The world intrudes

Intended as a meditation on my private world, this blog today must face outward. 

The Univ. of Chicago's Robert A. Pape has analyzed 2,200 suicide attacks around the world which have occurred since 1980. His resulting article, "What really drives suicide terrorists? The record is clear: It's anger over Western occupation of their land" in the 12/13 Christian Science Monitor, should become required reading for all, especially our elected representatives in Washington. His first finding, that "over 90% of the attackers carried out strikes in their home countries, often just miles from their homes, to resist foreign occupation of land they prize," should be enough to give pause to our "war on terror." His second major finding is that of the fewer than 10% of all terrorists who are "transnational", their common characteristic is not cultural alienation, etc., but a "deep anger at Western occupation of kindred Muslim populations." . . .  that "While religion contributes in many cases to increased feelings of loyalty toward a kindred community that may be oceans away from an individual's country of citizenship, the primary cause of these horrible phenomena is foreign occupation."  Pape's proposal about how to redirect our war on terror in a much more focused way, seems exquisitely logical to me. 

Pape's article appears in poignant juxtaposition to another Commentary article about successful career military personnel --  telling what is their motivation and what benefits they derive from their service. 

The ironic and gut-wrenching twist to me is that these dedicated "warriors" are gaining in character, expertise, and stature --  which often makes those who flourished in the military of great benefit to their families and American society -- but making those gains today at the expense of an extremely unfruitful occupation of foreign soil.

Read, and tell those responsible what  you think.

Things that do appear -- or did appear -- to awaken an ordinary day.

Surprise! A storybook bride on the ledges at Pemaquid.

Mushrooms spring up from the arid roadside turf
along Friendship Street, Waldoboro, Maine

London phone box springs up
in a Newcastle, Maine, meadow.
Roy Barnacle photo

Ricky and the River

Sudbury River, photo by local river god, Roy Barnacle.

Weeks ago, my husband sold his canoe, preparatory to our planned move. Purchasers were two young boys from the neighborhood. They stopped in to enquire, ran shuttle negotiations back and forth between Roy and their Dad, and eventually showed up with Dad and cash and carried the boat away. Not long after, we saw the boys down at the river's edge, set up for fishing. Roy tromped through the woods to see them with their new canoe, only to find that the canoe had vanished. They hadn't realized it needed to be tied. Roy gave them all the advice he could, then and later; but we knew that unless their Dad got on the stick quickly it seemed almost hopeless that the children would ever see their boat again. We were uncomfortable about this outcome. We knew that here the Sudbury River enters a great wetland reserve and meanders for miles through lonesome byways before emptying with the Assabet  into the Concord -- then into the Merrimack and finally the sea. What likelihood of retrieving a lost canoe? If we only had a boat . . .

Today, as I set out for a walk, I crossed paths with a boy. He stopped to get acquainted. We had quite a good chat about events and people in the neighborhood, and I learned that he was Ricky, a middle schooler. He reminded me that he had bought Roy's canoe. Immediately I asked if they had ever found it. Oh, yes. Some people across the river had seen the floataway, had caught it and tied it at their waterfront. Somehow news of the catch got to Ricky's family.  "My Dad has a GPS, so we went and got the canoe," he said. "We had to climb down a real steep bank and carry it up. It's in our garage for the winter. If you and Mr. Barnacle ever want help with anything, just come and get me." Ricky headed for home and supper.

I had much to ponder on my walk. We had questioned the wisdom of a parent giving children a canoe to use, apparently unsupervised, on a river. We had seen no evidence of their recapturing the boat, and had assumed -- again -- some level of parental inattention. But all the time, the family had the situation well in hand. What kind of parents raise a child to be so comfortable conversing with an adult? So considerate? The fact is, that Ricky is the first neighbor to make a point of welcoming me to Riverview.

Meet the Man

Sara Gallant and Roy Barnacle made their engagement official
at Pemaquid Point Lighthouse, to the roar of crashing surf.

Having sounded out my inclination by phone, Roy surreptitiously arranged a public proposal at the jewelry counter at J.C. Penney in the Natick Mall.  I said my "Yes" before a delighted audience of sales associates.  How could anyone resist his gleaming, golden brown eyes and London Cockney accent? The ring had to be sent back for alteration, so on Roy's next trip to Waldoboro he took me to Pemaquid Point -- the scene of our first date -- for a third and final "Yes" that sealed the engagement. The witnesses this time were the waves, gulls, and lobster boats. We were married in October 2010.

Icon Immersion

Elijah and the Chariot of Israel from the
Museum of Russian Icons in Clinton, Massachusetts

Here is a new treasure from my cornucopia. Roy and I tried out a new museum Tuesday, the Museum of Russian Icons. I confess that after a lifetime of formal and informal study of art and religion, here and abroad, I knew next to nothing about religious icons. I absorbed all I could yesterday, and look forward to a return visit.

Depictions of the Chariot of Israel were of special interest to me, because of my Bible slide lecture on that topic, tracing the evolving and devolving imagery of "chariot" from one end of the Bible to the other. 

An icon that kept pulling me back for more viewing appeared almost foolish at first, a saint squeezed into the top of a narrow stone tower. But this was Simeon Stylites, a Syrian of the 5th Century who spent his adult life in solitary prayer on that tower, alone but not incommunicado. He was not merely praying into the wind, for he accomplished numerous recorded healings. Who knew? Not me. In fact, creation of many of the icons was inspired by spiritual healings accomplished by the devout Christians depicted.

Icons were not just an element of church decoration for veneration. They were also a grounding element within most Christian homes in Rus (early name for Russia). By the time of the Bolshevik Revolution in the early 20th Century, it is estimated that there were more than 20 million icons in Russia. The Communists destroyed all they could get their hands on.

The icons had been under attack once before. The Early Christian Church had held to the second commandment, prohibiting the making of graven images, and this new phenomenon was at first seen as breaking that law. Icons, murals, and other church art was destroyed by edict of Emperor Leo III. Owners of icons could be maimed; some were executed. The Council of Nicaea in 787 eased the authorities back from the brink of holocaust  by saying icons were OK as long as it was understood that the image itself was not being venerated, but the person or event to which it referred. One can go a step further and honor the power impelling the people, events, and healings.