Saturated in the Light

"The vision floods the eye with light, but it is not a light showing some other object; the light is itself the Vision."
(attributed to Plotinus [BCE 203-70]; from "Mystic Hours", Wayne Teasdale)

My daddy died almost 30 years ago. Not a perfect man, of course, he had a temper—I think its source was in impatience—I was the recipient of his anger a time or two (and, I smile, his impatience). He was brought up with little in the depression that struck hard at east Texas, and he left there as a teenager to go to work in the big city, along with his older brother. Time hasn’t changed my memories of Daddy. I think of him often, along with our mother, who outlived him by more than a quarter century.

What I realize more and more about both Daddy and Mother is that they taught us to do right. Of course, doing right involves instinct, commitment and practice. Daddy and Mother weren’t very much alike, really. They argued often. Mother was on Daddy’s back too often, and these were the times that his impatience usually became volcanic, but the eruptions were short lived. He was ready to move on. Forgive—forget?

I think about my parents every day because I loved them and I love them, and as I get older, life asking me to discern, to discern simply what I should and shouldn’t do, Russell and Tena are on my mind. They taught my two older sisters and me compassion and kindness. Frankly, I don’t remember either of my parents ever trafficking in gossip. And were they alive today, with a computer and the Internet handy, neither of them would be a party to the meanness that makes its way through cyberspace on a daily basis. They would have better things to do. Mother and Daddy had their prejudices, the product of their time and place. But they didn’t teach us to hate. Beyond the conflict that could erupt in their relationship, what we saw modeled was kindness and compassion. Oh, that I am up to the task of what I was taught.

Exclusion, which according to Carl Sandburg (American poet 1878-1967) is the ugliest word in the English language, wasn’t practiced in our household. I want to remember that—every day of my life. In God’s eyes, we are all equal. We are all perfect in God’s eyes. “I know I’m somebody ‘cause God don’t make no junk,” so sang Ethel Waters, Black blues and jazz singer and actress (1896-1997).

Anger I understand. Hate I don’t. The need to try to make others feel less than they are, I don’t understand. Fear I understand. By all accounting, it is the basis of hate. I’ve been afraid. If I think about it, I’m afraid of something right now. I give thanks that I’m not going through what is happening in Haiti. Believe, though, that kindness and compassion are alive and thriving there. The stories of hope that have already come out and will continue to emerge will wash over us, and if we allow, they will heal us. In spite of misfortune that boggles the mind, in spite of fear and greed and ineptitude that sometimes want to thrive at the expense of others, even or especially in the midst of tragedy, hope is alive and well. It begins with me. And so it is.

Alive and Well—Santa Fe, New Mexico (January 18, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis