Essays – Page 9

My Two Cents

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 Inspiring Pain of United

So why did the United Airlines customer ejection fiasco occur, and what can we learn from it that can serve our ability to make healthy choices in every circumstance that comes our way for the rest of eternity?  (After all, why would we pay attention to anything if that weren’t the payoff?)

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A Sleepwalker Racing a Ferrari Through the Louvre

I met Trump in a dream recently.  I had been invited to the White House for a face-to-face.  He was very reserved and mild-mannered.  He was also exhausted.  I had no idea ahead of time the purpose of our meeting.  Turned out he wanted me to create whatever story about him I chose, using video footage of his daily life taken by White House shooters.

I felt he knew that I was an adversary, that I thought he was unfit to be president, but I felt he also knew (via my essays) that I didn’t hate him, or even dislike him, and in fact felt quite compassionately toward him.  That’s why he had reached out to me, it seemed.

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Caring for the King of Addiction

NOTE: Dave Letterman nicknamed him Trumpy.  I won’t use it, but I think it is fitting for a guy I’ve titled the King of Addiction.  “Trumpy, the King of Addiction.”  Sounds like a best-selling t-shirt to me.  But can we wear it with compassion for the man who made it necessary?

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"I honor that we are killing the earth for the same reason I consider being an alcoholic a privilege: it is a doorway to the profound self-understanding required to make truly healthy choices."

The Essay: Honoring the Killing of the Earth