01 January 2018

New Year Reflection/News

Monica and I are just returning from a week in MA, north and south shores. We manage to maintain our bicoastal identities with these periodic renewals of old ties to family, friends and localities. The cold snap found us minimizing time outdoors—the weather app confirming my postulate that Alaska would have offered a warmer week.

Frequently I pondered what my life would have been like had I (or we) not moved out to WA in 2009. Our marriage has now reached the point where more of it has been spent in the pacific than in the eastern time zone. How has such inculturation affected my core being, I wonder? Seeing our old music buddies performing at New Years Rockport Eve (a retitling of First Night that absolves from payment to the Boston originators) felt like the Brigadoon story—where months or years in my world coincide with the passage of a single day in theirs. Would I have remained focused on music, frugally piecing together a living? Or could I have reinvented myself without relocating? My sense is that there simply would have been too many factors to overcome—the same friends, the same ‘Y’, the same house in the same village, the same circuitous drive to get over the bridge—to nudge me beyond provincial complacence. In spite of the nurturing rootedness in greeting on the street those whose memories of me or my family go back decades, it can also become the gravity that a satellite must push past to enter into orbit. I cannot, at the same time, dig up my roots and replant them in the NW. 
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Since having finished an 8-minute guitar solo titled “Refugee Nocturne,” my thoughts have been on refugees. At first I imagined the piece a soundtrack to a refugee journey; but its rambling form seemed incoherent until I reimagined it describing drifting in and out of sleep—when dreaming offers an escape from the nightmare of reality. With this, the sections suddenly coalesced. And what does the refugee dream of but home? This brought back memories of Prospero’s last speech in Shakespeare’s last play The Tempest, which I orated at the conclusion of our Gallimaufry of Gambols production at Cranbrook-Kingswood schools 46 years ago: “We are such stuff as dreams are made on. . .” Here I perceived another connection to my theme in that Prospero was himself a refugee, exiled with his daughter in a coup.  Scheduled to perform at Antique Sandwich Co on February 18, I began conceiving a program, culminating in this new work, to include my guitar duet partner, Ken. I have tied the remaining works loosely in around a theme of longing. Reading interviews in which those living in refugee camps express a longing for a home anywhere reminds me to be grateful to have been welcomed not only to a new region but to a new vocation as well. As I don’t have experience performing Middle Eastern music, I reflected as to what music might tap into a time when my own ancestors faced displacement. Most of them being Irish, I am tossing in some Irish songs that Monica says I don’t sound half-bad singing. [poster attached]

My day job is currently working as one of 2600 that staff Sea Mar Community Health Centers, with locations throughout western WA. I technically graduated my Masters in Counseling program a week ago, though I won’t receive my diploma for a couple of weeks. When I do, I can be licensed by WA Dept. of Health as a Mental Health Counselor, making me dual-licensed along with Chemical Dependency. Hopefully my new versatility will be appreciated—two different boxes to think outside of, which I am already pulled to do with my music/education/RC background. This Masters was twice as hard to complete as my MM in Music Composition, though at least ten times more practical. For the past three months I have worked nomadically out of four offices, learning Sea Mar’s duplicitous documentation for both MH and CD. Upon returning tomorrow it has been agreed that I will work four days at 11th St Integrated Program (f.k.a. Healthcare for the Homeless) and one day at Tacoma Behavioral Health (where I will carry a small caseload of “sheltered” clients). Each new experience has been a learning in the clinical sense as well as offering new opportunities to make reparations for my unearned privilege. Everybody, I believe, can benefit from “working a 12th step.” 

Monica and I have continued to provide music for St Ann Convent Sunday Mass (order of St Francis). Early in the Mass one confesses to having “sinned though my most grievous fault, in what I have done and what I have failed to do.” Once I connect the latter phrase with the generations of white U.S. middle-class Christian male heterosexual privilege that I have benefitted from with minimal protest, this penitential rite takes on added meaning for me. My Christmas verse, relating this sentiment, is below.

28 December 2017

A Candle's Life

Once again has come the time when everyone is gifting.
And we careen up through grey clouds, ‘tween wings’ miraculous lifting.
Our goal is to renew our vows to family ad finitum;
Though compelled we feel not to appear without some packaged item.
So once again to simplify, while trying to keep it real,
I chose a single gift, I hope, with wide enough appeal,
Which inspires an oration metaphorically rich,
With an ostinato rhythm that has little need for pitch.

Our genetic predisposition to crowd our living spaces
With shoes we’ll one day wear again should we find matching laces
Or hardware once essential to some modern apparatus,
Which since reaching obsolescence has ceased to offer status,
Means that the most thoughtful gifts would constitute the kind
“Like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind.”
But once I started searching, many options sought my vote.
Some were soy, some paraffin, some came with a remote.
I determined to seek lavender for the calming it provides
(Distressed as we all are by he who in White House resides).

Soon I mused about our lives each burning through a wick;
How some remain aglow so long while others go out quick.
How we strive to illuminate or become illuminated;
Be lamps unto a world already overpopulated.
The next taper to be seated in one crystal chandelier,
Among the many thousands on this fragile spinning sphere,
Will require that the waxen stub that was my incarnation
Be scraped out and disposed of without undo hesitation.

Or perhaps the one who wields the blade might pause with introspection
And contemplate the random shards with broadening perception;
Remembering new candles may from melted wax be formed,
While those disregarding past mistakes, who plunge ahead unwarned,
One day find themselves alone with all their precious acquisitions,
Realizing one by one how they have squandered past convictions,
The needy seen along the way, they thought themselves above,
As they grew up being told to be selective whom they love,
Cry out to a star-filled dome behind electric fences:
Just how could I have missed so much while sparing no expenses?

Then am I just another sheltered soul who now confesses
To snuffing out the unseen flame with gusts of my excesses?
And will it now be possible to render reparations
For harming done behind the scrim for sixteen generations?
Only now do I look in the eye of those who’ve harshly labored,
Their basic wants often denied while those of mine were favored,
Their children’s programs squashed, their prime years spent incarcerated;
So long as we’re in separate worlds we’re both unliberated.

So I ask of you, the wax holder, surveying such blood-letting,
Is to respect what has taken all my life to stop forgetting,
To cast the light enabling injured beings to be healed
And raise our children’s children on a level playing field.

—Jeffry, Christmas 2017

06 August 2017

Dandelion (for my mother's 92nd)

Once again I strive to meet 
A familial expectation.
Though in this smokey Northwest air
I shan’t risk inhalation.

Why I should be here not there
Confounds the mind and soul,
Shattering past illusions of
A life in my control.

The Hamilton reunion did
Require our extracting;
Our journey spanned the daylight hours
For two spent interacting.

For I felt the need to honor
Those flying from out East,
Along with those who hosted,
With whom visits had decreased.

Such efforts beg the question:
How keep we justifying
Activities depleting
As somehow fortifying.

What does it mean to stand before
An aging grey relation
Who we have known since the days
That followed their gestation?

When TV sets were black-and-white,
When hi-fis had one speaker,
We said, “No, thank you” not “I’m good,”
And the “Jordan” was a “sneaker.”

It means that I came from somewhere,
A place I can rely on,
With roots that grow as deep
As the most stubborn dandelion.

And from this stem we flower;
May the wind convey our seed
To those who never did deserve
To live in such great need.

And the gift I have to offer,
Seeing value in the other,
Was one of many I received
By grace of my dear mother.

26 July 2017

My intern supervisor's last day

Today I honor a mentor
And colleague in the field,
Who, pulling back the curtain,
Caused much to be revealed.

Though she perhaps Millennial
And I a Baby Boomer,
I found myself congruent
With her gutsy brand of humor.

I gained much from her insight
Into the childhood mind.
She honored my experience;
Thus we became aligned.

She demonstrated interest
In how my life was going,
Connecting us on the level 
Of two seekers who are growing.

But the winds of change were blowing,
To each our lives enrich.
My calling pulled me elsewhere;
She’s now a Kraljevich.

The fruit of their sweet union
Emoting from the womb,
Bringing her to question
What she once did assume.

May you take this dance of life,
As would a ballerina.
Blessed I’ve been to have this time
With CompaƱera Christina!

04 March 2017

Monica Birthday Verse

Dancing around Toby
Questions and assumptions haunt us
When we turn sixty-five.
Should we just coast to save on fuel
Or rip into overdrive?
Is what remains all borrowed time
Or is it ours to lend?
Is what has brought us greatest wealth
What we’re most free to spend?
Are we just finding who we are,
Peeling off the mask?
Too many questions, I suppose;
But it never hurts to ask.
See all the places you have gone
Since sixty you became:
Hawaii, Cleveland, San Marten
And places I shan’t name.
For we have learned how marriages
With the firmest of foundations
Are built on solemn promises
And separate vacations.
So I thank you for the chance to lean
Yet stand up on my own;
With you to occupy my heart
I need never feel alone.