Single-Issue Voters?

Politics can be tough, and it certainly is now.

There are many opinions yet to be read, many speeches yet to be heard, and a final outcome yet to be determined. At this point, I guess you'd say the gloves come off. Attack ads? We've got them. Gimmicks? They're readily apparent.

A statement I read in the local paper still sticks with me: "I'm a Christian, so I vote Republican," the author wrote in a note to the editor.

To me, that makes as much sense as saying, "I grew up in Iowa. Therefore, I lived on a farm."

That's, purely and simply, faulty reasoning and fractured logic. A doesn't follow from B.

There are a lot of issues that have to do with life, issues that matter in education, health care, the economy. To me, to look at just one issue in this election ignores the proverbial forest for one tree.

By all means, I respect everyone's right to vote according to his or her conscience. I believe that praying about the election is good thing. And I value everyone's right to make a decision based on the priorities he or she values.

I'm just hoping we all consider that there is more than one priority, more than one issue at stake--and that we avoid judgment about the decisions of others.

And, by the way, I grew up in Iowa, but I never lived on a farm. Not ever.

Through a Glass Dimly

"There is a new kind of literature abroad in the land, whose only obvious fault is that no one can understand it." Time (March 3, 1923)

I found the above quote--thanks to Time's Web archives--after I found my old copy of T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land." The Time author was referring to "The Waste Land" as well as to Ulysses by James Joyce.

Eliot and I go pretty far back. I first encountered his poem "Ash Wednesday" when I was in high school. A classmate suggested that we do a reader's theatre performance of the poem for our advanced speech class. In part, the poem reads as follows:

"And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word."

I can see the Time author's point--this is not easily accessible writing. I can't say I usually sit down to read Eliot when I've got time off--but as I re-familiarize myself with this poem, I do think it uniquely expresses the frustration we all feel in life sometimes--the tension between seen and unseen, between what is and what is to be and what could be and what should be. There's a tension between intellect and faith, between love and hate, between life and death, between what we want the world to be and what it is. Sometimes it's heartbreaking, and I think Eliot knew that.

As part of a class I took in modern literature at Queens College, I wrote a paper on Eliot's "The Waste Land" and how Ezra Pound influenced Eliot's writing. Both Eliot and Pound worked to make poetry a different thing than it had been before---more of an object, almost, from which the reader could make his or or her own interpretation. They eschewed Romanticism's expressive language and emotional tones in order to make the poem more of an object, more like a plum sitting on the table that we can pick up and examine (rather than a sermon about why plums are good to eat).

How privileged I felt to study Eliot's work! In order to complete our project, we had to go to the New York City Public Library--the iconic one with the big lions out front--and request a manuscript, rarely printed, that shows Eliot's original handwriting with Pound's notes.

One author influenced another. Each expressed what he saw to be of value in the world, what he thought about, what he dreamed, what he wanted to create, what he loved, and what he hated. Each wanted to do this without forcing it on the reader, but by letting the reader draw his or her own conclusions.

Some writing is, by definition, opaque. Some writing is designed to let the reader make up his or her own mind. On the other hand, I've argued in a recent workshop that business writing should ALWAYS be extremely clear and error-free.

I can relate to what the Time writer expressed in terms of lack of clarity--I felt that way about Jacques Derrida (my apologies to those who love his work) when I was in graduate school. His main point seemed to be that we can never understand each other since language is imperfect. My question was this: if that's true, why write?

Eliot and Pound are men I admire, but I wouldn't use their writing style every day. I value it, though, as I value pretty much every form of literature. I sometimes prefer words that ask questions rather than those that give answers.

At the end of "The Wasteland," Eliot uses what I think is a reference to a Vedic prayer (the Vedas, from what I've gathered so far, are ancient texts sacred to Hindus, and I know very little about them):

"Shantih shantih shantih."

Next to that I wrote, "the peace that passes all understanding." I think my instructor said that, or I thought it. That was how we interpreted the end of the poem.

And perhaps that's the point of this entry. Interpretations may vary, even when there is an ultimate truth, an ultimate and everlasting Word, at the heart of the matter. Those who believe struggle to understand that this Word will never fail, even when we do.

We see through a keyhole, "through a glass dimly," as it were. One day we will see clearly. One day we will see the Word face to face, and we will no longer be afraid. Every tear we have ever cried will be wiped from our eyes forever, just as every failure on our part has already been forgotten in forgiveness.

Today, even words, something I unabashedly love, can fail us. "About the Word the unstilled world still whirls," wrote Eliot.

That might not be easy to understand. That might be the point.

Stop Hatin'

In April, my good friend and "pwipwi" Nasako visited to see the Pope; we worked it out so that we could also have a good catch-up visit after ten years.

Although I'm not Catholic, I agreed to join the crowds who gathered to see the Popemobile as it drove by Catholic University and, I'll admit, it was a good experience to hear the singing and to see the man who is arguably the most notable church leader in the world.

That didn't disturb me, but the hecklers did.

Bearing huge banners with the words, "You're going to hell," "Roman Catholicism is of the devil," etc., representatives who claimed to be from a group called Cry to God spoke through bullhorns to tell the crowd that we were all going to hell.

My friend is not known for her lack of strength and conviction, and I wasn't surprised when she started responding. Who wouldn't?

The biggest conflict came after the Pope had left and, as we made our way back to the Metro station, Nasako and I passed a few men who apparently had feelings similar to those of the hecklers; I don't know for sure if they were from the same organization.

One of them, then both of them, starting yelling at Nasako and me about going to hell, etc., and Nasako yelled back. Realizing that the conversation wouldn't get anywhere, she turned to go.

"You have no peace!" one of the men called behind her back (talk about bravery).

"Yes, she does," I said. "And thank you for being God! Only God can judge who goes to heaven or hell."

This threw him for a moment. "I'm not being God!" he said. Then he and his friend turned back to the more comfortable routine of shouting invective and shaking a Bible at me.

I told them I wasn't Catholic, but I don't think that mattered to them. They just kept yelling.

And even if I were Catholic, what good would yelling like this do? It saddened me because this is what some people think of when they think of faith--apparent lunatics yelling at people.

Whatever happened to speaking the truth in love? Some may have the gift of prophecy and may even be called to speak a harsher truth than others, but if they read the Bible they were pushing in my face, they'd see that no gift is worth anything without love.

I can't claim to always show love myself--sometimes I fail miserably. As a matter of fact, I'm trying hard as I write this not to do the same judging I said the men along the Pope's route were doing.

I'm not sure if I've succeeded in that, but I do want to say this: can we stop the hatin'?

Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty

John Keats, as you might well know, wrote the above lines at the end of his poem, "Ode on a Grecian Urn," a poem I've liked since I first encountered it.

I understand that, for many, definitions of truth and beauty may differ from mine. That doesn't mean truth isn't truth and, once you know it and it becomes beautiful to you, you are not able to turn your back on it--even if it really hurts. I can't choose darkness, even though it might seem easier, when I know light.

I know I'm being cryptic. It's just that kind of day.

Truth--real truth--is the ultimate beauty. I believe that much more than I believe some of the false definitions out there.

Are you beautiful? My answer, no matter who you are, is this: yes! Not because of who you are, but because of who God is.

You are loved. That is truth. It's beautiful--even when it hurts.

Curiosity

A recent bout of flu left me able to do very little except read and sleep, so I indulged my curiosity about some recent middle-grade novels.

I'll mention just two of my new favorites here:

Holes by Louis Sachar
The story takes place in a Texas desert-like wasteland. Kids get sent there as an alternative to juvenile detention centers, and there they get sentenced to what amounts to hard labor: digging holes. Why do they have to dig holes? The answer ties in wonderfully with the protagonist's own past. This one, I think, deserved every honor it got.

A Year Down Yonder by Richard Peck (an author I read when I was combing the "J" section in the library as a kid) I enjoyed this one particularly because it took me away from present-day reality (things moving quickly, computers, and, when I read it, my own red nose). The grandmother in the story is one of those heroines you can't forget--the old-fashioned tough-but-tender Grandma who will do anything--even catch and kill a couple of foxes--so her granddaughter can have a good holiday season.

Well, okay, here's a third, but I can't reveal the title. It's a secret because my friend Susan is getting ready to send it out to agents. But--love it! It's a great tale, and I hope that soon you'll see it on the bookshelves with the others I just mentioned.

Snoopy, Marketing Executive?

I read a bit today about marketing, specifically about a conference at which marketing will be defined as storytelling.

I totally agree with that concept--story is "it" for me. I find narrative, or story, to be the most pervasive form of communication, whether it be in business, in literature, or in life. What is a complaint letter but a story about the complaint? What is a sales pitch but a story about a need a customer has (whether real, perceived, or created) and how someone can meet it? And, by story, I don't mean long, rambling tales. I mean creating interest. I mean vivid language. I mean, "Work it, baby! Work it!"

One of the lines describing the marketing conference particularly caught my eye. It read, basically, "Use your pet for marketing purposes!"

Snoopy, above, is my pet. He is a diabetic five-year-old cat who was rescued by the Patuxent Animal Welfare Society (PAWS, in case you're wondering). I adopted him after that.

They found him under a car with grease marks on his back, but since then, he's had a pretty poshy life. I've even identified him as a possible part-Turkish Angora. He's a thoroughbred, he'd have you know.

It's about time he earned his keep.

How could he help with marketing? Hmmm. Could I "pitch" an article about Snoopy to Cat Fancy magazine?

That's not really marketing, though--that's development.

Could Snoopy pass out flyers? Doubtful.

Could Snoopy work on my Web site? Occasionally, he walks across my keyboard, but he doesn't really help much.

Could I bring Snoopy on office visits? Maybe, but I don't think most offices have a company litter box, and they probably wouldn't like a visitor using it if they did.

I suppose Snoopy could be a logo. There's the gecko for Geico and the duck for Aflac. Those of us who were sentient beings in the late 70's remember Morris the Cat, but I don't think there's been a good cat marketing agent since then.

I'm also a little uneasy about the woman/cat stereotype (woman with cat loves cat and eschews people). I love my cat, but I love people, too:)

I'll think about it.