NEW KINDS OF MEETINGS

"Sea Meets Sky", oil,
by Oriana Kacicek

     Yesterday, my second day of retirement, instead of attending meetings at school I was present at other kinds of meetings. I was up early enough to see the darkness join the dawn in their accustomed casual but efficient meeting. I silently sat in on the meeting as I watched through our windows the sunlight lightening the clouds. Some birds sang at the meeting, and some interested squirrels spoke, and a few flowers stood in silent attentiveness at this misty morning gathering. Later, Delycia and I drove up to spend a day with our grandchildren, and we started with a well-organized meeting with them at the kitchen table. The agenda was precise and the talk was trenchant and professional, with nine-year-old Noah presiding. In a few efficient minutes, we prepared a prioritized list of activities for the day, after which the meeting was punctually adjourned and tasty apple turnovers were passed around. Finally, on the drive home after the happiest of days, Delycia and I had a productive meeting side by side in the car. This was the best kind of meeting, an affectionate sharing of feelings, a conference between people who care. We summarized the day’s successes, made a list of favorite moments, and suggested some future modifications in our grandparenting methods. We concluded the meeting with a quick and tender touching of hands in our shipshape Honda Civic workspace.         

EVERYDAY BALLET

"Pointe Shoe", oil,
by Oriana Kacicek

     My wife and her son, Aaron, and I saw a stunning performance by the Boston Ballet yesterday, and it reminded me, as we rode home on the train, that beautiful ballets are continuously being danced all around us. It’s strange that I so often miss this marvelous fact – that dance-like harmonies of the highest order are all around us, always. Closest to home, there’s the graceful symmetry of our bodies – our balanced limbs and organs, as well as the flawless steadiness of the passing of blood through our veins and arteries. There’s the graceful twirl of tree limbs in winds, the spins that sparrows show off as they search for food, and the stylish skips and leaps of squirrels. Even the slow fall of old spring blossoms to the grass these days seems to be done with poise and precision, as we saw yesterday while walking in a park in Boston with floating white dogwood petals pirouetting in the air around us. Ballet at the theater is a blessing, but no more so than the skillful dancing of the everyday world.

A SEA, NOT A STORY

'Sea Cloud", oil.
by Oriana Kacicek

I got to thinking today that the cause of most of my problems lies in thinking that my life is a “story”. Without realizing it, I have spent most of my days deeply engrossed in “the story of Hamilton Salsich”. In this story, as in most works of fiction, there’s a protagonist – me – who is faced with an antagonist – in this case, the rest of the universe. As in a good story, there’s a plot (me against the universe) that involves a goal the main character (me) has set for himself – being as personally happy as possible. There’s a beginning to this story (my birth), a lot of rising action (all the battles I’ve fought with the innumerable manifestations of my antagonist, the universe), and certainly there will be a climax, although I seem to have already experienced countless numbers of them. And, of course, as with any story, there will be an end – my death. It’s been an exciting story, I guess, full of thrills and spills, but the truth is ...I’m tired of it, and it’s all make-believe anyway. The story of Hamilton Salsich is a complete fiction, because in this universe, there are no stories, at least no separate ones. The universe, as its name implies, is one whole unified story, wherein all the characters and scenes and actions mingle together in seamless unity. In fact, the universe can’t be a story at all, because there are no separate protagonists and antagonists. There’s just one vast creation blending and intermingling and fusing in endless harmonious patterns. As a story, in truth, our universe would be a flat failure: no plot, no rising action, no climax, no end. Rather than a story, a good metaphor for the cosmos would be a sea, one with no shores whatsoever. The entity called “Hamilton” is simply a wave in an endless sea of creation – a sea in which all waves are equally important, a sea which exhibits continual and innumerable harmonies rather than artificial “dramas” and “plots”. When did “I” begin as a wave in this universe? Who could ever tell? When will “I” end? Never – at least not until the sea does. I’ll change, yes, (and death will be one of those changes) just as the waves in the ocean are always changing – but somehow, someway, I’ll always be a part of this astonishing, nonfictional existence which we call the universe.