It's a wet, foggy morning at Dry Creek after the first fall storm. Sunlight peeks around the edges of the solid clouds that move along the mountain tops. Amber and gold are everywhere--on the ash tree in the front yard of the trailer to the aspen with stark whit trunks beside the old pig shed. I take the camera and cross the front yard, walk towards the canyon edge. Fog hangs down in the golden bowl of cottonwood along Chalk Creek, the hills and ridges behind alive with color, rising up to freshly capped peaks, the first snow of the season.
Fog in the main (Chalk Creek) canyon beyond my trailhead sign for Dry Creek Canyon
First snow of the 2012-2013 season.
Back inside, I wash dishes and watch wild turkey migrate slowly across the field, harvesting rye and cheat grass as they go.
Now I sit in the living room, watch the flames in the fireplace reflected in the front window lick the leaves of an oak outside the window--a sight so startling, I jump: a Moses and the burning bush experience.
Paul McCartney's "Three Legs" from Ram plays on the stereo. I glance up and Wow, grab the camera! Light has spewed forth and the sodium softness of foggy dawn has caught fire like a redemptive sailor come home after a life of sin to settle down in his quaint New England town and spread his glorious smile all around. "Have you seen that Bill Evans lately--What has gotten into him?"
Our giant ash.
Another bank of fog has moved in (along with clouds higher overhead): subtle, cold, quiet--not fully visible, but blotting out detail and muting light. If life were a movie, there would be a soft sad instrumental piece here, maybe long, low, strokes on a violin almost placed randomly. Or perhaps McCartney's "Ram On."
But, in real life the stereo plays "Cross-Tie Walker" by Credence Clearwater Revival. And that works too.
It's time to make bacon and waffles before the boys and I go out to work on the chicken coup.
Here are two poems, written ten years apart, that form a dialogue I've had with myself over the past decade. The first, "Hoh Rain Forest," I wrote in an attempt to capture part of a 30-day camping trip my family and I took along the west coast and back down through the Cascades back in 2012 when our kids were still young. As is so often the case with poetry, the poem grew beyond my intent and is really about my religious agnosticism at the time.
The second poem, "Notes from the Field," treads that dangerous ground between art and propaganda, in that I knew what I wanted to say before sitting down to write. I just needed to find how to word it. I'm well aware of the dangers of sitting down to write literature with an objective in mind. Art is an act of discovering truth, not stating what you already believe. That's what separates the crap of Christan rock from faith-driven groups like U2 or the Killers. Christian rock groups pander to a particular audience, a particular creed, and as such, must always have an uplifting message. Thus the music isn't earnest. Any doubt, anger, irreverence must be sanitized by the end of each song. U2, on the other hand, although faith-driven, can and does write about more than their faith. Further more, Bono is the greatest critic of his own faith and himself. So, when he does write songs like "Yahweh" we're moved.
It's too early for me to know whether "Notes from the Field" works or not. To me, it doesn't really matter. My blog is a journal with myself open to the world. I have no idea why I have that need. I just do. Anyway, enjoy.
Hoh Rain Forest
Here in the sponge land
of moist temperate air
and giant moss-draped
big leafed maples,
these glacier carved
rock canyon walls
are like God,
seen only by those
willing to believe anything
and those willing
to get down in the mold
and decay of life,
dig through root
and rusted rot,
moving worm
and slug,
and clumps
of moss
carpeted
by tiny
white
jeweled
flowers
until stone sacred
stone
is reached.
Mother Theresa
knew God
in the bedrock
beneath crowded clumped
humanity.
Somewhere above me
shimmers
the great white peaks
of the Olympic Mountains
and I'm caught between
willing to believe anything
and willing to dig deep.
Notes from the Field
You say I'm a fool to believe.
I've paid my dues,
know these back streets
and dirty alleyways.
Seen a girl's soul break
as her sisters tried to sell her body to me.
One edge, thank God, I turned my back to.
Little lost boy
wandering the dirt calles
looking for God in the eyes of a dog
standing stately on a smoldering heap
of humanity--you can't tell me
unless you've been on your knees
begging God please take this whole damn
hole away--the empty glass towers,
the piercing white meteor showers,
the Milky Way split open, spewing
sterile light, standing the no-man's land
between void and mossy fecundity,
ready to climb the chain link and plunge
to the marble river below.
Unless you've dug
Mother Theresa deep
you can't tell me for sure
God doesn't whisper be still
through the rich eyes
of a child on a Juarez street corner.
What you call shallowness, cowardliness,
taking the easy way out,
stepping away from reality
I call gardening the soul
and I'm ready to get my hands dirty,
dig deep.
Afterwords:
There is no question that for some that religion is a Lazy-Boy chair for the mind. I don't think there is anything wrong with that. Life is hard--why not take refuge in something soft and comfortable, which might even be true?
But to assume fear or laziness motivates all belief and that only the simple-minded cling to God is not only arrogant, it's ignorant, every bit as ignorant as Bible thumpers claiming evolution doesn't exist after man has cloned a sheep and named her Dolly.
Further more, knowing the temporal world doesn't qualify you claim a spiritual existence does or does not exist. Knowing a car engine more intimately than you know your spouse doesn't necessarily make you a poet. It only qualifies you as a mechanic. Only digging deep into words, feeling their sharp points, rough edges, marble smooth surfaces--only after handling their opaqueness and their translucency with your eyes after you rake through a poem again and again in the early hours of the morning qualifies you as a poet. Likewise, science is no more religion (and vice-versa) than mechanics is poetry. Though, of course, they are also not mutually exclusive--at least this is my belief so far.
I'm not sure I'm qualified to know. But this I do know: I've dug deep enough spiritually to say with certainty, man is more than flesh and bones, that spirit, though invisible to the microscope is none the less as real as electrons or DNA. Actually more tangible for me. I've never seen an electron or manipulated a strand of DNA. I have without doubt felt presence of God in my life, although I did have to dig deep for it.
However, just because I personally haven't viewed an electron or manipulated a gene doesn't prove they don't exist. Obviously, if you can clone a sheep, you know a thing or two about genetics. But do you know what animates the eyes or mind of your creation?
Many scientists and theologians suffer from the same arrogance: they believe there is only one way to know life. Existence is far too complex to be viewed through one lens. For me, to even begin to understand life, I have to at least dabble in...
art
religion
music
cooking
mechanics
science
minimal wage jobs
while focusing on my way of know the world intimately--through the spirit--and remaining humble enough to recognize there are other minds, other eyes, other ways to know light flickering on aspen leaves on a cold October morning.
On the headstone of the Mormon theologian, James E. Talmage reads the following inscription rooted in the teachings of Joseph Smith:
Within the Gospel of Jesus Christ is room and place for every truth thus far learned by man or yet to be made known.
This is the size of the Mormonism I believe in, though admittedly it is not the Mormonism of all members. There are Lazy-Boy Mormons--those who believe narrowly, without much effort. But the same could be said of followers of any creed, including atheists.
What one learns early on as a writer is that the power of language comes not from individual words but words in context. This is a no-duh, literally speaking, for a sentence carries with it the combined meanings of all the words contained with it. Likewise, a paragraph, stanza or strophe carries the combined meanings of the lines or sentences contained within it. And a complete work--prose or poetry--carries the combined meanings of every sub-organizational feature--line, sentence, stanza, chapter, etc.--within it.
But what the writer learns quickly is that the impact of words change dramatically according to how they are used--that a work of literature is greater than the sum of its parts. Context gives words power beyond the measure of their definitions.
Because of this, it is very difficult for writers to label words as "good" or "bad", "weak" or "strong", "obscene" or "virtuous", "profane" or "lofty". Every meaning depends on context.
For me, a perfect example of this is the righteous "damn it" contained in Bernie Taupin's lyrics to Elton John's music in "Someone Saved My Life Tonight".
The song chronicles how a musician has let the glitz, glamor and success of stardom sweep him away from his moral compass:
When I think of those East End lights Muggy nights The curtains drawn in the little room downstairs Prima Donna lord you really should have been there Sitting like a princess perched in her electric chair And it's one more beer and I don't hear you anymore We've all gone crazy lately, my friend's out there rolling round the basement floor.
This journey down through hell has been led by a woman who worships Babylon, which the speaker until now has willingly followed:
And I would have walked head on into the deep end of the river clinging to your stocks and bonds Paying your H.P. demands forever.
Except "someone" saved his life. We never learn who that "someone" is. Perhaps a friend, a new significant other, the muse, or as I read it, a higher power. But regardless of who or what saves the speaker, his saving grace arises in a moment of righteous anger akin to Christ walking into the temple and turning the tables of the money changers over:
It's four o'clock in the morning Damn it! Listen to me good. I'm sleeping with myself tonight Saved in time, thank God my music's still alive.
Here, in this context, Damn it! is a righteous phrase, the only words that can adequately express the realization of the speaker of how far he's fallen. But notice that it's not overkill. It's the only profanity in the song. If it was surrounded by a string of vulgarity, as is so common in lyrics these days, it would actually lose its moral power. When it comes to using profanity in literature, less is almost certainly more. Otherwise, it simply deadens the senses and demoralizes the audience.
Of course, you could never regulate such a thing. Context is everything. If "damn it" was written off as "naughty" and censored for the good of the public, we'd never have this powerful hallelujah cry of personal triumph over sin. Nothing is more dangerous to the human spirit than censorship.
So, for my religious readers, Mormon or otherwise, I cannot promise that you'll never find profanity in my posts. What I can promise you is this: though not perfect by any means (as a person or a writer), I choose my words carefully and try to present truth as I see it to the best of my ability in a format most conducive to convey the intended message. As that message varies greatly between posts, so does my language.
For my readers who don't give a damn about profanity and think this is the post of a repressed Mormon trying to negotiate an ounce of freedom in a culture that stifles creativity--well, I'm use to that.
But this what I know for sure. Language has immense power. Although I'm a mediocre, dull dope in most ways, for whatever reason, I've been given a powerful tongue and with that power comes great responsibility. Call me pompous if you will, but just as Williams Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson somehow knew their words would outlive them, I too know my words will outlive me. It may be impossible to be an earnest artist of any sort without this belief. Ultimately, artists know their notes, brush strokes, designs or words are unearned gifts and that they possess unwarranted power.
The more vein of us use these gifts at whim without any thought of either the consequences or where these powers might have come from. Those of us who have an ounce of humility realize these gifts come with weight and responsibility. It is my earnest wish to carry that load gracefully and if I ever offend someone undeservedly, I hope you will forgive me.
Postscript:
Now, Richard Dawkins, I want that debate, whether I'm ready or not. Read my blog you great biomass of intellect and bring it on! I have images of Star Wars in my head. I'm sure you know who you are in this simple-minded scenario. (Your breath stinks even through that black helmet.) May the force be with me. I'll need it!
(If you have no idea what the postscript is talking about, see my post "Brandon Flowers, Here Are Some Song Lyrics for You; Richard Dawkins, Call me, I'll Debate You Any Time".)
In another media stunt to ridicule Mormonism, a recent TV show paired biologist Richard Dawkins with Killers lead singer and song-writer Brandon Flowers for a meaningless debate on Mormonism in particular and religion in general.
I'm a big fan of Flowers and like Dawkins mind, despite its narrowness and passionate hate for all things that can't be detected in a microscope.
But, come on! Brandon is a punk-rocker, not a theologian and has never professed to be one. Nor is he a historian or a linguist. Nor has he professed to be any of these. Not only that, as is clear from the history of his lyrics, like me, Flowers has only recently come back to the church, which means for years he might not have even cracked open his Book of Mormon or Bible. Logically, no matter how intelligent he is, how gifted of an artist he is, he still has a high school boy's knowledge of his religion. He most likely came (in his case returned) to Mormonism for the same reasons we all do: through individual revelation, Mormonism answers...
1. Where did I come from?
2. Why am I here on earth?
3. What will become of me after this life is over?
As Coke Newell suggests in Latter Days, "the answers to the three preceding questions [are] the reason three hundred thousand people a year in 160 nations convert to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints" (as of 2000). Coke Newell goes on to say "I converted in 1976 at the culmination of a winding, yet upwardly inspiring--and to me, completely logical--journey from atheism to Native American thought to Zen". Like Newell, though born into Mormonism, I followed pretty much the same route to belief. But, I'm not here to make you the next Mormon, necessarily. I just hate bigotry in any form, and if I was capable of doing it, I'd defend Islam or Hinduism just as hard.
What would have made the debate fair is obvious:
A. Brandon Flowers debates an atheist singer-songwriter.
B. Richard Dawkins debates a prominent Mormon scientist.
C. At the very least, Richard Dawkins debates a prominent Mormon theologian.
If Dawkins debates me, it clearly won't be fair. I probably have less knowledge of the church at this point than Flowers for pretty much the same reasons. But when has anyone ever been fair to Mormons? At least no one is burning down my house, tar and feathering me, or taking my land (yeah, I know, it belonged to the Indians first anyway--my wife and children, all Navajo, often remind me of that).
Still, I'm feeling like David right now. Brandon, below are some lyrics for you free of charge. Read them, use them if you'd like. And whatever you do, don't forget to follow your own advice: "Don't break character / You've got a lot of heart". We love you. Punk rockers and Mormons alike.
And Richard, it's tempting to use your nick name, but I won't, I'll fight fair, since I'm already breaking my religion by wanting to fight at all. What can I say, I'm only human. Call me up sometime you big, gorgeous Goliath of a mind. I'm well aware my intellectual and evolutionary self doesn't have a chance in hell against you. But if I continue to live right, my spiritual-self just might lay your intellect out flat on the ground gasping for air. Win or lose, I never knew until now, but as Brandon would say, I was "battle born."
Richard Dawkins and his whole damn
universe may decay
but this testimony is for real
and grows every day
in fecundity, encompassing everything
from Buddhism to the Big Bang.
“As man now is, Godonce was;
as God now is, man may be"*
Maybe you can clone a sheep,
stitch a few strands of DNA together,
fling a rocket ship to Jupiter and back,
but your puny rational mind
will never encompass the entirety
of a system it is part of.
“As man now is, Godonce was;
as God now is, man may be"*
Revelation is the third eye
otherwise we are fish in a fish tank
looking out of the glass
at the room around us
believing we know all that is
and there is nothing beyond
“As man now is, Godonce was;
as God now is, man may be"*
Richard Dawkins and his whole damn
universe may decay
but my soul is forever
and grows every day
in fecundity, encompassing everything
from Buddhism to the Big Bang
I am and I will carry on
creating world of my own some day.
“As man now is, Godonce was;
as God now is, man may be"*
Richard, your science may not be able to encompass religion in general and Mormonism in particular. But my religion can encompass your science. Because of this, your thoughts, no matter how ingenious, are finite, limited, and most likely will not fully stand the test of time without being modified either by you or by scientists who come after you. But because "as man is, God once was" and because "as God now is, man may be" everything man has learned or will learn will fit within the scope of my religion providing it's true. Our understanding of the universe may change with time and education--in fact it has to for us to grow and become like God--but the three fundamental truths of Mormonism--1) that we existed prior to this life as spiritual beings, 2) that we chose to come to earth to gain knowledge (physical, mental, emotional, spiritual), 3) that we continue to evolve towards perfection both in and after this life--these are eternal and all encompassing, which is why I can read scientific text, Buddhist or Hindu texts as avidly as I read Mormon text. If it is good or true, it will not contradict my religion. I simply might not have the intellect yet to comprehend how it fits. As cocky as I am--me, poor little David against you big Goliath--I am humble enough to realize my limits, intellectual, or otherwise. I am humble enough to realize there are parts of the universe out there that exist even though I can't see them. Are you? And if not, how can you call yourself a scientist? Isn't exploration of the unknown the heart and soul of the sciences? Maybe, just maybe, part of that universe isn't accessible through a microscope or telescope. Maybe it takes a soul. You have one. By means science cannot prove, I can promise you have one. Use it, see what you can find.
Galaxies await to unfold. Enjoy.
Afterward
I'm actually a fan of Richard Dawkins, and so I hope that he and anyone else reading this post caught the mixture of jest and earnestness. Although I sincerely believe basic Mormon doctrine, I fear making it to the Celestial Kingdom (our highest realm of heaven) because how fun can it be to live in a place where everyone believes the same thing? What's left to debate? Truth is, I love to argue. At least in this way, Richard, you and I are brothers. Reader, bring it on--be ye Dick or not. There. That ought to guarantee I don't go to the big white room reserved for all the really special people. That way Richard and I can continue this debate for eternity.
*“As man now is, Godonce was; as God now is, man may be" --Lorenzo Snow, Prophet and President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, 1898–1901.
