The Blessing

In the morning when you rise
I bless the sun, I bless the skies
I bless your lips, I bless your eyes
My blessing goes with you

In the nighttime when you sleep
Oh I bless you while a watch I keep
As you lie in slumber deep
My blessing goes with you

This is my prayer for you
There for you, ever true
Each, every day for you
In everything you do

And when you come to me
And hold me close to you
I bless you
And you bless me, too

When your weary heart is tired
If the world would leave you uninspired
When nothing more of love’s desired
My blessing goes with you

When the storms of life are strong
When you’re wounded, when you don’t belong
When you no longer hear my song
My blessing goes with you

This is my prayer for you
There for you, ever true
Each, every day for you
In everything you do

And when you come to me
And hold me close to you
I bless you
And you bless me, too

I bless you
And you bless me, too

What We Know

When we listen to this beautiful song and read the lyrics, we know what a blessing is. Knowing what a blessing is can make tears well up, unbidden; we exclaim about how beautiful the singer’s voice is, how magical this song she sings, but as beautiful as the singer’s voice, what gives this song its timelessness is what we know about blessings. We know about them because being blessed by someone who has the love and power to bless us is an archetypal event–something that is common to all people in all ages. Whether it conjures up images of priests and censers, or the trembling hand of a grandmother, laid on her new great-grandchild’s head, or that of a tribal elder passing his hands over the youth and blowing smoke all around the young man’s head, we know what a blessing is.

Many of us have received blessings from our parents or grandparents, and many of us have not. Many of us spent our childhoods and young adulthoods waiting for that blessing, and it never came. Some of us have sat at the bedside of a dying parent and received nothing, no gracious word, no hopeful epithet to suit us. Some of us were blessed and given charges by the people we loved most, and went out into life under this banner. Whatever our individual experiences with blessings, we know what they are.

The word “blessing” comes from the Proto-Indo-European word bhel, from which blood, boulder, phallus, and blind derive. A blessing has life in it, like the blood. Also like blood, it carries a unique code–like DNA–specific to the one being blessed. A blessing has the mass, weight, and substance of a boulder; people who have been rightly blessed carry the weight of that blessing with them their entire lives and have something of substance to pass on to others. Like a phallus, a blessing is generative and powerfully procreative. It has the masculine strength of the warrior with his spear, and like the warrior, a blessing is protective as well as defensive. Its phallic energy causes many scenes of blessing to be symbolically rendered through male figures, even though every person, male or female, carries this energy. Finally, a blessing comes from a place as dark as blindness, for it arises from the unconscious, from what we know without knowing how we know it. A blessing is prophetic, having deep spiritual and mystical origins arising from some ancient tap root with fructifying power.

A blessing is an invoking of God’s favor, an expression of approval and good wishes, and an act of praise verbalized over another human being. We do not write our own blessings; we wait sometimes our entire lives to be blessed by someone else. And because we externalize the need to be blessed and are always looking for the priest, elder, patriarch, wizard, or fairy godmother who will lay hands on us and bless us, we forget that, deep down inside, our own priest, elder, patriarch, wizard, and fairy godmother has a ready blessing.

नमस्ते

Of all the traditions among other cultures that I wish we would adopt in the Western world, my favorite is the practice of bowing to another person in greeting. I love the Hindu and Buddhist greeting, namaste, for it means “the divinity within me honors the divinity within you.” I can think of few other ways in which a greeting can invoke more powerful blessing than this one. So, today, namaste. The divinity within me honors the divinity within you. I invite you to bow to yourself, and to meditate today on the blessings that have been spoken over you and to you, and the ones you wish had been but never were. I invite you to meditate until images of your own blessing come up inside your soul, and then become logos. I invite you to breathe those words over yourself, speak them to yourself, and bow to yourself. Then, take a bit of that blessing, and bow to a person you love, and bless him or her.

The end of March and the beginning of April have seen me in fool’s bells. My husband told me a month ago that he thought our cow was pregnant. I went and looked at her myself, being an expert on bovine pregnancy and all, and declared him mistaken. “She’s not pregnant,” said I, “because she’s not nearly as big as she was last time.”

Just a week or so ago, Bossy proved me wrong. Loud moos were heard coming from the creek bed, and our daughters ran up excitedly. “Mom, Mom!” they cried, “Bossy is mooing really loudly! What if she’s having a calf?!”

“She’s not having a calf,” sez I. “She’s probably in heat. But if she doesn’t stop, you’d better go tell Dad. Maybe she’s hurt.”

No more than 15 minutes later, the little girls were back in my office. “BOSSY HAD A BABY!” they yelled.

“No way!” I exclaimed. “I can’t have been wrong!”

And several times since then I’ve been mistaken, too. Mistaken about facts historical and otherwise; mistaken about which way to turn to get to where I’m going; mistaken about my husband’s shaky hand which is (supposedly) not, as I had feared, Parkinson’s but simply nerve damage from using too many tools for too many years. I have been mistaken, wrong, confounded, hasty. Over-reaching, puffed up, vain, and sometimes downright pompous. I’ve been these in front of witnesses. And they have laughed.

I like being wrong when the resulting surprises are good ones. I don’t mind laughing at myself, or having others laugh at me, then. But I have to admit that there are times when I’m mistaken about something and I see my arrogance and it’s not a pretty sight.

Though I’m old enough to have been often wrong, I still think I’m right so much of the time. I must think I have lived long enough to know a pregnant cow when I see one, though (if truth be told) I have known only one pregnant cow in my entire life, and that one is Bossy.  So this month I am an April fool. I’m reminded to not take myself too very seriously, to keep a humble set of heart and mind, to smile, and to be a bit more tentative in my statements, declarations, and pontifications. To be a better listener. To demonstrate my respect for others by recognizing that they could be right!

As promised, I’ll be continuing with the series on leaving home and turning next to the coddled child, to the effects of being smothered or (a tip of my hat to the Librarian from Purgatory, here) to those of having a ravenous mother.

Fabulous cook, avid golfer and puzzle solver, lover of books, music, and film: slender, attractive widow, a retired educator, seeks man, 60-75, with whom to share laughter, conversation, etc. Metro NY/NJ.

Sensual, passionate,successful artist. Quiet beauty, mischievous spark, and heartfelt warmth. Considered fun to be around and completely real. Slender, athletic, very physical, and outdoorsy. Enjoys hiking, cross-country skiing, painting, watercolors outdoors, community activism to make the world a better place, dancing, sailing. Relaxed traveler, comfortable anywhere (Maine islands to Cornwall, Greece, Provence). Good company and good sport, enjoys busy, happy life, yet looking for special zing with warm, personable, fit and active New England area man, 55 through early 70s, for dinners, movies, and perhaps more.

Merry widow, 63. European-born, American-educated college professor/writer. Tall, fetching, sassy, postmodern. Loves excitement of city life and peacefulness of nature. Seeks Philadelphia area, energetic, accomplished man, 58-73, to share it all: arts, travel, politics, dining, and then some.

Passion, depth,generosity of heart. Journalist, sports-writer, TV reporter, active leader in national programs for at-risk youth. Considered really good-looking, sexy, slender athletic figure, self-deprecating wit. Sympathetic, upbeat, and very real. Confident, young widow, classy, good friend. Four newspapers a day [. . .] Can conquer most any hill on a bike so long as a glass of Cabernet or chocolate croissant at the finish. [. . .] Seeks big-hearted man with good mind, full laugh, social conscience–fit financially, emotionally, physically, 5′9″+, 50-68, who resides or spends time in South Florida area.

Smart and beautiful,intellectually curious and athletic. Consultant/educator–tall, slim with natural radiance. adventurous with calm, warm demeanor, genuineness of character. Expressive, affectionate, divorced, 5′8″. Laughs a lot, thinks deeply, politically liberal. Interested in social change, literature, politics, nature, beauty. Midwestern roots, international outlook, has lived abroad, [. . .] Sunday Times, The Economist.Seeks healthy/active man (59-60s) with warmth and an intellectual bent–Boston area.

Personals from the New York Review of Books all, 14 by women in this issue, only two by men.

I wondered after reading them, “are there that many lonely widows searching for intelligent male life?” I wondered why women would go looking for male companionship late in life when they could, judging by the personals section, have more success at finding a female companion and friend. Is it about sex, then? Is it about needing a man?

After reading them, I wondered, “What would my personal ad say about me, if I were to write one today?” And “what would I advertise for, if I were to write a personal ad, directed at the universe?”

So here I am, reading this thread, and every single comment has something in it that moves me, touches my heart and soul, inspires me, makes me feel delight or awe or surprise, or gives me a sobering thought. I feel so rich. I am SO glad that I have done nothing to try to attract readers, have no advertisements, am not into popular blogging, and have in fact continued to follow, however dumbly, the invitation to blog that came to me a year ago from my innards.Because this, this, is why. I had no idea I would receive such gifts. Wow, I am so blessed to be able to get to know all of you.

For instance, here is Irene’s paragraph, and I copy it whole and intact because just look at it:

“Eve, I don’t think humans are rotten, though they act that way often enough. Lacking in any kind of love for themselves, I think it is fear that they come from. So their actions are rotten, consciously or not. A person makes the choice to act malevolently or kindly. Don’t they? Or perhaps I should rather ask you to define what you mean by rotten – was it literal? Some humans (i.e. their spirits?) have broken down from a state of wholeness to putrefaction? I mean, yes, I do see acts of pure evil, acts of confrontation, from others, and myself, being misguided by emotions and past pain. But the human creature within? Has mankind really disintegrated so badly that his acts have tainted his very spirit? I would feel like this is saying that there is no hope, that God is rotten, then, too. Which doesn’t feel right to me – and I’m not suggesting thats what you meant, either. Its just my (generally possibly naive) ponderings running along. Will you explain it a bit further? And your understanding of ‘evil’. Its such a powerful word. I tend to understand it mostly in the religious sense, but I think you may mean it in a broader context.”

I agree with Irene, firstly, that when people are rotten (bullies, mean, ugly, evil, etc.) most of the time they are coming from fear. It has been theorized by some that the only two primary emotions are fear and love. Not hate and love. I would like to think this is true, because if it is true then we can do away with evil, possibly. But then one must do away with the religious mindset, too. And I don’t, because I do believe in evil, having perceived it too many times. But still, Irene is onto something, isn’t she?

Look what she shows: a person’s choice, firstly, writing, “A person makes the choice to act malevolently or kindly, don’t they?” Yes, they do make the choice. We can’t control what our emotions do or even sometimes what our thoughts do, as they both can come to us unbidden from the deep well of the unconscious or as a fully conscious, real, immediate and honest reaction to something that occurs. But we can control what we do, and it’s our actions that make us responsible. Response-able. See? We are able to choose a response. This is one reason I so admire and adopt many teachings of Buddhism, because the mindfulness Buddha taught can give a person the time s/he needs to choose a response. A godly one.

So Irene asked me what did I mean by rotten-was my meaning literal? Wow! I love you, Irene! I love the way you intuit your way right into an issue. You gave me such a gift here! AHA! What do I mean, indeed? Yes, yes… I DO mean some human spirits have broken down from a state of wholeness to putrefaction. Yes, some have disintegrated so much that (and here we go)…. She asks whether his acts have tained his very spirit. No, his acts have not tainted “his very spirit,” and this brings me to a vantage point where I get to see what I actually do believe about people, thanks to Irene.

Going with this metaphor, what I actually believe is that a person can become rotten if unused and uncalled, or left hanging or rejected, like a tomato left on the vine and putrefying into a muddled puddle of disgusting, oozy tomato-ishness. And what’s left after that entire process is done? Even if the birds come and eat it, or I let my dog out the back door and he, being of such small brain, decides rotten tomatoes are yummy, and he eats it and it appears that nothing is left? What then? Well… the seeds. They may be in the bird or in the ground or in my dog to be excommunicated later, eh? But they’re there. They don’t break down. They do something. They may return to the earth and bear no further fruit, and become part of the earth that grows the grass or a dandelion or something (there is Heni’s reincarnation, in a way, eh?)… as Buddhism teaches, “all is one” eventually. An endless cycle.

But then, as Jesus taught, “unless a grain of wheat fall into the ground and die, it remains alone, by itself, and bears no fruit. But if it dies, it bears much fruit.” So without putrefying and rottenness, where is the fruit? Some fruit is used for eating; some falls unwanted to the ground, rots, and dies. But all fruit has seeds. Even rotten fruit.

I believe in the seed. I am always aware of the seed. I see the seed before me all the time, and I farm for seeds. I believe in the identity of the person or the fruit or the animal or the being created by God. I believe within the seed is an intention, not a “will of God” so much as a “way of God” in the person, but it is that person’s own unique, individual way, and yes, it is a  Hence in Proverbs we have the much-abused and mis-used verse, “raise up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” A verse some fundamentalists use to “prove” that if you do the right thing as a parent, you can determine your child’s godly Christian outcome. Haha. Sure, sure. Live awhile and let your kids get to age 30 or so and then report back to me how perfectly that interpretation worked for you.

No, I don’t believe it’s that way. The original language says “according to his way.” You raise the child according to his way, his own particular seed. And he will then be a whole person. I believe every whole person needs, wants, and loves God naturally. Little kids know God and love him easily. And then they go to church and are often ruined. RUINED. Rotten. But the seed is always still there.

So, Irene, thank you for an amazing question and a wonderful metaphor. Yes, I am the one who wrote “rotten” and the seed of meaning was in that one word. But by asking a question and being willing to take the time to think out loud through writing on some dumb little blog like this one, look what you did! You and I both were given a gift. I thank you for that. I appreciate you.

There’s no end to the wonder of our lives, is there?