I have never written fiction before, though I have written lots of essays and some poetry, plus professional research articles. But I have always wanted to try. So I am going to jump out of the airplane–and see where the story takes me. The difference is, this will be a kind of performance art, because … Read more An Experimental Short Story
Part of an ongoing serial story Niko followed silently behind Mrs. Stone, but his mind was agitated. He turned over her few words in his mind, much like a jackdaw would look for jewels among pebbles. What did she mean by saying only a fortunate few are welcomed here? Hadn’t he decided on his own … Read more #2 The Beginning part 2
I have come to a conclusion. Perhaps if I had thought about it more carefully at first I would not be surprised. But it has only recently occurred to me that a great deal of the disturbance about evolution—yes, no, theistic, atheistic, guided, unguided, young earth, old earth, Darwinist , near- neutralist, whatever! is about … Read more Not A Simple Question
Part of an ongoing serial story There once was an old woman with a magical house. Every now and again the house would grow a new room, and the old woman would know it was time to expect guests. She never knew who would come, or when, just that some day there would be someone … Read more #1 The Beginning
Why is the world a beautiful place and why does it touch me? When I was 16, my parents gave me a horse. I was a fairly typical teenager— alienated, self-absorbed, and without a way to ground my understanding of the world. I had received a certain worldview from my parents, but it was incomplete … Read more Beauty Leads Us Home
Gentile de Fabriano, Nativity, 1423, Wikipedia Commons
Angels sing on Christmas morn When Christ our Savior comes to be born. The angels bow in awe before Him Who comes to take away our sins.
And Mary His mother ponders it all To see David’s heir born in a stall. She knows her Son has a high destiny, But what that might mean she has yet to see.
The Babe so tender in His mother’s arms Rests peacefully now, safe from all harms. His Father stands in guard over Him Who comes to take away our sins.
Sweet Mary rejoice at your Son’s birth The Lord of all come down to earth. For all is made new by your assent, Creation renews its great Amen.
Oh Living Splendor of God Most High, How is it that You come to die? Tis love outpoured upon the earth That brings our Savior to His birth.
And we for our part do give thanks Along with the angels’ heavenly ranks. The Immortal Wise God asleep on the hay To bring salvation to us today.
It might seem odd to introduce a poem by pointing toward a blog on philosophy, but when the poem and the blog are read the connection will be clear.
I deal in controversy, in discourse that is sometimes freighted with more than disagreement. So I wrote the poem on this page 40 years ago while a graduate student, based on a sharp disagreement I had with a friend. She believed one thing and I believed another, and the two could not both be true.
It seems now that my life deals in this situation even more, only the rhetoric and emotions are are stronger, more caustic even.
What does epistemology have to say about solving disputes?
“As can be seen, there is no single correct response or strategy to take toward actual cases of disagreement. The unsurprising irony is that the epistemology of disagreement has managed to give rise to a whole new set of disagreements.”
And then, after discussing religious disputes, the articles comes to this conclusion:
“disagreement must be dealt with in the ordinary way: I’ll state reasons, provide arguments and pinpoint evidence, and you’ll do the same.”
On Truth
The line twixt truth and lies is difficult to see- It winds and doubles, blurs the mind, And vanishes unseen. How then as mortals who would hope To know the truth can we Presume to judge on simple lines and clean?
I had a friend who spoke her truth That was no truth to me. Whose lies were these, and where The line to separate between? For just as I, with pain, had grasped My truth, she held to what she knew.
And with our private truths like whips We flailed, to find the root Of discord and of pain. No hope in that: the pain did not Delineate, our differences remained, And Truth lay somewhere, savaged, in between.
Lord, save me. Gripping sorrow Blinds me. I stumble pathless, lost, Bewildered, buffeted, storm-tossed. Mother Mary, carve some hollow for My aching heart, so I can see.
Wrung, remorseful, aching, Blame eats my bones--where find you, Lord, Within this deep’ning wound? Mother Mary, carve some hollow for My aching heart, so I can heal.
I lie upon a knife of my own making, Etched by accusation. My only hope your cross. Mother Mary, carve some hollow for My aching heart, so I can trust.
Carve the hollow where I hide within His Heart. He heals us by his wounds. Mother Mary, Be my companion In the dark, until the dead arise And empty be the tomb.
We have almost forgotten, this nation of faucets, The nature of water, But it has not forgotten us. Hissing below the surface It streams and bubbles from depths Leaping upward into light Or oozing, trickling, Dripping past our guards.
We have forgotten wells, Those still pools That can only be found by digging, Where silence reigns, And sound and light Are swallowed, Then given back doubled, Echoing, Showing us ourselves.
We have hidden our springs, Sealed them up for profit, Making a commerce of them. But the waters cannot be forgotten. Rich in silence Drawn from the deeps They pour forth in torrents And fountains.
When I think of you I think of waters— A small pool with lilies adrift, Catching the overflow of the world, Or the drops that nestle beaded Among the mosses. A place of ferment Where change is constant, A place of stillness, Of quiet generation, Where I am reflected back at myself And forced to listen— Waters that go down to the depths, Springing out of the bones of the earth Renewed.
