The Unclad Soul

I Want a Cottage by the Ocean I love the city with its array of delights, its offerings of culture, its libraries and theaters, its parks and plazas, its lights and music But I am weary of the city, with its loud presence and its oppressive anonymity, its   hemmed in freeways and the misery of endless construction I want a cottage by the ocean, where the air is clean, where seagulls fly and the aura is gentle; where the sun rises and sets on a clear horizon— a misty shimmering line   low   in the sky that invites dreams, and prompts secrets, and asks me to wonder I want distance from the acrimony in our cities, from the rage and the fury in traffic, from the numbing of noise and nonsense I want to feel things, kisses and love and the holding of hands, long embraces and deep conversations— the joy of connection I want to be close to the earth, to the forces of life; I want to hear the songs o...

“The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.” ~ James Baldwin, Playwright/Poet/Novelist

“For one wild, glad moment we snapped the chain that binds us to earth, and joining hands with the winds we felt ourselves divine!” – Helen Keller

In the Netflix series, “Jack Taylor,” ex-cop Jack Taylor is a rebellious, hard drinking, scruffy guy who plays by his own rules, which are often questionable. Although he’s no longer a police officer, fired for unruly conduct, he still stumbles into situations where people need and want his help with some crime that’s been committed. He doesn’t always solve them, and he leaves plenty of debris along the way. He has a tough, rugged presence. And he’s a mess of a person. But inside the man, there beats a true heart for humanity. He lives in Mrs. Bailey’s Bed and Breakfast. It’s a lovely place that you would not expect to see the likes of Jack Taylor. But Mrs. Bailey took Jack in when he was disgracefully dismissed from the police force. He loved being a cop/detective. He fought for the underdog and the forgotten and the cheated. And the loss of his job sent him spiraling into a drunken bewilderment. He had no income but at Mrs. Bailey’s he found safety, welcome, clean sheets, an...

In Ray Bradbury’s troubling futuristic short story, “The Million-Year Picnic,” a family takes a trip to Mars. The father calls it a vacation, but without telling his wife and sons, he is leaving planet Earth for good and taking them with him. Not long after they land and start their journey on the red planet, their rocket ship self-destructs in the background, and the family realizes they won’t be going home. The father is a practical and sensitive man and he had lost hope in Earth’s potential. He later takes his three boys fishing and while two of the boys are busy at the edge of the water, the other son notices his father’s behavior. He sees him distracted, nervous, lost in his thoughts, standing upright and looking   across   the sky, not realizing his father is thinking of Earth and the wars there, the hate, the endless killing and disorder, the ruined cities and the broken people.  The son moves toward his father: “What are you looking at so hard, Dad?” ...

I have not been to church in a long while. For someone who spent so many years in the church it sometimes surprises me that it is no longer a vital part of my life. A few years ago I would sometimes slip into the Cathedral Santuario de la Virgen de Guadalupe in downtown Dallas. It’s a beautiful, sacred space. There are daily masses both in English and Spanish. Inside the sanctuary is a large, life-like crucifix of Jesus and other smaller but elaborate sculptures of biblical scenes. The Cathedral was built in 1902 and has been through various renovations and is today a vibrant and popular place of worship for Catholics. I have many issues with the Roman Catholic Church, and the institutional Church in general. And I have no interest whatsoever in the giant mega evangelical churches that remind me of convention centers or entertainment venues. But there, in the quiet of the Cathedral, I have often felt something deeply spiritual stir within me. For some time now, church...

Good Morning Good morning to the great trees That bend above this little house; Good morning to the wind that comes And goes among the leaves, and sings; Good morning to the birds, the grass, Good morning to the bare ground; Good morning, pond across the way That must have opened both its eyes; Good morning, everything that shines Or doesn’t shine; good morning, mole And worm and nesting mouse—good morning, Morning to all things that ever Were and will be, and that are. ~ From, “Good Morning: Last Poems,” by Mark Van Doren