Saturday, May 24, 2008

Could my right be wrong?

Heidi Muller is back in town and called last night to invite us to dinner. Excellent timing as Jerry finished his last chemo today and we wanted to celebrate somehow.

Heidi filled us in on her incredible creative accomplishments during her say in Joseph Oregon over the winter. Everything from writing three new songs and producing a CD with her song writing group to making quilts and a soft doll. Their descriptions of the Northwest stirred my yearning to visit there. Perhaps meet up with Bob and Heidi at some point and also visit my Aunt Joan who lives near Seattle.

Of course we talked of the Vandalia Festival this weekend at the Capitol. A few of their students from the East End Family Resource Center will be playing in the Youth Dulcimer Competition on Sunday.

Jerry wants to go to the Liar’s contest which got us talking about Bill Lepp, the famous WV liar. His 7 year old son is also competing in the Liar’s contest again this year. Bob had just heard Bill and his son recently and we talked of what a great job this 7-year old does and how he loves to perform. He has his own gigs and will appear on Bill’s new CD.

Bob told us of Bill’s older brother, Tony who was also a fantastic storyteller when he was alive. “I bet Bill’s son is a reincarnation of Tony” Bob half whispered with a slight giggle in his voice.

So, that is the kickoff of my pondering this morning.
Bob’s remark doesn’t even cause a blip on my radar screen since I long ago accepted reincarnation as a strong possibility. I guess I would say I believe in it.

Reflecting back on how Bob said it, I was reminded of how many people would see that as a pretty out there, woo woo, off the edge remark, probably Jerry did and perhaps Heidi. To me, it was very matter of fact.

Reincarnation is a piece of my puzzle. The puzzle I have put together over my life to define my truth. I have my piece about the nature of God, my piece about abortion, divorce, death, meditation, capital punishment, love and sex, peace and justice and more of course.

There is a feeling of satisfaction that you have it all figured out. Like the feeling I get when I complete a soduku puzzle or when I complete my financial statements at work. I have gathered the facts, worked them out and using the best of my skills and knowledge, completed the puzzle. Of course I feel I have the “right” answers. Doesn’t everyone feel that way? It gives you a sense of security that you know the game and have the rules all figured out and the result is a nice neat package. Please don’t tell me I have made a mistake – shit- what a bitch to have to go back and re-work the whole thing.

People get their puzzles done and are so pissed if you mess with it that they might even kill you over it. They will only vote for the candidate whose puzzles look pretty similar to theirs.

But maybe we are all wrong. Jerry just said that there is truth “If I drop this quarter, what will happen? Will it fall to the ground?” “Yes” I said, “But go to the moon and try it and see what happens”.

Perhaps truth is like this poem that was recently forwarded to me….

194. THE AFTERLIFE - Billy Collins

While you are preparing for sleep, brushing your teeth,
or riffling through a magazine in bed,
the dead of the day are setting out on their journey.

They're moving off in all imaginable directions,
each according to his own private belief,
and this is the secret that silent Lazarus would not reveal:
that everyone is right, as it turns out.
you go to the place you always thought you would go,
The place you kept lit in an alcove in your head.

Some are being shot into a funnel of flashing colors
into a zone of light, white as a January sun.
Others are standing naked before a forbidding judge who sits
with a golden ladder on one side, a coal chute on the other.

Some have already joined the celestial choir
and are singing as if they have been doing this forever,
while the less inventive find themselves stuck
in a big air conditioned room full of food and chorus girls.

Some are approaching the apartment of the female God,
a woman in her forties with short wiry hair
and glasses hanging from her neck by a string.
With one eye she regards the dead through a hole in her door.

There are those who are squeezing into the bodies
of animals--eagles and leopards--and one trying on
the skin of a monkey like a tight suit,
ready to begin another life in a more simple key,
while others float off into some benign vagueness,
little units of energy heading for the ultimate elsewhere.

There are even a few classicists being led to an underworld
by a mythological creature with a beard and hooves.
He will bring them to the mouth of the furious cave
guarded over by Edith Hamilton and her three-headed dog.

The rest just lie on their backs in their coffins wishing
they could return so they could learn Italian
or see the pyramids, or play some golf in a light rain.
They wish they could wake in the morning like you
and stand at a window examining the winter trees,
every branch traced with the ghost writing of snow.