me, too?

Harvey Weinstein, American film producer and studio executive, has been exposed publicly as a long-time serial sexual predator who, wielding the power of his professional largesse, used, misused, abused his position to force his wanton intentions upon women. Weinstein stands and falls in a sorrowfully extended (interminable?) line of notable men, long known by some in their inner circles, who have been abusers of their prominence to assault, for their personal needs and gains, the values and virtues, minds and bodies, souls and spirits of women.

Yesterday, scrolling through my Facebook feed, I read and wept over the numbers of women who responded to the post: If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote “Me, too” as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem. Among my FB friends answering “Me, too” were woman I love and respect and one I most love and respect, my wife, Pontheolla. I know her. I know her story. Therefore, her affirmation of her union with women who have been harassed or assaulted was no surprise to me. That does not mean that this, her reminder of her pain, does not hurt; her, first and foremost.

Yet, as an introspective sort, my next thought was to ask myself (one who shares the same birth year as Weinstein and, to some degree, a similar cultural sensitivity or rather insensitivity): Paul, have you sexually harassed or assaulted a woman and, upon soulful reflection, must you be compelled to attest: Me, too?

Upon that soulful reflection, I answer “No”. However, that does not mean that I, in some way, by thought, word, or deed (or two of the three or all three), have not demeaned and dismissed a woman as my lesser. For, I know, I have so done. For this, I repent.

facing another way, part 3 of 5

thinkinga personal reflection in anticipation of the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6, 2017

When I look back to 2016 for epiphanies or revelations of change for others and for myself, among many things, I think about…

Election Day, November 8, and the culmination of a tumultuous, rancorous presidential campaign and the ongoing ramifications, reverberations for America and, I daresay, the world…

I grow more fretful (fearful?) about the incoming administration, which, given Donald Trump’s continuing and consistent airing of his stump-speech rhetoric and his choices for Cabinet and governmental posts, appears to be more politically and socially conservative, indeed, regressive than I find fitting or faithful to our American identity as expressed in our national motto, E pluribus unum.

The rise of nationalism, nativism in the politics of many countries in Europe and America[1] as governments sought to grapple with numerous concerns; prominent among them, the explosion of violent ideological extremism and terrorism, immigration and the migrant crisis of millions of dislocated peoples, and cyber-insecurity and its immediate effects on domestic and economic security…

I wonder whether America, both concerning our presidential administration and we as a people, particularly in regard and response to extremism and terrorism, can and will sharpen the line between justice and vengeance, between increased safety and the loss of our personal liberties, between self-defense and, if vengeance is our course, self-destruction of our national soul’s health.

The continued minority community-law enforcement tensions, heightened by police-involved killings of black men and what seem to be retaliatory shootings of police officers…

I worry that the trust-mistrust of the police, which distinctly divides along racial lines, may be, if not conclusive evidence, then a dreadfully proverbial canary-in-the-coal-mine-warning of America’s yet to be resolved societal and systemic inequality in the respect for human life.

The Bethelehemic experience of birth, bearing the joy of new and innocent life and a renewal of hope for the growth of love, peace, and justice in this world…

I have shared, often through the “miracle” of Facebook, in the wonder of the births of babies of friends around the nation and world. Still, I worry about the world into which these new lives have come; a world where, as I perceive it, hatred often overrides love, war outweighs peace, and inequity outbalances justice.

Illness

I witnessed and walked with others through their bouts with sundry sicknesses from moderate to severe and their rounds of various treatments. Late in the year, I, and later still, my daughter underwent surgeries to correct longstanding conditions. The infirmities of friends and family, and my own brought me face to face afresh with my unhappiness, sometimes, I confess, my bitterness about life’s often sudden and always uncontrollable turns of chance and circumstance and gratitude for the restoration to health whene’er and for whom it came and a commitment to live as well as I can for as long as I can.

Death

I joined with countless others with saddened sentiments of the deaths in 2016 of many notable persons and personalities; the accumulation of their departures seeming to pick of speed in the last months of the year. Most near and dear, Timothy MacBeth Veney, my brother from another mother, died in July. That Tim was Pontheolla’s and my forever “frienily” (a friend who is family) and married to Loretta, also our forever “frienily”, stirred and still stirs sorrow. Yet, given Tim’s especially virtuous love, verily, righteous lust for life, I have come to a higher appreciation for the content of human character of others and my own, a broader attention to crafting and caring for my legacy to the next generation, and a deeper acceptance and less fearful respect for the enduring reality of human mortality.

Continuing to look back, again I ask, what do you see? How have you been changed?

More to come…looking forward

 

Footnote:

[1] Sometimes I think of this development as a Western expression or perhaps reaction to what has been termed, rather misleadingly, I think, as the “Arab Spring” of late 2010 forward; a time when multiple Middle Eastern countries witnessed the advent of citizen demonstrations protesting the way things were and compelling change. What makes Arab Spring a confusing or, at the least, an ambiguous descriptor is that the political transformations largely have been away from an Arab nationalism toward a Muslim identity.

recollections & reconnections, news & blues

At 64 years, there are more people I’ve known than with whom I remain in touch; even in this expansive, explosive era of 24/7/365 (366 in leap years!) cyber-communication.

On occasion, for whatever reasons (probably, at least those of which I’m conscious, having to do with my daily reflections on my mortality and my frequently accompanying recollections of my childhood and young adult years), many of these folk come to mind. With my images of them frozen in time, remembering them as they were, I wonder what they are doing, where they are, how they are.

Today, one of my St. Louis childhood friends, Marsha, whom I’ve known nearly 60 years, shared the news of the death of one of our contemporaries, Christopher. Immediately, I was struck. Hard.

Recently, Ronald, with whom I graduated from high school and with whom I share a surname (though we’re not related, he definitely is the fruit of a far more artistically and athletically productive branch of the Abernathy tree!) and I reconnected via the miracle of Facebook. Today, he apprised me of the news of the deaths of two of our former classmates. One, David, I first knew in kindergarten. Again, immediately, I was struck. Hard.

My mind and heart, soul and spirit burst forth in a bluesy dissonant four-part harmony of sorrowing prayer for Christopher, David, and me. I know I’ve arrived at a new stage (stop?) on my life’s journey when those with whom I share a generation die.

One of my favorite poets, R. S. Thomas,[1] with lucid, austere verse, reflected on his entry into a new year, resolving to face each day, with the courage of acknowledgment, his inexorable movement toward his death, which he termed “the betrayal of birth.”

As I pray eternal peace for Christopher and David, I also beseech the heavens for the determination to live each day with an audacious acceptance of my inevitable end, come whene’er, howe’er.

 

Footnote:

[1] Ronald Stuart Thomas (1913-2000). See his poem, Resolution, R. S. Thomas Collected Poems, 1945-1990 (Phoenix Giant Publications), page 309.

when my “stuff” is not together

Bloggers are supposed to have their “stuff” (or whatever word signifying one’s essential wherewithal) together.

Via Facebook, people, responding to a delightfully open-ended, non-directive question (What’s on your mind?), typically share with family and friends and cyber-kinships latest news, meditative musings, and flash, succinctly-expressed observations of life in this world. Not quite so with blog posts. There, often, writers pose a real-world problem or issue (something nearly universal; the sort of thing that sizable numbers of folk encounter), present a position, provide (putting their best proverbial feet forward) a rational perspective, and speak from a salient standpoint or newfound insight (sometimes so novel that one’s readers guffaw with a gladsome “Aha!”, a contemplative “Hmmm,” or if, when the viewpoint is not so fresh, innovative, or unique, then with an “OK, that’s not the worst or most insubstantial thing I’ve ever read”).

At least this is what I think bloggers are doing. And in this, we’re supposed to have our “stuff” together (or so I thought). Except when we…I don’t.

Today, I write because I need to write, to share, as much for myself as for anyone, my disquieting lack of clarity.

My mother, Lolita, her name (despite the readily instant association with the 1955 Vladimir Nabokov novel of the same title that scandalized my mother!), from the Spanish, meaning suffering (how sadly fitting), is a long-lived Alzheimer’s disease patient. First diagnosed in March 1996, her trek, to coin another literary phrase, though one dealing with different sets of maladies, though, too, one highlighting the often daily repetitious downward spirals of human living, in Eugene O’Neill’s words, has been a long day’s journey into night.

In mid-October, I enrolled my mother in hospice. The admissions officer was compassionate, listening sympathetically to my concerns, comforting me in my anguish, and competent, explaining with kindly attention and care the procedures and protocols.

Yesterday, at the end of a lengthy conversation with the hospice nurse – considering that the daily nutrients provided via my mother’s feeding apparatus were keeping her body alive and believing (truly, having known for quite the while) that she never would resume sentient consciousness, which would be her definition of “quality of life” – I inquired about removing the G(gastric)-tube. With so much to contemplate, the information-gathering consultation is scheduled for early next week.

Informing the owner and the primary caregiver of my mother’s assisted living residence, I was apprised of the latter’s strong objections to any action that would lead to the termination of my mother’s life. “I am a Christian,” she said, “and only God can give life and take life.”

Amid a swirl of conflicted thoughts and feelings, none accessorized with easy-to-operate instructions or ready resolutions, I, whose “stuff” is not together, ponder what is next. I, too, a Christian, pray for goodly, Godly guidance.