Author Archive for Steve Roberts – Page 13

There’s No Place I’d Rather Be

When I brought her coffee in bed on our anniversary, as I do many mornings, I said to Dear that it’s a strange thing when the number of years we’ve been married feels bigger than the number of years we’ve been alive.

Which got me thinking: I bet that’s not an uncommon sensation for those who live in wonder at the vastness of existence.  People like us, really.

The joy we know today makes it easy to appreciate the time and pain and despair it can take to discover a peaceful heart.  It is joy born of becoming ever better at surrender, a skill enhanced by the angels of bullshit who, when necessary, wrench from our clutch whatever we mistake for serious business. Read More

Opening the Door of Healing

I’ve just read “Killers of the Flower Moon” by David Grann, about the systematic murder of probably hundreds of people and the disenfranchisement and terrorizing of many more as greed and prejudice fueled an ugly response to the phenomenal riches of Osage Indians in Oklahoma a century ago.

The Osage happened to find themselves the beneficiaries of an enormous oil discovery on their reservation.  Tribal members soon became some of the wealthiest people on earth.  Naturally, this stimulated all sorts of schemes to defraud the Osage of their affluence by those, including members of Congress, whose personal values were not equal to resisting the tremendous temptation.

The lesson I find most noteworthy about that brutal chapter of American history is that it is virtually unknown in our culture.  And by “unknown” I mean, most devastatingly, “unlearned from.”  This is not surprising, since virtually all the chapters of untold viciousness we Americans have visited upon ourselves and others are significantly “unlearned from”—perhaps most notably, or egregiously, the lives of black people, native people, and women.  Oh, there are many others, to be sure, but those are undoubtedly among the more conspicuous.

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What’s Worth a Big Smooch?

Adverse conditions are our spiritual teacher, sages say.  That’s why we might consider kissing Trump’s ring.  You know, metaphorically speaking.  Few people have made our nation so dangerous and our government so mean-spirited.  Few people, therefore, have obliged us so strongly to engage in one of life’s most important activities––sharpening our sense of:

    • What’s essential, what we cannot live without.
    • The values we hold sacred.
    • Who we aspire to be or die trying, no matter what.
    • And, given our answers (for ourselves individually, and for the world), the healthiest action we can take now.

Trump may be over the moon nuts, a crackpot extraordinaire with no ethical center, as trustworthy as a brain surgeon with hiccups, but anybody who prompts us to pay attention to considerations that help define the well-being of every person on earth is useful, if not enjoyable.

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None of Us Can Ever Have Too Much Mothering

Painting, (c)Terry Rose. Photo, (c)Mary Kostman.

Sixty five years ago, E.E. Cummings (1894-1962), also known as e.e. Cummings (in the style of some of his poems), an American artist of diverse genres, was invited by his alma mater, Harvard, to deliver the 1952-53 school year Charles Eliot Norton Lectures, a series of six presentations.  In the first lecture, Cummings speaks of his childhood: “…I was welcomed as no son of any king and queen was ever welcomed.”  To be the child of his parents was, for Edward Estlin Cummings, “…my joyous fate and my supreme fortune.”

But today is Mother’s Day 2017.  Given the invitation to reflect on mothering in all the many forms we require it, hunger for it, and give it, so that our body and soul may thrive, here is a story Cummings told about his mother:

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Responding to An Old Sneaker in the Punch Bowl


In this dream, Dear, my wife, had died.  Gathering for the memorial service in a big old stately church (probably in Boston, her hometown) was every single person whose life her love had touched, even unknowingly.  And not just the living.  The dead too.  It was a heck of a turnout.  And I’ll be damned if Trump didn’t show up.

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"The push to change the words “nigger” and “injun” in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, because the so-called offensive nature of those terms might limit today’s readership and appreciation of that literary classic, is a wonderful opportunity to reflect on how we avoid taking responsibility for our feelings––and therefore miss the chance to become more awake, more whole, more useful friends to one another."

The Essay: The Gold in Niggers and Injuns