Category: Life of Rob

Rimrock retreat – a day at Ghormley Meadows

On By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing Poetic2 Comments

The day after Holy Week. It is bittersweet. Bitter, because all that the week promises in its wealth of life-giving news and hints of transformation is gone for another year. Sweet, because such a grand narrative is never over. It is always just beginning.

For National Poetry Month and to honor a most delightful day at a local Christian camp, I offer the following:

 

Rimrock retreat – a day at Ghormley Meadows

 

Rimrock, rustic and real with space

to contain all that’s empty.

The rugged road cast before feet apace

where moon outshines the sun’s identity-

but loses out to one yet brighter.

 

Pillaged, austere and raw this one comes

bent and spent he went round

and there to see tomb unmanned, he’d won

what spillage, spewed, is spared, fixed and found.

I was blind but now have sight, or

 

is all that sees as blind or lost

as one whose eyes are just downcast?

For just to see is not to walk, wind-toss’d

and free from nature’s slighted past.

Between the stones of each one’s road

 

grow wild, still, evidences of strangely new

that mix with voices old to taunt

and vie for the once-free. But they, too

must retreat or be removed like mustard-mount

seeds of faith renewed, of hope, sowed

 

to keep and deepen the promised field

of unswept dreams and unkept pains;

detritus of lesser gods gives way to peals

of forest bells and words and Word unstain’d

This one’s tale of a Tale once and forever told.

There was this dog

On By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

To honor those who endure the loss of any dear, family pet.

For Skittles (and…)

 

Sullen cries, all joy despise

when blind even All-Seeing eyes –

there was this dog.

 

Turbid seas, invited see

what men in better times might be –

there was this dog.

 

Gathered moss, a grey-green toss

of silt and muck and sun-less loss –

there was this dog.

 

Darkened days, all hope a haze

delight could spare no time nor trace –

there was this dog.

 

When fortune called, new joy installed,

instead of dark, did grace befall –

there was this dog.

 

Unnerving sounds, made still hearts pound,

her swift, sharp sound brought courage found –

there was this dog.

 

Children’s songs, if one or thronged

her faithful joy to them belonged –

there was this dog.

 

Days alone, unwelcome won,

kisses, wet, when we got home –

there was this dog.

 

Time has come, when pipe and drum,

ne’er fully celebrates this one –

there was this dog.

 

There is this dog.

Finding my way with words…

On By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing Poetic, Words...always wordsLeave a comment

What a strange thing, this struggle finding something to write. Life is never empty and always full of at least enough interest to fill a paragraph or two. It continually amazes me when someone can render readable jewels from the dungish fodder life tosses their way. I suppose such narrative prowess belongs to the realm of poets, novelists, troubadours and storytellers. I’ve been a willingly geeked-out participant in their literary entourage my entire life. Perhaps only as admiring onlooker, but from time to time venturing into their territory – cautiously, with reticence, but always possessing an eagerness to be acknowledged in their illustrious company.

Many journeys have I keenly undertaken as some writer, deft of phrase and swift of word, has led me into places both simple and strange, dark and macabre, airy and transforming. My own meager, quaint words are a stuttering effort toward unlocking similar doors for others to enter.

As I’ve stated elsewhere, I’ve had a love affair with language since I can remember anything at all. Words, like the clink of ice and water in a frosty glass, assuage my gnawing thirst for the beauty, passion, or meditative pause they offer. As chilled water rushes down a parched gullet cleansing and renewing along the way, words nimbly used bring similar rejuvenation to my spiritual throat.

I’ve had friends along the way who have helped nurture this love for language. The great poets have helped seal the deal in my pursuit of words and their meanings. John Donne with his inimitable “three person’d God” or the unforgettable Wordsworth, whose Romantic era pontifications opened to us the rooted origins of wisdom brought us

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety.

Emily Dickson holds second place to no preacher with such prophetic words as these:

Behind Me — dips Eternity –


Before Me — Immortality –


Myself — the Term between –

Gerard Manley Hopkins takes first place for me. It’s hard to top such lyrically perfect sentences as “He fathers forth whose beauty is past change” or “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.” Closest to many hearts might be “the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

I’m well aware that I’m not alone in this love. Many fellow writers and bloggers share the giddy, geeky excitement of a well-turned phrase, well-placed modifier, well-spoken sentence and well-written story. I am always challenged and delighted by the work of these friends on this journey of words (prepare for shameless plugs). Barbara Lane, whose approachable, touching and personal tales always delight, Lesley-Anne Evans, a fellow poet and Canadian, Christianne Squires, who writes deeply on the spiritual life, and Seymour Jacklin, poet and master storyteller introduced to me by Barbara, to name but a few. All of these and more have provided a backdrop full of letters, words and sentences that have moved me beyond all reckoning.

Marilyn Chandler McEntyre proffers intentional steps in reclaiming and reinvigorating language from its present morass in her book Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies. She asks all the right questions, premier among them being, why worry about words? Her answers have had me glued to this book as she butters my lexical toast with rich, creamy goodness (should I have chosen a different metaphor here?).

The reclarification and reinvigoration of language is necessary in order for it to once again communicate, heal, unite, instruct, and draw us into mystery. She even goes so far as to suggest that our protection of language is a moral issue in that it has become so entangled in corporate and war-speak as to be largely impotent in regular conversation. Language has been effectively retrofitted to serve the causes of dominance and conquest. Good conversation is like wool on the spinning wheel, creating something of warmth and substance, drawing us to comfort and community.

I will save the rest of my thoughts on Ms. McEntyre’s wonderful book for another time. Suffice it to say, words are my friends, or at least acquaintances with whom I hope to be on the waiting list to be invited into that great feast of letters, subtleties, and the whirling dervish of dancing metaphor – a veritable stew of yummy lingual goodness.

If I can get in the door, I’m hoping to get an autograph.

 

 

 

Journal vs. Blog – why less is more

On By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Words...always words1 Comment

As I’ve written elsewhere, I love to journal. I’ve been doing so, poorly, since about 1985. As such, it has not been an uncommon thing to receive new journals at Christmas or for birthdays. It’s especially meaningful when my boys buy new journals for me. My younger son, Graeme, bought my last one. It is now full of my life; spillings of poetry, life musings and assorted literary brick-a-brack. I used a bookmark he once made for my wife that, along with his delightful pre-pubescent picture on it also contains the words “I love you Mom!” How could that not be life changing?

What follows is a typical example of what I might write in any given journal, especially a new one. And, as you shall see, there is no small irony in the sharing thereof.

“I wonder how many times I’ve had the experience of pen on paper, the brand new journal? Most notable is that both my sons have purchased new journals for me; Graeme a few years ago and now, this Christmas, mere hours ago, my older son, Calum. It is beautiful, leather bound and handmade in India (I guess, in the interest of appreciation for the thoughtfulness of my son, I’ll temporarily suspend my moral suspicion as to who may have constructed it!).

My spotty, irregular journalling discipline would be a poor picture indeed of how deeply meaningful it is for me. Yet, in spite of that fact I know so little about the art of creative chronicling one’s life journey. The greatest benefit of journalling is also its greatest challenge: slowing down long enough to consider, carefully and lovingly, one’s pilgrimage with God and others. It is one thing to write about life events. It is quite another to probe and record one’s thoughts assiduously, faithfully, prayerfully.

Even blogging, something else I enjoy immensely, is fast-paced by comparison, hampered only by the pace of my not inconsiderable typing skills. The sheer number of available words per minute on computer may in fact be counter-intuitive to the deeper interiority asked of me in writing out those same words.

What is it about our contemporary, Western mindset that demands such unsustainable productivity? Even as I write this I find myself thinking how much less efficient it is to write these words only to type them again an hour later for the benefit of my blog. Moreover, I can only surmise at the diminished capacity for memory and ongoing, dynamic interaction with my own interior life because of the ease of a ‘save’ button.

To sit quietly for long periods of time with small things, few words or simple thoughts is vanishing quickly from our cultural milieu. For our experience of time and space to provide enough interest it must be liberally peppered with constant stimuli, a veritable banquet of over-the-top sensory memorabilia. We are both products and victims of our own infantile detritus.

Anyway, I must now move on as this entry has taken much longer to write than the length of time it would take me to mindlessly watch a sit-com, fast forwarding through the commercials….”

From pen to tea and back again

On By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Words...always words2 Comments

Fairly consistently, since about 1985, I’ve kept a journal. Well, I write in them. I write the stuff that happens to me in them, the stuff happening in and around me. It’s cathartic in one sense, having the cleansing effect of affecting a greater “soulishness” about the way I live and relate to my world. The visceral feel of pen on paper gives an immediate reminder of my mortality and the deeply sensory way God moves in us.

These days, however, I do most of my “writing” on computer and my pen is rusty, dulled through inactivity. It has sat, bored and undemanding, awaiting my return to saner pastures where the literary stream of consciousness I call writing gives voice once more to the complex confines of my inner circus. It is a life that always needs the light of day to prevent it from becoming just another cavernous, uninteresting drone of pedantic inactivity. Still, it acts as worthy opponent to any temptation toward self-aggrandizement. Try reading, honestly, your journalistic exploits twenty years after the fact and one is speedily confronted with the fact that the same shit I dealt with then is pretty much the same now, only with a few added layers of sophistication. This probably makes them more insidious since it is a common reality among us all to live out our lives, more or less, as the same person from start to finish. Our dissatisfaction with this reality dwells in kahoots with God’s unending desire to find us. The result is what we commonly call spiritual formation.

This morning’s exercise in stretching my spiritual muscles comes in the form of a feisty, deeply intelligent nun, sister Alice St. Hilaire. She is my friend, a fellow Ignatian and my spiritual director. If anyone can see through my often blinding hypocrisy it’s sister Alice. I have come to depend on this valuable insight lovingly offered. This is most likely because I live in a pretty consistent fog; a mushy, grey pudding of sleepy ambiguity and lack of focus all peppered liberally with self-doubt. There are always questions – so many questions, all of which become annoyingly absent the moment I sit down to sip tea and share God-talk with sister Alice.

She is never bothered by what bothers me. Am I to be intrigued or insulted by this? To be sure, it can be disconcerting whenever someone hears the most vulnerable bits of our lives and offers back ne’er a blink. It’s as though she is thinking, “alright, is that it, then? You’re all worked up about that?” A good spiritual director is one who listens to the story behind the story, ably stripping away the layers of our experience like Shrek’s onion. “Ogres have layers” he quips. If he only knew! They are adept at sensing where God might be in our unfolding narrative and never seem to be in a hurry to suggest broad, sweeping changes that might make things all better.

If I didn’t already have at least some rudimentary awakening to the things of God, such mental vapidity would seem cruelly disappointing. Of this one thing I am certain, God does not intrude upon our journey to provide certainty and a laundry list of perfectly satisfactory answers to all our queries. Countless souls, significantly greater than myself have discovered this long before me, Job being chief among them. If Job’s experience can be considered normative in any contemporary sense, we should take away the abiding idea that God does not exist to provide us with answers. Instead, God gives us better questions.

Every time I step into sister Alice’s quaint living room, the presence of God is thick in the place, literally dripping from the walls and windows and oozing out of the carpet. It smells faintly of whatever modest breakfast was consumed earlier and bears the years of humble struggle to survive in Yakima’s tough downtown, providing shards of light in the darkness there. Where my family and I dwell comfortably in “suburgatory” (thank you ABC) in our multi-bedroom home with our multi-vehicle mobility, she chooses to live in a quiet, unobtrusive peace in the midst of the despairing milieu of Yakima’s poor and destitute.

Sister Alice is fond of saying that the ways by which God has revealed Godself to me becomes who I am and paves the way for whatever may be next. If she is any indication of the ramifications of this statement, then I need to make the journey from pen to tea and back again. It is a trip exponentially greater than the sum of the miles involved. It is a foray into the heart of God.

To sing or not to sing

On By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Words...always words1 Comment

Walking the boardwalk on a sunny, summer evening in a seaside tourist town – alone – feels a little like bicycling with one petal or being the only kid at the school dance who never has a dance partner. Places like this – Seaside, Oregon ironically, are meant to be shared. It’s not that one cannot enjoyably breath in the heady, highly sensory ocean ethos of such places on one’s own. I’ve done it many times before. An introvert by nature, I rather bask in the relative repose easily gleanable from such experiences. No, it’s quite simply the much deeper joy of cackling like friendly chickens over a reciprocated love.

There’s just something unnamable, almost intangible, in shared experiences like these. To be with others you know and who know you sprinkles a delight and sweetness on the top that magnifies the joy exponentially. C.S Lewis knew this well and alludes to it in the Four Loves. One’s love for someone or thing amplifies in the sharing thereof. The mutuality of “yeah, I get it” is one of life’s greatest gifts. It is, I suppose, a function of our naturally communal human nature. To share is natural when we love something and find it difficult to articulate to ourselves alone.

Either because I am indecisive when it comes to choosing hobbies or because I am not in possession of anything close to a reasonable ability to say ‘no’ to anything remotely interesting, I have a host of varied spheres in which I have lived, moved and shared. One such world is the reason for my brief sojourn to this little Pacific paradise. I am attending a weeklong workshop for choral conductors.

I have had a profound appreciation for the choral tradition and its sublime repertoire my whole life. I recall with some reverie singing in the St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church youth choir as a young elementary school kid. Although a right pain in the ass to the conductor I am forever grateful for her patience in opening the door to music I could never fully describe.

Similar to the annoying guy forever showing pictures of his kids on the subway, I am left with another thing I love to share (foist really) at every opportunity. Even then at around eleven years old I was equally intrigued with Henry Purcell, Johannes Brahms and Palestrina as I was with Simon and Garfunkel, Elvis Presley or Rush. My piano teacher at the time thought it commendable. My parents thought it quaint. To the older kids at school it forever sealed my fate as the tall, geeky brown-noser who perhaps fancied himself a cut above the rest.

Turned up noses meant nothing however as the first notes of some a cappella chamber choir began to nip at the edges of my soul, expanding it to be singed by the burning beauty of voices shared in common cause. For those who have yet to be entranced by such beauty, caught in the choral clutches of grace to which you are a contributor, I pray one day you find it even as I have. We’ll have one more thing whose beauty grows more in the sharing.