The octave of life

I've used the word octave since I was a child because I've been surrounded by music my entire life. Mrs. Douglas must have explained it to me within the first few weeks of my piano lessons as we noticed how every eight notes we discover another D or B or G--the same note name, but sounding with vibrations exactly twice as high or low. If this is Greek to you, think about how voices sound. We often hear octaves during a sing along because the women and men are singing the same notes except the men are following along one octave below the women. Explaining it seems complicated but doing it is utterly effortless.

Octaves can also be found outside of music. Some traditions which follow the old liturgical calendar still observe the octave of Easter--eight days that circle back to reflect upon and prolong the triumphant celebration. Musicians grasp this terminology instinctively because adding octaves doesn't change the note just as Easter can't be anything except Easter.

Early last Sunday, my father-in-law ended his struggle with an aggressive brain tumor. That makes today the octave of his death--an octave which happens to fall on his granddaughter's third birthday. One might say his death and her celebration are essentially unrelated events which only confirm the absurdity and dissonance of human existance. They should, by all accounts, be held apart to avoid a jarring comparison. To "play" these two "notes" of experience as an octave would only result in an anguished, unresolved clash devoid of any meaning or harmony. We've reached an octave in time, but the notes are hopelessly different: a failed octave.

Something suggests to me that there is a dimension in which death and life sound together as easily as boys and girls singing "Home On The Range" in octaves around a campfire. In some unknown theory of cosmic music, the notes of life and death simply resonate as different frequencies of a shared note--a note which is both the Source and Ground of our being. (Thanks, Paul.)

We have a ways to go before funerals and birthday parties for little girls keep company with each other. Until we can sing them back together, our hearts will just have to listen for the octave.

The Seventh Seal: Most eloquent

Imagine this cheerful scene from "The Seventh Seal": a knight returns from the crusades to his native Sweden with his faithful servant only to find the entire land stricken with the plague.

They plod along a windswept, rocky landscape rather bewildered by the whole scene until at last they come upon a figure sitting by the road. The knight, who remains on his horse, asks his servant, Jöns, to inquire about directions. Jöns approaches him from behind only to discover a withered corpse resting within a peasant's cowl. He returns to Block, the knight, with this memorable summation:

Block: Did he show you the way?

Jöns: Not exactly.

Block: What did he say?

Jöns: Nothing

Block: Was he mute?

Jöns: No, milord. He was most eloquent.

Block: Indeed.

Jöns: But very gloomy.

To watch Bergman play this out in B & W with Swedish dialogue is an acquired taste but a salutary experience if you wish to observe Death and the knight playing chess for a while. Only a Swedish sensibility could simultaneously convey the profundity of death while describing a decaying corpse as merely "gloomy." Only people who love words deeply allow them to rest silently in the presence of such company.

Although Death sometimes gets to take the stage and lead mortals in a macabre dance or play a cosmic chess game, he usually is recognized by his calling cards: a still body or a silent voice. We are so awed by death that we fear stillness and silence even in the midst of life--pouring out effort and words to drive away death's seeming emptiness.

I have been spending a few hours now and then with my wife's father. His body is still and his voice is silent so those who can move and talk are genuinely awed at the mystery of what to do or say in his presence. His eloquence is beyond our plane of busy work and small talk. His gaze disrupts my habits. It indites my complacency and sends me home with more thoughts to ponder than a lifetime of sermons and lectures.

He is showing me the way--our way.

Tenzin Gyatso and the black coat

I now keep my Netflix queue full so there's always something interesting heading my way for the low introductory rate. With some recent associations through Ram Dass, I chose a new biopic of the Dalai Lama wondering if any threads might develop on Buddhist themes.

There were no great surprises since the story of his life and the tumult of Tibet's recent history have become widely known through films such as Seven Years in Tibet and various celebrities who have become devoted followers of Buddhist teaching. What drew my attention was a very brief film clip toward the end of the story that showed him in recent daily activity: speeches, meetings with leaders, etc. The scene showed a seemingly endless line of Tibetan exiles in India who were slowly being ushered into the presence of the Dalai Lama to receive a blessing and a brief word.

It was very unremarkable and everybody seemed to know the role they were playing. The ushers saw the large number of visitors and kept things moving along. The exiles knew they were guests of His Holiness and moved by him with reverence. The Dalai Lama knew he was there to greet them and made a gesture to each one that passed by. Just as ordinary as shaking the pastor's hand after church on Sunday.

All of this routine disintegrated when one man bowed deeply to the ground and began to openly weep as he finally reached the Dalai Lama. He kept trying to speak despite his tears and it came out in the embarrassing high voice of a little boy who blurts out a stream of incoherent, inconsolable words as he runs into a parent's arms for comfort. The Dalai Lama bent forward, placed his hand on the man's shoulder and with no judgement or look of surprise simply received the moment in its fullness. No one was embarrassed, no one moved. His Holiness embraced the sobbing man and glanced toward the crowd as if he were looking upon the most intimate gathering of a family--not a religious scene guided by expectations and protocol.

When the Dalai Lama reached a certain age he was given a long list of new names to signify his future work. We usually hear two of these, "Tenzin Gyatso," which roughly means Ocean of Wisdom and Compassion. Each exile who passed through the receiving line saw the same figure of a man who is both a religious and world famous political leader. But some, like the one who wept, saw the incarnation of Compassion itself and greeted him with the depth of his crushing sorrow. The depth of Tenzin Gyatso's compassion was so vast that the man's spirit was no longer afraid to voice its anguish. There was enough space for it to finally release its fear. No words were required.

I enjoyed the treasure of four grandparents well into my twenties. When my first grandfather died, there was sorrow but many years of happy memories lifted my spirits and made the loss seem less painful. We were only a few hours away from the funeral when it happened that my grandmother (Nannie Simpson) and I were alone in the chapel during a lull of visitors. I don't remember what we were saying to each other but it disintegrated. My voice cracked and my tears flowed and my face fell against the black wool coat she was wearing. Here's the snappy college student sobbing on his grandmother's shoulder, totally out of control and totally safe. Something in me knew there was enough room to be afraid of death and afraid of a hundred other things that still frighten me.

I don't know what the Dalai Lama offered the crying man nor do I understand what my grandmother offered me. It wasn't an answer nor was it a consolation. It just was and they were in it with me.

need some eyes?

About a month ago I treated myself to a tall order of Shakespeare.

"King Lear" arrived in my mailbox (via Netflix) and went straight into the DVD player. This particular performance was videotaped in 1983 for release on British television and directed by Michael Elliott. Most notably, Lear was played by the seventy-five year old Lawrence Olivier in what was to be his last Shakespearean appearance.

Elliott's staging is quite good with a stark musical background well suited to the unfolding drama of the mad king and his misunderstood daughter. While there is much to admire in the direction and in Olivier's acting, I was devistated by the scene in which loyal Gloucester is tied to a chair in order for Cornwall to gouge out his eyes. For the remainder of the play we must watch Gloucester led about with a bloody rag tied around his head as if we could forget the violence done to him by Cornwall.

A couple of days after watching the DVD, my three year old daughter rounded the living room corner with a gift for Daddy. She had taken one of the blocks from a "Changeable Charlie" toy (the kind that makes a million faces) and presented it to me in a splendid pink plastic teacup. For whatever reason, she selected a block of eyes--happy, sad, angry, crazy and funny eyes. It was excruciatingly beautiful.

Maybe the young daughter will yet deliver sight to her mad king father.

so... this is a blog, huh?

I greet the blog-o-sphere with reverence. Om.