the ephemeral can be spectacular

Annie

art is creation, and destruction,

I have long felt that a play, a musical,

is ephemeral, a creation like the mayfly,

that lives a day and then is gone:

props, costume, lines, song, music,

exist but to help a moment happen,

to deepen the moment, 

to broaden the moment,

to help belief in story hold us in her arms,

and then, too soon, the story is over,

and a new moment will soon have its time,

tonight, Annie, the musical, lived,

and the audience was captivated by the pieces

coalescing into a whole that held them, moved them,

the darkness that seeks to swallow the light,

driven back by each kid on stage, transformed,

who demanded and created a fire of self,

within the blaze of a story that worked,

helped by each stitch, each brush stroke, 

each idea that strode forth, 

all became tool to enable the story to live,

the individual needs to shine, and shines brightest

when a collective needs each flame,

when the collective finds the way for each flame

to be a firework and together crescendo into the spectacular.

by Henry H. Walker
February 14, ‘20

Jay Garner, the best within us, lived

a conscientious calling

imagine life as a symphony,

within which, at best, usually,

we track one instrument, one sound,

while we can strain to follow larger wholes,

the whole itself,

does the conductor really hold every individual part,

while also holding the whole, building?

that must be how we conceive God to be,

the One who holds us all

within a continuity that aches to stumble forward,

World War II inexorably ground itself

into the world of my parents’ generation:

choices narrowed, choices demanded, the country at risk,

France lost to the Nazis, 

England periled by German planes,

Pearl Harbor pummeled by Imperial Japan,

many of the best of that generation

stepped forward into service as soldier,

as doctor or mechanic, as nurse, 

as logistics to support the soldier,

they heard and moved to the rhythm that drove the war,

and I am in awe of their courage, sacrifice, and gifts to us all,

tonight I am drawn to those within the symphony

who heard, and sought to follow,

how Spirit spoke to them differently, 

how the Spirit spoke, as Jesus taught about loving our enemies,

about peace as the way and not just the end,

about self-sacrifice as a way to reach the other,

to help the other,

to help our selves find the greatness

that calls to us when we hear, and appreciate,

the larger symphony playing just beyond

the driving rhythms that are easier to hear,  

Jesus saw, and heard, the music the angels know,

Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr did, too,

the best within us feels the pull

to use the precious days allotted to us

to make the world better, purer,

closer to the symphony all of us can make, together,

if we but will,

I celebrate tonight the calling Jay Garner heard and followed

as a conscientious objector during World War II,

wholeheartedly participating in the Starvation Experiment,

the only controlled experiment, ever, in human starvation,

with volunteers who suffered mightily that others might benefit,

his body pushed to its limits with little food and maximum stress,

all of it monitored and studied so that 

doctors could know the path back to health

for those whose bodies and souls have been literally starved.

Jay Garner is to the far right, lying down

Jay Garner is on the front row, in suspenders

by Henry H. Walker

February 7, ‘20

Walisiyi

A Farewell to Mt. LeConte

for decades I have hiked up and down a great Eastern mountain,

what we call Mt. LeConte now,

whom the Cherokee called Walisiyi,

“the abode of the great green frog,”

there at the top, nestled among fir and spruce,

hard-by a bountiful spring,

a spring fuller and higher than any other up here tends to be,

a homely lodge hunkers down  and welcomes any 

who have the leg and the fortune to reach it,

I well remember the rite-of-passage of my first hike

to the enchanted mountain top, at about age 10,

I well remember cross-country up Bear Pen Hollow, 

a few times just pulling self straight up the side of the mountain,

the old way,

twice following the phone line 

straight up and down above Rainbow Falls,

I well remember the five times 

I have hiked up and down in one day,

and we hope to do that again,

I well remember decades 

of grandfathered reservations at the lodge on top, 

stabilizing at about 40 places for family and friends:

I remember meals in the valley,

before and after our vigorous adventure, 

baked trail loaves and treats for the hikes,

a magical camaraderie of people and place at the top, 

reached by

—the Alum Cave Trail—along rhododendron-strewn streams,

through Arch Rock, up on dry ridges and bluffs,

Peregrine Falcon on Duck Hawk Ridge, by Alum Cave Bluffs

the long wet pull where grass and views and wildflowers lead us on,

the final horizontal path through spruce and fir,

—or the Rainbow Falls Trail—the steady pull up

while the creek dances down,

and falls long and captivating 

from a ledge of Thunderhead sandstone bedrock,

views from the top of 

Rocky Spur, after a long meander,

then a final pull up to the lodge,

—or the Bullhead Trail—as you leave stream and valley

for boulder hollows, then ridge-top with a rock cairn to mark it all,

the long pull up around Balsam Point,

and the exhilarating contour along the steep top of the valley,

then the final pull up to the lodge,

—or the Trillium Gap Trail—snaking through cove hardwoods 

to Grotto Falls, and above, 




climbing steadily toward the spring

but gentler than the Roaring Fork which plunges steep 

while you wander up its neighboring slopes,

—or the Boulevard—up and down and up high ridges,

finding the way to the top from the east

like the Sun each morning,

Mt. LeConte stretches east-west,

as if it is a great rock compass,

draped with earthen gardens:

tree and bush, moss and fern and flower,

a promontory of cliff at each end,

all set for an audience at sunset and sunrise,

ready for whatever performance the Sun can make

with whatever the sky allows and facilitates,

often the glory released has been enough

to bring tears to my eyes

when I have had the fortune to be there,

at sunset my brother started a tradition 

of fine chocolate to appreciate 

while we witness and celebrate the close of a good day,

at 4:30 am. I would sing to my groups about 

the finest hour between “edge of night and the break of day,”

and for those making the effort to get up and walk the mile to Myrtle Point,

we would heat water for hot chocolate, tea, and coffee, 

black sky and stars would slowly yield to a greying 

that allowed forest and mountain to steadily reveal themselves,

then the Sun could flame the eastern sky,

slowly, inexorably rising to give light to our words,

and the paths that we walk,

to the promise inherent in a new day,

to the hope that the universe gives us with every morning,

my wife and I would often risk a song in response:

“Morning has broken. . . fresh from the Word. . .”

the beds at LeConte Lodge, accepting and comfortable,

the food at LeConte Lodge, filling and enabling,

the workers at LeConte Lodge, serving so that we can open into wonder,

I feel a deep sadness as my age slows me,

and as my time on top the mountain becomes iffy,

like Harvey Broome, who wrote he never liked to leave the top of a mountain,

I abhor the idea that my time on the top of Walisiyi might well be over. 

by Henry H. Walker

January 21, ‘20