Phoenix
Michael Gollin
January 20, 2014
Every night
she lays down
in a bed of dreams
that rise like flames
through the darkening sky
until they reach the distant sun
to ignite the morning
and she gets up,
renewed.
Author Archives: M Gollin
New Year, New Day
New Year, New Day
Goodloe Memorial Unitarian Universalist Congregation
Michael Gollin
January 5, 2014
Today is a good day! That is my morning mantra. Some days it’s easy to say, and I become euphoric and grateful simply by raising the blinds and watching the spectacle of sunlight shining on the world. The simple act of blessing each new day helps me channel my spiritual power to overcome even my deepest worries and negative emotions as I face sickness and trouble. How could I remain upset when I see each day as a magical present, given to me by forces beyond my control or understanding?
Every day is my birthday, and I can unwrap this miraculous gift again and again. Sure, today will surely include some disappointments, like when the presents we get for our birthday and Christmas or Hannukah don’t live up to our highest hopes, but there are few joys that compare to receiving and accepting a present, and I can’t imagine any better present, or anything more precious than another day of life.
Many years ago, a colleague’s wife died in her 30s from cancer. At her funeral, the rabbi said something that went straight to my heart, where I’ve kept it ever since. He said: “Our days on earth are numbered, and whether the number is large or small is not so important as how we live each one.” His words were like a message from a distant society. At the time I felt immortal, with a new wife, a new home, a new baby, and so many decades ahead of me that it seemed like infinity. I mostly disregarded the spiritual spark within and hustled and bustled, busy building a life for me, my wife and kids, and working hard in my chosen career as a patent attorney.
So here I am, two decades later, a confirmed agnostic who never belonged to any congregation before Goodloe, leading a religious service. I am grateful for the opportunity, and I can now appreciate the hard work that goes into a service.
Things changed in August 2012. I knew something was wrong when I finished a running race much slower than I expected, and was suffering weakness in my hand. I spent about a month with a series of doctors and in October my neurologist confirmed my deepest fear, with the devastating diagnosis of ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. This motor neuron disease causes progressive muscle loss, has no cure, and is terminal. That knowledge forced me to turn a corner onto a dark and scary road through a neighborhood we all try to avoid for as long as we can. And at first I felt like I was walking alone. But very soon, I found myself being led by guiding insights that emanated from my spiritual core, a resource I’ve nurtured here with you. Three of these insights relate to the year, the day, and the moment.
First, years — I asked myself a difficult question that fall: What would you do if you had a year to walk, and two years to live? The answer came in a flash: I would walk for a year, and live for two. Elaborating the details to that simplistic response has led me to experience 2013 as the happiest of years spent with family and close friends, at home, at work, and trekking to some of our planet’s most amazing places, fulfilling shared dreams of adventure. I had an instant entourage of family and friends as I hiked the Inca trail to Machu Picchu, followed Darwin’s footsteps in the Galapagos, visited my ancestors’ home towns in Eastern Europe, and went on safari in South Africa. We are all grateful for these experiences together. We will have a good time even when my wandering days are over and I am stuck closer to home. So I don’t worry about how many years I have left. I concentrate on making life a wonderful journey all the way. Wherever the road leads this year, I will enjoy the journey.
Second, days — The morning after my diagnosis, I woke up to a beautiful autumn day and felt pure ecstasy just to be alive. I put on my running shoes and off I went down the trail. I experienced transcendent joy – and even though I broke down sobbing with grief after a half mile, I kept going. Soon I made a vow to have such experiences every day, and somehow I conditioned myself to expect a continuous flow of magic moments. Why wouldn’t I wake up happy?
Third, moments – As soon as I received my confirmed diagnosis, I realized how hard it would be for my family to hear what I had just heard and so I came up with a way to soften the blow. I told them that I had good news and bad news, the good news being that I am very good at self-diagnosis. They knew immediately what the bad news meant and that is how we began to live in the new world, together. In dozens and hundreds of encounters since then, I have dropped my grief bomb on relatives, friends, and colleagues and shared every kind of reaction, from shock, to grief, to disbelief, with some people comforting me, and others requiring me to reassure and comfort them. All this loving, sharing, and empathy forged a growing and deepening bond with many people. Even at my law firm, a formal workplace, soon I found myself surrounded by all the hugs I can handle. People tell me it’s inspiring to see how I find silver linings among the storm clouds. I think what they mean is that I give them some confidence that they too will be able to handle the challenge well when it is their turn to follow me.
So those were some guiding insights. Now let’s take a time travel trip together to further understand the Mantra of Today.
Billions of years ago, there were no days, or years. Matter and energy were still new, and I get confused about when time began, or even what it is, but for our purposes let’s just recognize that eventually our spinning Earth began orbiting around the Sun, and that’s when years and days began in the way that we can all understand. And for billions of years to come, it’s a safe bet that there will be day after day.
Millions of years ago, vast ecosystems of life had formed in every sea and on every land mass. Sunrise and sunset in the Jurassic period were about the same as now. The profusion and variability of microbes, plants, and animals was unstoppable, despite mass extinctions now and then – and humans rose up on their hind legs and began running around in social groups that could outwit even the baddest of predators and prey. Like us, and the rest of their neighbor species, they awoke each day and went about their business.
Tens of thousands of years ago, as agriculture began, chiefs and Pharaohs and ancient priests began to organize the solar year into lunar months and set aside certain days as sacred.
Over the centuries, countless societies continued to rise and fall. Thousands then millions and billions of babies were born on their birthdays, grew up in happiness, or misery, and lived each day as best they could until the day they died. Even in war or disaster, survivors woke up each day and found the will to go on.
My own family history began about 150 years ago, when Russia required Jews to select a family name, and the records from then on allowed me to find where they lived, their birth year and who made it safely to America and when. Like us, every family begins to celebrate its own special holidays, with anniversaries, and dates of birth and death. But in my view, we should respect our family heritage, our ancestors and societies and the whole brilliant bundle of everything in our past, present and future, every single day.
So the years and seasons come and go, and the months and weeks form nice and convenient cycles of days. It’s great if we can celebrate the Sabbath, birthdays, anniversaries, and national holidays. But why stop there? Why not celebrate our family heritage, our societies and the whole brilliant bundle of everything in our past, present and future, every single morning?
And is it enough to greet each morning with joy? A family friend told me her story of surviving the Holocaust by leaving Lithuania days before the Nazis arrived. Every night since then, she gives thanks for the day she had just been fortunate enough to experience. So I added that to my mantra: in the morning, I say today is a good day. At night, I recall some positive events – hopefully I shared some love and made the world a bit better somehow — and then I say that was a great day, thank you. And this evening mantra made me even prouder of my spiritual achievements.
But wait, there’s more – one morning I listened to Krista Tippet interview Buddhist monk Thich Nat Han, and it dawned on me that he strives to be fully present, grateful, and aware in every waking moment. Few of us could meet that high standard. As for me, I am pleased to be able to enjoy each day a few times – but I realize there are infinite moments in every day that I could better appreciate.
Try it now. Close your eyes for a moment and try to experience gratitude just for being alive here today.
***
With that mindset, I can explain how living every day with gratitude can help us fulfill not one or two, but all Seven Principles of Unitarian Universalism.
1st Principle: The inherent worth and dignity of every person;
The sun rises and sets for all of us, together. All people live their lives day by day, but each of us experiences our daily lives differently, with joy or sorrow, love or grief, comfort or privation. My day is neither more nor less valuable than yours.
2nd Principle: Justice, equity and compassion in human relations;
Nelson Mandela was stuck in his cell for 27 years, about 10,000 days, and he used this time to prepare for liberation from apartheid, and to cultivate compassion toward his captors while insisting that they treat him with decency, day by day.
3rd Principle: Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations;
Each day brings a new opportunity for spiritual growth. My membership in this congregation has helped me cultivate my spiritual garden with help and encouragement from all of you, and I hope I am returning the favor today.
4th Principle: A free and responsible search for truth and meaning;
Even if I faced physical sickness, or troubled relationships yesterday, today I can search for higher truth and deeper meaning and transform negative experiences into positive lessons.
5th Principle: The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large; and 6th Principle: The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all;
We are defined by the accumulation of choices we make every day. When you decide that every day is precious, you make your decisions count. You speak out and support causes that matter.
7th Principle: Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.
Each day of my life is also a day in the life of the trees and grass, the birds and squirrels, the ants and crickets and the flow of wind and water around me and around the world, from before recorded history began, and on until who knows when. As I savor today’s precious gift, really what I am experiencing is gratitude and responsibility for being a part of such an astoundingly beautiful and complex world.
You may also notice an analogy to another principled day by day approach. Alcoholics Anonymous urges daily recitation of the serenity prayer. My version is:
Grant me the strength to change the things I can, the patience to accept the things I can’t, and the wisdom to know which is which.
Strength, patience, and wisdom can be restored every day.
As Morrie Schwartz was quoted in Tuesdays With Morrie, if you learn how to die, you learn how to live. I have learned how to love living every day, and to paraphrase Bob Dylan, I’m too busy being born to be afraid of dying.
Life is uncertain and no one really knows what will happen and when it will end, for ourselves or those we love. But I know a few things for sure. Each of us was conceived by our mother and father, we were born, we live, and we will die. We come and then we go. The seasons return each year, as our great blue and green earth circles the sun again and again. And as our planet spins, the sun rises in the east every morning and sets in the west every evening. The world will keep going no matter what we do, long after we are gone. All we have to do is get up every morning with a smile and try to appreciate that we are along for the ride. Then we can realize that today is surely a very fine day.
Life Among the Graveyards
Life Among the Graveyards
A family heirloom
Michael Gollin
October 2013
~~~
In Europe, life
is complicated by death.
History unfolds in forest,
town, and street.
Every house tells its story,
every family, every graveyard,
if you listen.
Something called me back,
the old country, land
of king, czarina, Fuehrer,
partisan, pope, and rabbi.
Why go? Because we can,
a peaceful gang of genealogy.
**
A statue on the Limmat river, Zurich,
honors Zwingli, protestant minister
who died fighting
half a millennium ago,
in the Second battle of the churches.
Why were there two?
In small Susice, a walled yard
green with ivy
harbors gravestones centuries old.
Hebrew letters, Yiddish names, straight but tilting rows.
A stream runs out back,
and on the bridge,
we stand in sunlit silhouette.
Sudetenland speaks suffering.
Romans called them barbarians.
Bohemian Czechs called them Nemsky mumblers.
For German language residents,
heimat, contaminated by Jews.
Nazis said it’s ours to take and
Sudetens armed the 3d Reich,
jailed Sudeten Jews
and marched them to their death.
Soviets exiled Sudetens and
destroyed their mountain towns
for an Iron Curtain kill zone, and
new land for Bohemians.
Today, we find a recreational region,
a Synagogue museum in Hartmanice —
Out front, a man polishes the gravestone
he found in a field,
asking for someone who can read it,
reward him,
and protect it inside.
**
In the hills west of Prague, a Czech prayer
remembers his grandparents beneath a black stone,
crosses here and there.
Downtown, in the Old Jewish cemetery,
the stones are crowded, an urban throng.
Graveyards are where dead people live.
Maharal Rabbi Loew inhabits a small house
since 400 years ago, his Golem
long gone from the mud of the Moldau.
To the east, the New Jewish Cemetery
hosts many buried here before
mass murder madness
swept a generation away,
seventy dead out of a hundred.
Then burials began again,
and Jews now die to rest in peace
and receive guests.
At Kafka’s grave, a carnation
marks the page of a Chinese translation.
Death must be normal
so life can be, too.
We celebrate our lives with music,
beer, and food
and see great works of beauty.
Laughter frames our view.
**
The night train to Warsaw passes Auschwitz
close by. The ghetto,
destroyed with three million Jewish lives,
marked by plaques and monuments;
a new museum, built but empty, awaits.
Bialystok, home of the bialy,
and Zamenhof who created Esperanto
to unify the people in this Jewish city in the Russian Pale;
Great-grandfather Menachem Mendel Myron
took his photograph here nearby.
Melted beams from the dome
of the Great Synagogue
are all that remains
after Nazis burnt it down
with 2000 neighbors locked inside.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
The road to heaven, with good deeds.
But evil rides on both.
The Grodek road links Michalowa
to Grodek along the Bialovka river.
My cousin says grandfather Morris lived here —
or at least his brother Joseph did.
(Genealogy is so uncertain.)
We know the siblings fled by road and sea,
and brought forth a new American family.
In the new land we grew
to hundreds strong, but from the looks
of the old country, you’ll find no survivors
left behind, just houses, graves, and books.
We find a sign outside Michalowa along the road
right where the old farmer said it would be.
We hike through autumn leaves
and up a trail to find
a grove of graves among the trees,
Hebrew letters, Yiddish names,
ancestors and friends perhaps.
We light a candle, say a kaddish,
plum brandy toast in cut Czech glass,
read a poem,
plant New Mexican plum pits,
watch the golden sun set
through yellow leaves down into the valley,
We hug and cry.
In Grodek, the Catholic cemetery shines,
with wreaths and flowers,
smooth green lawns and a fleet of crosses.
Concealed across the way in a piney wood,
the Jewish cemetery remains,
its split rail fence outlining turbulent ground
of upheavals and toppled stones,
desecration,
the helpless residents victims
of a final disrespect.
What was life like in the Pale?
Each shtetl rich with Jews, poor in land,
who traded from their homes
built around the market square
in the shadow of the church.
Ivye and Svisloc, Lazdijai,
Utena, and Kamajai.
In Yiddish Vilnius,
the world was ours.
**
Ponar woods is haunted
by the souls of innocents,
slaughtered by death squads —
the Germans’ poison gift.
How were they human,
the locals and invaders
who railroaded the ghettoed Vilna Jews
and shot them track side
to fill the pits with death,
and steal their shoes and watches?
Seventy thousand victims
will never leave these solemn circles
among the peaceful changing trees,
but as I breathe this chilly air,
my heart flies away
in grief and hope.
An angry man greets us in Butrimonys,
as we stare at the brick house dated 1905,
a Jewish house with two doors,
one for family, one for customers.
It’s his now – he’s working in the yard –
and he shouts in Lithuanian,
“cameras,” “police.”
Go ahead, says our guide, call them,
all this used to be ours.
It might have been Grandma Sophie’s home.
We’ll never know.
Her father Moshe Yankel made dyes here.
lived with Chaya in a house on the square,
maybe where the grocery store sits.
We buy bagels and Starka Rye.
Next door, we meet some pleasant folk,
restoring dilapidation.
It was a Jewish town
but no one speaks Yiddish anymore.
Moshe visited Sophie in New York –
the bed he used is upstairs from where I sit —
my children slept in it –
and he went home to Butrimonys with a phonograph.
He played Caruso in the square
and all the town came out to hear.
They must have been amazed.
The cemetery is bright, maintained,
with no new graves of course.
A monument to massacred girls stands out.
We offer a candle a kaddish
a bagel and sage,
a toast to family.
**
A pear tree bears a
lonely fruit, sterile, no seeds
for us to bring home.
**
Our guide reads to us
the book of life,
as it is written,
page by page,
stone by stone.
In graveyards, death tells us a story –
of lives and loves,
joy and sorrow,
ended well or badly –
if we listen.
A long march down the road,
Vidzgiris near Alytus
saw 60,000 lives gunned down
in woods now marked by pyramids
among the fallen leaves.
The trees of Babi Yar look sternly down
and I am executed here,
with ruined Ozymandias, in despair.
Nothing remains of that wicked work
but we who witness and survive
the cruel fury.
I found the ’41 report:
Moshe Yankel murdered under Vidzgiris’ trees
with Itzhak and his son and Yosef,
while the Nazis killed
their wives and kin
at home in Butrimonys.
.
I feel like people feel who want
to feud for generations.
And then the
Soviets harvested stones
from Vilna’s Jewish cemeteries
for building public stairs.
A strange and bitter root to dig —
Wouldn’t cobblestones
have been better?
Lithuania, freed, retrieved the stones,
and built a monument, to atone.
We find smiling girls,
plaques to honor Vilna’s Jews,
and a Synagogue,
lively and attractive.
**
Westward-bound, we climb
the Reichstag dome
transparent and reflective
above the tortured past
of bunkered evil and fatal walls.
Berlin shows the Holocaust in depth
and mourns it with regret.
They have a need to reconcile,
though unity may take a while.
We visit father’s lawyer friend —
Berliner born in ’32, he lost his childhood
in a cursed war. Eight decades later,
he loves his new Berlin.
We share stories, drinks, and jokes,
complain about elections.
Sharing joy it seems that we can find
our own kind of redemption.
Blessing:
Thank you, oh ancestors, who fled your shtetlach
for America where great families rise in peace.
We are the after-life you prayed for.
Curse:
F**k you, vicious fiends, who chased them out
and killed those who stayed behind.
May your brutal deeds and
hateful lives forever be reviled.
Prophecy:
I, too, had a Kingly dream,
that in the autumn woods of Europe,
we children of victims and children of oppressors
would sit down together at the table of brotherhood,
that Jew and Gentile, Catholic and Protestant,
would hold hands and sing songs of freedom.
**
As quiet as a graveyard is,
it celebrates the living,
as we remember those who died
and ways to be forgiving.
Even stones can speak to us
if we go to them and listen.
~~~
Curable sickness
Curable sickness
Michael Gollin
January 2013
Pinch — the Amazon rubber boots don’t fit,
rubbing raw my little toe,
and infection comes to visit.
Ssss — that smarts until
good shoes and Neosporin on Band-Aids
let new skin grow well.
Ouch — my head will explode in the high vacuum of Cusco,
massaging throbbing temples at Pachapapa.
Take water and Diamox until
next day Eureka — I’m good to go.
Ohh — my bowels turn to liquid for a day,
my life runs out, I faint,
then revived, drink and eat water and toast.
¿Donde está el baño?
Four bowls of chicken soup
(quinoa, noodle, potato and egg)
make me hungry and then
Wow — this beer tastes good.
Cough– the cold from Steve then Jim
tickles my throat and then my nose runs fast.
Sudafed early and Benadryl late,
tissue wiping and hand washing.
Then I sleep dry without drugs.
Oh it’s great to be healthy.
Forgot sunscreen in the Andean haze,
so my head is red and sore.
It peels and peels some more.
Flakes of skin fall off.
Fresh skin looks nice!
A disease can be a gift,
once you find a cure.
Bang your head against the wall
then stop to feel good for sure.
***
Memento Mori
Memento Mori
11/12/13
Michael Gollin
|
Dead —
No longer alive.
||
The dead —
All the people who once lived.
|||
Remember the dead –
How the living relate to their origin and destiny.
||||
We remember the dead —
A communion with family, friends, colleagues and compatriots.
|||||
Do we remember the dead?
A challenge that keeps us centered and humble.
||||||
How do we remember the dead?
The way they asked.
Celebrating the lives they led, their work, spouses, children.
Kind words, spiritual practices, grief, graves, and graveyards.
Laughter and forgetting what’s best forgotten.
Stories told, pictures taken.
Transmuting memories into new relationships and shared experience.
Homes built, wealth achieved and heirlooms passed on.
Struggles and troubles survived.
Battles waged, achievements won, institutions that live on.
Good deeds done, works published, songs sung, art displayed and athletic triumphs.
Mementos, monuments, and memorials.
The way they would want.
The way you would want when you are gone.
Bitter End
Bitter End
June 30. 2013
Michael Gollin
The Bitter End is a sweet place to be,
safely moored past the sound –-
Fly to full moon beach party,
ferry to sloop for sleep,
sail to Gorda,
then dinghy to shore
walk up the beach
and sway in a hammock.
Rested, cross the channel to Saba Rock,
island harbored in an island,
tropical space capsule,
circumnavigate barefoot in 10 minutes
if you take your time,
past 1950s Seahorse outboard motors,
cannon and anchor from the wreck of the Rhone
sharing a concrete pool with Moray eels and sea cucumbers,
tarpon gathering to the light at the wharf.
Painkiller in hand, step up to Bermuda grass lawn,
sporting a new deck built since my last time here.
Recline and look Northeast at the wind blowing waves from Spain.
We sailed out there today.
Our big boat was infinitesimal at sea.
Closer hangs my hammock, now empty,
across the water at the Bitter End Yacht Club.
A sailor’s dream.
If this isn’t paradise, well, I can see it from here.
Nothing between my head and infinity,
I lay on deck with my daughter looking up at the stars,
through shrouds and stays, spars, and massive mast
pointing straight up at the Zenith.
My sky app shows where the constellations are,
even if we can’t see them, even beneath the sea.
It knows where we are in time and space. I do too.
The best aquarium in the world is down below.
Just look.
Snorkel above or scuba within.
Garden eels play peekaboo, spotted drum with stripes,
clumsy shaped filefish,
giant hawksbill turtle rises for a breath,
but we don’t have to.
Bluebell tunicates predate vertebrates
black coral looks green to me,
waving with the countless fans.
Swim hard against the current,
and stay low.
I haul myself through the Baths,
natural amusing park.
Commerce can’t top it.
Boulders, tunnels, and pools,
Angly stairs, ramps, and ropes
Sun and shade. sand and rock,
trails past beach gooseberry and grape trees.
The rain chases me off my lounge chair,
into the ocean, not to shelter,
Surprise — I get wet.
Spoiler alert – I get dry.
I swim toward Dead Chest from Deadman cove, alive,
then shower, drip dry in the light rain.
Steady state damp.
Pelican dive bombs the surf and beaks a fish,
seagull swoops onto his back, a thief.
Pelican pecks and gulps, relieved.
But it looks bad for fish and gull.
On Beef Island beach, cute kitty begs scraps, then vicious,
claws down a gull, and torture plays it to death.
Gulls live on the edge.
We each came for different reasons,
Parents, children, and friends,
And the same – we all want to be here,
afloat among islands at sea,
adventure and challenge for fun
together in real not virtual space.
Crickets chirp, birds sing, rooster crows,
moonrise over the island hill,
behind a black cloud,
shines a silver lining,
no gold, no blue sky tonight,
rain with no rainbow.
motor running without sail,
electronic pings.
Gulls cry from the cleated dinghy,
dropping white spots that wash away
like memories.
***
Not Dead Yet
Not Dead Yet
Michael Gollin
2013
– Apologies to Monty Python
***
Undertaker’s calling
“Bring your dead out to the street.”
Old man shouts, defiantly,
”I’m not dead yet!”
1.
I’m walking and I’m talking
and Death is not a threat.
I’ve lived to tell this story
so I’m not dead yet.
Miles to go before I sleep,
I don’t have time to fret,
moving down this winding road,
I’m not dead yet.
The deck is stacked against me
every time I place a bet,
but each hand I win reminds me
that I’m not dead yet.
I try to do more good than bad
and pay off all my debt.
The best is surely coming
‘cause I’m not dead yet.
2.
Our days on earth are numbered
but the number isn’t set.
Every day‘s a miracle when
you’re not dead yet.
I craved your loving kindness
From the moment that we met.
We can hug and kiss forever
When we’re not dead yet.
Live each day until you die,
it’s all that you will get,
make it count forever
when you’re not dead yet.
The evening sky is blazing now,
is this my last sunset?
No! I’ll see tomorrow’s
‘cause I’m not dead yet.
3.
Mark Twain laughed and told the world
the rumors of his death
were exaggerated.
He was not dead yet!
Grasp the truth before you
like the leash that holds a pet:
Death binds our lives together
but we’re not dead yet.
Tyrants think that we’ll give up,
that our freedom we’ll forget,
but we the people never lose
When we’re not dead yet.
4.
One day will be my last no doubt
and when my fate I’ve met,
I’ll recall each time I said
I’m not dead yet!
If we live with grace and courage
and we act without regret,
each choice we make, we prove again
we’re not dead yet.
Our deeds can last forever
for everyone we’ve met —
in memories of all who care,
we’re not dead yet.
***
Genealogy’s Original Face
Genealogy produces a family heirloom – the heirloom is the family.
I started a family tree in preparation for a “roots tour” to visit my grandparents’ home towns in Eastern Europe, and was quickly able to identify 80+ ancestors as far back as 5 generations, over 150 years, thanks to trees already assembled by others. This of course leads me to wonder who will be looking back on us 150 years from now? What will they see?
The Zen koan refers to your “original face” which is defined in a question:
What did your face look like before your parents were born?
No amount of genealogy or genetics would allow me to imagine the original face of my great-grandchildren before my grandchildren are born. But I choose to believe that they are all smiling.
Natural Herritage
-
Natural Heritage
September 2013
Michael Gollin
Sun rays filter through green leaves.
Crickets chirr.
Gentle gnats drift above a log
and spiders’ webs shimmer, waiting.
A rivulet of water winds down
the creek bed behind me in our valley,
where I sit leaning against a tulip poplar,
reading and writing in this temple of Nature,
facing West, and waiting for the sun to set
upwards, through the canopy,
so I can break my fast with my family
and millions of others.
Every tree that ever lived,
every tree that will exist,
will drop one day,
by wind or saw,
slow or fast,
following its leaves in a final Fall.
Do not mourn them,
or not for long.
It is their fate
to reach for the sky,
then descend to the earth
as these pillars of the woods
become lumber, fuel,
or soil for new growth.
My grandparents left their distant homes
for the long crossing here
on a quest to foster a new world.
They came and went like so many more,
and lived and worked and loved
and left us to continue their journey.
On we go, gratefully.
***
Remembrance, 9-11-11
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Remembrance, 9-11-11
Michael Gollin
You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face
And show the world all the love in your heart.
Then people gonna treat you better
You’re gonna find, yes, you will
That you’re beautiful as you feel.
The lyrics to “Beautiful” by Carole King popped into my head, fully formed, as I woke up, on the 10th anniversary of September 11, 2001. That was unusual for me. I do not usually remember lyrics without strenuous efforts at memorization. I found a recording of “Beautiful” and realized I had been visited by a vision (a song, actually) that was just right for my remembrance of that fateful day.
- You’ve got to get up every morning…
Labor Day fell on September 3 that year. School had started in August. We went to New York for Aunt Irma and Uncle Allen’s 50th anniversary celebration on Saturday. That Sunday morning was beautiful and we finally got to visit the World Trade Center observation deck on the South Tower. The city had been foggy during our previous attempt to go up and show the kids, so we bailed out that time. During our time living in New York, Jill and I had each separately been to Windows of the World, and she had been out on the observation deck, but I never had the chance in my six years living in NY or 10 years of visits thereafter, so we were all looking forward to it that day. We rode the express elevator 101 stories up and enjoyed the exhibits. Natasha, and Julia, and I then rode up the final floors to the top, strolled around the elevated walk among the antennas, and enjoyed the spectacular view. I have a happy photo of the two of them on the roof, with uptown and blue sky behind them. Max wouldn’t go up on the roof and stayed downstairs by the Sbarro’s because he said he was afraid a plane might crash into the building. From the windows, you could see planes flying around in the vicinity. He turned 7 on 9/4. Natasha was 9 and Julia was 4. I was a youthful 44.
- With a smile on your face…
Back home the next week, we hustled out the door after breakfast on the Tuesday, with me and Natasha in the front and Max and Julia in the back of my Civic. Jill stayed home. It was another beautiful day. As we drove across Old Bowie’s 10th St., crossing the power lines toward the intersection with Rte 197, the NPR announcer said a small plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. Hey, I said to the kids, we were just there! The news reports began at about 8:50, four minutes after the crash. Julia was due at the Bowie Montessori Children’s House pre-K at 9 am, less than 10 minutes from home. We drove down the wooded drive to the drop off circle and left her with the attendants and watched as she went up the hill to her class room with her green Montessori book bag and lunch box. I had no sense of any relevance of the seeming accidental crash at the time, and was still cheerful. You hear a lot of unfortunate news on NPR Morning Edition and you can’t let it ruin your day.
- And show the world all the love in your heart…
As I left the Montessori school and drove toward Glenarden Woods Elementary School, about 10-15 minutes further down 193 and Annapolis Road, we kept listening to the news. It sounded like it was actually a jet airliner that had crashed into the North tower. That sounded more like a hijacking. Somewhere along Martin Luther King Drive I heard that a second plane had hit the south tower after the first plane hit. Now I was getting worried. This was clearly an attack. I turned off on Glenarden Parkway and called Jill on my cell phone. It seemed to me that it was safe for the kids to be in school in Prince George’s County. There were no targets there that a terrorist would even think of. And a strong voice in me said “resist.” Don’t let them have their victory of terrorizing us into sacrificing the things we cherish. Education for the kids. And I was going to work, damn it. So I dropped off Natasha for 5th grade and Max for 2nd. It was a new school for him that year, after three years at the Montessori. The drop off was routine as I recall.
- And people gonna treat you better…
By 9:30 I was on Rte 50E heading into DC, listening intently to the news and trying to make sense of it. Traffic was slow. Reports came in about 9:40 that another jet had crashed into the Pentagon. Now it was not just New York that was being attacked but us in DC. I kept going. A little after 10, the reporter announced that the South Tower had collapsed. I felt suddenly nauseous. I knew that about 50,000 people worked in the twin towers. I couldn’t fathom how many people might have just died. And I sensed the significance of the loss of the iconic power of the towers, never loved as beautiful, but respected and relied on as part of New York’s core. At 10:30 when the North Tower collapsed, the gravity of the situation and my grief both deepened.
Then, way off to the southwest, over the Anacostia and Potomac valley I could see a smudge of smoke blowing eastward. I knew that was the Pentagon burning. What could I do? The kids were safe, Jill was home, and how would this impact me or stop me from doing my work. Traffic was heavy, but I kept going. I pulled into my parking lot across from 1201 New York Ave before 11, a 2 hour drive. The attendant said they were evacuating DC, a bomb exploded at the State Department, and I should leave. I went into the building and colleagues were leaving. Everyone was concerned and full of advice. I rode the elevator up to my 9th floor office and got some files. I was there for a few minutes, then accepted the evacuation and came back down, got my car, and started a long drive home. It was hard to call Jill, to check with the school, to let the teachers know I would come get the kids.
Traffic was heavier than ever but people were well-behaved. It was probably about 2 I got to Glenarden Woods. Jill got Julia. We got milk at the 7-11 and went home.
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You’re gonna find, yes you will, that you’re beautiful as you feel.
We hunkered down in front of the TV and worried. Jill and I worried that Max would feel guilty like he had predicted it, or even somehow caused it. That never happened. We worried that people we knew were killed. I worried that I didn’t know who did it, or why. I worried that more attacks were coming. And for the first day, I worried about a death toll that would rival the Vietnam war. The number of lives lost would be “more than any of us can bear” said Mayor Giuliani. Amazingly, it dropped down below 10,000, below 5,000, below 3,000. Many evacuated the towers safely, but also the terrorists struck early, too early to catch many people who were still on the subways or on their way in to work for the usual New York starting time of 9:30.
The next day I think the schools were open. I did make it to work, in an all-personnel meeting managing Partner Jim Shea called in the conference room, that turned into an impromptu mourning session, called that my partner Todd Reuben went down in the Pentagon, on his first business trip to Los Angeles for a client. His wife and children accepted the consolations of many of us a few days later.
Soccer practice proceeded Thursday. I remember lots of parents there with folding chairs, and how clear blue the sky looked with no jet contrails. It was three days before jets took off again. Brother in law Robin had to rent a car in Atlanta to get back home to St. Louis. Others were stranded overseas. The rescue and firefighting continued.
I started a quest to understand who were these attackers? Where did they come from? What motivated them? And importantly, how many of them were there? I knew instantly that the villainization of Islam was a terrible mistake. I began a renewed spiritual journey into the human heart and my own heart that continues to this day, at a remembrance service at my Goodloe Unitarian Universalist congregation. Even the overtly sentimental and patriotic recitations and sentiments expressed in the official media, including today’s Sunday comics, are acceptable and understandable. After 10 years, we can rip off the bandage, but the wound is still raw. 10 years of official political violence and corruption have masked the original valor and tenacity of the “first responders” and second and third and later responders, and the grief and shocking loss of so many lives. The thousands of short obituaries published in the NY Times made me cry each time I read them. Normal people, cut short and stolen from their loved ones. But the Bush crowd and their craven misappropriation of the events for their own political power have held my angry gaze for a decade. On the other hand, our worst fears of a dirty bomb or a bioweapon never came to pass. I would forgive much of the Bush-Rove agenda but for the attack on Iraq and the adoption of torture. The Homeland Security apparatus is far too much, but I understand it.
I did not go help dig out people, or take in victims. I did not do everything I could. I empathized with my cousins and friends in NY for their displacement, and the loss of those they knew. I did follow a resolution that I made to commit my time, energy and money to defeat George Bush as soon as he invaded Iraq. I became more politically active and religiously involved. I started a nonprofit organization, Public Interest Intellectual Property Advisors (www.piipa.org), to provide intellectual property law assistance to developing countries so they can benefit from innovation as a path out of nihilism and hopelessness. I tried to become a better husband and father. I like to think I’ve never let my family down and have been a good citizen of the US, protecting our freedoms, and of the world, seeking to find and channel positive creative energy as an antidote to evil.
Carole King’s lyrics in “Beautiful” are a pure, simple, and joyful approach to life and I am convinced she is right. You’ve got to get up every morning, and what you do then is up to you. I do believe that over time, a smile on your face and love in your heart hold more sway than violence and hate. My goal is to follow King’s advice, put a smile on my face and show the world all the love in my heart. Then, if she is right, we will all find that we are as beautiful as we feel.
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