Posts Tagged ‘Easter’

Letter From New York 03 24 2016 From where we were to where we are…

March 25, 2016

Darkness has descended on the Hudson Valley; it is pitch black outside though I am heartened everyday by the weather person’s announcement we had three or so more minutes of daylight today than yesterday.

I’ve adjusted the timers on lights to accommodate the increasing daylight.  I rejoice as I am sure everyone does.

My dining room table is scattered with recipes from which I will choose the ones being made for Easter.  I am getting it organized.   I bought upgraded plastic silverware for Sunday.  Since I am doing this, I want it to be a little special — or a lot special.

In the morning I will winnow down the recipes and head out to do my shopping.  My friend Robert has given me eight dozen eggs from the chickens who live at his house down in Rhinebeck.  I had some for lunch.  There is nothing like farm fresh eggs!

While I am typing this, Christ Church is celebrating Maundy Thursday and I wasn’t feeling very churchy tonight so I didn’t go.

Probably feeling more churchy than I do, or at least one would hope so, is Radovan Karadzic, the former Serb leader who was convicted today of genocide during the horrific Serbian conflict twenty-one years ago.  Eight thousand Muslim men and boys were slaughtered in a town called Srebrenica.  Justice finally has been done though it will not bring back those men and boys whose only crime was that they were born Muslim.

At the time, when it was revealed, I felt horror and I feel it today.  There was a time when such things happened to Christians; indeed, they are happening today to Christians at the hands of IS.  It is things like Srebrenica that make IS feel justified.

It’s been a happy day for me, feeling far from all the world’s troubles, tooling around Columbia County, collecting mail, a couple of meetings with organizations I am volunteering with, a haircut, bumping into people on the street and having a good conversation with them.

While I was doing those fun things, the police in Paris foiled an alleged terror attack in advanced stages.  Obama apologized in Argentina for some of our policies and actions during their long and very dirty internal war.  I suspect we turned too blind an eye to some things.

Belgium and Europe in general are struggling to balance freedom and safety in the fight against terrorist attacks.

In America, Ted Cruz and Donald Trump are exploiting our fears in their campaigns; loudly criticized and, I think, rightly so, by Obama.  And I think by Hillary and Bernie, too.

Syrian troops loyal to Assad are in the suburbs of Palmyra in the early stages of reclaiming the city from IS, which has this year lost 21% of the territory it controlled.  The monuments destroyed are gone and it will be good if the city can be liberated.  It has suffered terribly.

At the same time, Iraqi troops are advancing into Mosul, using lessons from the recapture of Ramadi to help them win back this important Iraqi city.  Many of the historical treasures there are gone also, never to be seen again.

I do not live in their mindset and cannot come close to comprehending why it was necessary for them to destroy the heritage of the planet.  But they did.  It ranks up there with the killings at Srebrenica.  Maybe it doesn’t.  At Srebrenica those were living beings that were destroyed.  At Palmyra and Mosul, it was the artifacts of the past that helped create the world in which we now live.

There are echoes of that world here in the cottage.  I have treasured artifacts from the past and things that echo them.  Someday, when I am gone, all this will be scattered, some thrown away but in the time they have had with me I have been grateful for their presence.

There is a small collection of masks, a recreation of a bust of Athena from Greece, a painting from India that evokes Alexander, a Renoir re-strike, a wonderful painting from a Provincetown gallery of Alexander. 

We need the past to build the future, to connect ourselves from where we were to where we are going.

Letter From New York 03 05 2016 From Churchill to Yemen…

March 6, 2016

Winston Churchill used to say he was chased by the “black dog,” depression.  It chased him his whole life and he ran, mostly successfully, from it his whole life. Sometimes, when the “black dog” felt particularly close, Winston would sometimes go off to Morocco and paint, drink and think and probably write.  He wrote more than Dickens and Shakespeare combined.

He may well have been a manic-depressive.  During the war he was followed around by his personal physician, Lord Moran, who prescribed upper and downers to manage the moods of the great man.

He was black dogged by depression and I was thinking about that last night as I rode home on the train, black dogged myself.  I had gone down to the city yesterday, had a full day of appointments and when I stepped on the train last night I was exhausted and felt the old black dog nipping at my heels.

When I got home, I went to bed almost immediately and fell asleep early watching an episode of “Doc Martin,” about an English doctor only marginally more cranky than I was last night.

When the morning broke, I was my usual sunny self and, while sipping tea, worked on next week’s lectures.  The day was spent on that and the Saturday chores.  Young Nick was here and we did things that needed to be done, mounting a light fixture, cleaning, sorting, rearranging, bringing in wood and dealing with the trash.  The things we do on Saturday.

Going down to the Dot, I welcomed Alana back from three weeks in Costa Rica and then, after an omelet and a Bloody Mary, came home to write my letter, which often is one of the most pleasurable times in the day. 

Turning on the floodlights so the creek is illuminated, I sorted through the last couple of days.

The rise of Trump has been a constant cause for conversation though as I returned home, I discovered Ted Cruz had won the Kansas caucuses and he is at least as frightening to me as Trump.  Both of them seem to me to be wack-a-doodles from some other dimension.  This earns me no points with my conservative friends but it’s true; it’s how I feel.

Caitlin Jenner wants to be Ted Cruz’s “trans ambassador.”  I am not sure he’s interested in having one.

Popular comedian Louis CK has implored his fans not to vote for Trump, likening him to Hitler.  Trump, not necessarily looking to support Louis CK’s view of him, announced he would increase the use of torture if he were President.

“Downtown Abbey” ends tomorrow night.  I have already seen the last episode as I subscribed to the feed through iTunes.  Let’s tip a hat to Alistair Bruce, who was in charge of making sure it was historically accurate.  He did a magnificent job.

A fire is burning in the stove; I’ve rearranged some lights in the house.  I like the effect as I sit here at the dining room table, the creek lit in front of me, jazz playing and my thoughts running.

Four nuns and twelve others were killed in Yemen during an attack.  Gunmen entered the building, handcuffed the victims and then shot them.  It’s not yet clear who carried out the attack.  The Pope has decried it; the nuns were members of the order founded by Mother Theresa.

Boko Haram, the scourge of Nigeria, is suffering from a food crisis.  With all the people who have fled them, no is left to grow crops or herd animals and they are beginning to starve.  Hungry and desperate, they are ruthlessly raiding which, I suspect, will only increase the cycle they have created.

And in my cycle, I am going to sign off for tonight.  I need to be up in the morning, work on my lectures and then to church.  I signed up to do coffee hour on Easter Sunday, not quite realizing that it was a major, major thing and I am now expected to come up with something quite spectacular.  Cookbooks are out.  Recipes are being reconnoitered. 

I have a meeting about this tomorrow at 12:30.  I think I may have over stretched and I will rise to the challenge.

Letter From New York 04 05 15 On the way from Delhi…

April 5, 2015

It is Easter, the most important and holiest of Christian holidays, the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, the central moment at the heart of the Christian religion, celebrated each day a service is held. Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again, in all his glory to judge the living and the dead.

If I were in Hudson, I would be at Christ Church Episcopal, celebrating Easter with that little community, listening to my friend Lionel sing his Easter solo. There would be coffee and cakes and community afterwards and then, probably, I would have cooked an Easter dinner or a group of us would have gone out for Easter dinner.

As it is, I am some 30,000 plus feet in the air, in the final hours of the long flight from Delhi to London, where I will spend a few hours and then head on to New York and to home.

The flight has been uneventful, which is always what one wants a flight to be.

A very young lady from India has been very unhappy and has spent most of the flight screaming at regular intervals, a series of wails that soared through the cabin. She has now, I believe, exhausted herself and slipped into sleep; she lasted six and a half hours.

While I napped, I never completely fell asleep as I could hear her in the background. It reminded me of a time when I had teeth pulled. I was asleep but was going around a wheel with a candle at the bottom and every time I went round, the candle burned me.

When I boarded, I was handed a copy of yesterday’s Daily Mail from London, a paper short on news and long on gossip.

It did report the depth of unhappiness Prime Minister Netanyahu holds about the potential Iranian nuclear deal and a great deal about Nicola Sturgeon, who heads Scotland’s SNP. She may be the power broker in the general elections in Britain in May. Seems she did a right fine job of outdebating her English rivals. She’s being hailed “Queen of Scots” today. If her party wins a predicted 40 or more seats, she could align with Labour and form a government. That wouldn’t have happened since 1924.

There was also a huge exegesis of the fashion turnaround of the last ten years by Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall and wife of Charles, Prince of Wales.

Several juicy stories about politicians in sexual peccadillos followed.

All fascinating.

And here I am, having awakened in Delhi and, if all things go as planned, will fall asleep in New York, half a world away from where I have been living the last two weeks.

One of the things I was thinking about this morning as I was closing my suitcases was the light in India. Everything in India seemed bathed in a softer light than New York, as if light came through a filter, even when it was at its hottest and brightest. I remember thinking that in other trips to India; how different the light was. It may be the dust and the pollution or some other factor.

Indulging myself, I have been reading Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries, great fun for long flights and travel. I have several of them on my Kindle.

Sitting here in my seat, I have a sense of traveling away from somewhere; a sense of movement, which I am sure, would have been intensified a century ago when the only way to India was by long sea voyage.

Today we are catapulted from one world to another, with just hours to adjust. I think I would like to have that time at sea to contemplate what I had seen, heard, felt and experienced.

Now I am rushing to make sense of things. It is the way of the world in which we live, a rush of things, a rush of information, a rush between places and a rush to assimilate the information we are receiving.

Yes, right now I would like to be on a deck chair on a steamer slowly making its way back to London so I could pause and gather my thoughts, feel my way internally through my experiences.

Letter From New York 04 03 15 Good Friday in Delhi…

April 3, 2015

To my great surprise, I discovered that today, Good Friday, is a national holiday in India, created as such in an effort to secularize India. My friend, Sanjay, thought it was an excellent idea.

Felled late last night by Jaipur’s version of Delhi Belly, I spent an uncomfortable night, waking tired but with the storm having passed. So far, so good today. I’ve been incredible lucky health wise in India, except for last night.

Meeting Sanjay for breakfast, I declined to go with him on a business meeting he had and went back to my room and slept an extra hour, which was good for me. I read a little, did a few emails and then Sanjay and I headed out of Jaipur toward Delhi.

As I have become accustomed to doing, I willed myself into nap mode on the drive back, finding it easier on the system to not watch in real time the continuous close calls that make up a day on the road in India. I popped an eye open to see that we were virtually on top of another vehicle. Closing my eyes again, I went back to my happy place.

On the part of the trip when I was awake, Sanjay commented to me that he is discouraged by how India does not pick up after itself. He said that it was always dusty and dirty but not trashy, now trash lines the roads in some parts. Such is India. Up and coming and down and dirty.

At one point, we drove through Gurgoan, a city within the city of Delhi, skyscrapers swarming the landscape, modern buildings that look like they belong in Phoenix or Des Moines or any other mid-sized American city. It’s where the advertising agencies have settled along with most of the cable networks, like Discovery.

Next time you suspect your customer service call has been directed to India, it may well be to one of the buildings in Gurgoan.

From my long night last night, I am planning to stay in my room and recuperate. I’m still a bit tired.

Tomorrow morning, I am having a late coffee with Kiran Karnik, who was head of Discovery India at the time I was out helping with the launch. He has gone on to do many more things, including leading NASSCOM, the association for the software industry in India.

Following that, my friend Raja is picking me up so he can introduce me to his wife, who has been down in Mumbai, and so I can see at least one of the shops she runs in Delhi.

Sanjay’s wife, Natasha, has been in Thailand and is returning tonight. Hopefully the three of us will have dinner on Saturday, my last night in India this trip. Sunday at 1:05 I should be lifting off for the long flight back to New York, crossing at least nine time zones and ending in New York at 11:00 PM on Sunday. It’s my intention to go straight to the little apartment in New York, line my bags up like good soldiers and dive into sleep.

While I slept, President Obama announced a framework for a deal with Iran in the Rose Garden. Apparently, it is more detailed than expected. Not unexpected is the war of words that will follow, accompanied by some gnashing of teeth, as Kerry and Obama continue to work to a final agreement.

A thirty-seven year old man, Louis Jordan, survived sixty-six days at sea before being rescued by a container ship. During the ordeal, his boat capsized several times, all his equipment was smashed and he learned to harvest fish that found his laundry enticing.

Nearly 150 individuals, mostly students, were killed in a Shabab attack on a Kenyan University in Garissa, in the eastern part of the country. They came in, separated Christian from Muslim and killed the Christians.

For Christians, this is the holiest time of the year, the time when Jesus was crucified, died and rose from the dead.

It is remarkably sad that religious hatred rips this world apart as fiercely as it did when the Christ lived, walked the earth, preached and died.

Letter From New York, April 26, 2011

April 26, 2011

Or, as it seems to me…

It is the end of the long Easter weekend and, as I often do at the end of Easter, I find myself thoughtful. I was raised Catholic and am infused with that tradition. I will always be infused with that. As my friend Robert said to me last year about this time: once a Catholic, always a Catholic. And I will always, on some level, be Catholic, an inescapable state.

I do not practice Roman Catholicism though I sometimes attend Catholic services, not often though. I sometimes attend Episcopal services. I have done so since I was in college.

And it was while I was in college that Easter became something more than it had been in my Catholic childhood. It became a time of reflection, of personal stocktaking, of understanding that there is a place in history that this weekend represents which is important in the course of human events. Regardless of your belief structure, it is impossible to deny that the life and death of Jesus changed the world forever.

My most important Good Friday happened when I was in college. My roommate Ron and I were driving back from Toronto where we went frequently; he was marrying a girl from there. As we drove back from Toronto on that Good Friday, driving as we were day and night, we read THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE by C.S. Lewis to each other. As Aslan was resurrected, the sun burst through the dismal skies of that day and the sun made a glorious appearance through the hills of Wisconsin.

I cried that day at the power of the story. And ever since that day I have paid deep attention to Good Friday, every Good Friday since then has captured my attention, my notice, my contemplation. This past Good Friday was grey, rainy, cold and full of intimations of mortality – as a Good Friday should be or so I think now.

When three o’clock came, the time Jesus died on the cross, a death so horrible I cannot even imagine, I was listening to Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor and thinking on that powerful day in college when I viscerally understood the story of death and resurrection. As I regularly do on Easter weekend, I read the story of Jesus’ death, his resurrection. The Gospel of Matthew, of course.

On Holy Saturday, the rains continued, a soft, sad nature song that fitted the Easter story, fitted the story that Jesus was in his grave. I thought about the silence of the grave, which awaits us all and that is part of what I think about on Easter weekend, mortality. And the brief mortality of the man who was named Jesus and called the Christ.

Easter itself was a special day. The sun played with the clouds, mists rose from the creek, there was time with friends, lamb was eaten, people were met and I thought about resurrection. There is a Christian Evangelical Minister named Ron Bell who is attracting attention and some derision as he is thinking of a universe without hell. He was written up in Time last week, or the week before last.

I think, at the end of the day, God is the spirit of Easter, the spirit of resurrection and hope, of forgiveness. Did not Christ say on the cross, as he died his agonizing death, “Forgive them Father for they know not what they do?”

And that is the spirit of Easter. If we do not live in the spirit of Easter and if there is no spirit of redemption there is no hope for us. It does not matter what religion you practice; there is universal truth in Easter, in forgiveness, in resurrection. It is the essence of what I struggle with – I need to believe in the spirit of redemption because only in redemption will we find salvation. And salvation, even if only from ourselves, is what we seek while we plod our way across this mortal coil.

Letter From New York April 6, 2010

April 6, 2010

Or, as it seems to me…

In praise of community…

The weather over the Easter weekend in New York was storybook perfect, the kind of days that look and feel like they only happen in movies and while I moved through the splendor of them, I found myself ruminating a great deal about Thursday evening, the kick off to the long Easter weekend.

My train community chose that evening, which was also April Fool’s Day, to celebrate, to throw a party to provide a send off for one of our members, Ty West, who will, for a time, not be traveling the train as often and will be depriving his friends and fans of his constant contact. Ty is a producer and has been working on NOW on PBS since I have known him. NOW is no longer going to be in production. Ty is one of those folks who you think of when you hear the phrase, “salt of the earth.” He is a good friend, witty, clever and can be a little salty at times. He is what is known as a “stand up sort of guy.”

Ty appreciates my martinis so when the call came to declare what we were going to do for Ty’s send off party, I declared I’d make a martini. I do ones for all the train events – my personal favorites were the “babytinis” I did for Kelly’s baby shower, small blue and red drinks in honor of the fact they had opted not to know the sex of their child until that child was in their arms. But instead of doing anything fancy, I opted for a traditional martini – Ty likes the traditional martini.

It was quite a gathering of folks. Even the General came down from Albany for it. The General was a General in the Army who, when he retired from the service and went to work for the V.A., opted to remain living in Albany when his job was in New York, so that his wife didn’t have to move away from her grandchildren. So he rode the train from Albany to New York City every day, year in, year out. Another stand up guy who was once on the front page of one of New York’s daily papers as the man they found with the longest commute. When I started riding the train back in 2005 as a real regular, I discovered the community on the train but you didn’t get allowed into that community unless the General accepted you. I rode the train for weeks, an observer of this close knit world of regular Amtrak riders, riding the long rails into the city day in and day out, coming from the far reaches of the Hudson Valley into the city. I began to think of Hudson as the last suburb of New York.

I didn’t get a toe hold into that world until one day the General, struggling with the Crossword from the New York Times asked the café car in general if anyone knew the answer and it so happened I did… That was my entry point into the community. I had something to offer. Not long after came one of the famous Christmas parties on the train and one day the General marched up to me and wanted to know what I was going to contribute. I said I’d make martinis. And in the midst of shaking up a batch at that Christmas party, the General called me by my name and I was, officially, a member of the train community.

It is a community which has meant much to me over the last five years – we are continuous if not constant presences in each other’s lives, held together by long rides on the rails, a Google Groups list and intermittent events like the one for Ty West – affectionately known as the “Tie one on for Ty” party. As we lumbered north, the General stood in the café car and made a small speech. I heard bits and pieces of it. I was at my post, making another batch of martinis but this is what I gleaned from his words:

We’re a bunch of strangers that have been put together by the need to get from one place to another. Because of the length of our commute we have gotten to know each other well. Sometimes we spend more time with each other than we do with our families in a given day. And so, in a way, we have become family.

So, in a way, these people have become family to each other – and to me. Through the email list we learn of triumphs and tragedies and organize reactions to each. Collection was made for a conductor whose daughter had died in Iraq. Organization has been done for birthday parties and seasonal celebrations and events like “Tie one on for Ty.” We follow the travails of Amtrak, much of our lives depend upon what happens with that organization. We, occasionally, will gather off the rails just to enjoy each other – a large extended “family,” a community born on the rails and held together by the common bonds of our human experience.

Letter From New York Easter Sunday 2009

April 12, 2009

Letter From New York
April 12, 2009

Easter Sunday

It is Easter Weekend. I am at the cottage, and winter will not pull its icicle claws from us – it is unseasonably cold. A fire burns in my Franklin stove. There is a lament in the streets that spring will not really happen. We, here in the Hudson Valley, have been teased by spring yet it will not burst upon us. It is still winter cold.

Tonight, returning from a day of errands, the sunset was of the kind that inspired the Hudson school of painters. Grey clouds were bordered with magenta light and it was magical. Nature isn’t giving us warmth but it is giving us beauty.

It is Easter. It is Passover. These are profound holidays for those who live in the Judeo-Christian tradition. I find myself acknowledging them if no longer quite a part of them. It is now been a long time since I have been a practicing Catholic, which is my heritage. I gave that up a long time ago. I have flirted with a few other faith groups and have never been able to quite settle in comfortably with any of them. I appreciate the Episcopalian tradition; it is a religion that was born out of a need to justify divorce and murder. It should be forgiving. But even there I have never quite found a match.

That he lived – of that I have no doubt. That he changed the world – of that I have no doubt. Today much of the world will celebrate his Resurrection – his return from the dead after a horrific death. Out of this event came one of the greatest religious movements the world has ever seen. Christ died and was resurrected and this man god Jesus has become one of the central pillars of civilization.

Yet I wonder what Jesus would think of the way he has been used over the centuries. This was a man of peace. Granted he was testy with the moneychangers in the temple but he didn’t kill any of them. He was a man of peace and love from all the accounts of his life that have been written, from the sanctioned writings to the Apocryphal Gospels that didn’t make it into the “Bible.” This was a man who forgave and asked people to simply go and sin no more. Yet I am in the middle of a Holy Season and I am brutally aware of how much warfare has occurred due to individuals and nations claiming Jesus Christ as theirs. Empires were built on the concept of “Christianization.” Other wars were fought by other nations justified by their religion. Christianity and almost every other religion have been used to justify war, death, cruelty.

This is not what I think Jesus was expecting when he offered himself up to die on the cross. He was not a person who wanted earthly power and yet many of those who have followed him since then have been focused on having earthly power and used the controlling power of religion to attain it. While Europe was living its Dark Ages, Islam was preserving the best of our past. We would be missing much of Greek and Roman civilization were it not for the Muslims; they preserved and valued what the Christian West rejected – the thoughts of anyone who had come before them.

It seems most religions become seduced by the earthly power that can be derived from controlling souls. As we celebrate Easter and Passover the world is full of examples of religious fury and religious peace. In Italy earthquake survivors celebrate amidst the ruins, an Afghan woman, an official who supported women’s rights, was gunned down in the streets of her town, Pope Benedict XVI calls for world reconciliation, the Real IRA in Belfast is calling for the death of an official because he is working for peace.

“Father, forgive them; they know not what they do,” was said by Christ on the cross. I think now the words were for that moment and all the moments to come when his teachings would be bastardized.