How Few We've Become

“Mother, mother
There's too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother

There's far too many of you dying
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today…”
“What Going On”—Marvin Gaye

All during my growing up years, we gathered for any reason. Yesterday afternoon I sat alone, watching those gatherings. Who is that young, dark-headed guy waving from the second floor landing of his college dormitory? Was that a dismissing wave, probably in response to Mother fretting about something? More likely, knowing the guy the way I do, he was a little sad that Mother and Daddy were going back home, only 90 miles away. He’s the same guy holding his toddler niece, and at the coast on one end of a string of fish suspended horizontally, a college mate on the other end, at family celebrations of Christmas and summer barbecues, and leading the college band down the field at half time. We’re only a few years shy of the 50th anniversary of some of that film.

This spring, Aunt Edna finally got me off my butt to do the homework for converting Daddy’s home movies of the 1960s to DVD. I had thought it would be a big deal, and I questioned that the condition of the film would be good enough after close to five decades. Annoyed and embarrassed by her repeated reminders, I dug the box of film out of a cupboard and carried it around in the floorboard of my Toyota for a week or so. I had had to search my memory for where I had stowed it after asking Aunt Edna to return the film following Mother’s death over two years ago.

After calling a few places in our university community that I thought would have the technical know-how for such an imagined high tech project, laughably it turned out that Walgreen’s photo center was the solution. On the fourth call, someone in the background of that phone conversation said simply—“go to Walgreen’s”. That was four months ago, just before I returned to New Mexico.

The conversion process took about a month, so my sister Joan picked up the DVDs. My copy arrived in the mail this week after languishing in my Texas home since April. Yesterday I spent a couple of hours being amazed—amazed at how young we were, how much we laughed, how graceful Mother and Daddy danced around the floor of their market—cleared for a New Year’s Eve celebration—amazed that my niece, who will turn 48 in September, was still in diapers, learning to crawl in the earliest of these films, and amazed that at the time Karen was making her way on all four across the den floor my maternal grandmother, Lizzie Fuchs, was a year younger than I am now.

Before starting the DVD, I suffered the fear that it would be too painful to see my mother—in her early 40s and in the very prime of her life in this collection of images spanning most of the ‘60s. There she is, though, along with Daddy, both looking handsome and vital. We’re all there—well, just about everyone is there.

One face seems to be missing on this DVD—that of Aunt Mary—who has had her eye on her 92nd birthday, come September 2nd, and now lies in a hospice bed at a Houston hospital, after losing her balance and falling backwards on the brick floor of her kitchen a few days ago. Cousin Donald, the oldest of our generation, called me with the news that the doctor says, “Aunt Mary won’t leave the hospital.” It’s been downhill for her for a few years now, as dementia has taken its toll, even though physically she’s been healthy as a horse. “I’m ready to be with Frog [her late husband],” she’s told me several times since his death nine years ago. No down-in-the-mouth person, however, Aunt Mary is always ready with a smile—and some good advice sprinkled into every lively conversation. She’s just been lonely for her mate. How did she not make it into at least one scene of Daddy's films? Even Uncle Pat and Aunt Martha from Santa Fe are there, along with all the other Hollis siblings at their houses—the Hollis compound—on Caranchua Bay. They're all gathered, doing what our family has always done so well—breaking bread and just being together.

We are waiting and watching—I from 900 miles away—as Aunt Mary makes her mind to let go. She is the last of her generation. Her mother, our Mamaw, made it to 93. She wanted to make 100. Donald asked that I call my sisters, Joan and Sue, adding that he would stay in touch with me. When I talked to Donald, I was on the road to Abiquiu, to interview as a volunteer to work in the gardens of Georgia O’Keefe’s legendary northern New Mexico home. As Donald and I talked, I started to cry. And I was crying when I called my oldest sister, Joan—“Aunt Mary’s dying….” “Aunt Mary died?” she asked. “No…” and then I explained. By the time I talked to Sue, our middle sister, I had composed myself. Something in me needed to call someone else—to answer the tolling bell, for no man is an island—but I realized there was no one else to call. We are it—Joanie, Susan Berry, and Hi-Do—Russell and Tena’s kids.

I called Aunt Mary the night that Mother died two and one-half years ago. At that point, I had to remind Aunt Mary each time we talked that Mother had been sick with a heart ailment and on hospice for several years. “Oh, Tena’s sick?” she would ask. “I didn’t know that.” “Aunt Mary, will you call Donald and Becky? I’ll call you when we’ve made the funeral arrangements.” “Yes, sugar,” she comforted me. The day of the funeral, Donald told Aunt Mary that he was going to a burial in Normangee, Texas. She replied, “I used to know someone in Normangee.”

So much to learn, and yet we squander our precious time. I need to talk about this. We need to talk about this—acknowledging how few we’ve become. When the time comes to pay our final respects, likely I won’t be there, in Houston. I’m watching and waiting from afar—only a phone call away from family. I am feeling close but removed. We need to talk and remember and learn.

How Few We’ve Become—Santa Fe, New Mexico (July 10, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis

Living Out Loud

Were this place of close witness deserving of stage or cinema, but it’s not, so much that I can see. No aspiring concert pianist or ballerina has crossed my view, unlike what I saw last night in Alfred Hitchcock’s 1954 film, “Rear Window”, where the main character spends his days in a chair, observing, out the window of his New York apartment, observing while his leg mends from a break suffered in his work as a photographer. Here I’ve seen no newlyweds sleeping on their balcony to escape a confining apartment on a close July night. This is not mid 20th century New York City, where refrigerated air is the exception, where people live on top of people. It is Santa Fe New Mexico, 21st century, where refrigerated air is the exception, and people live on top of people.

We are now officially a community of renters. Along with the pronounced drop in market value of our homes, this troubled economy has changed this place to one of transients, and a transient mentality prevails. The license plates populating the parking areas for these 260 apartment homes tell part of the story—New Mexico, of course, California, Colorado, Arizona, Texas, Vermont, Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, New York, Wisconsin. The proverbial dog raising his leg on every tree and shrub roams this landscape. That’s another part of the story.

Summer has arrived on the high plateau, and we are paying the price for high-density living. Our windows and patio doors open to catch the fresh air, we are forced to listen to one another. All kinds of human activity that should be private has become public—petulant children wailing in protest, of what, we are left to wonder. They weren’t here last summer. We are privy to phone conversations, lover’s quarrels conducted without the lyricism of Capulet and Montague, cable television and music we don’t choose, and celebrations, minor and otherwise—ordinary human activity captured and displayed for any to witness.

Some of this drama plays out during normal waking hours; some of it at 3:30 in the morning. Even the walls that separate us are not a shield to ringing phones, the closing of kitchen cabinets, the slamming of a front door. Our evaporative coolers draw in the evidence of our neighbor's cigarette addiction. The nighttime restlessness of second-floor residents robs their downstairs neighbors’ sleep, movement across the floor, thundering in the wee hours. I give thanks for imagining this when I bought my apartment home two years ago. I hang my hat on the second floor.

We are living out loud, sadly ignorant that others don’t want to know what we so willingly and willfully flaunt for any and all. We live on top of one another, and we are numbed to discretion. We pass each other on the sidewalk, casting our eyes to the ground, or look at each other squarely and vacantly. We are disaffected. We leave notes outside one another’s doors, apologizing, once again. And we don’t apologize at all because we are blind to our offense. We don’t understand that we are fish in a bowl—loud fish in a bowl.

Living Out Loud—Santa Fe New Mexico (June 29, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis

We Are Responsible for the Clouds

I really do try to pay attention. Fortunately, most of us recognize the difference between getting it right and getting it wrong. On the continuum of choices, we probably linger somewhere around the neutral zone—sometimes knocking home runs and other times striking out, out, out. We are rewarded here and pay the price there. And when we give the short change to anyone, it is usually to ourselves. The illusive someone who expects something from us usually turns out to be the person in the mirror. We place limits on ourselves out of some kind of habit we’ve learned along the way. And as I was reminded yesterday, life is hard work. Yes, I was paying attention—at breakfast, in worship, in the afternoon perched on the landing of a saloon in an old coal mining town striving to be an artist mecca, and later in the day, sitting on the living room floor at a friend’s house, watching a movie about love served up and withheld. I expected to be laughing. Instead, I felt painful embarrassment, for the most part.

I keep forgetting that it’s okay to ask for what I want. Doing so is not about presumption or greed—at least, not by definition. We spend a lot of time looking, and a lot of time making excuses, but really, how much time do we spend asking and then genuinely expecting. All of this is, of course, presupposes that we have undertaken some legitimate process of discernment. Life is hard work.

Recently, I was reminded by the leader of a group in which I participate each Thursday of one of those things that I want to see on a billboard. It’s too much text to go on a bumper sticker or a t-shirt or the imaginary tattoos I wear on my forearms. “The good news is we are each responsible for our life and how we create our reality, what we think, where we put our attention, our feelings.” Conversely, “The bad news is we are each responsible for our life and how we create our reality, what we think, where we put our attention, our feelings.” I don’t want to confuse this with the cavalier pap offered up by those who seem to abound in plenty—at least material plenty—to those who are instead characterized by their lack—choices, choices, it’s all about choices. No, it’s not simply about choices. Other factors are at work in our lives. Often the choices we make are made in the heat of some moment, when we have to think on our feet—not an easy task for some of us, at least some of the time. I guess there must be a choice somewhere in there, even as we consider that old dilemma made adage, “when you’re up to your neck in alligators, it’s hard to remember that the original objective was to drain the swamp.” Frankly, who enjoys being reminded that there was a better way, even when we know it’s for our own good?

I’ve spent a lot of time second guessing myself, regretting choices—and way too much time in the swamp because I just wasn’t ready to get out, yet, for some reason that was unclear at the time. The wise-from-living leader of our group reminded me the other day that many of us have a habit of believing that we don’t deserve the good that comes our way. Where do we learn this? Who would have taught us something so destructive? What hard, toll exacting life lessons would cause us to sabotage that which seeks only to flourish and nurture?

Last Saturday, Steve and I stood on a mesa in the Jemez Mountains overlooking a vast valley, where pinon pine is repopulating itself. A planned burn grew out of control nine years ago. It made the national news for days. A young man of Santa Clara heritage, mingled with German from his maternal grandfather, was our guide through the remnants of dwellings dating to the 12th -16th century. He spoke eloquently of the history of the pueblo people, occasionally calling on his ancestral native Tewa language. His view of his world, our world, was as expansive and real and solid as the 360 degrees where we stood. “We are responsible for the clouds,” he said. Drought had driven his people to the valley below four centuries past—by their belief because of improper behavior on their part. “We are each responsible for our life and how we create our reality, what we think, where we put our attention, our feelings,” she reminded me. God, spare me from starving in the midst of plenty.

“I release this prayer into the Divine Law knowing it is already so. I let go of all human attachment of what it should look like. I surrender, I allow and I let God. And so it is. Namaste.”

We Are Responsible for the Clouds—Santa Fe New Mexico (June 1, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis

Surrender

“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you…” (Matthew 7:7, KJV)

A long time ago, someone I no longer call Friend scornfully said to me—probably more than once—the only reason you are nice to people is so they won’t be mean to you. This was in response to my saying that I just try to follow the Golden Rule—Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. This ethic of reciprocity is likely the simplest and most prevalent of moral codes throughout all religions and cultures. Another way of saying it—Do not do unto others what you would not want done to you. I knew then, and I know now, that regardless of what we do, we can't predict or control the behavior of others. We can, however, in spite of anything to the contrary that life doles out, do what we know to be the right thing to do.

This old friend, who is one of the most talented people I’ve known, blessed with worldly resources, none of which he had to earn, might also be one of the most selfish people I’ve known. He was then self-absorbed, spoiled, vindictive, jealous and controlling—to name just a few of his ways—and likely is the same today at age 63. Being around him, I found myself doing everything I could to protect myself when he would go dark, dark, usually while drinking, and lash out at me over just about anything and on the most personal level. Twenty-five years of such insanity is 25 years more than anyone should tolerate—and God forbid, permit. Yet, I have to ask myself, why did I allow it? Worse, did I enable it and nurture it? How scary is that.

I’ve had two other friends—neither part of my life now—who went to the dark place on alcohol. One, another guy, was “in recovery” a couple of years ago. He wanted to be more important than he felt. The other, a female, told me the last time I saw her that she was trying to kill herself—with alcohol. She felt, for some reasons, that life was cheating her, had by her account been cheating her, and oh, did she resent her lot. To be perceived as wealthy weighed mightily on her, manifested especially when she sought to lose herself in drink. She, too, wanted to be more important than she felt.

Misery abounds for any of us who choose to ignore the goodness within us and that surrounds us. These three gifted people with whom I have walked part of my journey—people blessed with intelligence, talent, a sense of humor, a spark of generosity, who know the value of work, and yes, people who at least at some level live by the ethic of reciprocity—failed to see the abundance within them and staring them right in the face. Spare me from choosing to starve in the midst of plenty.

For me, it is important to put yet another spin on the golden rule. Do not do to yourself what you wouldn’t want another to do to you. One afternoon each week I am part of an intentional group of spiritually evolved people who bring their triumphs and failures, their highs and lows, their intentions, indeed, their very “godness”, to share with one another. I have been reading that the love we need lives within us. At least it lives within us if we allow it. As surprising as it may seem, love is not something we should be seeking anywhere outside of ourselves. The well of this elixir is ours to tap into, and it is a well that will not run dry.

This week our meditation centered on love. I am reading that in meditation one of the things we can ask is for our heart to speak to us. I am reminded of a gift that someone for whom I care deeply delivered into my hands a while back—and not without complication and consternation, regrettably, on my part. The gift—a recorded sermon titled, “All you need is love.” I am reading that for every weakness we perceive in ourselves, there is a strength that balances out that weakness. I am reading that one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves and others is to love ourselves. “I release these words into the Law knowing it is already so. I release all attachment and let go. I surrender, allow and let God. And so it is.” Such closes a prayer, a blessing that comes to me each day. And so it is.

Surrender—Santa Fe, New Mexico (May 21, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis

Ask

To begin with, I don’t know bird sounds so much. In Texas, the noisy northern cardinals and mocking mockingbirds that dwell in my garden make up my repertoire. Here in northern New Mexico, as of this moment, I am especially clueless. With the exception of the pair of doves that call home the pine tree outside my second story balcony, a few robins that I’ve noticed this spring, and of course, Raven, I am left just to delight in relative ignorance in nameless song and in the dizzying wings of the hummingbird. For some reason, this morning my ear has caught the low thrumming of insect in chorus with the birds of our neighborhood. All of this delicacy is poised against the background of the busy highway running north and south just above the arroyo that separates the modern pueblo-like dwellings where I live from the commerce and human drama that plays out virtually 24 hours a day. As I wait to start my day, as if it isn’t already started, having brewed coffee, breathed the first cup laced with half ‘n half, I am possible. I will walk, I will climb, I will give, I will ask, and I will wait. Whatever I do, it changes everything.

Simply Grateful

You always hurt the one you love
The one you shouldn't hurt at all
You always take the sweetest rose
And crush it till the petals fall
You always break the kindest heart
With a hasty word you can't recall
So If I broke your heart last night
It’s because I love you most of all.
(pop standard by Allan Roberts and Doris Fisher, 1944)

In the Christian tradition, many give voice to an oft-unfulfilled commitment—that we must strive to be Christ-like in our relationships. A few years ago I was reminded of this—as if for the first time—in a sermon given in our very small and struggling Episcopal mission in conservative east Texas. His imperative struck me. “We must wear Christ on our face.” One other time since then have the words spoken from the pulpit become immediately branded in my conscious. “We have chosen to worship Christ, rather than to follow him.”

As a Christian, I am struggling with so much of what I’ve learned over these many decades, so much about exclusion and hollow presumption. As a Christian, I know I am not alone in this struggle. There was a time when I would have felt far more guilt for questioning the only faith tradition I’ve known. Maybe it’s age and where I am on my journey. No doubt—where I am physically and the expansiveness available to me in this place—is having its wonderful way with me. The best news of all for me right now is discovering that which binds us all, regardless of our walk—abiding in faith, or not. This feels good. I feel very alive and full of possibility.

My east Texas, foot-washing, primitive Baptist daddy wouldn’t cotton to—that’s a regional expression mostly associated with the south, meaning “to take to”—my developing pan-religious sensibilities. To him, I would be trucking with the Devil, and even though he wouldn’t understand me, he would still love me. Loving kindness was at the very core of this generous man. Isn’t that the message inherent in all the paths we walk?

In practical terms, I am reminding myself each day of the importance of treating others like I want to be treated. I don’t have a history of going out of my way to mistreat anyone—especially someone I don’t really know. We seem to reserve that kind of destructive nonsense for the people we claim to love. I like being reminded each time I stand in line at the grocery store, or walk into the utility company office to pay my bill, or talk once, twice removed to someone on the phone who has the power to make my life a little easier vis a vis my cable television or internet service that I have the power to make someone’s day by simply showing that I am grateful for their help. I’ve been hearing a lot about gratitude lately. Someone said that to be grateful opens our hearts. How good that feels. And so it is.

Simply Grateful—Santa Fe New Mexico (May 14, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis

There is a Pony, There is a Pony

“Then Jesus said to the centurion, ‘Go, and it will be done for you just as you have believed.’ And his servant was healed that very hour.” (Matthew 8:13)

I hadn’t realized that the story of the little pessimist and the little optimist was so familiar. Now I’ve discovered that it was one of Ronald Reagan’s favorite yarns—barnyard story it’s called by some. Say, “There must be a pony in there somewhere,” and lots of people know what you’re talking about. The moral of this tale is clear.

Christmas came for the two young brothers. Under the tree gifts abundant were placed for the little pessimist. After tearing through the pile, he asked with signature disappointment, “Is this all”? Then the brother was taken to the backyard for his gift. In the corner of the yard was a mound of horse manure. The boy jumped up and down with glee, leading the father to say, “I don’t understand. We’ve given you a pile of horse manure for Christmas, and you are delighted. Why?” The boy replies enthusiastically, “There must be a pony in there somewhere.” So how is it that some people see the glass half empty and others see it half full? We’re often asked to count our blessings, as if we don’t remember to do so on our own. A well-placed nudge here and there has merit, for sure.

Recently, I’ve started participating in a group that meets weekly for an hour and half. During this time our processes include a little meditation, visioning, and setting our intentions. I’ll be the first to say that had someone told me a couple of years ago I would be giving even moderately serious effort to self help, I would have said, “Not really.” About 18 months ago the landlady from whom I rented for the first four months here in Santa Fe gave me a copy of “The Secret” on CD. I’d never heard of it, but then I discovered that its law of attraction precepts are fairly well known, with historical roots in the New Thought movement of the late 19th century. I guess I wasn’t amazed to discover that lots of people are making serious money from teaching others to ask, believe, and receive. “Woo-woo,” many say about all this new age stuff.

Woo-woo, well, I don’t know. What I do know is that I look forward to our Thursday early evening sessions. It’s simple. We meet, and we go around the circle letting each other know what’s going on for us. We meditate for a few minutes, breathing to empty ourselves of that which stands in the way of awareness and possibility. We end with setting our intentions. All of this is so new to me that I honestly don’t understand it well enough to explain it. Someone has described the process as training ourselves to hear, feel, see and catch God’s plan for us. The plan already exists, and our challenge is to open ourselves so that it can be realized. As we move around the circle in the final activity of our weekly meeting, we are each invited to talk for about a minute—in the present tense as if it is already realized—about where we want to be in our lives, where we indeed intend to be, soon. We might already have one foot in the door of this intended place.

The intentions are real. Maybe the place is one of resolution with a sister facing serious health challenges. Maybe the place is a more satisfying professional life. Maybe the place is allowing oneself to embrace an intimate relationship. Maybe the place is growing out of behaviors that have long crippled any one of us, proving that the old dog absolutely can learn new tricks.

A friend who joined me for dinner at my place last night gave me a gift as he was leaving. We had been talking about business, friends and lovers, relationships woven, sometimes torn, mendable, resilient. He honored my hopes. He breathed life onto the fire of my efforts to be in relationship. I am ever the one trying to figure out things, although I’ve been advised, “Harold, you don’t have to understand everything,” when I try so hard to get at the root of the whys of conflict and find a solution. I want to be understood, not misunderstood, and I want to understand. Ah, but then there’s this matter of accepting. The notion that I can create my own destiny mystifies and intrigues me. Woo-woo, blessings, yards of manure—what do they all have in common? If it’s really so simple as asking, trusting in the goodness of one’s intent, embracing and giving thanks, then what are we waiting for?

There is a Pony, There is a Pony—Santa Fe New Mexico (May 12, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis