Window in Time

The old windows drip. Surrounding me on three sides, I lay still in the moonlight a reflection of my waking self.

The bedroom was slapped onto the side of the house to raise it's market value. There is not much privacy, for them either.

The rain is relentless tonight. Once barking proud dogs, they now lay cowed in the street-lit shed. I wake many times in and out of various lives of questionable form and meaning.

For a moment I am the same as I was staring through that window. In what could be a memory, or could have been a dream, shadows of women are storing herbs and grains in large jars which slowly dissolve into the cupboard. They only emerge during sunset when the dusk intrudes on both sources of light.

I am the same as I was basking in the ray of light coming through the large sliding glass door. I am sharing the warm spot with Sambi, our black Labrador Retriever. Her name had been Sambo until my mom was told that it had a negative racial connotation. I was once envious of her four-legged life. I needed to understand her secret, take in the subtle exhilarants waiting beyond the backyard fence near the abandoned buildings and warehouse alleyways. Maybe dig a hole in the backyard and relish the cool earth on a hot day.

Vines hang down from the ceiling. Little plants are being raised in tofu containers and the water is draining through the punched holes. The electric light is a surrogate father until they peek through the window and delve into the universal soil of their kin.

An Inspiring Way to Raise a Child

For a couple of years now I have been admiring how Aria and James are raising Sasha, and appreciating that they are documenting the whole thing. I know Aria is getting into education, I think she already has an outstanding resume.

Why He Blogs

"For centuries, writers have experimented with forms that evoke the imperfection of thought, the inconstancy of human affairs, and the chastening passage of time. But as blogging evolves as a literary form, it is generating a new and quintessentially postmodern idiom that’s enabling writers to express themselves in ways that have never been seen or understood before. Its truths are provisional, and its ethos collective and messy. Yet the interaction it enables between writer and reader is unprecedented, visceral, and sometimes brutal. And make no mistake: it heralds a golden era for journalism."


Check out this great article by Andrew Sullivan on blogging

Cycle 6, Part 3

Looking up at the clock, it was 5:20pm and we still had a work meeting to attend to. Mary and I were sitting in the secure room waiting anxiously to get out so that we could meet Camilla at 6pm. I had called her the night before.

"Hello, is Camilla there?"

"And who is this?"

"O, uh, my name is Jason, I am from the Baha'i community here in Albuquerque, I was made aware that you were interested in learning more about the Baha'i Faith."

"Yes, yes, I would like to join your church"

Wow, okay, lets make sure she knows what she's getting into

"Oh, okay, well would you like to meet up sometime so that we could talk about it?"

"So how long have you been in this church?"

"For about 10 years, yeah my mom was a Baha'i and after some investigation I found it to be the truth for myself. How did you get interested in the faith?"

"I met some Baha'is who have an art shop on the plaza, I was very impressed by how helpful they were to each other. I used to be a Mormon, but now I would like to join your church."

"Okay, can we meet up and discuss this further?"

The directions she gave me to her house were incredibly descriptive, and she spoke in a slow and deliberate manner, a style very different than my own. I am not always very good at recalling details on the spot, which makes me a horrible verbal storyteller. I really, really wanted to say, 'just give me an address, I will look it up online." But I waited...

We rushed over and were greeted into her house. My initial read of her seemed to be correct. Her energy was very grounded, she was a little shy but beauty and understanding reflected from her eyes. There was opera music in the background, which complemented the many paintings that hung in her house. Silence filled in the gap as we sat down and she sat there looking back at us, waiting for us to make a pitch.

"So if you are interested we brought this presentation, maybe we can go through it and see what you think."

"Okay, whatever you like."

As I presented, I couldn't help but notice that she she was respectfully waiting for this social formality to pass over.

"Do you believe that Baha'u'llah is a manifestation of God?"

"Everybody is a manifestation of God"

"Yeah, that's true, um, though Baha'u'llah is making a big claim here, He is saying that he is the promised one of all ages, foretold in the books of the past. Do believe that he is telling the truth?"

She paused for the briefest moment before saying:

"yeah, I believe that."

Time when on, she spoke of meeting a friend for lunch. While in conversation she had told her friend about meeting with the Baha'is in the evening, to which her friend responded:

"I'm a Baha'i, I just declared two weeks ago!

Throughout the presentation her phone had been ringing off the hook. Partway through the presentation she decided to answer it. Another friend also wanted to know about the Faith. She showed up at 6:50pm.

"So what is the Baha'i Faith?"

"Well the main theme of the Baha'i Faith...you know what, do you mind if I use this presentation, it kind of helps me keep my thoughts in order."

"Okay, but in five minutes is the vice presidential debate."

I presented for five minutes while Mary started Ruhi book 1 with Camille. We made plans to visit again the following week.

Thinking partly in jest, this is an example of how politics distracts us from what is really important. I was awed by what had just taken place, but I also wanted to watch the debate.

Cycle 6, Part 2

The doorway had one of those "no smoking, oxygen in use" signs. About a minute passed and we were on our way out when a very old lady with a flower dress opened the door and told us to come in. Her name was Virginia and she was sitting on the couch gazing indifferently. She was hard of hearing but sharp as a nail. I did my best to accommodate her train of thought and ask her permission to continue with each part of the presentation. I felt like a respectful grandson. Looking on the wall, she had several pictures of kids. "Are those your grandchildren?" I asked. "Great-grandchildren", she proudly replied. While she was white her great grandchildren were of all different racial backgrounds. I couldn't help but be awed that somebody of her generation could be proud of such diversity in her family.

"Do you see the light of God in these words?" "Of course". "So what do you think, do you think that Baha'u'llah is the manifestation of God for this day?" "Well, yeah I do."

"Do your family members visit you often?" "No, they don't really come by".

I feel that one of the devastating consequences of modern transportation is that families are scattered. I find it hard to believe that somebody with dozens of grandchildren and great-grandchildren has to spend many of her final hours alone.

This has also helped me realize the value of this type of teaching. In the past we would hold big events and hope that people would be attracted to us. People would come, but only those who were actively discontent with their current spiritual resources and had the means to do something about it. Somebody like Virginia, with her immobility and everyday struggles would have never knocked down our doors. We knocked on her door and her heart was ready. She will probably never see the Baha'i center, but she will be every part of the community, with people to visit and care about her.

Teaching does not precede community development; they are inextricable. Now we have the tools to manifest the principles that we always believed were latent, even outside the walls of our Baha'i center.