Big Red

Parker Duofold Big Red was produced from 1921 through the 1940's. 

A fountain pen is a beautiful thing, and the Big Red is one worthy of being pampered and driven.  The owner of a pen he cherishes does not want another to write with it because a stranger's hand can alter and distort the angle of the nib.  When the owner writes with the virgin pen he and the pen share an alchemical energy that is like no other.  How can this personal stroke be described?  The hand and the pen become part of the same flow through a highly creative and intimate type of expression.

If you have ever owned a virgin pen, you know the value of such a flow. 

In The Arena of Archetypes

“It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.”  Theodore Roosevelt

This quotation by Roosevelt brings to mind a fellow I once knew in church.  He was the eternal critic whose role in life was to find fault in the efforts of others.  He was a blustery guy, full of loudness and bad jokes, and he effectively shut down an entire church.  Why?  Because he signed up to be in charge of everything, but he never followed through, and he seriously resented people who did.  Many in the church enabled him through a dysfunctional institutional co-dependency; then again some of the old steel magnolia matrons sent him out to be their attack dog to keep under control the uppity women who were not "their kind" (as we so archetypically understand The Mother to be in small southern towns that have not progressed beyond 1963).  He was the archetypical Sinister Clown, a buffoon posing with The Mothers as a gigantic fish in a very small pond that had dried up long ago.  No life, no life.  And no valiant striving.  Entitlement doesn't even remotely resemble valiant striving.  Likewise there is nothing marred by the dust and sweat and blood because all that dried up with the pond, and Mother is very happy. 

I believe Jung was right about the collective conscience and living out the unconscious as archetypes.  All places have their archetypes, and we can become caricatures of humanity through the incestuous interrelating that happens when people do not think, do not face their own dark sides and do not grow.  I would say that this is a product of failure to travel and exposure to new ideas, but that is not the case.  Some of the Mothers of whom I speak travel with frequency to places above and beyond their power trips.  I doubt, however, that they have very good reading material.  And the Clown probably reads only what reinforces his garish role as ineffective masculine "big daddy" patted on the head by Mother.  Poor thing.  He doesn't know that they are one step away from changing his diaper.  Sadly Christianity sometimes reinforces these dark archetypes with such emphasis on trivialities that do not require an inner journey to look for the kingdom.             

Image & Spirit

Episcopal Church & Visual Arts (ECVA) has moved its art blog, Sketchbook, and renamed it Image & Spirit.  In the new format I will be working on the blog with my friends, Brie Dodson and Robin Janning.  This blog was originally created to provide a community spot for artists, and a place to celebrate the liturgical seasons.  Artists will be invited to contribute work, so let us hear from you.

The logo above is from the Image & Spirit header which I designed. 

JBC

This is a paperweight from a time when my initials were JBC.  Initials change in the human world all too often, but they remain constant in little treasures like this.

What Brings Us Home

When I was in law school I had a little upstairs apartment that was something of a dump, but charming nonetheless.  In the diningroom window I placed this lamp so that I could see its warm glow when I came home at night.  I recently found it while cleaning out cabinets, and, for once, I was glad I didn't throw something away.

It's funny how the small things help us remember who we are, and sometimes those memories keep on bringing us home.        

Soul Leading

In Alexander Carmichael's Carmina Gadelica the Celtic death blessing is described as a moving expression of love from the living for the dying.  Called by various names including Beannachadh Bais (Death Blessing), Treoraich Anama (Soul Leading), and Fois Anama ( Soul Peace), a slow song was sung over the dying, not led by any figure of clerical authority, rather  by the dying person's anam-chara (soul friend).  The song asked the Trinity and communion of saints to receive the soul preparing to depart this world while the anam-chara made the sign of the cross with the right thumb over the lips of the dying. 

The Soul Leading ritual reminds me of the Commendation in The Burial (rite) of the Dead found in the Book of Common Prayer:

Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant ,_____.  Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming.  Receive him into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.  Amen.

Granted, it is a lovely prayer, but the Episcopal send-off is given by a priest.  No anam-chara need be identified in the bulletin.

In this world of seemingly unending breakage of dreams, fractured relationships and battered hearts one might wonder who her anam-chara would be to perform the Soul Leading.  Who might have known her soul best; whose hands most appropriate to share the mystery of delivery from life by drawing the cross over her lips; whose soul would be inevitably entwine with hers for eternity.  Alas, in this turbulent world would that modern man could have and name without flinching his anam-chara...only one who stands with him without profit, without pride, without possession...a friend of the soul forever.   To have an anam-chara that stands the test of time, even to eternity, would make not only bearable - but, yes, beautiful - abhuinn dubh a bhais (crossing the black river of death), cuan mor na duibhre (the great ocean of darkness), beanntaibh na bith-bhuantachd (the mountains of eternity).

Reverencing American Symbols

Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

I am a card carrying member of the ACLU because civil liberties are the fulfilled American promise of freedom.  Do you know how precious American freedom is and how amazing the minds and hands from which this promise came to us?  Do you know the passion and perserverance of the birth of this dream of freedom we experience and take for granted daily?  If you do I doubt you will forget, and you will understand why I would defend a person's right to burn an American flag when I deeply love the symbol.  Below is my favorite 4th of July story based on the work of James Parton entitled "The Story of 'The Star-Spangled Banner' which appears in The Book of American Traditions edited by Emyl Jenkins.  I read it every 4th of July, and it brings good tears to my eyes and reminds me of my thrilling good fortune to be an American in communion with the characters in this story.  

The British, now our greatest friend and ally, was still seething in 1812 over America's Declaration of Independence and victory in the Revoluntion.  After defeating Napolean the British headed for America to right a wrong and take back the colonies.  The coast bustled with preparation to once again face the mother enemy, especially at Ft. McHenry, two miles south of Baltimore.  This was to become the place of American testing and the birth of great American symbols.

The people of Ft. McHenry, under the leadership of Lieutenant-Colonel George Armistead, strengthened its fortifications with resolve to meet head on the challenge.  While men put additional guns into position the women of Baltimore joined in the preparation by making a gigantic star-spangled banner to fly over the fort.  As is often the case, the men sought to make it work and the women sought to make it inspired by beauty.    

Mary Pickergill, with the help of her daughter, made the flag out of four hundred yards of bunting.  Thirty by 42 feet, it was too large to spread anywhere but in the malt-house of a neighboring brewery.  Mary's daughter at age 76 remembered her mother's resolve:

"I remember seeing my mother down on the floor placing the stars.  After the completion of the flag she superintended the topping of it, having it fastened in the most secure manner to prevent its being torn away by balls.  The wisdom of her precaution was shown during the engagement, many shots piercing it, but it still remained firm to the staff...My mother worked many nights until twelve o'colock to complete it in a given time." 

Seven thousand British showed up on September 11 landing 12 miles below Baltimore.  Three thousand militiamen from Maryland and Pennsylvania withstood the attack while British vessels moved up the river, anchored at Ft. McHenry to begin attack.  The bombardment was to last 24 hours.

Francis Scott Key - poet, lawyer and unlikely witness to the battle - found himself squarely in the middle of the action having gone to Baltimore to speak with British Admiral Cockburn under a flag of truce to secure the release of Key's aged family friend, Dr. Beanes,  from the British.  Cockburn denied the request but detained Key on board a frigate Surprise until the conclusion of the battle. 

The arcs of fire raged all day and into the night as Key and several other Americans watched from the deck of the enemy ship.   The day passed to night,  and the anxiety of the Americans mounted with their inability to tell who was winning the battle. 

"Suddenly, about three in the morning, the firing ceased.  As they were anchored at some distance from the British vessels, they were utterly t a loss to interpret this mysterious silence.

Had the fort surrendered?

As they walked up and down the deck of their vessel in the darkness and silence of the night, they kept going to the binnacle to look at their watches to see how many minutes more must elapse before they could discern whether the flag over Fort Mchenry was the star-spangled banner, or the union jack of England.

The daylight dawned at length.  With a thrill of triumph and gratitude, they saw that 'our flag was still there.'  They soon perceived from many other signs that the attack, both by land and sea, had failed and that Baltimore was safe."

This moment in time inspired Keys to take from his pocket a letter upon the back of which he wrote his feelings.  Several days after the battle Keys' poem had been printed and distributed around Baltimore, and an actor and soldier named Ferdinand Durang selected the tune of an old English song, "To Anacreon in Heaven", written in 1772 by John Stafford Smith, to accompany the poem.  It took.  By the 1890's the American military had adopted the song for ceremonial purposes to be played upon the raising or lowering of the flag.  By 1917 the military designated the song as the "national anthem" for ceremonial purposes, and on March 3, 1931, President Herbert Hoover signed a law passed by Congress declaring it our official national anthem.

Mary Pickergill's flag remains today at the Smithsonian.  It is now 30 x 34 feet, having lost eight inches and one star to battle and time.  But it remains.  And we remain.

For Safety and Happiness

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness....

...with a firm reliance on the Protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."

Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, July 4, 1776

The Lost Art of The Coffee Table

The reason we call the coffee table by that name is because it used to be used to serve coffee.  I resurrected this lovely custom recently and had a charming cup of coffee.   I wonder why coffee tastes better in a thin porcelain art deco cup than in a mug.  It isn't my imagination; I suppose all things taste better when graciousness is part of the mix.

Graciousness does not have ulterior motives.  It is a quality of kindness, courtesy, tact, delicacy, charm, good taste and generosity of spirit.   Respect is implied when we offer graciousness, whether that respect is returned or not.  To live graciously is to treat everyday events as worthy expressions of art.  Even a cup of coffee.  It means treating others as worthy of respect, whether they are or not.