In response to a hate-filled e-mail

I really question why people continue to propagate "hate speech" like that found in a recent e-mail that was forwarded to me. It was a tirade directed against our "Muslim" President Obama and all those "un-American Muslims" who live in our United States.

I found it offensive, and feel that it does no justice to the values that we all, as Americans, hold dear.

Did our fathers, uncles, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, brothers, sisters, neighbors and friends fight and die in vain? Were the values they held dear enough to stand for, fight for and die for meaningless enough to be discarded as soon as we feel that someone has the audacity to simply be different from those we are accustomed to living around and dealing with?

These accusations, insinuations and insults remind me of the hatred exhibited toward the Irish in the mid-19th century, the suspicion exhibited toward German-Americans during World War I and World War II, the treatment of Japanese-Americans during World War II. It's just as senseless as the hatred exhibited toward Blacks in the Carpetbagger-ridden South after the Civil War, the cruel intolerance and hatred perpetrated toward Catholics by the KKK in the early 20th century, and the McCarthy era treatment of artists, writers, Jewish-Americans, and certain intellectuals suspected of knowing or associating with Communist party members (at a time when belonging to such a party was still seen as perfectly acceptable activity).

Is the American Way this kind of hatred and intolerance, or have we learned from our past? Perhaps we should spend more energy examining our past, lest we become doomed to relive it.

Perhaps we should spend more time trying to understand and respect our neighbors, instead of perpetrating this hatred and mistrust.

I'm Just Saying . . .

I was thinking about things I have been passionate about in my life. . .

Early on I found myself to be passionate about music. Singing in the choir, singing while cleaning my grade school classrooms and hallways, singing while speeding down the street on my bike, singing while walking the streets of Highland Park . . . . Later, I tried (and mostly failed at) becoming passionate about the piano and organ. But the mechanics of piano got in the way of my making music. When I discovered the guitar, I found the shortcut to making music happen NOW, and I was hooked.

For the next 40+ years, I delighted in expressing myself with, through and accompanied by my treasured companion, my guitar. I've plugged away learning picking and strumming techniques. I've played for campfire hootenannies and lakeside parties. I've played for charismatic prayer gatherings, small liturgical celebrations, weddings, funerals, and large choral celebrations. I've played to console myself in the dark of night, to comfort my friends through troubling times, to woo and win the love of my life, and to entertain and amaze my babies. I've played with my guitar, prayed with my guitar, hidden behind my guitar, and followed my guitar through adventure after adventure. I guess you could say I was passionate about my relationship with my guitar. I miss it. With any luck (and maybe a lot of work), I might yet reclaim it.

I've been passionate about my Church. I've taken to heart the call to aggiornamento and resourcement that the framers and prophets of Vatican II issued to us all. Why not engage the world as a Church? Why not take seriously the baptism that beckons us and anoints us to the Christian life? I've passionately (if not rather awkwardly and often timidly) sought to involve myself in the life of my church community. I've worked within the RCIA, children's catechesis, adult faith enrichment, and liturgical ministry. I've passionately delved into Church history, particularly looking for clues in the last couple of centuries of the RC Church life in the New World. What can the efforts of truly sincere believers, wrestling with the unknown and untried, mean for my own faith journey in 21st-century America? There are really no answers -- only the process and the journey. And I'm thrilled to be on that pilgrimage.

I've been passionate about my family. Perhaps I've learned this late in my life, but I've learned it nonetheless. Starting with my nearly 33-year relationship with my wife, a woman who has loved me deeply, passionately and patiently, I have begun to understand the challenge as well as the rewards that flow from a deeply committed relationship. Along the way, I've begun to realize just how committed I am to my family -- both my family of origin and the family I've been privileged to help bring into being. What can be more reassuring and confidence-building than to have six sisters who are determined to see our mutual relationships maintained and nurtured? What can be more gratifying than to see your children grow into the fantastic human beings you know them capable of being? What can be more satisfying than growing into old age with the love of your life, the mother of your children? Family isn't something we have, something we possess. Family is something much more basic, much more fundamental. Family is something we are.

Not that these are all the things about which I am passionate. God knows there are other things, like defending the right to speak my mind when it's warranted, the delight I take in reflecting on the absurdities of daily life, the enjoyment I take in creating an edible and enjoyable meal, and the pleasure I derive from finding, possessing, reading and appreciating a good book. There are the precious relationships with friends that inspire a passionately loyal and loving response. The passions are many, but without them -- what would life be?

I'm just saying. . . .

Blogger's Block??

I really do want to engage in the discipline (and excitement) of blogging. For one thing, I'm absolutely convinced that I must have something worth sharing with you who read my words. For another, I have all the time in the world to record those thoughts. So why am I having so much difficulty writing??

It couldn't be that nothing is going on in my life. I mean how much more interesting could I want my life to be? Five hours at the dialysis clinic, three times a week, bonding with similarly renally-challenged characters seeking to rid their bodies of excess fluid and toxins that their under-performing kidneys can no longer jettison -- what's not to like? Getting to know a delightful crew of nurses, technicians, social workers, nutritionists, physician's assistants, nephrologists, specialists in venous access -- the list of supporting cast goes on and on -- and it is my pleasure to get to know and depend on each and every one of them. And this fifteen-hour-a-week commitment makes possible the other 153 hours between Saturday and the next Friday each week. It's a blessing beyond description!

And it's not that I don't have regular contact with friends and family. At least daily I hear from siblings, old classmates, former employers or fellow employees, friends, acquaintances, doctors' offices, pharmacists, fundraisers, political canvassers, grown children, and even my father. I'm more connected to people than I've been in years!

It's certainly not that my family isn't here for me. On the contrary, I've never felt more wanted, loved, supported and cared for than I have been these last two years. It's almost embarrassing to see how solicitous they all are for my wellbeing. It's truly humbling.

I don't know. Maybe I just spend so much time enjoying each and every day that I forget to put down in words the wonder and awe that I experience. I forget that you who care for me, who love me, who encourage and pray for me -- that you just might care to know how my life has been touched and transformed by your heartfelt and largely undeserved love and attention.

And I can hardly begin to tell you all about it. It's almost impossible to know where to start. But thank God I have the story to tell!

Twain Finally Tells All

It's been a hundred years since Sam Clemens passed from this world -- at least in body. But now, fulfilling his dying wish, Mark Twain's full, outspoken, no-holds-barred autobiography is being published. Volume I is now in my hands, and I'm so excited I can hardly turn the pages fast enough! Seven hundred thirty-six pages of Twain's extensive notes and rambling dictation, honed by the meticulous work of Harriet Elinor Smith and half a dozen contributing editors, offer a treasure to be mined and savored for days and weeks to come.

Not that I haven't tried my best to read everything I could lay my hands on about Sam Clemens/Mark Twain over the last thirty-plus years! My walls are lined with books by and about the man and the myth. But now I have a chance to read the story of his life as he wanted to tell it: uncensored and honest, telling it like it was, without fear or hesitation. Should be extremely fun listening to Twain "speaking from beyond the grave."

Now if I can just figure out how I'm going to handle this mammoth book with my one good hand . . . !

Life in the Mirror

Man, have I missed playing the guitar over the last two years! I guess I shouldn't be surprised. After all, after playing guitar for over forty years, I stopped cold-turkey just before Christmas 2008, waking up that January totally unable to move my left hand. "Maybe you'll get back the use of your hand within the next year or so," they tried to tell me. I mostly denied that anything could possibly happen to make things better. Unfortunately, I've been mostly right.

So now I'm thinking that I should try playing left-handed guitar. Why not? Same principle, just mirror image, right? Chords with the right hand, strumming or picking with the left. Besides, I really need to have an outlet for my musical impulses, and I'm frankly tired of playing simplistic rhythm instruments like the claves. So now I have to decide whether to spend a few bucks to have the strings reversed on my wife's classical guitar, or bite the bullet and spend the extra money to buy a left-handed Martin Backpacker. Either way, I think I'm now up for the challenge. Besides, it's better than not playing at all!

Even if all I do is play badly, I'll be no worse than ninety percent of those who call themselves guitar players....

Try, Try Again!

The last time I tried to share via the blogosphere, I was in a rapid health decline that culminated in my sudden--and literally unconscious--landing in the intensive care unit of my local health care facility. Since the slow but sure process of my recovery began, I have found that I have more and more opportunity to reflect on the meaning and focus (or lack thereof) of my existence. 

So let's try again to share what little I have.

Long hours of reflection can be a real drag, especially for someone with a depressive personality. Circular thinking becomes an art form. Lack of focus becomes the norm. Memory wields its two-edged sword: long-term memories increasingly cut into the present consciousness, and short-term memories dull and fade at an alarming rate. Sometimes it's hard to know which thoughts I've verbalized and which I haven't. Dreams become more real, and reality becomes more dreamlike. Each day becomes more like any other. Aarrgghh!

So right now I'm looking for a little purpose and direction in my day-to-day life. I'm still trying to wrap my head around my physical limitations, most of which are very real. At the same time I'm wrestling with psychological demons (real or imagined) that keep me second-guessing myself and limiting my full recovery. 


But enough about limitations and emotional stagnation. It's time to get on with it!