Robert Jacoby's Blog, page 7
October 23, 2015
Review of The World Made Straight by Ron Rash
The world made as straight as you can...
Up front: I'm a big fan of Ron Rash. His style, his craft, his storytelling. When I read this man I learn from this man.
That said, I realize that this book will not be to everyone's liking. Some have pointed out the slow pace in the middle. Others, the unsatisfying ending. I won't give any spoilers here. Suffice to say:
This book is Ron Rash the modern Southern gothic writer. Place means all and is all. Land mattes. Your people matter. What stock you come from matters. To someone born and raised in New York City or the Midwest, this will likely mean little to nothing. But to the people Ron Rash is writing about, it means their world. It *is* their world. His prose is at times light and tender, and at other times it is poetic and piercing, reaching into the beautiful spaces where some unwanted truths may be found.
Recommended for those interested in reading what new Southern gothic looks like. Highly recommended for fans of Flannery O'Connor and wondering if anyone could pick up where she left off. Answer: yes. It's Ron Rash.
I love it:
5/5 Goodreads
5/5 Amazon
Up front: I'm a big fan of Ron Rash. His style, his craft, his storytelling. When I read this man I learn from this man.
That said, I realize that this book will not be to everyone's liking. Some have pointed out the slow pace in the middle. Others, the unsatisfying ending. I won't give any spoilers here. Suffice to say:
This book is Ron Rash the modern Southern gothic writer. Place means all and is all. Land mattes. Your people matter. What stock you come from matters. To someone born and raised in New York City or the Midwest, this will likely mean little to nothing. But to the people Ron Rash is writing about, it means their world. It *is* their world. His prose is at times light and tender, and at other times it is poetic and piercing, reaching into the beautiful spaces where some unwanted truths may be found.
Recommended for those interested in reading what new Southern gothic looks like. Highly recommended for fans of Flannery O'Connor and wondering if anyone could pick up where she left off. Answer: yes. It's Ron Rash.
I love it:
5/5 Goodreads
5/5 Amazon
October 19, 2015
Review of The Girl on the Train
Took it as a beach read, put it down as unreadable
In a word: crap.
I took this book with me on a beach vacation because I wanted something to breeze through, something to entertain me. I do not ask for much in my beach reads: plot, some coherent writing, character development. I gave this book more than a fair shot. But I'm stopping at page 175.
Poor writing, flat characters, and the author's sexist tone seeps off every page. Every female psychosis is on display here: dressing the part, feeling worthless, feeling like a child, sexual motivation behind how men act, women's revenge, "I'm a force to be reckoned with," "all these men," the list goes on....
I can't take it anymore. Life is too short to read bad books like this one.
I hate it
1/5 Goodreads
1/5 Amazon
In a word: crap.
I took this book with me on a beach vacation because I wanted something to breeze through, something to entertain me. I do not ask for much in my beach reads: plot, some coherent writing, character development. I gave this book more than a fair shot. But I'm stopping at page 175.
Poor writing, flat characters, and the author's sexist tone seeps off every page. Every female psychosis is on display here: dressing the part, feeling worthless, feeling like a child, sexual motivation behind how men act, women's revenge, "I'm a force to be reckoned with," "all these men," the list goes on....
I can't take it anymore. Life is too short to read bad books like this one.
I hate it
1/5 Goodreads
1/5 Amazon
August 9, 2015
Review of The Great Railway Bazaar by Paul Theroux
I hovered between "I don't like it" (2/5) and "It's okay" (3/5) on this one. What kept pulling me along was Theroux's craft as a writer to drop in an interesting turn of phrase and use language in an unusual way. I found his story (that is, the conveyance of his journey) surprisingly heartless, surprisingly soulless. And in several instances he behaves like a dick.
I can't recommend this book.
I can't recommend this book.
July 26, 2015
ISIS Beheading Christians Haiku
They lop Christian heads.
The world says ISIS is wrong.
Who are we to judge.
The world says ISIS is wrong.
Who are we to judge.
June 11, 2015
First they came...
First they came for Mark Twain, and I did not speak out--
Because I hated his use of racial slurs.
Then they came for Ovid, and I did not speak out--
Because the rape of Persephone was triggering me.
Then they came for Shakespeare, and I did not speak out--
Because I could not understand Old English.
Then they came for me--and there was no one left to speak
for the language I intended to use.
Because I hated his use of racial slurs.
Then they came for Ovid, and I did not speak out--
Because the rape of Persephone was triggering me.
Then they came for Shakespeare, and I did not speak out--
Because I could not understand Old English.
Then they came for me--and there was no one left to speak
for the language I intended to use.
May 19, 2015
Dear Dad
Cross-posted from my LinkedIn account: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/dear-d...
May 20. My father's birthday. 1924. He died July 26, 1999. "Respiratory arrest" says the death certificate. His discharge papers circa WW2 say he served 2 years, 4 months, 16 days, in "foreign service." Asiatic-Pacific Theater Ribbon w/3 Bronze Stars; Philippine Liberation Ribbon w/1 Bronze Star. 872nd Airborne Engineers.
Battles and Campaigns: Southern Philippines; New Guinea; Ryukus.
Names forgotten.
In particular I remember seeing one photograph of him standing tall and strong as a young man of 19, a submachine gun slung over his shoulder and him at the ready, grip on trigger and barrel, the black and white sunshine and jungle behind him on a black and white beach.
As a child I marveled. I still do.
The few stories I got from my father about his experiences during the war haunt me to this day. I won't share them here. What these men went through for us today few can be truly thankful for because few have the imagination or will to comprehend the sustained horrors these men went through, I think.
Of course. How can you comprehend the incomprehensible? Why would you want to?
Of his three sons I knew I would write his eulogy. I have a recollection of meeting with my brothers the night before to just-touch on it; we looked and not-looked at each other; and with few words we all acknowledged I would write something that I would speak the next day at the service. I remember my older brother Mike saying to me, " A few well chosen words...."
This is what I wrote the night before the service and shared at the church service:
In life, my father was a man of few words. At his death, I believe my father would think it appropriate for me to be a man of few words—a few well chosen words—to celebrate his life.
I sat with my father on Sunday night and into Monday morning as he lay dying, struggling sometimes for breath, struggling to hold onto this life, it seemed to me. I held his hand and cried and talked with him for hours about times past and how I would remember him. I hoped he could hear me, but I knew the morphine had put him too deep into slumber.
I told my dad how proud of him I was. I was proud of him for showing me how to work hard and stay at a task, even when you didn’t really enjoy it, but you could see the benefit it brought others some time later. Today people say I am disciplined, and I would point to my father and say, I learned it from him. I was proud of him for providing for his family, even when he wasn’t always able to spend time with his family, because he was so busy providing for his family. Today people say I am self-sacrificing, and I would point to my father and say, I learned it from him. And I was proud of him for being a success. Yes, I whispered in my father’s ear, you are a success. Look at your sons; look at your grandchildren. See your loving, faith-filled wife. This is what you leave behind, Dad: it’s our lives we carry forward cherishing the memories of good times spent with you.
Don’t struggle, Dad, I told him, to stay in this world to wonder and worry if what you’ve done is right with your life, or about how you could have done things differently, or about what might have been. You’ve earned the freedom from that struggle, Dad. You’ve earned the freedom. You’ve earned your peace. Now go to enjoy that peace, a peace so magnificent it’s hardly imaginable by our mortal minds here on earth. It’s waiting for you, Dad. Go on ahead, and we’ll see you someday. We’ll all see you someday.
May 20. My father's birthday. 1924. He died July 26, 1999. "Respiratory arrest" says the death certificate. His discharge papers circa WW2 say he served 2 years, 4 months, 16 days, in "foreign service." Asiatic-Pacific Theater Ribbon w/3 Bronze Stars; Philippine Liberation Ribbon w/1 Bronze Star. 872nd Airborne Engineers.
Battles and Campaigns: Southern Philippines; New Guinea; Ryukus.
Names forgotten.
In particular I remember seeing one photograph of him standing tall and strong as a young man of 19, a submachine gun slung over his shoulder and him at the ready, grip on trigger and barrel, the black and white sunshine and jungle behind him on a black and white beach.
As a child I marveled. I still do.
The few stories I got from my father about his experiences during the war haunt me to this day. I won't share them here. What these men went through for us today few can be truly thankful for because few have the imagination or will to comprehend the sustained horrors these men went through, I think.
Of course. How can you comprehend the incomprehensible? Why would you want to?
Of his three sons I knew I would write his eulogy. I have a recollection of meeting with my brothers the night before to just-touch on it; we looked and not-looked at each other; and with few words we all acknowledged I would write something that I would speak the next day at the service. I remember my older brother Mike saying to me, " A few well chosen words...."
This is what I wrote the night before the service and shared at the church service:
In life, my father was a man of few words. At his death, I believe my father would think it appropriate for me to be a man of few words—a few well chosen words—to celebrate his life.
I sat with my father on Sunday night and into Monday morning as he lay dying, struggling sometimes for breath, struggling to hold onto this life, it seemed to me. I held his hand and cried and talked with him for hours about times past and how I would remember him. I hoped he could hear me, but I knew the morphine had put him too deep into slumber.
I told my dad how proud of him I was. I was proud of him for showing me how to work hard and stay at a task, even when you didn’t really enjoy it, but you could see the benefit it brought others some time later. Today people say I am disciplined, and I would point to my father and say, I learned it from him. I was proud of him for providing for his family, even when he wasn’t always able to spend time with his family, because he was so busy providing for his family. Today people say I am self-sacrificing, and I would point to my father and say, I learned it from him. And I was proud of him for being a success. Yes, I whispered in my father’s ear, you are a success. Look at your sons; look at your grandchildren. See your loving, faith-filled wife. This is what you leave behind, Dad: it’s our lives we carry forward cherishing the memories of good times spent with you.
Don’t struggle, Dad, I told him, to stay in this world to wonder and worry if what you’ve done is right with your life, or about how you could have done things differently, or about what might have been. You’ve earned the freedom from that struggle, Dad. You’ve earned the freedom. You’ve earned your peace. Now go to enjoy that peace, a peace so magnificent it’s hardly imaginable by our mortal minds here on earth. It’s waiting for you, Dad. Go on ahead, and we’ll see you someday. We’ll all see you someday.
May 1, 2015
Dear Mom
Cross-linked from my LinkedIn page:
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/dear-m...
Helen Marie Jacoby
May 2, 1930 - January 5, 2008
The newspaper clipping reads: "A 77-year-old woman died of carbon monoxide poisoning after she left her car running in her garage over the weekend."
Death and its subtler forms has shattered my life many times over over the years. My journal entry from January 13, 2008 is 22 words:
"Mom is dead. I wrote the eulogy. I think she'd be happy with what I had to say about our life together."
This is pretty much how I wrote her eulogy in my journal:
How do you say goodbye?
And how do you remember a life? your mother? Mom.
I think it depends on where you are in life, because where you are in life changes who you are, and what you see, and what you think, and how you feel.
When I was 7, Mom was the world. There was food and home and school projects and getting tucked into bed at night and Christmas mornings and birthday cakes and Easter Sunday dinners with the family, strawberry picking on a farm in the summertime and apple picking in the fall, family clam bakes, vacations to Canada, the Rocky Mountains, and Florida. And Mom was always there, taking care of us, taking care of it all.
When I was 14, Mom seemed to be getting a little weird and old-fashioned.
When I was 21, I think Mom worried alot about how things would turn out for her boys.
When I was 28 I was beginning to have my own children and beginning to understand and appreciate what Mom had done throughout her life for me and my brothers.
When I was 35 and had three children of my own, I would ask my brothers: “How did Mom do all of this?” I would ask her: “How did you do it all?” She’d laugh and shrug and say, “I don’t know. I didn’t think too much about it at the time. I just did it. I just did what needed to be done.” That was Mom. That was how she handled things. She just did what needed to be done.
When I was 42 I really looked forward to our visits because I lived so far away. We’d have a marathon card game our first night in, me and her and her grandchildren. We’d play cards for hours and talk and joke and laugh about the silliest things until none of us could see straight. Mom would tell stories about my childhood to my kids, and about her life, her childhood, and I could feel how much love she had to share with people and how much she enjoyed being with her family. And then there were quiet times together, when she would make tea and we would sit and talk, just the two of us, just sit and reminisce and share a lifetime together.
And that's how I'll remember you, Mom.
We had such good times together.
When I was 49—well, there won’t be a “When I was 49.”
It's time to say goodbye.
But Mom had a saying, she said she picked it up from her mom, my Grandma Stampfel. She explained it to me at the end of one of our visits, “This isn’t goodbye. Goodbye is forever. This is just so long, because it’ll be just a little long while until we see each other again.” So we’d hug, we’d hug, and she’d say “so long, so long.”
Today, Mom, this isn’t goodbye. Goodbye is forever. This is just so long, because it’ll be just a little long while until we see each other again. So long, Mom, so long.
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/dear-m...
Helen Marie Jacoby
May 2, 1930 - January 5, 2008
The newspaper clipping reads: "A 77-year-old woman died of carbon monoxide poisoning after she left her car running in her garage over the weekend."
Death and its subtler forms has shattered my life many times over over the years. My journal entry from January 13, 2008 is 22 words:
"Mom is dead. I wrote the eulogy. I think she'd be happy with what I had to say about our life together."
This is pretty much how I wrote her eulogy in my journal:
How do you say goodbye?
And how do you remember a life? your mother? Mom.
I think it depends on where you are in life, because where you are in life changes who you are, and what you see, and what you think, and how you feel.
When I was 7, Mom was the world. There was food and home and school projects and getting tucked into bed at night and Christmas mornings and birthday cakes and Easter Sunday dinners with the family, strawberry picking on a farm in the summertime and apple picking in the fall, family clam bakes, vacations to Canada, the Rocky Mountains, and Florida. And Mom was always there, taking care of us, taking care of it all.
When I was 14, Mom seemed to be getting a little weird and old-fashioned.
When I was 21, I think Mom worried alot about how things would turn out for her boys.
When I was 28 I was beginning to have my own children and beginning to understand and appreciate what Mom had done throughout her life for me and my brothers.
When I was 35 and had three children of my own, I would ask my brothers: “How did Mom do all of this?” I would ask her: “How did you do it all?” She’d laugh and shrug and say, “I don’t know. I didn’t think too much about it at the time. I just did it. I just did what needed to be done.” That was Mom. That was how she handled things. She just did what needed to be done.
When I was 42 I really looked forward to our visits because I lived so far away. We’d have a marathon card game our first night in, me and her and her grandchildren. We’d play cards for hours and talk and joke and laugh about the silliest things until none of us could see straight. Mom would tell stories about my childhood to my kids, and about her life, her childhood, and I could feel how much love she had to share with people and how much she enjoyed being with her family. And then there were quiet times together, when she would make tea and we would sit and talk, just the two of us, just sit and reminisce and share a lifetime together.
And that's how I'll remember you, Mom.
We had such good times together.
When I was 49—well, there won’t be a “When I was 49.”
It's time to say goodbye.
But Mom had a saying, she said she picked it up from her mom, my Grandma Stampfel. She explained it to me at the end of one of our visits, “This isn’t goodbye. Goodbye is forever. This is just so long, because it’ll be just a little long while until we see each other again.” So we’d hug, we’d hug, and she’d say “so long, so long.”
Today, Mom, this isn’t goodbye. Goodbye is forever. This is just so long, because it’ll be just a little long while until we see each other again. So long, Mom, so long.
April 18, 2015
What I've Learned After Writing 1 Million Words Over 30 Years
Cross-posted from my LinkedIn page...
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/what-i...
I've written 1 million words over 30 years. At least, I think I have. It's hard to say. Who's going to count every word in 11 journals across 1,100 pages? Let's call it 900,000 to 1.1 million. This is not about numbers but about reflection.
My first entry was February 4, 1985. The first sentence was: "How shall I describe madness." I've been describing it ever since.
What have I learned after writing 1 million words over 30 years?
I've learned there's always more to write. There's always more to say. And there never seems to be enough time or space.
I've learned that I love language. I love the play and roll of syllables and words and phrases and sentences in my head. I love writing. I learned I could not give up what I am for any person, not even myself.
I've learned you cannot run away from yourself. You can move to another city, another state, another country, but you'll always have who you are. I've learned to try to live with that. I'm still learning to live with that.
I've learned that writing is solitary, not lonely. The release it provides for me gives life. It is life, to me. It is a way of describing and deciphering and discovering and recording and exhuming and enjoying.
I've learned there's any number of ways to write something, to communicate something.
I've learned the importance of words. The supremacy of words. In the beginning was the word. Not: In the beginning was the painting. Or: In the beginning was the song. No. In the beginning was the word. For a reason. I've learned we get glimpses if we're paying attention. We have to be listening. Listening. There is a craft to life. Let no one tell you otherwise. There is a grace and a craft to be learned through life, through living. Share it. Share what you love. This is how we grow. This is how we ought to live.
I've learned there's no end to this, as long as we have this world, this fragile, crazy, mountainous world. It's meant to be lovingly explored. Each day I wake up with hope for what I can live. What I can write. What I can explore. Each night I go to bed tired, not afraid of the dark or what my dreams may bring, but a little sorry that the day has ended, that there's no more left to it.
It is the cycle. And it goes on.
I've learned there's another day. There's more to write. There's more to live.
I've learned to write to the end of spaces. So that where there's blank pages I can fill them in. I can live and record. There's always forward. I've learned there's always forward. There it's blank. Backwards it's filled in. I don't look backwards much. Some. Not much. It's the next word, the next line, that gets me going.
I've learned a lifetime.
I'm still learning.
I'll be learning 1 million more words from now.
Hope to see you there.
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/what-i...
I've written 1 million words over 30 years. At least, I think I have. It's hard to say. Who's going to count every word in 11 journals across 1,100 pages? Let's call it 900,000 to 1.1 million. This is not about numbers but about reflection.
My first entry was February 4, 1985. The first sentence was: "How shall I describe madness." I've been describing it ever since.
What have I learned after writing 1 million words over 30 years?
I've learned there's always more to write. There's always more to say. And there never seems to be enough time or space.
I've learned that I love language. I love the play and roll of syllables and words and phrases and sentences in my head. I love writing. I learned I could not give up what I am for any person, not even myself.
I've learned you cannot run away from yourself. You can move to another city, another state, another country, but you'll always have who you are. I've learned to try to live with that. I'm still learning to live with that.
I've learned that writing is solitary, not lonely. The release it provides for me gives life. It is life, to me. It is a way of describing and deciphering and discovering and recording and exhuming and enjoying.
I've learned there's any number of ways to write something, to communicate something.
I've learned the importance of words. The supremacy of words. In the beginning was the word. Not: In the beginning was the painting. Or: In the beginning was the song. No. In the beginning was the word. For a reason. I've learned we get glimpses if we're paying attention. We have to be listening. Listening. There is a craft to life. Let no one tell you otherwise. There is a grace and a craft to be learned through life, through living. Share it. Share what you love. This is how we grow. This is how we ought to live.
I've learned there's no end to this, as long as we have this world, this fragile, crazy, mountainous world. It's meant to be lovingly explored. Each day I wake up with hope for what I can live. What I can write. What I can explore. Each night I go to bed tired, not afraid of the dark or what my dreams may bring, but a little sorry that the day has ended, that there's no more left to it.
It is the cycle. And it goes on.
I've learned there's another day. There's more to write. There's more to live.
I've learned to write to the end of spaces. So that where there's blank pages I can fill them in. I can live and record. There's always forward. I've learned there's always forward. There it's blank. Backwards it's filled in. I don't look backwards much. Some. Not much. It's the next word, the next line, that gets me going.
I've learned a lifetime.
I'm still learning.
I'll be learning 1 million more words from now.
Hope to see you there.
March 28, 2015
What Happened at Bethany on the Jordan
Cross-posted from my LinkedIn page...the photo of the monk is there.
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/what-h...
Tomorrow is Palm Sunday, so this seems to be an appropriate time to make this post.
In the summer of 2006 I visited Jordan to give a 3-day workshop on “Writing for the Web” for local journalists, students, and writers. At the time I was working for Johns Hopkins Center for Communication Programs as a Web Content Manager; an affiliated program in Jordan was hosting the event at the Mövenpick Resort and Spa Dead Sea. On the final day our visiting group had some free time, so we drove out to tour the Jordan river.
The next day I wrote this e-mail to friends and family.
----
All is well in Jordan. Just a quick update.
Yesterday after the workshop ended we loaded up in an SUV and headed out to do some sightseeing. There were six of us. I'll send photos when I get back to the states.
Our first stop was Bethany on the Jordan, the site where it is believed that John was doing his baptizing and where, in fact, he baptized Jesus. New archeological evidence that came to light as recently as 1996 points to a "stone's throw" distance east of the Jordan river. There are the foundations of a church building dating to 470 AD or so, and then there is another much smaller "church building" (really no more than the size of a large closet), dating back even earlier. Beside this there are marble/stone steps leading down deeper into a pool that they have determined was the place of the baptism, through sedimentation dating, pilgrims’ writings, and also historians who wrote in the early Christian period. Tour guide was very good. We took a little shuttle bus to the site. Much walking. Very very hot. I have a new definition of what "hot" means now. The actual baptism site is excavated and roped off. You are not allowed in because they do not want to disturb it. But our group was alone yesterday, so the guide said we could walk down. I could not wrap my head around what I was doing. Muhammad (the IT guy I work with at Hopkins; he was born in the Gaza Strip and speaks both Arabic and English) went down the slope to the baptism site with the stone steps. I was standing on the steps and Muhammad took some pictures. He said I looked large standing next to the site, on the steps, next to the very small baptismal building they'd excavated just recently. I said I felt very small.
We went back up and walked around to see the other large church building site, then more walking to the Jordan river to see the site that had traditionally been thought to have been the site of the baptism. A monk was walking ahead of us, dressed in sandals and the robes that you'd expect, like a burlap sack with a white hood, pulled back. Our guide led us to the overlook site at the Jordan river. You can see the other side easily, the Jordan is no more than 20 or 30 feet across, not very deep at all, and it's heavily treed on both sides. On the West Bank side was a Jewish temple with a concrete/wood embankment that was the site where the baptism was traditionally thought to have been, before 1996 evidence indicated otherwise. We took more pictures. Muhammad went to the river to dip his hand in. I was standing on the overlook and turned around and the monk was in front of me, looking like he just stepped out of the 1st century AD, very dark-complected both from his being Arabic and from the sun. Close shaven head of hair with a full but trimmed beard. We smiled at each other and I said hello. He said hello in English and then in Arabic. We shook hands, and he held on tightly, smiling. He said something in French. I said I don't speak French. He said he did not speak English very well, but we kept shaking hands and smiling at each other. Muhammad had stepped back onto the platform by now and said something to him in Arabic. The monk's eyes sparkled and he said something to Muhammad in Arabic. Muhammad said, "I will translate for you." The monk kept hold of my hands now and bowed his head and started praying in Arabic. And Muhammad started translating. I cannot recall now his exact words. Remembering it now I'm tearing up. It's difficult to describe what I was feeling at the time, and even now. A Christian Arabic monk was praying for me beside the Jordan river near where John baptized Jesus while my Muslim friend was translating. I had to hold his hands tightly while he prayed, and his prayer seemed to me at the time and still now to cover the span of the fundamentals of the faith and what Jesus did for humanity. Pure and simple. At one point he asked Muhammad what my name was. The monk then continued his prayer, in Arabic, and used my name at certain points, asking for a blessing from John the Baptist and Jesus' mother Mary.
When he finished his prayer we hugged. The monk went to the river to dip his hand in and talked about what this site meant for all of mankind. Muhammad translated for me, and explained that the monk had traveled from Syria on a pilgrimage to the Jordan river, and that he was staying nearby. I had to have a few moments to pull myself together, and I had my camera with me but did not want to take the monk's picture. I couldn't bring myself to do that.
He left, and we stayed a little bit longer, then headed back, too. When we got to the shuttle bus the monk was riding with us, but he was in the front and we sat in the rear. On the drive back to our car the bus stopped and the tour guide pointed out the window and said, "There is Elijah’s hill." I said, "What?" He said, "Over there, it is Elijah's hill, where Elijah was lifted up by God into heaven." I just sat there looking out the window. I had no words to say or even think.
When we got back to the parking lot we left the shuttle. The monk was going on his way. And as he was walking away under the very hot sun he put up his white hood, walking down the path. I got out my camera and felt this was ok. I snapped a picture of him walking away.
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/what-h...
Tomorrow is Palm Sunday, so this seems to be an appropriate time to make this post.
In the summer of 2006 I visited Jordan to give a 3-day workshop on “Writing for the Web” for local journalists, students, and writers. At the time I was working for Johns Hopkins Center for Communication Programs as a Web Content Manager; an affiliated program in Jordan was hosting the event at the Mövenpick Resort and Spa Dead Sea. On the final day our visiting group had some free time, so we drove out to tour the Jordan river.
The next day I wrote this e-mail to friends and family.
----
All is well in Jordan. Just a quick update.
Yesterday after the workshop ended we loaded up in an SUV and headed out to do some sightseeing. There were six of us. I'll send photos when I get back to the states.
Our first stop was Bethany on the Jordan, the site where it is believed that John was doing his baptizing and where, in fact, he baptized Jesus. New archeological evidence that came to light as recently as 1996 points to a "stone's throw" distance east of the Jordan river. There are the foundations of a church building dating to 470 AD or so, and then there is another much smaller "church building" (really no more than the size of a large closet), dating back even earlier. Beside this there are marble/stone steps leading down deeper into a pool that they have determined was the place of the baptism, through sedimentation dating, pilgrims’ writings, and also historians who wrote in the early Christian period. Tour guide was very good. We took a little shuttle bus to the site. Much walking. Very very hot. I have a new definition of what "hot" means now. The actual baptism site is excavated and roped off. You are not allowed in because they do not want to disturb it. But our group was alone yesterday, so the guide said we could walk down. I could not wrap my head around what I was doing. Muhammad (the IT guy I work with at Hopkins; he was born in the Gaza Strip and speaks both Arabic and English) went down the slope to the baptism site with the stone steps. I was standing on the steps and Muhammad took some pictures. He said I looked large standing next to the site, on the steps, next to the very small baptismal building they'd excavated just recently. I said I felt very small.
We went back up and walked around to see the other large church building site, then more walking to the Jordan river to see the site that had traditionally been thought to have been the site of the baptism. A monk was walking ahead of us, dressed in sandals and the robes that you'd expect, like a burlap sack with a white hood, pulled back. Our guide led us to the overlook site at the Jordan river. You can see the other side easily, the Jordan is no more than 20 or 30 feet across, not very deep at all, and it's heavily treed on both sides. On the West Bank side was a Jewish temple with a concrete/wood embankment that was the site where the baptism was traditionally thought to have been, before 1996 evidence indicated otherwise. We took more pictures. Muhammad went to the river to dip his hand in. I was standing on the overlook and turned around and the monk was in front of me, looking like he just stepped out of the 1st century AD, very dark-complected both from his being Arabic and from the sun. Close shaven head of hair with a full but trimmed beard. We smiled at each other and I said hello. He said hello in English and then in Arabic. We shook hands, and he held on tightly, smiling. He said something in French. I said I don't speak French. He said he did not speak English very well, but we kept shaking hands and smiling at each other. Muhammad had stepped back onto the platform by now and said something to him in Arabic. The monk's eyes sparkled and he said something to Muhammad in Arabic. Muhammad said, "I will translate for you." The monk kept hold of my hands now and bowed his head and started praying in Arabic. And Muhammad started translating. I cannot recall now his exact words. Remembering it now I'm tearing up. It's difficult to describe what I was feeling at the time, and even now. A Christian Arabic monk was praying for me beside the Jordan river near where John baptized Jesus while my Muslim friend was translating. I had to hold his hands tightly while he prayed, and his prayer seemed to me at the time and still now to cover the span of the fundamentals of the faith and what Jesus did for humanity. Pure and simple. At one point he asked Muhammad what my name was. The monk then continued his prayer, in Arabic, and used my name at certain points, asking for a blessing from John the Baptist and Jesus' mother Mary.
When he finished his prayer we hugged. The monk went to the river to dip his hand in and talked about what this site meant for all of mankind. Muhammad translated for me, and explained that the monk had traveled from Syria on a pilgrimage to the Jordan river, and that he was staying nearby. I had to have a few moments to pull myself together, and I had my camera with me but did not want to take the monk's picture. I couldn't bring myself to do that.
He left, and we stayed a little bit longer, then headed back, too. When we got to the shuttle bus the monk was riding with us, but he was in the front and we sat in the rear. On the drive back to our car the bus stopped and the tour guide pointed out the window and said, "There is Elijah’s hill." I said, "What?" He said, "Over there, it is Elijah's hill, where Elijah was lifted up by God into heaven." I just sat there looking out the window. I had no words to say or even think.
When we got back to the parking lot we left the shuttle. The monk was going on his way. And as he was walking away under the very hot sun he put up his white hood, walking down the path. I got out my camera and felt this was ok. I snapped a picture of him walking away.
March 27, 2015
End of Week Bliss
From today's journal entry:
My drive time over the past few weeks--since I've been writing Dusk and Ember again, and also since I've been listening to lectures on CD--have been especially creative times. Behind the wheel of my car my brain shifts into a lower gear to perform the menial and rote but somewhat inputting task of driving; and I sense a release, a letting go of another part in my brain. Controlled, these times are extraordinarily creative for me. I either write in my small notebook on the steering wheel, or I pull over to get the thoughts and words out. And now because I'm working on D&E, I sometimes pull out the manuscript itself and write directly there. So, the thing I wrote in the car this morning is this:
"The older I get the less I enjoy sitting down to watch TV and movies. I don't like TV and movies because they disrespect real life."
And my time is so precious to me now. We are all so very short lived here on this earth. I still mourn the years wasted in a toxic relationship; so that is a recognized driver of my attitude. But it's also age. I feel my mortality, and so I want to make the most of my time. I actually figured out recently that, by any calculation, I can only read X amount of books in my life remaining. So the question is: What will X be? What will I let into my mind? Consume my time? Because that's what these things do. You are not so much the consumer as you are the one being consumed. Maybe that's why we ask one another: "What's eating you?"
I had another thought on the drive in the other day. I did not write it down, which is a dangerous thing, I know. Ideas for poems, stories, and books are lost because I did not stop to write it down. But something about this thought--I knew it would keep. And it has. Here it is:
As you're driving in to the job, or driving to do your errands, look up from the cars in front of you, up to the tree line, and then beyond that, to the sky. Go to the sky. And then beyond that. Glance and look. Glance and look. And let seep into you a marvelous sense of wonderment and joy, for what is designed for you, and for the designer. We are all each one passengers travelling together at 66,600 miles per hour. That's awfully fast. Take the moment to glance and look, glance and look. Hold onto it. And revel in the marvels you've been given. Revel deep in the glory of your being.
My drive time over the past few weeks--since I've been writing Dusk and Ember again, and also since I've been listening to lectures on CD--have been especially creative times. Behind the wheel of my car my brain shifts into a lower gear to perform the menial and rote but somewhat inputting task of driving; and I sense a release, a letting go of another part in my brain. Controlled, these times are extraordinarily creative for me. I either write in my small notebook on the steering wheel, or I pull over to get the thoughts and words out. And now because I'm working on D&E, I sometimes pull out the manuscript itself and write directly there. So, the thing I wrote in the car this morning is this:
"The older I get the less I enjoy sitting down to watch TV and movies. I don't like TV and movies because they disrespect real life."
And my time is so precious to me now. We are all so very short lived here on this earth. I still mourn the years wasted in a toxic relationship; so that is a recognized driver of my attitude. But it's also age. I feel my mortality, and so I want to make the most of my time. I actually figured out recently that, by any calculation, I can only read X amount of books in my life remaining. So the question is: What will X be? What will I let into my mind? Consume my time? Because that's what these things do. You are not so much the consumer as you are the one being consumed. Maybe that's why we ask one another: "What's eating you?"
I had another thought on the drive in the other day. I did not write it down, which is a dangerous thing, I know. Ideas for poems, stories, and books are lost because I did not stop to write it down. But something about this thought--I knew it would keep. And it has. Here it is:
As you're driving in to the job, or driving to do your errands, look up from the cars in front of you, up to the tree line, and then beyond that, to the sky. Go to the sky. And then beyond that. Glance and look. Glance and look. And let seep into you a marvelous sense of wonderment and joy, for what is designed for you, and for the designer. We are all each one passengers travelling together at 66,600 miles per hour. That's awfully fast. Take the moment to glance and look, glance and look. Hold onto it. And revel in the marvels you've been given. Revel deep in the glory of your being.
