Beyond the Bounds

On the edge
As high as the eagle soars
Alone, over red rocks
Shaped as a name

On that edge
All is rock and harmony
As I whisper
A name, shaped as memory

It was under a pine tree
On a mountain far away
That I learned that whisper
When on the edge, left alone

And time, unkind and hurried
Forgot me there, for a long while
To wonder and to recall
What had not happened, but could have

… And so one grows, feeble or tall
When the gorges are deep
And the edge is so dry
That eagles fall

Alone
Without a name

October 30, 2014
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014

Women and Horses

I took this picture a couple of days ago while dirt biking (yes, I carry a camera with me even then) and I found it a bit mysterious. The young girl, her golden braids to the wind, the horse in a proud posture, the vast pastures and the big skies had something nostalgic. Perhaps like a 1960’s cowboy movie reminding me of my childhood.

So, I sent it to a photographer friend asking “Does this picture remind you of something?”

What I got back was more about human nature than the moment I captured through a 1970’s Nikkor 55mm Micro lens.

He said:
“Ah, you like this picture but do not know why? Well, I think you should go back and read Freud and Jung. This is classic psychology about girls and horses, my friend. As you know I have taken a few pictures of women and horses, and I assume that is why you sent it to me. So, instead of talking about your picture, let me repeat what I learned about this topic years ago, when my pictures were published.

Does Kelpie mean anything to you? No? Well, this is the name given to an aquatic creature inhabiting the lochs of Scotland. What makes a Kelpie interesting is that interchangeably it takes the shape of a woman or a horse. You may be surprised to know that the monster of Loch Ness is in fact a Kelpie according to the Scotts. How much more delightful it is to see a woman coming out of the waters than that dragon-like contraption we were given years ago!

How about Epona? Rhiannon? The Centaurs? They are all mythical creatures involving women and horses, although the Centaurs can be men too.. But my favorites are the Valkyries in Norse stories and mythology. See, they say that Valkyries are virgins, who riding their white horses, hover over battlefields like falcons over prairie dogs!  And, they decide who will die in battle and who will not. But the best part is that they choose half of the dead and take them to Valhalla! To paradise. To Shangri La! And the other half, just die and get eaten by crows and vultures. What a story! “

I was laughing aloud reading his note. Did I deserve such a lecture? All I wanted was to get his opinion as to why the picture I took seemed attractive to me for reasons I did not fully understand.

Well, maybe he is right. Maybe this picture did touch a subconscious cord of sorts, dealing with women and horses.

So, I kept on reading.

“Did your daughter draw unicorns? Did your son? See, boys do not draw unicorns, nor do they have posters of white unicorns on pink background in their rooms. It is said that unicorns, as the imaginary impersonation of horses, affect the thinking of many a girl. Why? I do not know, but others have theories. The horse is seen by Freud and Jung as representing powerful instinctive urges of a sexual and perhaps aggressive nature. In medieval Europe the horse was considered to be a symbol of fertility. In all these instances the horse is an archetype. A platform. And girls have adopted the romantic image of the Unicorn to symbolize purity, and hope for dreams to come true.
And then there is your favorite, I know, the Pegasus…”

So I wrote back:
“You have become an expert in mythology, and perhaps women and horses. But tell me, what do you see in this picture?”

And to my surprise he answered:
“A man who cannot make up his mind concerning B&W photography. See, for you all is shades of gray; for me it is much simpler – I would have loved to see her golden hair mix with, I assume, the yellowish colors of fall.”

And he concluded:
“The horse is incidental.”

October 25, 2014
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014

The Spirit of Spirituality

“So, who provides spiritual care to patients?”

I had just met him, a few hours ago. A man in his 60s, in great physical health doing volunteering work for nature preservation projects.  A man who once was a healer, in a professional capacity.

“Did you make spiritual assessment of your patients along with biological and social?” I asked.

“I did, but the system did not allow me to use it. If pills and scalpel could not cure or manage, then we hoped that that family and friends could help. Or, wish for destiny to be kind.”

… Camus and Heidegger. Existentialism and absurdity. Spirituality and loneliness.

Illness as a life event, can survive much insults from healers. But at the end, ill or not, we face the crossroad between life events and their dead ends. Life becomes a cul-de-sac. And we call it “end of life decision”; and we wonder if spirituality can assist with final decisions by adding quality to the process of that ending.

Or is it a passage?

“You can be an existentialist as much as you want when you can jump out of bed with a full bladder in the morning”, my interlocutor said. “But when the bed seems too high to climb into or too steep to get down from, then you become spiritual.”

“Is that the same as saying “there are no atheists in foxholes”?

“No,” he replied immediately. “Foxholes are temporary – if you get out alive you need to learn about forgiveness toward others and reverence for the beauty of life. If you do not come out alive, it is a moot point. I assume you have read some of  Albert Schweitzer's work?”

… Forgiveness – a state of inner comfort at its intersection with revolt. Comfort that is intertwined with the expectation that there is more to our existence than life itself; that somehow we will meet again in some other form, in some other space and not wonder about “end of life decisions”. Because finality will have no meaning then. Because the boundaries of timelessness are round, and they fold upon themselves in a circle, an oval, or an expanded drop of water shaped as timelessness.  

“Yet we all carry backpacks“, he continued perhaps guessing my thoughts. “These are backpacks where our ancestors live in; these are heavy backpacks. Some of us go through life gracefully, not showing the pull-down of what we are asked to carry. Others collapse under the weight. At the end it is all about grace and gracefulness.”

… Instinctively I straightened my back, almost touched my left shoulder with my right hand.  Have I been graceful? Have I learned to forgive while celebrating every moment I carried the backpack full of my ancestors’ request to keep a promise? And, will I recognize the spirituality I will need to alleviate and guide my end of life decisions?

“Just carry that backpack”, he said with a smile. “When you crouch to feel its weight, you will learn if you are ready to forgive or not.”

And as I was about to comment, he stopped me and said:

“Just do it gracefully.”

October 17, 2014

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014

Train Station Blues

… And they spoke of their dreams

In words that were rarely theirs

Cold as an evening on the Silk Road

Wrapped in the echo of a lonesome tune

Played on a string instrument smelling of

Goat skin

And their dreams were known to all

Who watched the clouds and saw a face

To which they gave a name

The same name

That reminded them

Of loving

Now simply a dream they all exhaled

Like a varietal wine breathes morning air

In a pretentious decanter

Their faces had earned the imperfections

Of the passage

Upon lands, forgotten promises and tender lips

Passage of time, belonging to faces without names

With ample lips announcing the echo dreams make in us

Hollow, dark and damp

Like the memory of a name

Played on a string instrument

Smelling of goat skin

Somewhere on the road

Where dreams sleep at night

Under the shadow of a full moon

October 7, 2014

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014