Word Up

- Emily Dickenson

There was a time when words spoken and words written had meaning. They still do, of course. But, sadly, they are spoken less frequently, and when written, come now to us in muted strings of 140 characters, or in Facebook posts that only highlight the victories of our lives. But there is no real wisdom in the garbled haikus of Twitter. No defeat in the glamorous posts on Facebook.

I think the world would be a better place if people were just willing to bleed a little in public. Not in a self-pitying way, not to play the martyr, but rather to more genuinely proclaim their humanity. Because there is a strength to be found in sharing our weaknesses, to help each other. As Hemingway says, “"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." It’s our job to seek those with wounds that match, to advise, and wounds that don’t match, to consult.

A word is a living thing. Spoken. Written. Conveyed. So often, we don’t take time for them anymore, and as a result, it is a crime each day how many moments of love, connection and encouragement are lost forever, sacrificed on the altar of our newsfeeds and work deadlines. Until, one day, you wake up and say, “Waitaminutenow. Hold on. I…have something…I want…to say.” If your heart is right, this moment is not followed by an egotistical “Listen to me!” but rather in a humble, contrite, nauseatingly vulnerable “Will you hear me?”

I write stories because of words. It is in their architecture that I can find a way…to you, to others...and invite you in. A story is a building, the opening the foyer and each chapter a room. Once the tour is over, all I can hope for is that I will find you in the study, warming yourself by the fire, a little richer for the experience before you head back out into the world that is your life.

And if that world is sometimes cold and lonely? If I have been blessed enough in the telling of the thing, you will have been given a story that sparks a fire in you that will never go out.

Happy Reading

There is, I think, an inevitability to all things. Growing old, the change of seasons, discord amongst peoples, temptation and auto spell repeatedly failing you during a text, to name a few.

Recently I read “The Pearl” by John Steinbeck. It’s a fascinating little read that reminded me of how much I love short stories (Hemingway and Chekov are two of my favs) and how much I miss them. There’s something magical about a writer saying something briefly, sometimes even incompletely, and then moving on down the road, leaving the reader to sift through the remnants and distill the reflections. A firmer acknowledgment, I think, by the creator of a thing in asserting the equal role of the recipient in the alchemy of the entire process of creation.

I’ve moved on to novels now; the form of them, the art of them. For my birthday my sister-in-law gave me “Journal of a Novel” by…drum roll please…John Steinbeck. Hm. For a guy I've hardly ever read, he's popping up a lot lately. Anyway, it’s a fascinating read so far. Not so much for the technical aspects of writing a novel (the book is his journal as he was preparing to write East of Eden) as much as for the internal aspects of the mind of one of the masters, as he struggled with his views, visions and dreams…of his life to be as much as of his work to be.

Those who know me well know that lurking in the shadows of all I read or write are two great forces: C.S. Lewis and Marcel Proust. One to make sure that I’m listening to God, the other to make sure that I’m listening to my heart. I’ve had a literary novel in the works for ten years now, that’s at nearly 400 pages, and I’ve been scared to push on. “It will be too long,” I say to myself. “At least 1200 pages and probably far too boring.” To which Proust says, “I call your 1200 pages and raise you 2300 pages more.” It’s a novel about spirituality and mental health and when I get all nervous about talking about such things, Lewis replies: “If you’re not talking about God, why bother talking at all?”

I get locked up there, in my head space, and trip out. So does anyone think it’s a coincidence that along comes Steinbeck now, to share in his journal things like “There is nothing beyond this book – nothing follows it. It must contain all in the world I know and it must have everything in it of which I am capable – all styles, all techniques, all poetry – and it must have in it a great deal of laughter.” Or how about, “I can’t think of anything else necessary to a writer except a story and the will and the ability to tell it.”

I could go on but I think you’re getting the drift. Because we're all readers, you see, of our own lives. God the creator has made of us very short stories indeed, but we are each an epic tale. He has moved on down the road, yes, but if you look closely? He’s still watching from just around the bend. To see if you will sift through the remnants and distill the reflections, both of who you are and of who you’re meant to be.

Sing Me A Song

“In the full light of day, and in hearing of the music of other voices, the caged bird will not sing the song that his master seeks to teach him. He learns a snatch of this, a trill of that, but never a separate and entire melody. But the master covers the cage, and places it where the bird will listen to the one song he is to sing. In the dark, he tries and tries again to sing that song until it is learned, and he breaks forth in perfect melody. Then the bird is brought forth, and ever after he can sing that song in the light. Thus God deals with His children. He has a song to teach us, and when we have learned it amid the shadows of affliction we can sing it ever afterward.”  -- Nature Lessons /MH 472.  {VSS 461.2}

We all have a pretty good idea understanding the concept of being taught lessons. From almost day one we’re dealing with them; at home as children, and then at school, as adolescents, and even later, as young adults, in college, one lesson after another. Then? We get a job. More lessons.

So it should come as no surprise that many of us approach our spiritual walk, our faith, in much the same way. We study, read, observe and apply almost everything we learn into a paradigm of learning, with God as the teacher, handing out lesson after lesson, and we as the students, trying to learn them and “make the grade”. At some point we begin to sense we have this wrong, so like any good student just trying to survive, we avoid the letter grade and go for a “Pass/Fail”.

Then we fail.

Maybe it’s a health issue, or someone dies, or someone lets you down. There are so many ways to have your heart broken in this life. I could type for ten hours straight, trying to list them all, and barely scratch the surface. But whatever the cause of our pain, we act like good students. We respond to it with our knowledge, will, study, scripture, understanding and all those lessons we’ve learned.

And it doesn’t work.

Because God has not brought you this far to teach how to think, He’s not about "head space". He wants to teach you how to sing and feel. He’s about "heart space". What if every dark moment of your life, as painful and radical as it may sound, was God covering the cage over your heart (the cage you built with your own two hands, by the twisted metal of your sins) not only so that you WOULD listen, but also so that you COULD listen. In all the noise of this world you would then hear God whispering to you a tune of surrender, patience, presence and love.

What if the only lesson we’re ever really meant to learn is simply how to sing that sweet song of grace? 

Pleasure & A Paycheck

In the trials of life that come, and go, and come back around again, we often find ourselves. By that, I mean, our true selves, the part of us that has learned to hold the line, or that part of us that still, instinctively, inevitably, flees. You are in that moment, the real you, and that’s where you will find out how much you've grown, and yes, how far you still have to go.

I used to find such moments shameful because, to be honest, fleeing, or even doing the wrong thing, was just plain easier. “Life is hard enough”, I used to tell myself, “Without shouldering a single ounce more than I have to.” Screw that. Count me out. Get me to the next concert, or bar, and the next beer. I liked all that “eat, drink and be merry” stuff that Solomon talked about in the Bible. For that? You could count me in.

But I was, of course, doing selective reading. 

You don’t have to be a spiritual person to appreciate that tough times happen. Maybe, no matter how hard you try, you can’t get past being single. You keep meeting someone, who may be the right one, who ends up being the last one, while you’re left waiting for the next one. Or your job blindsides you by passing you up for a promotion. Or worse. Today I was on LinkedIN and saw a connection announcing her resignation as CEO of her company effective Feb 1^st, due to Stage 4 breast cancer that has spread rapidly to her bones and lungs. She's in her mid-30’s. Married. No children.

There’s something to be observed in all of these challenges. They’re all pains of a different kind, but they each tell us that we only have so much time to get things right, to figure things out, as best we can, in the time that we have left. You can say that we will never “figure things out”, and if you add the word “entirely” then I would agree. But we should be trying. If were not, we're simply existing. The billions of cells that have been brought together to make us each a sentient being would then be an alchemy of wasted effort, by a God who would love us nonetheless, but still, I imagine, be left scratching his head at the end of our days saying, “Really? All those years and it never became about more than just pleasure and a paycheck?”

The trials will come. We must practice facing them, not fleeing or avoiding them, and learn from them. That’s how we will grow. We must find hand holds of a firmer grip, not on the grand scale of the universe around us but of the universe within. Because life isn’t just all about the trials; it’s about all the moments amidst and in between them. That’s where the real you will always be found.

Shiny, Red Apples

I want to share something with you today that may blow your mind, like, outta the park. You might want to sit down. Are you ready? Okay. Here it is.

Sin...is a choice.

Now, don't just say, "Well...of course it is, Tony." Nope. Let it percolate for a minute. Because, if you really mull it over, you realize that it's one of those things whose truth is obvious when observed but quite deceptive when being lived out. In other words, when we're busy doing the business of living. Because there are shiny red apples all around us. An orchard of them, really.

Most of us haven't stolen (except maybe on our taxes), or murdered anyone (except those times when we used our words to kill their self esteem or "put them in their place"), or committed adultery (except in our minds). Most of us think that we're free and clear of "the biggies" (with "think" being the operative word).

But did you know that worry is a sin? And fear? And doubt? How about anger? Judgement? Unforgiveness? Bitterness? Or, my favorite, pride? All choices. All with consequences. All constructs of willful misconduct. Yet still, all futile in the face of a Loving God who sits down to gently untie the knots that we tie ourselves up in every day and whispers, "Shhhh. Why, child? Why do you keep choosing these things?"

In this holiday season it's easy to get wrapped up in the garland and shiny lights and totally forget the reason for the season; namely that a little boy was born in a manger, cried out in the first pains of his humanity, and that through him God crept into the world to tap each one of us on the shoulder, and - through the life, love and sacrifice of his Son - remind us to choose wisely.

Because, without a doubt, it's our choice.

Ayla Wanted to Know

MEET AYLA :)

The other day I was at Carousel Ranch in Santa Clarita, CA, a place which provides equestrian therapy for special needs children. For many years my son went there, before he decided to stop. This month, out of nowhere, he asked to return. His mother and I gladly obliged his request, and as I was walking around the property noticing the amazing changes that had taken place in the three years of our absence (the arena is now covered, a play area had been constructed, landscaping was everywhere) my thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

“Hi. How are you?” a little girl near me asked, the question like a hug, because it was warm, and you could tell that she meant it.  I looked down. She was tiny, but she had a smile so big that it nearly tipped her over. 

“I’m fine. How are you?” I replied. 

“Good. It’s a nice day!” she marveled, nodding her head vigorously, as if her excitement alone could make it so, just in case I was having a bad day. 

We chatted. I learned that her name was Ayla. She learned that mine was Tony. She told me of the horses that she rode and I told her that my son went there, and loved the horses too. She wanted to tell me of her favorite instructor and a funny story about one of her lessons, and as she did, bit by bit, my heart began to swell, because that’s what genuine human interaction does: it opens the heart.

As she spoke, I wondered if this little girl who was supposedly “different” was not the most “normal” of all. I didn’t wonder this in any philosophical or altruistic way, not in a way that could be perceived as being patronizing or condescending. This is not a “puff-piece-feel-good-and-humble” sort of blog today. I’m serious. What if God means for all of us to care about each other with warmth, look at each other with love, smile at each other with genuine encouragement and talk to each other in  fellowship? If so, then the only ones that are really “disabled” in this world are the rest of us, you and me, the “normal” ones who are so good at creating labels and keeping safe distances.

So often I have noticed members of the special needs community (we’ve even given them their own "community") display raw and vulnerable human spirit that is mesmerizing. It reaches out and touches, but embraces as well. Ayla doesn't care about differences; she's in the business of similarities. She's there to remind us that it really is as simple as noticing something we all share, like the sun, and saying something we all know how to say, like “Hi”, and wondering something deeply and genuinely, like “How are you?”

MOMENTS LIKE THIS HAPPEN EVERYDAY AT CAROUSEL RANCH. THEIR ANNUAL "Carousel Wishes & Valentine Kisses" FUNDRAISER IS UNDERWAY. $5, $10...it ALL helps.
Please give: http://carouselwishesandvalentinekisses.causevox.com/anthony-faggioli

Beneath A Sycamore Tree

Yesterday a forty-eight year old man wandered the graveyard at Inglewood Cemetery, a bouquet of flowers hanging from one hand, a map of the plots in the other, unable to find his mother’s grave.  Back and forth he went, up and down the rows of markers, finding name after name, but not the name he was seeking. Already emotional at even being there, he stopped to take a deep breath. Wasn’t this how he’d spent most of his life with his mother: seeking and not finding? Yes. It was.

Out of nowhere came a soft, angelic voice. “Excuse me sir, do you need help?”

The man, startled a bit, looked up to see a young black girl in her early twenties, wearing a faded orange blouse, her prominent cheekbones set beneath dark eyes that were soft with concern. In her arms was a newborn baby, fast asleep, swaddled in a blanket. Clearing his throat, the man managed a reply, “I’m looking for my mother,” he said, “But I can’t find her. I have a map, but…”

She nodded politely. “Can I help?” And the man nodded back. “Sure.” 

The girl called over a girlfriend that was in a parked car nearby and the two of them went up and down the various rows, helping the man, looking for the same name he was. All to no avail. Sadness now began mixing with feelings of embarrassment and despair. Then, another voice called out to the man, this one in Spanish. “Which plot number are you looking for?” It was one of the groundskeepers, a look of pity on his face and a shovel in his hand. How does he know I speak Spanish, the man wondered. They talked. The man told the groundskeeper the number, and after a bit, at long last, the man was led with these three angels to the name he was looking for.

Then? Instantly, respectfully, they all left him alone. The man felt tired. He looked at the letters that made up half of his soul and dropped his head and cried, long and hard, the heavy kind of sobs that hurt your ribs when you try to hold them in. This had been a long time coming. Eleven months, sixteen days. But it was the right day, the day that would’ve been his mother’s 77^th birthday. The man placed the flowers; tulips, daisies, roses and his mother’s favorite, plumerias, on the headstone. Then he sat down and began to inventory his grief.

The man thought of all the hard times with his mother, all the moments of disconnect, misunderstanding, hurt and confusion. He plucked all the “why’s” out of the sky around his head and spread them out on the tall, cool grass before him, and was about to indulge in a garden of regrets, when, instead, he thought of the young girl and her baby. What a picture they were: a mother who had given life and was now continuing to give it, nursing that baby with coos and soft songs of sleep and peace. Hadn’t this been the man and his own mother once, forty eight years ago? Yes. It had. 

And that’s all that really mattered.

So, there beneath the wide spread arms of a sycamore tree, the man got on his knees and prayed. Then he knelt over and put his forehead to his mother’s tombstone and told her, one by one, every single thing that she’d done right in his life. He thanked her and told her how much he loved her, in soft, soft whispers. Like a lullaby. 

Then? He walked to his car and drove away.