Prologue
There is only one true way of seeing.
It has nothing to do with externals,
or vision broken down into components of cones, retina or physilogical realities.
The seeing of which I speak comes when...
you abandon the dungheap of twisted, false perceptions; you give up making a tent to suck off the beauty of another;
you abandon all past spirtual truths, every Master's words, even familiar, comfortable spiritual rubrics and simply
face yourself ...
No, the seeing of which I speak comes when one absolutely stops self-betrayal in any form.
Only then does right-seeing shine. Like the hint of a tiny candle flickering steadily, this seeing wards off great, ancient darkness. In ceasing self-betrayal, light emerges that no darkness shall overcome.
~
Seeing my Father's Fingers.
They are so unspeakably agile.
They are not the dancing, spinning, adroit, life-forms of his mother, twirling across piano keyboards like tiny, blended, digital-ballerinas.
No.
They are long, slender,
like the tender, rose branches he works with daily.
My father's fingers touch the rose blooms in the house, in wonder at God's incredible, yet tenuous, sweep of color, fragrance and majesty.
The hands that support these fingers have very thin veins; the tops of the hands that protect these fingers bruise easily. Yet, they hide a strength unsurpassed in my experience.
I first noticed my father's fingers at a viewing of Mel Gibson's "The Passion," during the scene when Jesus was being scourged and tortured.
I could not look at the screen.
My mom fondled a prayer pouch given me by a beautiful friend.
So she was safe.
My father, who has endured wars of which I know nothing...
My father, who buried a beautiful son who took his own life ...
My father, who seems to be about money, but is not ...
My father, who has loved his mother, and children who have been burdened with emotional illness,
My father, who met these terrible illnesses and tragedies with courage, constancy, care and his strong, tree-trunk-steady presence ...
My father, whose hands held me in the basement when ill,
My father, who in that basement prayed with a warmth not unlike the fire which shone above Jesus' disciples on Pentecost...
My father's fingers worried a buttered, popcorn napkin throughout the beating.
For a long, long terrible time.
I saw my father's hands, his fingers, then, but not fully, not wholly.
For, in the midst of self-betrayal,
chaos reigns,
obstruction rules,
and clarity hides around a distant corner
or locks itself under the bathroom sink.
I heard my father say his favorite character in the movie was Simeon, who bore the Cross when Jesus' strength failed. But I, at that time, could not see, hear or know distinctly. Neither his words, nor his fingers. I was still too late smart.
Last night, after a month when I moved back to my children,
I returned for a visit.
My father missed me.
My father took my mom, my sister and I to our favorite Italian restaurant.
My father, a silent, private man, gave me a great gift.
He told me the story of the rings on his fingers.
My father's left-hand, pinky-ring came from his father.
This story was always there, all along; mine for the asking. The price was me deciding never to self-betray. Tonight, I was willing to pay.
My father's pinky-ring is gold, with a bit of a jewel and shine, but not overly ostentatious or fancy. Simple, yet beautiful, like his roses. Fit for a successful businessman who self-describes as a "poor old farmboy just trying to get along in a cold, harsh world."
My father's father left my father with very few beautiful memories.
Once, when the two of them were traveling in the wintertime, the snow carriage pulled by a horse hit a bump. A twelve-guage shotgun went off and grazed the rear of the horse - giving them both "quite a sleigh ride."
On another occasion, my father and his father had their car turned over. No damage to anyone, because they were going slowly. My father remembered his father held onto the steering wheel very tightly, so as not to crush him. I felt like sobbing as my father reached in his mind for a tender memory: my father described this not-touching protection as if it were a beautiful embrace.
The pinky ring shone seldom for my father. His father was a quite, unexpressive, silent man - usually. But when a fun-and-drink-loving family friend came over, my father's father would have one, or two at the most, drinks, and play the violin along with my father's mother's piano-playing. My father's eyes closed as he told this story, and he drew back into his seat, listening to distant music, still playing, as he mimicked the single most beautiful memory he had of his father.
The pinky ring was given to my father's brother, the favorite son. This brother's wife gave it to my father long after the death of the brother.
The second ring belonged to my father's grandfather on his mother's side. My father's grandfather was a hard worker, who delivered huge ice blocks in the summer, coal in the winter. My father noticed this ring first when his grandfather was chopping wood. My father's grandfather was almost obsessive about neatly stacking the wood.
My father's grandfather grew senile. When cleaning out the stall of "Midnight," a great stud family stallion, visted by mares countywide, my father told me he often saw his grandfather's ring.
My father's grandfather would lose a work glove, blame the loss on a child, frightened of the changes inside him. My father held the hand of his grandfather when he died of pneumonia that came after a broken hip. My father was 7 when this happened.
The right hand ring comes from my father's mother.
My father's mother played sheet music for music stores.
My father's mother had Irving Berlin sign some of the music sheets to his songs she owned.
My father's mother loved to play "Alexander's Ragtime Band" and "Yankee Doodle Dandy" AT THE SAME TIME.
My father's mother loved playing honky-tonk and Scott Joplin.
My father's mother adored the television minstrel, Lawrence Welk.
My father's mother rescued and housed lost children.
My father's mother took my father to the movies and to Greek hotdogs stands that made my father smile and laugh and twinkle in the telling.
~
Why, tonight, did I see my father's fingers?
Why, as I type do I feel their beauty, their energy, their light?
When betrayal is shed,
understanding and forgiveness make home in the heart.
When judgment dies, beauty floods.
When laughter bubbles quietly,
a virtual, warm blanket wraps itself around a simple, wondrous healer across the world.
And I feel the warmth more keenly than she does.
When peace makes her home within,
contention,
conflict
and hurt
fade like autumn leaves lifted at random
in a sweet, gentle wind;
no longer death, nor debris, nor clutter to be bagged,
but mulch fueling wondrous new creations.
When healing, in one human heart,
finds its home,
love abides
(((((((((now)))))))))
in every hut,
hamlet,
alley,
ashram,
jail cell,
torture chamber,
abused children's bedroom,
safe or unsafe chatroom,
closet,
even in the hidden monsters
undiscovered beneath every imagining child's bed
Abiding love is inevitable.
It is neither about 'how' or 'why' or 'if.'
But a matter of 'when.'
When is a function of choice.
Amen.
Blessings to all who made this happen.
For this virtual fire.
For listening to me until I could speak my healing forth.
I believe in me.
Boh aka Dale Anthony Joseph Beaulieu
