “

the light left turned on all night across the parking lot below on the wall around the swimming pool is supposed to have a partner but it burned out last week and they didn’t replace it. . . .

Two lights

Two lights

I know because I look out the window many nights some time between midnight and four-thirty or five when I get up because I am awake and get up not to pee like most old men but to take an Ambien. it’s not every night and I am not addicted so don’t worry about that and I’m hardly addicted to anything anymore. maybe sugar cookies the unhealthiest kind at Kroger or Albertson’s which has now bought Safeway and my grandmother used to take us with her going to “the” Kroger down on “The” Avenue (Minnesota) in Kansas City and when we were growing up almost everything we ate that mom didn’t grow came from Safeway. but I can avoid buying one of those plastic trays-with-the-fold-up-top with eight Kroger sugar cookies except about once every couple of weeks when I just have to have one and eat them all in one day to get them out of the house

but sometime yesterday when I wasn’t at home Blaine replaced the burned-out bulb in the parking lot and it’s on now at four-fifteen and I’m up because I woke up and can’t go back to sleep which is what often happens. it’s too late to take an Ambien because then I’d sleep too long instead of not long enough and I wonder what the staff people will do who –I hate to say it because it sounds elitist or bigoted or self-centered in the extreme but we all know it’s true –will be taking care of me when I am in the assisted living or medical unit in the run-down geriatric public housing facility who don’t have enough education to get my jokes –see I said it would sound elitist—and have no clue how to relate to an old faggot. they will probably try to get me to accept Jesus as my personal savior and get over being gay before it’s too late and I can go to heaven. and they certainly won’t let me have my computer because when I wake up at four in the morning and need to write they will think I need to pee and when I can’t because I don’t need to they’ll assume I’ve got one of those old man conditions and need a catheter. all I need is my computer which they have taken away because the people who have my medical power of attorney are in California or some other god-forsaken place and the care givers here in the public run-down old folks’ home in Dallas would never think of asking them what I might really need a computer or a catheter

no it’s going to be grim since I don’t have hundreds of thousands of dollars salted away to take care of me in my old age not that I’m not already old. seventy which I’m just ten months from being and I know I talk about it too much but only because I have to get used to the idea. it sort of crept up on me unawares and I don’t know what to do about it but I don’t suppose anyone does. I certainly didn’t plan for the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars the retirement gurus say an old queen needs in the bank to pay medical expenses in his old age so the pittance I have will be gone in about a week if I get really sick sometime instead of just needing hip or shoulder repair. I don’t know what they do with poverty-struck old gay used-to-be-college-teachers who don’t have enough money salted away

At 4:30 this may be what I see

At 4:30 this may be what I see

so when Joanie was in my face purring thirty seconds after I woke up—she sits at the foot of my bed waiting for my breathing to change and then charges she doesn’t wake me up but she knows the minute I am awake—after I checked the parking lot lights I was immediately thinking about the problem of getting enough exercise when I am snowed under with papers to grade and knowing that if I don’t keep exercising regularly and quit eating sugar cookies even once every two weeks and lose the fifteen pounds I’ve been trying to lose since I lost the fifty pounds two years ago I will be unhealthy enough to end up in that assisted living or medical care facility that everyone else’s taxes are paying for. I better not be in Texas when it happens because the fucking republicans have managed to make this the worst state in the union to be taken care of whether you are a helpless child or a helpless old faggot and Mark Doty explained what we need to do better than I can and I read his poem and think that’s it and I need to contact my trainer that I haven’t seen since my shoulder repair surgery and get back to the gym

. . .  where men
lay down their heads,
back to the bench,

and hoist nothing
that need be lifted
but some burden they’ve chosen
this time: more reps,

more weight, the upward shove
of it leaving, collectively,
this sign of where we’ve been:
shroud-stain, negative

flashed onto the vinyl
where we push something
unyielding skyward,
gaining some power

at least over flesh . . .

Though there's something more tender, beneath our vanity

Though there’s something more
tender, beneath our vanity

I need to gain power at least over my flesh so when they want to give me a catheter instead of a computer I will have the physical strength to resist and then they’ll call in the men in the white coats and they’ll be “coming to take me away to the funny farm” and getting power over my flesh right now. I’m sorry Mark it has nothing to do with the “will to become [an object] of desire” it is only self-protection and self- preservation and anyone who doesn’t understand this isn’t seventy years old and alone in the world and a dirty old gay boy faggot queen which is what the less-than-well-educated care-givers will think of me regardless of the new same-sex marriage laws

.
This salt-stain spot
marks the place
where
men lay down their heads,
back to the bench,

and hoist nothing
that need be lifted
but some burden they’ve chosen
this time: more reps,

more weight, the upward shove
of it leaving, collectively,
this sign of where we’ve been:
shroud-stain, negative

flashed onto the vinyl
where we push something
unyielding skyward,
gaining some power

at least over flesh,
which goads with desire,
and terrifies with frailty.
Who could say who’s

added his heat to the nimbus
of our intent, here where
we make ourselves:
something difficult

lifted, pressed or curled,
Power over beauty,
power over power!
Though there’s something more

tender, beneath our vanity,
our will to become objects
of desire: we sweat the mark
of our presence onto the cloth.

Here is some halo
the living made together

—Doty, Mark. “At the Gym.” Source. New York: HarperCollins. 2002.
Mark Doty has won the Lambda Literary Award for his collection Atlantis (1995), and the National Book Critics Circle Award and Britain’s T. S. Eliot Prize for other collections. He has taught at the University of Houston and is currently Distinguished Writer at Rutgers University.

I love to tell the story

Classical revival splendor

Classical revival splendor

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The First Baptist Church of Omaha, Nebraska, perches at the top of a small hill at the corner of Harney and Park in a kind of neo-classical revival splendor. I don’t know enough about architecture to describe it adequately, so you will have to figure it out for yourself.

Perhaps the building’s most remarkable characteristic is survival.

Interstate 480 cuts a swath through downtown Omaha that’s a near miss for the building. Perhaps the route was carefully chosen to miss the church and other important buildings in the city. The church’s website says the church has been in its present location since 1904 when the current building was constructed.

The church’s organ is (my goodness! I hope it’s still there) a giant 4-keyboard Austin tubular-pneumatic beast with three divisions spread across the front of the church, and a solo division (complete with tuba mirabilis, as loud a reed stop as an organ ever ought to have).  I know the building was built in 1904 because between 1960 and 1963 I sat for countless hours staring at the nameplate on the organ console, “Austin Organs, opus __, 1904). I don’t remember the opus number, but I would guess it was at the time Austin’s crowning achievement. Its preservation should have been a concern of the Organ Historical Society.

During high school, nearly every day after school I took the twenty-minute walk from Central High School at 20th and Dodge up the hill to the church to practice the organ. Roger Wischmeier, organist of the church, was my teacher. My parents were members of the church, so the church allowed me to practice there.

When I was a senior in high school, I played my first real organ recital on the Austin. I remember a few details of the program.

A glimpse of the Austin Organ

A glimpse of the Austin Organ

The most important of those details is that I played the Bach “Gigue” Fugue in G major from memory. At the time I had a girlfriend (didn’t every gay boy in the world in 1963?). She had a man’s name, as did her older sister. Their father was a Bach aficionado, and he raved about my playing, which pleased me more even than my teacher’s praise. My playing of the Bach went on to bless (or curse) me. When I went to college, fully expecting to be an English major so I could write (what else?), I auditioned for the music faculty because I wanted to take organ lessons for fun. I played the fugue from memory, and Dr. Spelman offered me a scholarship as an organ major on the spot. What defense did I have against such recognition?

Back to my high school recital. I also played three chorale preludes by Donald Hustad, at that time and for many years thereafter the music director of the Billy Graham Crusade. His music was favored by my teacher, and he assigned me much of Hustad’s music to learn. Hustad, was a formidable musician and musicologist. For years after high school I dismissed him because of his connection with Billy Graham, but have come to my senses as an old man and understand not only his solid and inspired compositional ability but also his contribution to understanding the history of Evangelical music in the United States.

The three preludes I played on that program were on the tunes of the hymns “I Love to Tell the Story,” “Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken,” and “Children of the Heavenly Father.”

I am grateful that I still have the (bedraggled) book of preludes from which I learned those pieces—with Mr. Wischmeier’s performance notes in them.

As organist in Lutheran churches, I discovered the usefulness of many of Hustad’s compositions. He seems to have had an affinity for Scandinavian Lutheran hymn tunes. The “national anthem” of Swedish-American Lutherans is “Children of the Heavenly Father.” Over the years I have used that Hustad prelude many times.

I’m now headed for Sweden (five days and counting). I will be playing several organs in Scandinavia. The choir I will accompany (Calvary Lutheran Church, Richland Hills, Texas) will sing “Children of the Heavenly Father,” and I will introduce it with the Hustad setting. Fifty years of my life will come full circle.

I will also play a setting of “I Love to tell the Story,” but one I have recently learned, by Emma Lou Diemer, Professor Emeritus of Composition at the University of California at Santa Barbara.

I won’t try to wax eloquent about the importance both to my musical development and to my sanity of these hymn tunes and music I learned practicing at the First Baptist Church of Omaha. I will say only that in my (nearly life-long) confusion-bordering-on-apostasy about religious matters, this music is the constant, I could even say the anchor, of my life.

Donald Hustad’s “Children of the Heavenly Father” played on my small practice organ, recorded with a tiny digital camera.

The Artsy Lover

book rackMy guess is hardly anyone reading this has read The Art Lover by Carole Maso (New Directions, 1990).

In the 1950s travelers could arrive at Scottsbluff, Nebraska , by railroad or Trailways Bus. I think the Trailways depot was at the lower end of Broadway, across the street from the Lincoln Hotel (I’m sure my siblings will correct me if I’m wrong).

The depot was a dingy one-story brick building with a covered driveway where passengers could board buses sheltered from the weather. The waiting room comprised the rest of the building. I may, of course, be confusing this memory with one from—from God-knows-where.

The waiting room had a revolving wire book rack with books for sale. I clearly remember being with my father fetching someone from a bus. One of the books on the rack caught my attention, and I asked my father to buy it for me. His answer was, in essence, that any book one could buy in a bus station one ought not to read.

And so continued my education as a snob. One would hope merely an intellectual snob, but more likely simply “snob.”

That would not be a matter of concern if I possessed any quality, physical, mental, spiritual, or social, worthy of snobbery. But I don’t. And not buying books in bus stations (these days in airports) has deprived me of a great deal of pleasure without accomplishing much to improve my mind or my social standing.

Maintaining this questionable snobbery I’ve deprived myself of Mickey Spillane. Dashiell Hammett. Jonathan Latimer. Erle Stanley Gardner. Ross MacDonald. Michael Collins. Stephen King, Agatha Christie, and Danielle Steele. Hundreds of Westerns. Spy novels, detective novels, steamy sex novels, science fiction novels. J.K. Rowling. Much of what I have avoided is probably worthy of avoidance. But I have deprived myself of entertainment, of perfectly harmless but enjoyable means of passing the time. I have avoided “hidden pleasures” (or overt prurience).

As I reported here a couple of weeks ago, this spring I was introduced to Stieg Larsson’s Lisbeth Salander novels (thank you, Jerome Sims). I am now 200 pages from the end of the last of the three. I have read them with pleasure, interest, and suspense—which is exactly their purpose. When I first began reading, I snobbishly thought Larsson did not have the artistic skills to write the number one best-selling work world-wide. And then I gave up my “attitude.”

I hadn’t read for pleasure since the summer reading program at the Scottsbluff Public Library in about 1955. Kids were in groups named after Western explorers. When one of us finished a book, our explorer went another mile along the Oregon Trail. Mine was the Jim Bridger group. We did not win—because my brother’s friend Delmar Coe was in another group, and he read a book a day.
Save-Freedom-of-Worship
I love The Art Lover. It’s a novel about art, and it morphs into an autobiographical narrative about a friend of Carole Maso’s who died of AIDS, a novelistic tour de force. I love the Wagner Ring operas. I love the El Greco St. Francis in Prayer I first saw at the Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha when I was in high school. I had no idea what made it great art or why it affected me so deeply.

We are all snobs in our own way. Some wouldn’t see a rock musical for anything. Some wouldn’t attend a concert of music by Stockhausen if it was the last music on earth. Some wouldn’t drive two miles to see a Norman Rockwell painting. Some would drive two miles to avoid seeing a Picasso.

I used to own Good Taste, Bad Taste, and Christian Taste : Aesthetics in Religious Life by Frank Burch Brown. It’s an interesting book, but on the surface the idea is preposterous. I don’t know where my father learned what “good music” is (surely not at Immanuel Baptist Church in Kansas City in the ‘20s). But I knew from childhood until I was 50 or so, I thought “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” wasn’t “good music.”

I also knew—because his work didn’t hang in the Joslyn—Norman Rockwell wasn’t a great artist. Then I fell in love with the great-grandson of the old lady in his painting Freedom of Worship. Honest. My late partner.

The French philosopher Jacques Maritain wrote (I can’t quote it exactly) that one should not try to make art “Christian,” that the quality of love is what makes a work art.

So I’m hoping to give up being a snob, reverse or otherwise, in my old age and begin to experience what people make and do for the quality of love they put into it—not for my opinion if it’s great, or, for that matter, whether or not I like it.

The thread of one’s life (pretty corny, huh?)

The Maddeningly Meticulous Wordsmith

The Maddeningly Meticulous Wordsmith

Sixteen of my students will appear in my office today for individual conferences on the direction of their research and writing for the final research project the course requires. The subject in general is a comparison/ contrast of FDR’s “Date that Will Live in Infamy” speech and a speech by Sen. Robert A. Taft, “Let Us Stay out of War” from 1939.

I assign this topic because I am fascinated by presidential rhetoric in general and specifically the rhetoric of war and peace. My students will ultimately write, based on their research, an essay arguing the importance of Americans’ ability to understand presidential speechifying. The other two writing subjects for the semester, by the way, were the Gettysburg Address and Reagan’s Challenger Address.

Writing is, and always has been, my passion.

When Prof. Robert Nelson, then teaching creative writing at the University of Texas at Dallas where I was a doctoral student in the humanities with my concentration in creative writing, asked in a class if I had written that morning and I said, “Yes,” he said, “Then you are a writer.”

I write because I can’t not write (it’s my passion as well as a trait of those of us with Temporal Lobe Epilepsy—see Alice Flaherty’s book, The Midnight Disease; my version is the 4 o’clock in the morning disease). I also write because I grew up in a household in which words were the stuff of every day work and wonder. My father was a scholarly Baptist preacher, and a (maddeningly) meticulous wordsmith both in writing and in speaking. (How I ended up with a West Nebraska twang and somewhat slovenly patterns of speech is a fit subject for the study of the conflicting influences of one’s parents and their families.)

Writing has always been my (sometimes ignored and dormant) chief means of self-fulfillment (go ahead and laugh at the cliché).

I won’t recount the path by which I came to study music (I earned a Bachelor of Music—not Arts—with a major in Organ Performance) instead of writing in college and launched myself on a career in church music for which I was not particularly well suited, by either temperament or talent. Suffice it to say I was seduced by praise at a time when I was terrified of my limited intellectual abilities and of my socially unacceptable sexuality (I graduated high school in 1963).

Yesterday one of my students in conference asked me how I, a musician, ended up teaching Discovery and Discourse (the latest fancy name for first-year English composition) at SMU. Obviously the real question is how I, a writer, spent so much of my life pursuing a music career that could, at best, be competent but never brilliant.

Competent but never brilliant

Competent but never brilliant

I do not mean to imply that I would have been any closer to brilliant in a writing career. I would, however, have had (perhaps) and easier life, and might have been more stable and “successful,” whatever that means.

But I don’t mean to pout or second-guess myself, or to imply that I regret my choices. On the contrary, I have been able to be with, perform with, live with, travel with a lifetime full of remarkable talented and interesting—and, I must admit, attractive—people. I have worked for half-dozen faith communities, people whose understanding of “God” I have never quite been able to comprehend but whose love of music gave me always the opportunity to plan, direct, and perform wonderful music, without which I cannot imagine having lived—or without those people.

But this is not my point.

Perhaps I’ve come to see that for each of us there is a strand, a path, a direction—I don’t know what to call it—that, if we discover how to follow it, will lead us to where we are supposed to end up. This sounds so corny, so “inspirational” to me I can scarcely bear that I’ve written it. And, for once, I’m almost embarrassed to upload it even into my personal blog, the space where I can say anything I damned well please and no one can stop me.

But here I am, sitting in the home of my inamorato early in the morning, watching a Texas downpour, writing because I simply must, and thinking positively—a highly unusual event for me—about the fact that I’m doing what I want to do, pursuing the activity that gives me the most satisfaction of anything I might occupy myself with. And realizing—because I had to think about an answer to a question posed by a nineteen-year-old only now beginning to form his life—that this was where I was headed from the beginning.

No grand finish here.  Merely a bit of self understanding.
A former life

Let’s amend the Constitution

I propose a 28th Amendment to the Constitution reading:


“Neither Congress nor any State Legislature shall pass any law limiting any person’s right to be free from violence at the hands of those who bear arms.”

A book I know well says, “We will not regret the past, nor wish to close the door on it.” I have tried for years to come to terms with that concept. To make it part of my self-perception. Internalizing the idea is pretty difficult for me because much in my past I wish had been otherwise than it was.

I know, I know. Everyone can say that—and would if she were being unabashedly honest. But whether wishing it were not so is the same as regretting, I’ll let keener minds than mine decide. My distinction is that I can regret only those choices I made consciously and willingly, while I can wish experiences over which I had little or no control had not happened.