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It’s been a while since I’ve posted here, and for good reason. The last couple of years have been a tad tumultuous, with some literal upheaval, impactful change, the loss of many dear friends and family members who’ve sailed on to the next stop on the soul’s journey beyond this world, and then, just busy with life and work in between.
But this is how life works, doesn’t it. It’s all in how we navigate the choppy seas of change that defines it. I’ve come out ok, having grown tremendously in many ways. To be brief, following my mom’s 90th birthday, her health and well-being became compromised in the normal course of aging, and there were moments when she thought she would leave us as well. Mom was moved to an assisted living residence, and the task of closing our family home of 47 years came to the fore. For months, I weeded through a personal treasure trove of memories that extended to my formative years. My mom saved everything. I literally mean EVERTHING. Not like a packrat – she had everything remarkably organized. But man, I found things like: the original purchase receipt for my childhood refrigerator from 1954; the cowboy woolen blankets my brothers and I used as kids on our bunkbeds; birthday and Christmas cards from to and from my mom and dad; anniversary cards, and so on, and so on, and…photos. LOTS of photos. Perhaps in coming posts I’ll share some of the stories about one wee treasure or another, because each item indeed had a story. And I recalled most of them.
There were moments, as I went through things, where I could only sit and weep with great love over one evoked memory that was previously forgotten. Of good times past, of family friends, neighbors and family that left us long ago, of times that will be no more. In the midst of this, I would periodically pause to compose my thoughts in notes to my brothers, and in some poetic compositions. I’ll leave you with this one that I think summarizes it best, because I think all of us have or will experience the same at one point or another.
[Note: I wrote this on 10/31/2020, on the eve of All Hallows, so that readers might keep their eyes open for a similar visit.]
Halloween. The time to adorn a costume, deck our halls with spooky decor, and pass treats off to the children. The name itself is a contraction of “All Hallows’ Eve” and, in Western Christian tradition, serves to inaugurate the season of ‘Allhallowtide,’ a period dedicated to remembering the “hallowed” souls of those who’ve departed mortal existence.
We know that the tradition originated in ancient Celtic lore as the Pagan harvest festival of Samhain. From October 31st to November 1st the ancient Celts marked the end of their harvest season and the beginning of the darkest half of the year. It was one of the four principal festivals which designated the passing of one equinox and the beginning of the next. The Neolithic tombs of New Grange in Ireland and Stonehenge in England serve as evidence of the importance held in these traditions.
Yet, beyond being a harvest/equinox festival, for the Celts, the occasion held a greater spiritual significance. Wikipedia contributors explain:
“Samhain was a limnal or threshold festival, when the boundary between this world and the Other world thinned” when spirits “could easily come into our world… It was during Samhain when returning spirits “were appeased with offerings of food and drink, to ensure people and their livestock survived the winter. The souls of the dead kin were also thought to revisit their homes seeking hospitality, and place was set for them…”[1]
As time rolled on, these celebrations were coopted by early church fathers and culturally converted to an event on the liturgical calendar honoring the departed saints and martyrs of Christendom, and All Souls of loved ones. To this day, Christian and secularist customs are celebrated side by side, but perhaps nowhere quite like they are in Ireland. There, many yet embrace the auld Pagan perspective, yet concurrently attend mass to celebrate All Saints or All Souls Day.
As one of Irish/Catholic ancestry, I was raised with awareness of and participation in both perspectives. I recall one year as a child in Parochial school, my classmates and I were all required to dress as a Catholic Saint on one day, and on the next make or wear a more widely embraced pop culture costume. I was Saint Anthony one day, and horror film television host Dr. Shock the next. They were fun customs and for the past 55 years I haven’t thought much more of it beyond being a nice belief tradition. But then, in 2020, the year when all rules were cast to the wind, that very threshold between myth and reality also thinned, leaving me to understand that my ancient Celtic ancestors were truly on to something relatively tangible.
It was shortly past midnight as the wee morning hours of Halloween, 2020 crept in. I had just finished watching a movie on TCM, and with a few sips of red wine remaining to nurse before going to bed. So, I took out my phone to scroll first through news headlines, and then on to social media.
As I scrolled, a post on the Vintage Philadelphia Facebook page seized my curiosity. A member had posted a link to a 1926 Silent Film called The Show Off, remarking that it had been filmed in Philadelphia.I had never heard of the film, but survival of locally shot films are quite rare. Being the huge fan of Silent film that I am, I thought it would be fun to check out views of my home town and how it looked at that time.
This has always been an attractive component of older films, and especially of the silent era. Over the years, as I glimpsed their access into a time and world now long gone, I’d periodically think “This was the world my grandparents knew” or “I wonder if my grandparents saw this film,” etc. I have often contemplated the world my ancestors knew. We are so far removed from the ways that defined our culture back then that it’s kind of cool such glimpses into that time and world still exist at all.
As the opening credits for The Show Off rolled, I noted with interest that it was a Jesse Laske production. In my book, The Elephant on the Raft, I had researched and written about Laske and his procurement of the rights to create the first film productions of the writings of Mark Twain. This fueled a greater measure of curiosity and interest to view this film. Why Philadelphia? What motivated him to create a Philly-centric work and film it here?
That answer was found on the next credit screen that the film was based on a play by Philly playwright George Kelly, brother of Olympic champion John B Kelly Sr, and uncle to actress and Princess of Monaco, Grace Kelly and her brother, the equally great champion rower, John B Kelly Jr.
This added more steam to my interest, as I had written about the Kellys of Philadelphia in my book. It was George Kelly’s brother, John who owned a brick factory in my father’s childhood Irish neighborhood. Kelly was among many business owners of Irish descent who took care of the 19th Century influx of Irish-Catholic immigrants then arriving by the boatload into America. Otherwise, they were violently welcomed with scorn, hate, and derision by Nativists and the ruling Protestant ascendancy. Kelly, a Catholic, provided a politically influential harbor of safety within Philly’s Irish community, akin to a Celtic Oscar Schindler.
But this was all part and parcel to the continuation of the century old custom of the Irish taking care of their own. When I was in high school, I was employed by an Irish owned travel agency through which I was lucky enough to have known Kelly Jr. Each day after school job, I hand-delivered custom-printed airline tickets to Kelly and others in the age before home-printed tickets, airport kiosks, or downloading a scannable UPC Code.
After mulling over the fascinating back history behind the film, I pressed play to continue watching. Right from the onset, references to Philly landmarks are made, with a street shot of the Betsy Ross House revealing adjacent buildings which then still stood where the courtyard is now situated.
About 8 minutes into the film, there is a scene of the main characters meeting at the corner of 4th and Walnut, just across from Washington Square. And, in typically Hollywood fashion, the next scene moments later shows them selecting a park bench clear across town on the North side of Logan Circle, evidenced by Philadelphia’s Catholic Cathedral looming behind them. The scene continues as “The Show Off” character gives a diamond ring to his sweetheart. As she fawns over it, she removes her glove to try on the ring. The fellow looks up and sees a Policeman, and gets nervous.
Why did he get nervous, I wondered? Then it occurred to me – in 1926, modesty rules still applied in that era when Puritanical based and Victorian influenced laws in some states required that a woman’s body be clothed from ankle to wrist. Simultaneously, the 1920’s was also a charged era of young women breaking the Victorian mold and embracing their sexuality openly, demonstrative in the rise of “Flapper” couture. Yet, in some places, such as fiercely Quaker ruled Philadelphia, those old rules yet prevailed. Films of the era reflected the changing mentality, with recognition of the concurrent passing of “old fashion,” a characteristic trait that defines the post WWI American character to this day. This scene with the Policeman, in a silent film, is how that part of this story was told.
Clearly, I thought, the policeman was an uncredited extra. Through observation of his “acting,” I could tell he wasn’t a trained actor, but someone with enough innate charisma and personality whom the director of the film must have come to know. He was probably a good-natured fellow with a sense of humor and practical mindset. He was likely the sort of cop that turned a blind eye to prohibition when he could, and likewise was flexible with the legal definition of ‘vice,’ though he was paid to monitor acts in public deemed illegal, such as a woman removing her glove as an act of public disrobing.
This cop must have been a huge asset to the film company. He probably tipped off the film’s cast and crew to the best and least risky speakeasys in Philly. He likely pulled strings for their use of public venues throughout the city.
The director needed a cop for a scene. He obviously had chosen someone whom he had gotten to know, and who had probably been regularly assigned that detail. Due to his age, the officer must have had some level of seniority on the force to gain such a juicy assignment.
The white belt and sash of his uniform revealed that he was either a traffic officer or a member of the Fairmount Park unit. The latter made sense. If the filming was done on location at Logan Circle, that would come under the jurisdiction of the Fairmount Park unit, who had surely been allocated to police the area while the film crew was set up there.
.
But then, something else caught my eye.
On the small monitor of my cell phone, I rewound the film to look at the police officer again. I rewound a second time and watched again. The mannerisms and posture, facial expressions and gestures looked almost identical to those of my father, as well as his siblings and host of relatives. This man has to be related to us, I thought.
I took some screen shots as I began to ponder the scenario above. My paternal grandfather had been a Fairmount Park officer. Is it possible I was looking at my own grandfather? There is only one photo of him that exists in our expanded family of his descendants. It depicts a standing man donning a policeman’s hat and the long, wool overcoat of a Winter police uniform, set against a wooded area, presumably in Fairmount Park. It’s quite grainy and small, rendering the facial features indefinable, save for a very slight indication of slightly drooping jowls – a Curley family trait. Our grandfather had died in 1944. Aside from this photo, most of us have ever known what he really looked like otherwise.
I went to bed as it was approaching 2:30 am at that point, saving the remainder of the 1.5 hour film to watch another time. When I got to work the next day, I texted the screen shots and a link to the film first to my older brothers. I shared my experience and asked what they thought?
While awaiting their reply, I sent the same photos, link, and query to my older cousin Annie, who serves as the unofficial but naturally ordained keeper of family history. She and her older sister, Bettyann, share a home together, and I thought they might have some insight. Generally I just asked “What do you think?” I knew Bettyann, the eldest cousin in our family, had known our grandfather and his siblings.
A text string between my brothers and inaugurated, with each sharing their thoughts. Then, my phone dinged with a reply from my cousin Annie. I opened the string to find her reply:
“Bette says “That’s Pop!””
I was dumbfounded. Annie and I texted briefly. I was amazed over this. Then she texted that Bettyann had additionally shared, how, when she was a child back in the day, our grandmother and older relatives always used to say “Pop was a movie star.” The source info behind this anecdote in family lore had been lost in time. And yet, here, on a lark, I had stumbled across the very film that lay at the source of it. This was the film!
This was incredulous! What were the odds? My brothers were bowled over in shock. Other cousins to whom I sent the same info were equally awed. I watched the film again and studied the screenshots. All the hallmarks were clearly there. Every trait had been passed on to his children: One slight inflection of a cheek muscle was clearly something inherent in my uncle Bud. Another slight squint, my Uncle Harry. A certain pursing of the lips – my Aunt Florence. The cocked smile – my Dad.
As my brothers and I continued to text, it occurred to me then that his unexpected reunion of our ancestor, patriarch and forbearer had occurred on Samhain, on All Hallows, the very day when it has been long believed that our ancestors do visit us. I had always viewed those things not as superstition, but as cool, heartwarming customs of the evolving, old-world culture of our Irish ancestors. Now, here, in my living room, the truth of that belief had just manifested.
This made it clear that, like indigenous peoples from around the globe, in ancient times they all had acquired the wisdom of their interconnectedness with nature, with the cosmos, with all creation. They knew something subsequent generations would forget, or gradually delegate to the category of Fairy Tale and Myth. And yet, here was clear proof that the ancient ones knew something of vital import to our species. This recognition of interconnectedness was the grounding principle for an entire people. It’s what guided the establishment of their laws and communities, of their cultures and civilizations.
All theory and postulating aside, I was witnessing the substantiation of this legend. As far as I was concerned, my own ancestor, my paternal grandfather, had just paid me a visit from heaven, on the very eve when legend claims it’s supposed to happen. And what a grand experience it was.
Early yesterday, I participated in one of the virtual monthly yoga classes which I’ve been doing for 3 years now. In this episode, the conference leader discussed the goal of achieving the balance between fulfillment of Iham – Worldly needs, and Param – Spiritual needs. The accomplishment of that involves becoming aware of the obstacles that interfere, and typically, this involves consciously addressing the effects of Karma and Dosha, and understanding the difference between the two.
Karma, it was explained, is when we accrue suffering for wrong actions performed consciously or willfully, such as pre-meditated theft, harm to another, or killing an animal, person, or other conscious life form. Today I was in a mall. Some jerk-nut teenagers were teasing a store clerk. Shortly afterward, a mall patron yelled to the kids in the hall “Hey you! Do you realize you made that woman cry back there?” We can dismiss this as normal teenage antics, but undoubtedly the teen’s conscious actions created suffering for another person.
Dosha, on the other hand, is the suffering that results from an unconscious, unplanned, or accidental violation of natural law, such as hitting a deer that leaps in front of your car from the brush along the road. Perhaps you drop a box of thumb tacks in a parking lot and left it there, causing a driver to later get a flat tire at a time when they couldn’t afford to have it fixed. Either instance brings into play the law of cause and effect. In the instance of Dosha, we may not even be aware of the effects generating the root of our suffering.
To this end, after the discussion, we were asked to close our eyes, and ask “our Divine” for inner guidance. The Divine is relative to each participant. For a Hindu, it might be Krishna or Rama. For a Christian, the Divine could be Jesus or Mary. For a Muslim – Allah, etc.
This contemplative process involved two parts:
the first was to ask our Divine to reveal the cause of a particular suffering. For example, the question posed might be – “Why do I have perpetual difficulty in my relationships?” or “What is preventing me from becoming successful?”
After “listening” to the intuitive response, the second part was to then ask the Divine what action must be taken to correct the effects of of this particular Karma or Dosha.
A great example of this came to mind at the time. In the film “Gandhi” with Ben Kingsley, there is a scene where a distraught Hindu man comes to Gandhi and confesses that he killed a Muslim child during the riots that had taken place. The man asked the Mahatma “What should I do?” Gandhi replies that when he marries and has a child of his own, he should raise it as a Muslim.
The concept behind this scene is consistent with the traditional teachings of Dharma. By raising the child as a Muslim, the Hindu man would correct the balance of the accrued adverse Karma. This would bring about the forgiveness he sought, and lighten the suffering he experienced.
So, I asked my chosen Divine why a certain circumstance in my life surrounding money has been such a recurring situation in recent years. Almost immediately, a memory of an instance from years ago came out of nowhere to the forefront of my mind.
About five or six years ago, I had hired a landscaper to do some work on my property. I was doing it as a surprise for my wife, who was battling breast cancer at the time. The landscaper and I had agreed on a price and what would be included.
The work was planned for a day when my wife was scheduled to be in the hospital for a chemo treatment. The idea was that when she came home, she would be welcomed by a beautiful new garden to cheer her spirits and offer some comfort during those trying times. I just wanted to do something to ease her suffering.
Everything was going well on the day the work was being done, until my wife returned home earlier than usual. Her treatment time had been cut short due to the good progress she had been making. Nonetheless, the treatments were emotionally trying and draining for her. Instead of experiencing joy when she arrived home, the sight of the landscaping crew and large trucks and backhoes caused added anxiety and proved to be stressful. Upset in the moment, my wife went to task and took over direction of the project.
She was exhausted at the time and in great pain, so the situation evolved into one that wasn’t all that pleasant. She redirected the placement of certain plants, had a tree removed and placed on the opposite end of the property. All this I had hoped to avoid because of her condition.
When it came time to pay the balance for the services rendered, my wife complained about the amount and proceeded to renegotiate the agreed price with the landscaper, which left the landscaper less $400 from an already discounted price. My wife did not know the landscaper had given me a reduced price out of sympathy and support for my motivating reasons to have the work done.
As the frustrated landscaper was finishing up and putting his tools in the truck, I said to him: “I promise you that when I get some extra money, I will pay you that $400.” I was certain that $400 made the difference in paying his crews wages for the day, or paying his child’s school tuition, or providing family meals. I’ve never forgotten that promise I made. In the years since, it was seldom that I had that kind of extra money to give to the guy, and each year dropped away. The landscaper never contacted me again, never had sent a bill for unpaid dues, never filed a small claims suit. Nothing. As the years passed, I’m sure it was just written off. But not by me.
Several weeks ago, I received a call from an old client from years ago, who asked if I could help him move and store the art collection I had curated in his home while a crew did some home renovations. I said sure, and we set a date for this past Monday.
A friend came along to help, and we took his art off the walls, packed it up and moved it to a secure location away from the dust and debris generated by renovation work. As I was about to leave, my old client asked “So, how much do I owe you for this service?” I said he didn’t owe me anything, that I was just happy to help him out as a friend, and to give me a call when the workers were done and I would reinstall it.
My client was insistent, and after my several refusals for compensation, he shoved some money into the pockets of my friend and I while our hands were full with tools and packing materials. As a rule I don’t accept tips but noting his insistence, I gratefully thanked him, and went on my way.
After I returned home from my art client’s visit, I took out the money he had shoved in my pocket. To my surprise, it totaled $300. I was stunned and grateful. On Monday night and Tuesday, I contemplated what I could use that money for. I thought of the new clothes I could use, or maybe splurge on a higher shelf bottle of good wine that I normally ignore, and share with my wife. I thought of a bill that needed paying. It was an unexpected, small windfall that I could have used for many things. In the end, I decided to put the money into my savings account as my top priority at this time is to get a new car. My previous car died two weeks ago, and, too costly to repair, it had been towed for salvage.
That was Monday. It was that Wednesday when I had taken the day off and played the recording of the yoga class I had missed during its live broadcast from India on Sunday morning. When I did the Karma and Dosha contemplation, what came up was the recollection of the promise I had made to that landscaper. I was surprised that this was the issue that came up for me. I recall asking “Is that it? Is that really the issue causing this problem?” I then imagined the hardship or inconvenience it may have caused him 5 or six years ago, and how my action of unintentionally shorting him that $400 may have had an unknown ripple effect. Perhaps he had to lay off a worker, or not purchase something needed for his child, or pay a bill, etc.
Prior to that moment, I hadn’t thought about that promise for at least a year since it last came to mind, and even then, I had just watched the recollection come and go as I didn’t have the money to pay him anyway. So, naturally, when I asked the divine what was needed to correct the effects of my Karma/Dosha, what came to mind was “Find him, pay him, and ask his forgiveness.”
It was crystal clear. Of course! I needed to use the “found money” from my client to keep my word to the landscaper. Although 5 or 6 years had passed and he had surely forgotten about it, I hadn’t. The matter had indeed been the cause of some mild, internal suffering these past years. I had to right my wrong. I decided on the spot that I would complete this incomplete today.
So, immediately following my hour-long class, I looked up the landscaper on the internet and found his address. I then went to the bank to withdraw the balance from my savings account, put the $400 in a bank envelope, and entered his address into my GPS. I found his home and knocked on the door. After his dog announced my arrival with incessant barking, the landscaper I had last seen 5 or 6 years before came to the door.
As he cautiously stepped out and onto his porch, I greeted him first by name. I then said, “I don’t know if you remember me. Around 5 or 6 years ago, I contracted you to do some work on my home when my wife had breast cancer.” That detail rang a bell with him, and he confirmed his recollection by stating the name of my neighborhood. I confirmed that he was correct. I then said:
“Well, you may not remember this, but when you were about to leave, I promised you that one day when I had some extra money, I would pay you that $400 on which we had originally agreed. I know it’s been a few years, but I happen to have come into a little extra money and I would like to give that to you now.”
The man was shocked. At first, he refused to accept the money, insisting that my action wasn’t necessary. I insisted that he did take it. “Please. Use it to get something for your children, or do something nice for you and your wife. I made you a promise and it’s just my thing, It’s important that I keep my word.” The man was dumbfounded, and there was a brief silence between us. I broke the ice by injecting a humorous but sincere remark. “Besides…You’re Irish, I’m Irish, so there’s that added code of honor between us.”
The man smiled at my familiar reference. Understanding me, he accepted the envelope. He graciously asked how my wife was faring. I told him she had recovered from the breast cancer well and is doing fantastic. He then inquired about my children. After I updated him about my sole daughter, he chatted proudly about his own children’s accomplishments in the intervening years.
It had evolved into a pleasant exchange, and several times during our conversation the landscaper would look at the envelope with the money now in his hands and just utter “Wow!” with incredulity and gratitude. He said “Well, thank you, and don’t be surprised if you come home some day and find some complimentary Mums planted in your garden.” I said “That’s not necessary. All I ask is that you please forgive us and forgive me for any hardship the lack of this money may have caused you at that time.” We then bid farewell and he thanked me again, reiterating another “Wow” as he went into his home.
It felt good in the moment to have kept my word and fulfill a promise, despite the passing of time. Many might say that it was foolish to do what I did, that the man had probably forgotten the incident and he had certainly forgotten me. But, the reality is, it was the right thing to do. It was the dharmic thing to do. It was the just thing to do.
For me, spiritually, it balanced a created Karmic debt, and corrected an imbalanced Dosha. Such a small act serves in the ongoing quest for spiritual liberation. Righting our wrongs is among the most vital actions we can perform in achieving fulfillment of our personal spiritual journeys. What might result from my actions with the landscaper is yet to be seen, but I didn’t do it for that reason. Just righting an unintentional wrong was enough. It goes hand in hand with the fundamental Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them to unto you.
A day later, my experience after this is noting how much lighter I feel, as if a weight was lifted from my back. Perhaps this is all there is to “enlightenment.” Perhaps enlightenment is achieved simply by lightening your load of suffering, one conscious, balancing action at a time. We all have preconceived notions, concepts, and images of what enlightenment could look like. And maybe that’s why it remains so evasive. Maybe enlightenment is simply the act of lightening the weight of suffering through simple, conscious gestures of making something right. Of making something light.
The subtitle of this blog is “Enlightenment wasn’t built in a day.” This post illustrates what that means. It’s the small, balancing actions we can do each day to correct the Karmas and Doshas that seem to make a difference. Maybe enlightenment is closer, more practical and attainable than we think. Random acts of kindness define our humanity. Something as simple as buying a cup of coffee for the person in line behind you at the check-out counter, or allowing another motorist to pull ahead of you in heavy traffic can be the most liberating action of the day.
It can be surprising how good – and enlightened – it makes you feel.
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