Category Archives: love

“The Rifleman.”

Christian fundamentalism, family history, gratitude, healing, love, nostalgia, relationships, sociology, tributes, Tv series, , , , , , , , , ,

 

[ *Warning: Ghost writers prohibited from this property.]

 

The Rifleman is playing re-runs on AMC.

As a young girl, I refused to miss a single episode of this black and white.

We had no television in our house, but my aunt Dora Mae had a small one that she’d acquired through a rental during the moon landing. Mum worked in the machine shop on Wednesdays, so I would milk-flavored tomato soup lunch over Art Fleming’s “Jeopardy” at my aunt’s linen-clothed diningroom table, right across from the silver tea set sitting on the server, the tv nesting in the corner by the window. After school, she’d let me return, to watch my Rifleman while she prepared supper.

The duality in my nature manifest early on. I loved Chuck Connors inner strength, steely jaw, and protective care over his adopted son, played by Johnny Crawford. Because, you see, I also adored that boy. Reaching puberty, did I not deface the corral style cedar fence of a nearby neighbor with indelible scratches: “[ my name ] + Johnny Crawford”. Were any such pre-teen to destroy my own property like this today, I’d have likely already taken an entire family to court.

Funny, how our perceptions change over time, informed by experience. The Rifleman, adopting this sweet little Mexican. Now, the metamessage suggests far more than just affection for a child. Perhaps this boy was the strapping rancher’s own, the mother no longer able or even alive to care for him?

What strikes me most is the suggestion of my own father’s stories of his childhood. Also a slight, wiry, brown skinned boy, he had neither father nor mother to speak of, being tossed from foster care to the Massachusetts orphan’s home. How he would have welcomed a  single parent “Paw” like Chuck Connors, equally as proud and mutually respectful.

Johnny Crawford grew beyond the old western series, to star in an evangelical film sponsored by the Billy Graham Crusade. I was over the moon that my childhood crush had “found Christ”, and followed a path that would have forgiven me even the devotion of my neighborhood vandalism.

Am enjoying these memories, on a Saturday morning that promises an end to yet another heavy winter. They layer like pastry, one fine strata at a time, sending my thoughts across the vista of a past sown with the richest seeds of gratitude.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  2/20/16    All rights those of the author, speaking from her own experience. Thank you for your respect.

littlebarefeetblog.com

“Do Not Be Afraid.”

Christianity, classical music, classical musicians, faith, Judaism, Judao-Christian theology, love, mystical experience, sociology, tributes, , , ,
“Do not be afraid………..
you……are mine.”   — Isaiah 43.
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Choral music used to be a given in mainstream American life. From the patriotic holidays through the public school concerts, the sound of people singing in four part harmony presented by a collective larger than a family around a piano seemed impermeable by any shift in the cultural wind.
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Little would any of us in arts education realize that the times, and the weather, would change so profoundly. In the five final years of my public tenure, I had to endure being told there would no longer be time in the daily elementary school schedule for a chorus class. And — my students!  Two part harmony, among primary aged children. But, oh. Yes. Better, so said the powers that assumed authority, that time be spent bouncing a ball around or chasing another – or, eating soy patties on roll with boiled vegetables. Time, and money, going instead toward that which bailed on a vital source of nourishment.
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Nourishment, you argue. Singing with other humans as anything more than a casual diversion?
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This past Friday night, I’d been invited to perform as cellist with the northwestern Pennsylvania District 2 Student High School Chorus. My instrument, a clarinet, and a horn, had been added to one of several pieces of music programmed for their public concert. And, we enjoyed our collaboration, immensely. The students had come from among the very best their schools had to offer, and their guest conductor was nothing short of a marvel.
Happy with our performance, we’d left the stage intending to take in the remainder of the concert. Waiting at the auditorium door for the signal of applause, we’d stepped discreetly into the back of the hall. The temperature elevated by a packed house, a rush of body heat flooded us. And, the room was dark. But, what was about to emanate from the fully illuminated stage would render all senses irrelevant.
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I’d been impressed by Dr. Christopher Kiver, from the moment we’d been introduced. He had 200 + high school students in the palm of his hand. A Brit, his dry, observational humor infused his every breath, capturing the students’ imagination as he wove them from rhythmic riffs through the contours of phrase. Further investigation revealed that Dr. Kiver had proved his worth far and wide, known for his work with students at Penn State University and beyond.
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But, what happened to me in the moments about to ensue as I stood in that dark auditorium I owe only in part to his expertise. The rest I leave to the reader, and the mysteries of the universe.
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Dr. Kiver had chosen the program. A panel had chosen the soloists, from among several auditionees, one of whom had just completed her offering. The order of selections sat in my bag on the floor, unreadable in the dark. Two female choristers took their places across the front of the stage, and Dr. Kiver raised his baton to the choir.
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Their pure unison tone began, hushed, absolutely controlled. Each syllable measured, the opening phrase emerged in one, clear, enveloping voice:
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“Do……not………be……..afraid……………………………………….”
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The harmonies expanded. Their sustain was seamless.
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“Do…….not………be………afraid……………………………………..”
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Without any warning, whatsoever, the choir became one voice in the firmament.
The verses unfolded; I recognized them as scripture. But, the music had transcended thought, to become the vehicle of the oracle of the divine.
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Standing in the dark, I was a child again. The world around me, and everyone else, all of us terror-stricken, shell shocked, every institution threatened, all future expectations uncertain, but this voice. It were as if the God of my childhood were speaking directly to me, my eternal protector, the loving Creator who had promised me everlasting safety.
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Tears poured down my face. Everyone around me was spellbound, as well. We were all collective witness to the deepest of human power, manifesting the very message for which we were starving, through the only art form that could possibly have carried it to us.  We didn’t have to fear. We had been redeemed. We were still loved, perfectly. And, our God had just sung us a lullaby.
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….When you walk through the waters,
I’ll be with you;
you will never sink beneath the waves.
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When the fire is burning all around you,
you will never be consumed by the flames.
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When the fear of loneliness is looming,
then remember I am at your side.
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When you dwell in the exile of a stranger,
remember you are precious in my eyes.
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You are mine, O my child,
I am your Father,
and I love you with a perfect love.”
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“Do Not Be Afraid” —  Philip Stopford.
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© 2/6/16 Ruth Ann Scanzillo   — Thank you for your respect, both for the created work of Philip Stopford, the interpretation of Dr. Kiver and this, my piece.
littlebarefeetblog.com

Where?

contemplative essays, Deep Questions, love, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“Where is love?

Does it fall from skies, above?

Is it underneath the willow tree

That I’ve been dreaming of?

Where is he?

Who I close my eyes, to see?

Will I ever know

The sweet “hello”

That’s meant for only me?”

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About three weeks ago, I submitted my mind and body to the art of meditation. This was a form foreign to both my personal history with the practice, and distinct from one which had been introduced to me by someone else last summer.

As a child, I was brought into a scenario of contemplative silence every Sunday morning. The room was small, the gathering equally so. Unadorned by icon or precise ritual, this practice was simple: sit, quietly, and think about Jesus on the Cross, dying for the sins of the world.

Naturally, as a very young person, I could only submit to that which I understood. I looked around at everything and everybody, developing keen powers of observation; I listened to every sound, however fleeting or faint; I munched on pretzel sticks, Cheerios and Lucky Charms; and I squirmed, peeling the bare skin of my thighs away from the sticky, plywood seat beneath.

Many years hence, one attempt at a yoga class re-visited the art. But, my body, twisted by scoliosis, resisted cooperating with the shapes it was required to take during the sessions, and I walked away.

A year ago, almost to the day, an old boyfriend briefly re-entered my world. He’d been immersed in the daily ritual, a fervent follower of its most earnest gurus from across the globe. He descended with a pronounced pounce, declaring my shortcomings and every solution to be found in: breathing correctly; sitting correctly; posing correctly; and, most importantly, following correctly his every instruction. I soon tired of his dogma of serenity, jumped back on my feet, and resumed the frenetic, mind-driven personality to which I had become accustomed for a lifetime.

But, last month was different.

First of all, I was highly motivated. This seminar promised to transform our lives. We were assured that any chronic anxieties would dissipate. Any roadblocks to performance success would finally be dismantled. I anticipated this liberation with very great hopefulness.

Sitting still was the clincher. Twenty minutes being my learned limit, not only did we sit so still, we did so for almost two hours at a time. Ever the agitating agitator, I became acutely aware of just how frequently my body adjusted itself in the seat. Every nerve ending was primed to attention. I was teeming with energy, having no apparent place to put it.

We were prompted with a single, verbalized thought: “I am anxious.” No kidding. No shit, Sherlock. But, next, the prompt: “There is a place of anxiety in me.” That was odd. Apparently, the anxiety did not have to own us; rather, we could own a position detached from it. But, first, we had to identify its location, and then its features, and then just recognize it. In silence. Sitting still.

Over the next several days, my mind began the slow process of adjustment. I sat up straight, letting my spine sink into the chair and my feet into the floor. My emotion of the moment was named. I found its place. I felt its energy. And, I sat with it.

The outcome of the seminar met its every claim, fulfilling every promise. I was truly transformed. The demons were expunged. I was healed.

That was last month.

Today, I sit with this emotion. I feel bereft. The one who said he loved me, and I him, is not with me. I have identified the place of forlorn emptiness. I feel its shape, its every aspect. This one is large. It fills most of me, my entire torso, leaving only my appendages to dangle uselessly. Like grief, it fights mightily for every ounce of energy. I struggle to detach from its power. How can love, and the need for it, overtake a person so completely? Where did all this come from, anyway? Didn’t I just write about the whole thing last week?

I speculate. It’s my nature. Perhaps mindfulness practices are only beneficial when the other parts of the human need matrix are already well put together. Perhaps basic needs should be addressed separately. Somebody said awhile ago that music and art are important, but they don’t feed the hungry. Perhaps that is a point well taken.

Oliver sang those lyrics quoted above, in the musical of the same name. He stood, an orphan, looking out at the stars, asking the universe for the most fundamental force in all of life to come into his heart and feed him. Today, I feel like an orphan in the war of love. Even meditation doesn’t succour me. Somebody else is getting the one I need, and accepting that I must endure the reality yet again after two thirds of an average lifetime is just about more than any quiet contemplation can resolve.

So, again today, I will love myself. You’ll pardon my absence. The task is rather enormous. There is a lot of self to love in this room today. Many have said there is too much. Perhaps this is a molting phase so profound that the outcome eludes me. I think I hope so. Right now, the light is faint.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

8/25/15

All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com