Saturday, January 3, 2015

January 3, 2015

FOUR SEASONS

The cold ice of Winter….
The soft rain of Spring ….
The warm slow of Summer….
The splash color of the leaves of Autumn….

Life – not just one season… or reason ….
Life – birth, youth, middle age, old age….
Life – the mysteries, the storms, the calm, the changes….
Life – I wouldn’t want it any other way ….
 .



© Andy Costello, Reflections 2015

Friday, January 2, 2015

January 2, 2015

CREMAINS AND REMAINS

Cremains is a word that has evolved.
My Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary
says it slid into the English language in 1947.
As more and more people were cremated
after their death, more and more people
got used to the word as well as the practice
of cremating loved ones and then placing
their ashes in elaborate urns and wooden boxes
that held and housed their sacred ashes. Then
they were buried or put in small vaults in cemeteries or kept at home on bureaus or mantelpieces.

Remains – the English word – goes back to
the 14th or 15th century – according to that same Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate DictionaryAfter someone’s death I prefer remains over cremains: a jacket, a hat, a watch, a letter from the person – who has gone before me. I prefer stories, sayings, moments and memories of  a loved one who has died. And come to think about it I prefer a cemetery  – as well as a drink  in hand to toast a loved one – more than looking  at an urn of their ashes on a mantelpiece.



© Andy Costello, Reflections 2015
WHO  ARE  YOU?



INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily for today, January 2nd,  is, “Who Are You?”

That’s a question that shows up in the Bible at various times.

It shows up in today’s gospel – and that’s where I got the thought for this homily.

It’s a question that shows up in life at various times.

Who are you?

START WITH SELF: JOT IT DOWN IN A NOTE BOOK

We ask this in our brain about others lots and lots of times – but as I’ve thought about this question – I realized that the first place is to start is with oneself.  Who am I?

It’s a brand new year, what would it be like to make that a 2015 question?

Suggestion.  Buy at any supermarket store – or The Dollar Store or Office Depot – one of these spiral note books – 9 ½ by 6 inches.  I have about 50 of these in my room – and when I die – I’m sure they will be tossed. [SHOW ORANGE PAD]

No problem – but while I live – they are very important to me.  I have tons of interesting notes and this and that’s in these 50 or more note books.

I have about 75 of these bigger spiral note books. They have their use. [SHOW GREEN SPIRAL NOTE BOOK.]

I also have about 50 or more of these little memo pads – 5 by 3 inches. [
SHOW LITTLE RED PAD.]

I don’t like to sit on the pot without something to read – and so I often grab one of my note or memo pads.

So you know what these look like. Suggestion: buy a bunch of these spiral pads this size. This is the size I prefer. [SHOW THE ORANGE ONE].




In one of these 9 ½ by 6 inch jobs – jot down on page 1 – on the top of the page – in title size: “Who Am I?”

Then this year, 2015, write down in the mid-sized baby – answers to that question: Who Am I?

Even if you use a computer, I’m suggesting writing – writing – writing. “Write it down!”

WHAT I LEARNED FROM A LISTENING EXERCISE

I once had a job of trying to get people – namely Redemptorist priests and brothers – to talk to each other – to listen to each other – to get to know each other better.

Sorry to say it really didn't work - but like being a teacher, the presenter or teacher learns the most.

Looking back I think that was the best job I ever had – because I learned a lot about others – but mainly myself.

One learning happened as follows.  It was called, "The Listening Exercise." We would ask a group of 20 or so to break up into smaller groups of about 5 in a group. The person with the earliest birthday in the year – or last – it didn’t matter really - went first.

Once more the leader of the whole group ofr 20 or so would say to the whole group, “This is a listening exercise. 

"The person who starts says to the person to their right one answer to the following question: ‘I think people have difficulty in listening because….’

"Then the person to the right listens to what the first speaker says. 

"Then they say what their heard the first person say to them. 

"The first person who spoke then says to the person on their right. 'Good. Thank you. You got what I said.'

Or they say, "No, that's not what I said." 

Then they try it again.

I remember once it took a lady about 10 times to get it right. After she finally got it right, she gave an afterthought. "I guess my husband is right. He says, 'I never listen.'"

Then that person gives to the person on their right, one reason why they think people don't listen...."

It was a wonderful exercise. I learned that one big problem was this: the speaker who gave their comments why they thought people didn't listen well - was because the speaker wasn't too clear in the first place. I saw that when they had to repeat what they said at first. It would change. It would get clearer. It would get more complicated.  

I also learned to say to people ever since, “What do you think I was asking you in the first place?”

If they didn’t get it, in my opinion, then I would repeat what I said in the first place.

Sometimes the listener would say: “That’s not what you said in the first place.”

Sometimes I humbled myself and said, “Oh, sorry, you’re right.”

My biggest learning from that exercise was this: “Often the problem is not with the listener, but with the speaker.”

So I  learned that some speakers are very clear; some are very unclear, convoluted. They really don’t know how to communicate what they are trying to communicate.

I also learned that the first question should be to self – rather than to others. “What is it that I want to say?”

I before you....

So based on that – I’m stressing in this reflection – talk – sermon – whatever this is – the first question before, “Who Are You?” should be, “Who Am I?”

Based on that I realized that's why I love the shortest poem ever written. It’s an existentialist poem. I mention this all the time. It goes like this and you can memorize it and it rhymes.

I
Why?

And why I wrote the second shortest poem ever written:

You
Who?

And it also rhymes.

BACK TO THE NOTE BOOK

So after writing on the top of page 1 of your 9 ½ by 6 inch note pad, white on the top line: “I / Why?”

And start writing.

I am here because of my mom and dad. Thank you mom and dad. I am the youngest of 4 kids – and back then my parents got married later than most. Thank you Mom and Dad for having 4 kids.

Then you can write autobiography – personal experiences of neighborhoods, towns, cities, schools, friends, jobs, joys, sorrows, babies, deaths, loves, and what have you.

You can write about wipe outs – that wiped you out – wipe outs you’d love to wipe out – and learning you can’t, so then you can write down what you learned from that reality.

You can write about best books, favorite songs, movies that moved you.

You can write about surprises that surprised you in life.

You can write about the unexpected – personal earthquakes and tsunami’s as well as lotteries that you didn’t know existed.


I've wondered if women answered these questions different than men do.

Here is a short film about women. What would a short film of men be like?



I read once about the value of writing down 10 answers to the question: I am a _____.

And one writes down 10 answers to that question: I am a male, an American, a friend, a priest, a poet, a Brooklynite, a Catholic, a Christian, a diabetic, a walker, etc. etc. etc.

Then I read somewhere that if you extend that to 25 I am's – you will come up with answers that might surprise and change your life.

Perhaps the best answer is:  “I am me.”

Now who is that “Me”?

CONCLUSION

That’s your homework, and heart work, for 2015.

I know: New Year's Resolutions never work - never go past January 10th. I know that about myself and others - but sometimes one resolution works.



So if you try this - and persevere at this, then at some point you  can start to listen to others and say to them, “Hey, who are you?”

January 1, 2015



NEW CALENDAR

Who said that New Year's Day,
Christmas, Easter, Pentecost,
Independence Day, Thanksgiving Day
and birthdays have to happen
on set days each year?
Why can’t they happen to us
on days we least expect?
Unexpected Lord,
Lord of the Unexpected,
surprise us this year.
Christmas, Easter, Pentecost us
on days we least expect –
days we rise reborn, gifted, set free,
filling us with thanksgiving.



© Andy Costello, Markings  
Prayer for January 1999

Last year  - 2014 - I put a poem
on my blog for each day
of the year. A few people
said, "Ho hum!" or "So so!"

I did it, but I have to admit,
various poems - upon looking 
back at them  had no grab. 

Then someone  suggested that
I give some of my own
poetic reflections, poems and 
prayers - so that will be
 my goal for 2015.

Some will be old pieces,
some new pieces - depending

upon how much time I have.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

I'M BLIND BUT NOW I SEE


Poem  - for December 31, 2014



CHERRY BLOSSOMS

A blind child
Guided by his mother
Admires the cherry blossoms.

© Kikaku, Haiku,
translated into English
by Kenneth Rexroth
found in One Hundred
Poems from the Japanese,
New Directions, 1964 
December 31, 2014

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

ANNA: 
ONE  OF  MANY 

INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily for this Sixth Day in the Octave of Christmas is, “Anna: One of Many.”

When I read today’s gospel – Luke 2: 36-40 – I think of the thousands and thousands of little old ladies I’ve spotted in a thousand churches.

I’ve seen them sitting quietly in the back of a church – behind a pole off to the side in the middle of a church – or kneeling at the communion rail up front.

Praying…. They are praying.

Hoping …. They are hoping.

Begging …. They are begging God for help.

ANNA

So this gospel story of Anna is one of many stories – of little old ladies – who have found time and place to pray in churches, temples, mosques, shrines, holy places – all through the years.

What a documentary could be made – if documentary makers  - just went into random churches and holy places on the planet – and simply interviewed these women of prayer – finding out what’s going on inside their mind at that moment. What are you doing? Whom are you praying for?

If Anna was asked she would answer that she was praying for the Messiah, the Savior, waiting for the Redeemer, hoping for someone to come and tell us how to live life to the full – how to love one another – how to be a peacemaker – how to know our God.


ALL MOTHERS HERE

All  mothers here – you know the scenario. You have dropped into your church. You’re sitting in your favorite place of prayer  – to pray for one or two or more of your children. You’ve knelt there, you’ve sat there, you’ve made the stations of the cross there – because you’re kids and you were making the way of the cross out there in the streets of your life.

Alcoholism, drugs, dating the wrong person, a shaky marriage, abuse, hurts, people not talking to people, kids out of work, kids in Afghanistan, cancer, strokes, lupus, in jail, what have you.

A PRO ATHLETE

I worked 14 years of my life  in 2 different retreat houses – 7 years in each.

Every year on this one weekend a big guy – a former pro football player - would sit in the back row of our chapel – in the closest seat to the backdoor on the right aisle.  No matter how many people were in the chapel for a talk or for a mass – he would sit in that same seat – sometimes nobody in any row or bench near him.

Once he said to me, “I’m wondering if you’re wondering why I’m sitting in the back corner?” 

I said, “No.” 

“Well,” he said, “I’ll tell you. I had dropped out of the church for at least 19 years. In our church back home, that’s the spot my mom always half knelt and half sat for all those years praying for me to come back to church.”

“It worked.” He said. “Here I am praying for her and thanking her in heaven for praying for me all through the years.”

If we made a film documentary of little old ladies in dark old churches – we would hear stories like that.

TESSIE

It was my first assignment.  

A good friend of mine – named Tessie – long dead now – used to sit in the third last row of our church – Most Holy Redeemer – Lower East Side – New York City - every afternoon from 3 to 4. You couldn’t see her – she was hiding in front of a big church pillar in the back of the church – not far from our O.L.P.H. shrine – which was in the back.  I noticed her husband Frank came into church in the morning – and said his prayers.

Tessie also used to be the money counter for Bingo every Wednesday night.

Well, one Wednesday just before Bingo started, Tessie said to me, “I got a great story for you.”

“I’m in church this afternoon – in the dark – near the back – and I hear the door open. I hear someone go over to Mary’s shrine – and I hear Father Leo starting to pray out loud. Obviously, he didn’t know I was there – and I laid low. Well, I hear him tell the Blessed Mother the following. ‘Thank you Mary. Thank You God,  I’m  just coming back from the urologist. I can  pee like a little boy again.”

That moment happened in 1968 – I can still remember it.

I’d love it if a moment like that would be captured in a documentary about little old ladies in churches – and what’s going on in their minds and hearts.

CONCLUSION

I’m sure Luke put this story in his Gospel, because in his travels, he saw lots of ladies like Anna – sitting, standing, kneeling there in prayer.


He gave Anna praise – today let’s praise our moms and all those Little Old Ladies who showed us the importance of praying  for others – especially the children of our world. Amen.
 TRIP  TO  THE  TAJ  MAHAL 

Poem for Today - Tuesday - December 30, 2014



TRAIN TO AGRA

I want to reach you—
in that city where the snow

only shimmers silver
for a few hours. It has taken

seventeen years. This trip, 
these characters patterned

in black ink, curves catching 
on the page like hinges,

this weave of letters fraying 
like the lines on my palm,

all broken paths. Outside, 
no snow. Just the slow pull

of brown on the hills, umber 
dulling to a bruise until the city

is just a memory of stained teeth, 
the burn of white marble

to dusk, cows standing 
on the edges like a dust

cloud gaining weight
after days of no rain. Asleep

in the hot berth, my parents 
sway in a dance, the silence

broken by scrape of tin, hiss 
of tea, and underneath,

the constant clatter of wheels
beating steel tracks over and over:

to the city of white marble, 
to the city of goats, tobacco

fields, city of dead hands,
a mantra of my grandmother's—

her teeth eaten away
by betel leaves—the story

of how Shah Jahan had cut off
all the workers' hands

after they built the Taj, so they 
could never build again. I dreamt

of those hands for weeks before 
the trip, weeks even before I

stepped off the plane, thousands 
of useless dead flowers drying

to sienna, silent in their fall. 
Every night, days before, I dreamt

those hands climbing over the iron 
gate of my grandparents' house, over

grate and spikes, some caught
in the groove between its sharpened

teeth, others biting where 
they pinched my skin.

Vandana Khanna, 
"Train to Agra"
from Train to Agra
Copyright © 2001
by Vandana Khanna.