My Weekend with Pinsky

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I went on a bender last weekend. It wasn’t bourbon with which I besotted myself, but poetry. With a master poet named Robert Pinsky.

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Monday Funday

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I listened to five of the brightest kids in my grandson’s Connecticut high school give addresses during their commencement on Monday. They said pretty much the same thing. And we adults should be troubled by it.

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Being Busy: My Psycho Self-Analysis

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I spent the entire three-day Memorial Day weekend watching television. Some movies, yes, and a couple of series that I had recorded. But “Naked and Afraid?” Yup. Bare butts held my attention for several back-to-back episodes (pun intended).

This lost weekend was both self-analysis and self-medication for something I learned during my most recent psychotherapy session.

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My Architects

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It’s always about coming home to freedom, isn’t it? The twelve tribes of Israel coming home to the freedom of the Promised Land. Christ’s crucifixion freeing him to go home to his father. The Buddha finding freedom from suffering while sitting under a fig tree. Why is home so hard to find, Jenny thought? Maybe because you believe you’re home when you’re really not there at all. Dorothy made friends in Oz, but she wasn’t home. Alice, in Wonderland, was in constant apprehension that something bad would overtake her because she wasn’t home. No, Jenny thought, if you feel foreboding, you’re not home. Maybe that’s what the Hebrews discovered in their wandering, and Christ in his suffering and the Buddha in his sitting—that home is more than place.

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Hesychast for a Day

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Even though I’m embraced by the bursting springtime flowers of Cape Cod, I spent yesterday in the desert.

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Confessions of a Breech Baby

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Mom looks a bit bedraggled after her three-day delivery of

that ten-pound sack Dad is holding.

The road out leads only one way. But sometimes one heads in the wrong direction. I did.

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ON THE SIDE

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In her book, Heartburn, Nora Ephron wrote of her husband's infidelity: “You have lost a piece of your past. The infidelity itself is small potatoes compared to the low-level brain damage that results when a whole chunk of your life turns out to have been completely different from what you thought it was. It becomes impossible to look back at anything that’s happened . . . without wondering what was really going on.”

Or one might try poetry to make sense of it.

 

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Retreat to The Sandpiper

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“All my life I have lived and behaved very much like a sandpiper,

just running down the edges of different countries and continents,

looking for something.”

—Elizabeth Bishop 

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NOW

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Is there any concept harder to grasp than “the present?” Here’s an intellect vastly larger than mine, Augustine of Hippo, speaking to us from the fourth century: “How can the past and future be, when the past no longer is, and the future is not yet? As for the present, if it were always present and never moved on to become the past, it would not be time, but eternity.” Perhaps poetry, as is often the case, can shed some light?

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You Got A Problem With That?

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As I prepare to celebrate Easter tomorrow, I am compelled to write about my faith. Because I’m weary of being silently judged as less than smart or sophisticated because of it.

Yes, I believe that a crucified Jesus actually returned from the dead on a day now known as Easter. As we say in New Jersey, you got a problem with that?

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