Dwelling Places

It is very interesting how we a human beings like to "lump" or "categorize" or "aggregate" individual souls into groups by virtue of one or two or even a few variables in their behavior, some good and some bad. Unfortunately, "aggregation" also has the effect of depersonalizing individuals to the point that eventually they end up in one of two camps like the 99% or the 1% or even making a "collect ive" of the "rich" and "the poor." I say, if you are able to name them, then it would be easier to unmask our sense of hidden dislike or like and then make decisions accordingly regarding how to relate to them.   But how does one relate to a group of "the poor"? or "the rich"? I have friends who are wealthy and successful from an economic standpoint and conversely friends who are not so successful or prosperous from an economic perspective. I think "aggregation" is something to be left to

A friend asked the question as to how we prioritize all the cases of immigrants and poor people we help, particularly the ones that have immigrated because of violence in their homeland. These people have nothing but the clothes on their back; their families or parts of them have been brutally murdered or kidnapped, and they run for their lives. They get here only to be treated to incarceration and if lucky something called humanitarian parole. They must have a way to pay the ... fees for work visas; no visa, no work; no work, no food or shelter. So how do we prioritize the cases of suffering and poverty regardless of cause? What about the ones we turn away for lack of resources?  All of this bespeaks the whole question of "immigration policy" in the United States, the need to not reform, but rather "rethink", "reestablish anew" and "implement a humanitarian approach" this issue. My friend's question about how human beings are to treat ot

This "bwrite" (a.k.a. blog) is a little thick and chewy, like Sicilian pizza. So you might have to read it several times to get through my own hazy writing (long sentences, split infinitives, dangling participles etc. etc.) But maybe there is a little bit of light in it; certainly not brilliance in the sense of gifted thinking that comes from men like Stephen Hawking. Stephen Hawking's reasoning to justify euthanasia is fundamentally the same as his reasoning for atheism and to some degree "anti-theism". Regarding his recent thoughts on euthanasia, he basis his proposition in support of mercy killing on the presupposition that the condition of suffering, especially in the elderly and the terminal, has no purpose or value. He might go so far as to propose that to disallow someone the choice of killing themselves in whatever way is to infringe upon a right to freedom from what he might call the cruelty of prolongation of life during suffering associated with the

  On September 11th 2001, a Tuesday, I was set to fly to Washington, D.C. for the first gathering of the inductees to the Excellence in Government Fellows. We were to meet on Wednesday, September 12th at the Willard Hotel for the initial ceremonies and series of week long events for those of us from across the nation who were to participate. I originally had my flight on the Monday before, September 10, but decided to switch my flight. If I had departed that Monday, I would have been in the middle of it all. I remember getting up early that day since the American Airlines flight was to depart from Albuquerque for Atlanta at 8 a.m. with a connecting flight to Ronald Reagan International in D.C. later that afternoon. It was still dark outside when my Red 1998 Dodge Ram Quad Cab pulled into the extended parking area. I travel light so I had two bags. Took the shuttle from extended parking and the sun still was not near its rising point. It was about 6 a.m. I got to the airport, and

(for Josefina Saenz Tamariz (1921-2013 of La Mesa, NM)   "Ahhh Precipice on You we kneel! Gently holding cooling wrinkled hands Of virgin pallor, 'til the other gentle forces tug Them up away from us as we are down, And they are up and even up... but we, Behind, a holy knighting's dub,  cry hopeful ... Kneeling on a holy ground,  a sangreale , do find Ourselves with arms arisen reaching as to Follow wisped-in-air like tail kite there aft. But we...so softly...unadapted, stand departed from; And they departed to; yet sacredness of place Transfirms to sacredness of memory; Alas, it's There, to magic-kingdom-meta-thought we go; At least for now, to life's uncertain span of Meantime; 'til the day we find our hands In others' hands, so softly touching skin to skin, Our harbinger of incubated "us-ness." palm in palm As palmers dance with fingertiplets split apart,  To wave goodbye, t o levitate so gently pulled Away

I am convinced that there is no measure to God's mercy. It simply can neither be weighed, nor can it be measured in the same way you can do so with gold, or other commodities. People invest in commodities in the Futures Market. You might ask, "How can mercy be considered a commodity?" In the end, what I have found to be the case is this truth: God's mercy is the only futures market commodity worth investing in. It pays an eternal high rate of return on such a small investment.   I don't want to sound mercenary about something so sacred and solemn as the "mercy of God", ... but we do live our lives in measures of sorts. Let's, for instance, compare the context of our lives to the measures on a music staff. Five simple little lines running across a page are divided into "measures" within which are seated notes either on the line or in the spaces between the line. Each note, like a soul, has an identity and uniquely (sometimes undetectabl

Ezra McNeil lay waiting for that most peculiar moment. Ezra McNeil hung on as best he could. These had been the 99 most productive years of Ezra McNeil's most complicated life. He did not want to die. He was not ready. He wanted, rather as always, to be productive. To Ezra McNeil, dying was not productive. The doctors had said his blood was clotting too quickly, and that it was likely that there were no pharmaceutical remedies that would effectively alleviate the clotting and consequently the platelets that form the clot would monkey pile onto already old and damaged blood vessels. Then, like some time bomb, a piece of the platelet would crack off the monkey pile and like a projectile head directly to his 99 year old brain. Ezra McNeil thinks to himself: "I have all this money to pay these doctors. I practically own this hospital. I rented the entire south wing of the top floor and employed even the best hematologists from all over the world." Ezra McNeil also had a gro