Category Archives: contemplative essays

various themes

The Love Chapter.

Christianity, civic commentary, contemplative essays, family history, gratitude, grief, healing, love, memorials, sociology, tributes, WWII, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 

Today was Lance Barclay’s funeral.

Funerals, as a rule, are generally less well attended than are viewings, unless the deceased is a close friend or family. But, this memorial, a good thirty minute commute – practically a day trip for the locals in this town – was packed.

The Girard Unitarian Universalist Church is one of the Great Lakes region’s original “underground railroad” hubs. Maybe its spirits have infused the space. I’d wager something is influencing those small, close quarters complete with tiny balcony, because those who occupy its congregation are some of the warmest, most well rounded, most open minded and forgiving of humans you’d ever hope to meet.

Among them, Lance was a star.

The impact of his life really gelled at the moment I realized his death. Perhaps, because many of us had no idea he’d been fighting cancer at all, this element of surprise was a catalyst, of sorts. Whichever being the case, I found myself drawn and determined; Saturday morning long since having ceased to be my earliest rising, I nevertheless vowed to get to that church on time.

Historically, the drive had been, for me, the prohibitor – especially during our forbidding winters; for this reason, at least in large part, my attendance at the Girard UU had been spotty. But, the single person apart from its minister, Rev. Charles Brock, most welcoming toward me, whether I were there to present a musical offering or simply to join the collective, was Lance. Always smiling (always smiling), he engaged me in conversation. He attuned. And, unlike those whose training in proselytizing could be knee jerk, his interest was genuine.

But, most of those already seated as the gong sounded at my arrival were strangers to both the congregation and me; yet, I found myself entering with a former colleague and seated beside another, neither of whom knew the other. This was the first aspect of Lance Barclay worthy of note; he’d been everywhere. The man had been a devoted member of numerous well established organizations dedicated to service. He was a Son of the American Revolution. He’d held a leadership position in service to the mentally ill. And, together with his adored wife, he’d raised his beloved family.

The funeral began with a greeting and a congregational hymn, and then the reading.

Noting the reading’s address – I Corinthians 13 – I marveled privately. The “Love” Chapter. Wasn’t this reserved almost exclusively for the sacrament of marriage? Certainly, my own wedding, all those years ago, had featured the verses – front and center, just ahead of the vows and behind the parade of handmade gowns lovingly sewn by my mother.

Rev. Brock preambled with the pre-existing theme of the previous month’s homilies. Eros – Philios – Agape…….and, then, he began to recite the 13th chapter of I Corinthians.

“Love is patient….

and kind……..”

I sat. My coat was russet, faux suede, a stand out amongst the Navies and blacks of the appropriately attired. The remaining spot on the pew which had been offered me bore two, hand sewn cushions which met just where the halves of my body separated. I squirmed over the void. The small bag holding the tiny African violet for Bernadette, his widow, next to my oversized Sundance bag filled the space at my feet.

“….love is not jealous

or boastful

or proud

…..or rude……….”

Allan the organist’s forehead was just visible over the top of the music rack, in the tiny corner of the sanctuary facing the room. I looked at Lance’s face, painted in striking oils, his smile ever present now in portrait.

“It does not demand its own way.  It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged.”……..

My heartbeat, particularly unstable back in the ’80’s especially during marching band season, pricked inside my chest. I looked over at Rev. Brock, head bowed over his New Living quote of the Scriptures, and back up toward Lance’s face. His image was a backdrop now for the youngest of two daughters, both of whom had presented so beautifully a litany of his many words of wisdom in remembrance. I watched as she kissed her child’s forehead.

“It does not rejoice about injustice, but rejoices whenever the truth wins out.”

It was clear, now, why Rev. Brock had chosen to read this chapter. Lance Barclay had embodied the love of Christ as received by the Apostle Paul in his letter to the Corinthians. There wasn’t a single blot on his record as either a responsible citizen, a father, or husband. He had lived a life utterly and completely above reproach.

“Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.”

A sigh of ten thousand mornings and nights escaped from deep within me. I knew, then, what had compelled my attendance at this man’s funeral. Looking back over so many attempts at accomplishment, at professional contribution, at earnest effort, at production as a single, responsible woman in the world of the performing, visual, and teaching arts, I had failed completely at the one, divine directive. I’d been impatient, unkind, jealous, proud, boastful, and rude. I’d demanded my own way, quite irritably so, and had kept a record of every transgression against me. I had failed at love.

Lance Barclay’s gaze followed his family, friends, fellow parishioners, WWII veterans, and colleagues as they filed outside for his full military honors. The three (merciful) gun salute, the American flag folded triangularly and presented to the family, the single bugler’s Taps, and the lone piper’s “Amazing Grace” filling the early spring air, feathered now by fine flakes of snow. We stood. Then, the piper turned, and retreated, allowing the strains of the hymn to diminish across the portal that opened into eternity…………….

We were flooded.

I was infused with it. That grace! A vow to live love at all costs filled the blood in my veins. Seventy seven chapters closed in the life of Lance Barclay; another day in the life of those to whom he left his legacy. A new love chapter, ready to begin, just across the next horizon.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  3/5/16  All rights, in honor of Lance, Bernadette, Nicole, Martine, and the rest of their loving family, reserved. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making My Day.

civic commentary, contemplative essays, gratitude, nostalgia, Uncategorized
Maybe it’s something as simple as the position of the sun. Or, whatever orb is responsible for illuminating our firmament around these parts anymore. I’ve learned to question everything, of late, and the legitimacy of the physical world which we’ve taken for granted over the past century or so also lands at the feet of the speculative unknown. Let alone what’s worthy — what’s real, for God’s sake?
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But, for whatever cause, there’s a pronounced dreariness in the atmosphere. We’re forced to listen to candidates for the highest office in our land remind us of partisan deadlock and incipient corruption. Our Commonwealth is in chaos. Our local school district teeters on the brink of bankruptcy. Our regional cultural institution caves to the aesthetically vacant and self-serving monied, promising to destroy instead of preserve. Our community water supply joins the burgeoning list of the lead contaminated. Our regional sick take dutiful trips to the local treatment center to receive their poison, courtesy the insidious medical industrial complex. Half of our formerly employed wonder where their next paycheck will come from. And, another winter storm warning promises the threat of total social shut down, just in time for Valentine’s Day.
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The only solution seems to be to move toward minimalism. Get small. Pull in. Seek the kernels, the seeds, the gems. Look within.
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When we were children, curling up on a comfy sofa or the middle of our own bed with a really good book was one of life’s singular pleasures. Having a simple sandwich. Listening to a beautiful song – maybe even singing one. Taking a walk past nearby trees, untouched by any greater agenda than to keep on growing. This, to an adult looking back, a symbolic image of living within our means. And, back then, many of us were happy to do just that.
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I write this to remind myself. When did all the ugliness descend? How many years had we already wasted, fretting over things outside of the realm of our own influence? We can begin every morning, each recreating our own parameters for complete freedom. Deciding to do so will make all the difference between submitting to the oppressiveness that surrounds us, and having one, singular sunny day.
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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  2/12/16  All rights those of the author. Sharing permitted by ReBlogging, or via written request. Thank you.

THE DEADLINE.[final draft].

contemplative essays, Deep Questions, human behavior, psychology, sociology

[FINAL DRAFT.]

What a connotation.

“Finish, at the time appointed, or you’ll be dead.”

We were taught, as early as first grade, to complete a task by a time determined (by somebody else), or pay the consequences. I’ve been wondering, lately, where this concept originated, let alone how it came to be integrated into society.

My initial guess, prior to research, was that at some point during either the Middle or the Dark Ages, some emboldened ruler imposed the principle. Or, perhaps a Roman device, as they structured the city state. Seemed taxation may have played a part. One subservient owed some lord and, in order to insure the debt was paid, the servant was coerced into paying via a fixed date.

But, etymologists, those who dedicate their energy to determining the roots of terminology, put “dead – line” during the period of the American Civil War (1861-1865). Apparently, the stockade had an established line over which prisoners did not pass. Later on, during the 1920s, the newspaper business adopted its use to establish a time limit to insure that current news made print.

Perhaps the idea was so effective in keeping the dispersement of news ahead of the clock that it found its way into the organized workplace. Indeed; neither the assembly line nor public education would have survived without deadlines, and I speak from experience.

Into the third year of retirement from my day job, I cope daily with the realization that, finally having free time, any deadlines feel almost jarring. I alternately either procrastinate against them, or address them with compulsive obsession, determined to beat the clock in order to dispense with their effect on me.

I can vividly recall the yearly musicals, fully staged by myself and my elementary school students, on or about June 1. Most other schools produced theirs either at the beginning of the fall semester, or right after the holidays. By contrast, I waited; my kids and I only had one night per week to rehearse, non-curricularly with zero budget, and sometimes no more than ten rehearsals in total, given the various holidays and dentist appointments and basketball practices and soccer scrimmages that ensued. In spite of these crushing constraints, we always produced: two, double cast performances of one show, 9 am and 6:30pm the next day, without fail. Or, I should say, at the utter and complete multi-system exhaustion of both my students and me.

But, in the real world of the creative, masterpieces make their own schedule. Most don’t consider, comfortably nestled in their plush recliners at the cinematic multiplex munching popcorn, that the two hour visual escape they are about to enjoy took from ten months to five years to complete. Years, of daily effort, by hundreds of people and truckloads of sophisticated technology – just to make one movie. The Cistine Chapel ceiling set the precedent, and I seriously doubt whether we would have that magnificent evidence centuries later had Michelangelo been required to meet a deadline.

Showing up on time to perform for others, whether it be in court, on stage, or at the corporate meeting at the end of the fiscal year, also wreaks a certain effect on the human body. Apparently, the immune system runs at peak efficiency during performance stress. The downside is: once released from such an environment, said system becomes more vulnerable to infection. Might the immune system just be compensating, interpreting command performance as an actual threat?

One might argue that an ordered civilization requires performance deadline. Social expectation, and all that. Keeping pace with the marketing machine. But, in our generation, computers displace humans every minute, performing virtually every task of which mankind has been historically capable. Why not relax the deadline mentality on humanity? Let’s see what we can produce with only fertile minds, able hands, and just one, unlimited vista of possibility.
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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 1/11/16 All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com