If I Were A Rich Man

Yesterday a man said to a rather large assembly of people of which I was a part, “I am not a rich man.” As this statement was made, the man stood well dressed and apparently well nourished. He spoke these words freely in his capacity as someone who is gainfully employed full time. These words echoed through his workspace, a place that has walls and a roof, temperature controls to shield him from the deadly heat of the Texas summer, the drenching rains of the frequent gulf storms and the cold chill of those frigid winter days, and it has running water and indoor plumbing. He arrives at this place each day in an equally well appointed luxury car. But, he says that he is not a rich man.

It was all I could do to keep from laughing aloud at this ridiculous utterance. I then thought that perhaps I should ask, “Well then, are you a poor man?” Had I been bold enough to make this inquiry, I suspect that it would have been perceived as a sarcastic remark. Admittedly, I am capable of sarcasm at the drop of the hat, but that is really not what I was thinking. I honestly wonder if there is anything between rich and poor. To me, it is like being pregnant – either you are or you're not. Nothing exists between the two.

I realize that this is a rather black and white picture of the issue. In an effort to not be so quick to jump to conclusions, I did some research on the state of being rich and being poor..

In the words of Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, a rich man does not have to work hard all day. He lives in a big tall house with rooms by the dozen right in the middle of town.This house has a fine tin roof with real wooden floors below. His house has one long staircase just going up and one even longer coming down, and one more leading nowhere, just for show. The yard is filled with animals whose squeals announce to the neighbors that this is indeed the home of a wealthy man. This man has a wife who sports a double chin, the mark of a wealthy man’s wife, and who struts around like a peacock while screaming at the servants day and night.

According to Tevye, to a rich man would come the most important men in town seeking advice. One with wealth is revered like Solomon the Wise. And so says Tevye, it doesn’t make one bit of difference if I answer right or wrong. When you're rich, they think you really know!A rich man also has time to sit in the synagogue and pray. And maybe have a seat by the Eastern wall. He has time to discuss the holy books with the learned men several hours every day.

The dictionary says that a rich man has wealth or great possessions; he is abundantly supplied with resources, means, or funds. That is perhaps the Reader’s Digest condensed version of Tevye’s description.

To most, the familiar understanding of “poor” is having very little money, goods, or means of support. It also means faulty, inferior, or lacking. “Poor” may be understood as deficient, inadequate, or lacking in moral excellence.

Though the “not rich” man mentioned above does not have a double-chinned wife running screaming at servants or a yard full of noise making animals, neither is he lacking in money, goods, or a means of support. He lives much closer to the description of rich than he does poor. He may only be living in the first trimester of richness, but by all accounts, he is rich. To claim otherwise is an outright lie. To claim otherwise is to show a lack of understanding as to what rich and poor really are. To claim otherwise is to proclaim oneself as ignorant to the plight of those way too many in this world are truly poor.

Perhaps what he meant to say is that he is not rich in understanding, or compassion, or truth.

In ??? We Trust.

Who do you trust? Who don’t you trust? What is trust, anyway?

I read an article in Friday’s paper that reported on the findings of an Associated Press National Constitution Center poll that looked at American’s attitudes with regard to trust and confidence in major “fixtures” of our society. These included the military, religion, banks, business, science, and the government, to name a few.. The poll revealed that overwhelmingly Americans trust . . .nobody. Maybe it is not that dire. Or is it?

43% of us trust our military. That was the highest level of confidence shown toward any of the entities that the poll addressed. Small businesses trailed the military by 13%. At the bottom of the list of those who are trustworthy, garnering nearly no confidence at all from us, are Congress, banks, and blogs. Why don’t we trust anyone or anything?

It is my opinion (and remember no one trusts blogs) that our lack of confidence in the world around us is rooted in fear, fear that organizations whose stated purpose is to look out for each person’s well being have other motivations, many of them related to personal power and personal gain rather than care and concern for all of humankind. In a society where greed, self indulgence, injustice, and a lack of integrity prevail, it is not surprising to me that Americans don’t trust government, corporate America, and religious institutions.

As far as I am concerned, a more important question is do we trust each other? Do we trust people? I am not talking about the people who are the faces of the institutions that we appear to resoundingly distrust, but the people who are part of our everyday lives.

Do you trust your spouse? Your children? Your partner? Your auto mechanic? Your financial advisor? Your doctor? Your parents? Your boss?

Do you trust your neighbor? Your friend? Your housekeeper? Your postman?

Do you trust the barista at Starbucks? The stranger beside you on the sidewalk? The man who asks to borrow a dollar for bus fare? The young mother who pleads with you to give her a few dollars to by baby formula?

Who do you trust? Who don’t you trust? Do you trust yourself?

Do you trust yourself enough that you can, with confidence, assess the trustworthiness of others?

Perhaps the most important question here really is do I trust myself? Without trust in ourselves, it is impossible to trust anyone or anything else. That seems to be where many Americans find themselves right now.

How sad.

Looking Back

On this day, September 11, 2010, nine years after the attack on this country that forever changed the lives of all of us, I feel like I should have something profound to say, something that adequately reflects what that day in history means to this nation and the world or what we have done as a nation and a world to heal the deep wounds inflicted on September 11, 2001. Or I should be able to offer some words of hope to those for whom the images of that terrifying day are as vivid as if they were yesterday as well as to those who know only stories passed on to them. I can't do any of these things.

The images and emotions of that day are still fresh in my mind and in my soul. I have done much to process for myself what I saw and what I felt, but still there is a part of me that will always remain unsettled with regard to the events of September 11, 2001.

Despite all of the pain and ugliness that still plagues our nation, I have to remember that there too is much beauty, much that is good, much that can comfort us if we allow ourselves to be comforted. I came to this this evening as I was looking back through the pictures I took while we were in Vermont.

.It is hard to believe that this landscape is only hours away from New York City. On the day that that city was mayhem, I suspect that the serene beauty of Vermont looked much like it does here. For me, that is both scary and reassuring.

Even amidst the serenity of the green mountains, the fragile nature of our world, as is stated on the sign in the picture below, is never far from our conscience. All can be destroyed in one step.


Any life lost and the hands of a human being who is acting out of indifference, neglect or hate, whether that life is plant, animal, or human, is unacceptable.

The pictures below are post card images of a church steeple rising above the green life below toward the majestic mountains. These churches are supposed to be a place where love and forgiveness reside. It pains me to know that much of the discord in the world is in the name of religion.

It doesn't get much more peaceful and serene than this.

Great beauty comes in small packages as well.

I just had to throw this one in. We all need to smile.

May hope and beauty never elude you no matter how desperate and ugly things may be.

Going to the Chapel . . .Finally

About the time you think that nobody ever reads these silly blog posts, someone chimes in and says, "About a month or so ago you said something about telling us about a dog chapel. Are you ever going to do that?"

I love you guys who humor me by reading what I write. I love your comments; I love your encouragement: I love the accountability that the comes from having readers like you.

Okay, I am not so keen on the accountability; I hate the feelings of guilt that overcome me when I fail to follow through on something that I said I would do. So, here is the story of the Dog Chapel at Dog Mountain, Vermont.

Most hotels, even small inns like the one we stayed in in Stowe, Vermont, have those racks near their entrance that contain an abundance of information about all of the local attractions. In a corner of said rack, was a small advertisement for "The Dog Chapel." Weber picked it up and asked if I knew anything about it. Strangely, I had a faint memory of having read something about it several years ago in the magazine Spirituality and Health.

The Dog Chapel is the work of artist Stephen Huneck. Huneck, whose medium is primarily wood, suffered a bout of Adult Respiratory Distress, which left him in a coma for two months, back in 1994. Though the doctors were not optimistic, Stephen made a full recovery thanks to the loving support of his wife Gwen and his three dogs, black labs Artie and Sally and golden retriever Molly.

As a tribute to those canine companions, Stephen Huneck vowed to build a dog chapel where all were welcome to come to honor and give thanks for the spiritual bond that grows between humankind and our dogs.

These brief details do not begin to do justice to the life of the man whose vision built Dog Mountain or the art that grew from his heart and hands. To read more about this man and see his beautiful works of art, visit the Dog Mountain website at http://www.dogmt.com/. Sadly, Stephen Huneck took his own life in January of this year. He is greatly missed, but his spirit lives on thanks to his wife who is continuing the mission of Dog Mountain - to be a place where all creeds and all breeds are welcome.

The statue below alerts visitors to the turn-off onto the small country road that winds its way through the Vermont countryside for a few miles eventually coming to the Dog Chapel. For those who are not familiar with the wood carvings of Stephen Huneck, this is their first glimpse of his amazing work.

The chapel itself rests at the top of a rise which also houses the Dog Mountain gallery, and the Huneck's home and workshop.

As you enter the chapel, you see the carving that has become the icon of Dog Mountain. In the background, are messages written to honor and remember Stephen.

The chapel proper is filled with wood carved dogs. The ends of the pews are dogs. Free standing dog statues sit throughout. And for those who prefer feline companionship, there are a few of those too. The back wall that almost looks like stained glass is actually covered with stories, prayers, and pictures that have been left by those wishing to pay tribute to their beloved pets.

For animal lovers, this is truly a sacred place. Even if you are not an animal lover, you will be wowed by the workmanship of artist Stephen Huneck.

I have to share a story from our visit.

All those involved didn't think I saw any of this, but they were wrong!

Beware of the person with the camera.

So I was wandering around the gallery looking at all of the wonderful pieces of art.

This is what I saw . . .

. . .and heard.

"I can't do this. I'm a married man. You need to stop coming on to me like this before my wife sees!"

"Aw, c'mon big boy. You know that ever since that wedding thing and the priest said no tongue on that part about kissing the bride that all you have wanted is a slobbery tongue kiss. Just relax and let it happen."

"I can't. I can't!

"Oh, WOW! Bring it on!"

"Oh dog crap, there's your owner. I mean there's the person who feeds and waters you. I mean, there's your wife."

"I'm sure she didn't see anything. Just be cool."

"We're just sittin' here getting to know one another. Nothing going on except a benign discussion about Science Diet verses Iams and latex verses vinyl with regard to durability.. That's all. Really, a little bow wow pow wow."

"I think she bought it. I would hate for him to have to spend the rest of his honeymoon in the dog house."

Perhaps they all should have been discussing Kennel Ration verses home cooking and Tempurpedic verses a foam mat on the floor. And maybe I should have titled this post Going to the Dogs. :-)

Here is the steeple from Dog Chapel. As you look at it, say a prayer for all of those four-legged friends who have blessed your life.

Eat, Pray, Love

Weber and I went to see the movie Eat, Pray. Love tonight. As the previews concluded and the movie itself was about to begin, I leaned over to him and said, “It has been a long time since I have been to a movie with my husband.” He smiled at the realization that this was indeed the first movie we have been to since we were married. As the movie concluded, I thought to myself how ironic it is that first movie that we saw together as husband and wife is about healing the wounds of divorce.

This was a fantastic movie. I will admit upfront that my reaction has much to with its plot hitting close to home, like in the middle of the living room. As I think about Elizabeth Gilbert’s year of eating in Italy, praying in India, and loving in Bali, I realize that each of these places is a metaphor for stages in the healing process, places that I myself have been in the last two years.

In Eat, Pray, Love, Gilbert first visits Italy. Though there are many scenes with her indulging in Italian cuisine and one where she is convincing a friend she meets in Rome that the few pounds that she has gained eating spaghetti and pizza are no big deal, this first stage of her journey is less about eating to fill herself up and more about eating away all that is hiding who she really is. It is about reconciling who you have been with who you are now.

Gilbert’s next stop on her yearlong journey was an Ashram in India. There she learns the discipline of meditation, not just the formal practice but also its place in the tasks of everyday life. She learns that to find God, she must be open and living in the present.

In Bali, her last stop, all that she has learned about herself and others is put to the test. Has she truly learned and can Gilbert put into practice the ways that have been given to her by the wise companions she has encountered on her quest?

As I look back over the past two years of my own life, I can see that I too have had the opportunity to eat, pray, and love though not in the exotic locales that Elizabeth Gilbert experienced. That however does not make these things any less meaningful or powerful. The external is simply a backdrop for the places we visit within.

My eating took place right here in my everyday environment. I had to be willing to have my façade eaten away in the surroundings where I built it and where I would continue to live once it was torn down. It is easy to recreate yourself in a place where no one knows you. It is much more difficult in the place where people have an image of you that is then eaten away leaving your core exposed much in the way that termites eat away at a structure. This was the most difficult step on the journey. There is much truth to the adage that the first step is the hardest.

Unlike Gilbert who did not have a prayer life before the crisis of divorce entered her life, I have always found comfort in my ability to talk to God. What I learned on the “prayer” leg of my experience of eat, love, pray was to be still and listen, not do all the talking. It was during the period right after I filed for divorce that I added Zen meditation to my daily discipline. This too happened close to home.

Elizabeth Gilbert and I did share one common destination in our journeys to healing – Italy, though she was primarily in Rome and I was in Assisi. However, Italy was the first leg of her journey, the place where she learned to eat. For me, it was the last stage, the place where I learned to love. The locales of the last stage on our journeys were different but the ultimate question was the same – “Are you willing to love again?” Though I ultimately said “yes” to this question, the ability to do so came from much eating (away) and praying.

One piece of wisdom that was given to Elizabeth Gilbert was that all people and all things are teachers. Neither Weber nor I are big movie fans; going to see a movie is never our default mode of entertainment. Choosing to spend tonight at the theater was a deliberate decision; one that I now know was guided by God.

I leave you with this: With proper care, the wounds of life can be healed. They may leave scars but those scars often add to one’s beauty rather than detract from it.

Sweet Dreams!

Today was my day "off". That means that I was at home working, where I don't have to dress like a grownup, rather than at school. I had a list of things to get done. At the end of this list was to write a blog post.
I am trying to be more regular with posts. I have had several ideas running around in my head throughout this week so I was looking forward to concentrating on this effort..

Before I started writing this afternoon, I decided to go get a cup of inspirational, or is it motivational, coffee. As I passed the couch on the way from my office to the kitchen, I glimpsed this.
I had my phone in my pocket and quickly snapped the picture figuring that it would not last long.

I was right. By the time I finished brewing my coffee and passed in the opposite direction, the picture had shifted to this.

Nothing I have to say compares to what Harley and Frankie are saying to us. So, that's all for today.

Sweet dreams!

Identity Crisis

Anyone who has even dabbled in psychology knows that phrase “major life events.” These include things like marriage, divorce, death, birth of a child, a child leaving home, a move, starting a new job, and so on. According to the experts, experiencing any one of these events can cause great stress in one’s life. If this is indeed true, I should be the perfect candidate for an all expense paid stay at a mental institution or at least deserving of some good drugs.

Today marks the one year anniversary of my divorce being final. Thankfully, that process went smoothly as has our life since that point. In fact, when Mike is in the states, we all still live together. I know that we are fortunate and under different circumstances things could have been much worse and thus very stressful. For almost a year I was a divorcee.

Now I am a bride. I’m not sure if it is the act of getting married or being married that is supposed to be the big stressor. Being married again has not been stressful. It has brought nothing but joy. I won’t deny that we did quite a bit of running around like chickens with our heads cut off in the week or two before the wedding, but we were busy, which does not always equate to being stressed. I think that much of the stress associated with weddings comes with feeling like you have to make too many different people happy with how the whole thing is executed. We were lucky that we didn’t have anyone to please but ourselves. Though I am not generally a self-centered person, in this instance, I made sure I got exactly what I wanted in terms of the wedding itself. We were very fortunate that many of our friends were willing to help make things perfect for us. Mike even came home from South Africa to take part in the wedding.

We took Offspring No. 2 to Tennessee last weekend to begin her freshman year of college. So now I am also an empty-nester – except that Offspring No. 1 is home for a month before beginning her final year in Chicago. Admittedly, it will be strange having no children around. The piles of laundry will diminish logarithmically. The kitchen will look the same in the morning as it did when I went to bed the night before. I can have black beans and rice any night for dinner. My shoes will be in my closet when I want to wear them. There won’t be chocolate chip cookies waiting for me when I get home late after rehearsals. My computer monitor won’t be decorated with Post-it notes that say “I love my mamma.” Okay, maybe this is a little more stressful than I thought . . .

I also started school this week. Though I am not really starting a new job, the beginning of every school year brings with it new challenges. It usually takes a full week of classes before I know for sure what I am teaching and who is in what class. This semester is no different. Fortunately, thanks to a new law enacted by the Texas legislature, I had to have my syllabi done in June for every class that I could potentially teach this fall. Though I was not happy about having to do this back then, it did cut down on what I had to do to get ready for this semester. When we arrived home from Tennessee late Sunday night, I simply hit print on all my syllabi and I was ready to go Monday morning. However, when I got to school Monday morning, I realized that what I had failed to do was change my name on them.

Because I was required to submit my syllabi in June, before Weber and I were married, I used my previous name. In my haste Sunday night, I never thought to change them to reflect my married name. That I didn’t even think about this change is kind of funny since I spent the entire weekend hoping that TSA would let me on the plane with an airline ticket with my new name printed on it, an official Texas ID with my old name and a strip cut off the top of it, and only a photocopy of my new Texas ID. I carried with me a copy of our marriage license just in case I had problems. I am happy to report that all airport officials seemed convinced that I had sufficient documentation to prove who I was or who I am and they allowed me to board the plane.

Back to school . . .

Because I teach three courses of a four course sequence, I have some of the same students from one semester to the next. That makes learning everyone’s names a little easier . . .or so I thought.

As my Theory III class convened, I was talking with a new student. In came a student whom I had had in Theory II last spring. He introduced himself as “Sam.” “Sam?”, I said. “Since when?” He was not Sam last year. He continued with, “You know my other name. Sam is easier; it is my middle name.” If he wants to be called Sam, I will call him Sam.

This discussion of changing names provided me with the perfect segue to clarifying my own name issues. I explained that I had gotten married over the summer and though “Sam” knew me as Prof. Elliott, my name was now Prof. Baker. Sam stated that he wasn’t sure that he could go with my new name. He allowed as how he thought that perhaps it would be easier for him if he could just call me “Maurice.” I don’t know why this is his preferred name. I didn’t ask. I just accept that it is.

I also don’t know where adapting to a new persona falls on the stress meter. I suppose I will find out.

For now, n theory only,
“Maurice”