Dear Eugene

Dear Eugene, I can't run no more With that lawless crowd While the killers in high places Say their prayers out loud. But they've summoned,       they've summoned up a thundercloud And they're going to hear from me! This must be Cohen's most unambiguous Biblical voice, with no tongue in cheek, a song he would usually play before he went for an intermission in one of his 3-hour concerts, not just because it is musically sensible for the purpose but also as if to say, Enough foreplay, now this is what you've come for. It is not usual for him to articulate such clear judgement for he knows it's he who is first being judged by his own words. Yet there is is point, there is a point, that a thundercloud is summoned, summoned up by our lawlessness.  And being lighthearted about it is to be halfhearted, which won't do when the prayer-saying killers are doing their killing while we toy with words and theology and Bible verses and exchange neat ide

Dear Eugene, Last week I saw this bundle of--do you know what it is?--newspaper, on my way walking to work. I said to myself, I sure hope it's not my son's. My son and daughter delivered newspaper, tried one summer, not even the full summer, and they decided it's too much work for too little.  I agreed.  I am not talking about their work, but mine as a parent to get them to get to their work.  I needed to think about the rain, sunscreen, their safety on the road, even take over their work when they gave me an excuse good enough. That was five years ago--I actually don't remember the exact year.  I went to my email just now to recollect. Well, probably no one is going to "recollect" this bundle of paper well shaded from the outdoor elements.  The picture itself doesn't show but there is a canopy of trees above it.  So who knows, maybe it's been there for five years.  My son mentioned that summer he knew of someone who would do that, just th

Dear Eugene, I wandered helplessly among the helpless Made my little entry and now ready for my big exit God denied me of the fruits I came for A neat basket to take home He said There's no answer here And you gave nothing of yourself Something was done to me, I know My volunteer vest smells it But I am not sure what it was Other than it bore a question mark Yours, Alex

Dear Eugene, Flooding is so extreme in Buzi, central Mozambique, that the water can be seen in satellite images from outer space. From outer space...where God is? Biblical red, the sea of flood.  But still, there's more non-red.  From God's perspective, is the red small?  From ours it certainly is.  The picture zoomed in, that's all. We all zoom out, zone out, to stay healthy and happy. If a tragedy befalls my friend I can express my vicarious discomfort only so much before becoming dishonest, "cringy."  I care, but not that much, not enough to follow you down the path of sorrow and bear the cross with your name on it.  It's spring break: you know no matter what I will need to post beautiful pictures of my blissful journey to bless the world.  To show off my beatitude is my best way to showcase God's blessingness, my vote of confidence that life is still consequential and sometimes charming despite all.  Despite you, my friend, and your small

Dear Eugene, It's been a tough first couple of months, many Vancouverites would agree and I've heard more than a few of us saying, looking back, bidding farewell to the cold and snow, looking forward to something more promising. There's promise in sunshine, just enough warmth, spring warmth, not too demanding whichever way one feels it, unless feeling the sun is generally disagreeable to a person, which is like resisting God, the giver of life--can't live with him; can't live without him; tolerance and avoidance or a supposed mutual disregard is the shade we seek.   Kikayon . "Maybe it's all utterly meaningless. Maybe it's all unutterably meaningful. If you want to know which, pay attention to what it means to be truly human in a world that half the time we're in love with and half the time scares the hell out of us." Frederick Buechner, his saying, this one, troubles me all seasons, especially when there's change in the air. Y

Dear Eugene, How far should we let ourselves go before we declare ourselves gone for good? That's a parent's question, isn't it?  Grace and judgement, nature and nurture, whichever way you put it, we need to both acknowledge the oneness of a unique character and cultivate the diverseness of her aspired potential.  Losing the fine balance we risk dehumanizing a person. Everybody is as is ; nobody is as was. As long as a story is ongoing, there is change going on: a slight shift, a big innovation, a miraculous metamorphosis.  A person who says I am who I am has given up on herself.  A person who claims anyone " can be anything she puts their mind to " sells a dream only she could afford and only for the time being, well-intentioned maybe, still blind to herself and blinding to others. It's a very beautiful day, sunshine all around.  Still, illusion and deception are there, out in the open where it's bright and warm and life-giving.  If everyone

Dear Eugene, "Another day of slushy, icy roads across the Lower Mainland," that's the first headline in the local news today. "British Columbians unsure about purpose of Daylight Saving Time : Survey," that's the second. And these will be the topic for the weekend, fodder to keep us feeding each other. We are "losing" one hour because of some unsure purposing of human device.  We are in to lose more because of some slippery act of God on our ground lubricous enough to begin with.  Many reasons to feel and stay alive bitching. I was listening to a " cowboy's love song " on my way walking to work.  It speaks about morning noon and night, every moment of a day loving us deep and true.  It ends with the man declaring to the one he's singing to, his "honey child," that he loves him/her the same way. Romanticizing?  A cowboy knows many unsure purposes and slippery seasons to croon the bittersweet--which is reall

Dear Eugene, I have the album for years, 12 songs in it and I like them all to various degrees. I have never skipped any despite the cursed convenience of MP3, but would replay my favorites and let the less-loved ones wash over me like an indifferent shower. Then today... When the South Wind of Summer sings thru the trees And the high mountain Thunder hangs low in the breeze A strong heart flows over, an empty heart fills And the South Wind of Summer caresses the hills There is no returning, the seasons don't end They just blow through the branches and bend with the Wind I heard this. I heard about summer while walking on a big blanket of snow, fresh from last night, no footprint before me, every new one mine, if I care to look back. If I can look back. And for the first time I received the song.  After 14 years. Yours, Alex

Dear Eugene, Today's Ash Wednesday .  None of us is truly fasting unless from something if we are to lose would hurt us like hell. I am reading " In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts " by Dr. Gabor Maté, " who for twelve years practiced medicine in Vancouver’s notorious Downtown Eastside – North America’s most concentrated area of drug use ," very close to my church.  An area I would walk by every week, often more than once. In his opening chapter , Dr. Maté writes: "No society can understand itself without looking at its shadow side. I believe there is one addiction process, whether it is manifested in the lethal substance dependencies of my Downtown Eastside patients; the frantic ­self-­soothing of overeaters or shopaholics; the obsessions of gamblers, sexaholics and compulsive Internet users; or the socially acceptable and even admired behaviours of the workaholic. Drug addicts are often dismissed and discounted as unworthy of empathy and respect