This little light of mine

I sit in a dark room and stare at three lit candles.
The room is still and the flames hardly move.

What is it about fire? For millennia people have stared into fire and wondered. Others have stared and found enlightenment. Fire is the earth's great destructor, yet its warmth is life giving. Fire will strike an awesome fear one minute and warm a heart and home the next. Not a minute goes by where all of our lives are not affected by fire. Fire thrusts our cars down the road, it lifts our planes into the air, and it spins turbines that power most of the world. It is our first conquest of nature, a kinship with a mighty power that lifted us out of the realm of animals and offered us humanity.

There is no dancing or flickering of light, no wild movements or cackling sounds emanating from the flames. There are only three simple flames sitting in a bed of sand. The flames cast light on a wooden monk worn with age, an angel with her hands in prayer, and the top of Buddhas head.

Perhaps the ritualistic use of fire was born out of that recognition of fire as sustenance. A recognition and respect of the immense power and responsibility of possessing this essential element, this essential force. We want to show the gods and those who came before us our thanks, so
we light fires and dance.
We light fires and sing.
We light fires and pray.

The flames sit on an altar arranged in an triangle, and although it is a detail that resonates with significance it is merely coincidental. There were no thoughts of spiritual matters this evening. No trinity, no shakti, no noble eightfold path.

Only human matters this evening.
Three human matters.
Three friends with three challenges.
Three friends with whom I have shared memories,
and three challenges that aren't supposed to be presenting themselves at this stage of life.
So I light three candles, I light three candles and stare into the warm glow and I pray.
I pray for a fire for my friends. I pray that it will burn the pain of treatment, I pray that it will burn the pain of loss, I pray that it will burn a path of hope and scar the land with joy, I pray that it will make hope as black as soot and scorch the earth. I cannot know the challenges of my friends, yet my heart cries as I stare, and my eyes weep as I pray.

Tomorrow I will light three candles and I will dance. I will dance with my sons and spade cooley and will dance in the night when sleep doesn't come easy.

Friday I will light three candles and I will sing. I will sing both boys to sleep with songs of the day and songs of moon shadows.

And I will hope that in the ritual of my life, I can send comfort, joy and hope to my friends.

Salinas Place

I had dinner with an old friend and her family just the other day. I had dinner with my dear old friend from college with whom I have shared many cigarettes, many glasses of wine, and many philosophical musings. We did a couple of shows in college and took some classes together, but most of our bond was formed in and around “Salinas Place” - a large house on Salinas Place in which a number of women lived during college. A charming, somewhat rundown older house, it was one of those gathering spots. We all know the place. A place where anyone can show up at any time and no one would be at all surprised. A place where often more friends and boyfriends were present than actual tenants. A place where somebody shouts your name when you arrive. The women all shared some connection, but their various circles of friends often didn’t share any connection other than their enjoyment of all things Salinas Place. What was even more intriguing is that the women and their “circles” encompassed many different, seemingly incongruous, social circles. There was the pre-med brain, the tortured artist, the overly exuberant theatre major, the philosopher, and the attractive social butterfly. This dynamic created an atmosphere of what can only be described as an awkward comfort. A comfort which bears no resemblance to any other situation in which the word comfort would be used, yet a comfort which had the ability to fully embrace any situation. A comfort so strange that you often felt anxious as you approached the building, but a comfort so alive and exciting that you would never think of turning around to leave.

Salinas Place was my home.

I spent more than one night listening to arguments at 3:00 in the morning as to whether “midnight of the soul” was occurring or not.

Salinas Place was my refuge.

I was at Salinas Place in January of 95 when Santa Barbara flooded and the attractive social butterfly walked two miles waist deep in flood waters in my beloved Maine Hockey shirt which she claimed saved her life.

Salinas Place was my spiritual journey.

Not then – I wasn’t nor wanted to be on a spiritual journey back in college. Salinas Place was my spiritual journey over the last few years. After having dinner with my friend, I thought about that house and realized that Salinas Place represents many of my current ideas and feelings about that which we call God. Salinas Place is my metaphor for God as well as my metaphor for our communion within God. I am not fully reconciled nor fully comfortable with that house that is God and/or God’s Kingdom. I often feel anxious when entering into that space. I don’t know everybody there. I don’t want to exist in all their circles. I don’t want to believe what they all believe. But I want to be there. I want to drive to Salinas Place and stay up late and argue about the midnight of the soul. I want to help keep Salinas Place alive. I want people to have my shirt to wear when they walk through flood waters.

Is it real?
Does it exist?
Can I find my Salinas Place?

In the real world, as soon as college ended the owners sold the house and everyone moved out. My two closest friends from Salinas Place moved into an apartment 3 doors down from me, but the magic was broken. I walked into that apartment maybe twice in the next year or so, and some of the occupants I haven’t seen since the day they moved out. But my friend would come down to my apartment often and have burritos and cigarettes as we kept a small part of Salinas Place alive with philosophical chatter and philosophical silence.

But the sad part of this journey is that somewhere during a thoroughly enjoyable evening on the mission lawn, part of Salinas Place left me. It was a gradual parting that I wasn’t even aware of until the next day. A spirited dialogue on differing views of theology left various lines in the grass that could not be traversed. And while all was amicable when we left I have the sense that the plans to reconvene soon will soon be forgotten. A need to define God through experience crashed headfirst into a need to define God through infallible tradition. And it was at that moment my search for Salinas Place ran headfirst into a locked door. And because I am unwilling to accept the rental agreement, I shall never again walk through that door. I am sad, for although that is not the Salinas Place I am looking for, My friend is my main connection to the real Salinas Place. My connection to a place that taught me about comfort, that taught me about hospitality, that taught me about communion. And now as I look for the house that encompasses all of those ideals, I fear that those I care about, that those who have influenced or changed me will choose not to commune with me there. I fear that I will be left in a room full of people with whom I share values, but with whom I have no experiences. I am sad, and I am still anxious as I approach each door.