the secret of CFS

 

Presence

I re-met a lower school student,

daughter of the CFS Admissions Director,

and her seven-year-old sureness of self overwhelmed me

with what I called her "stage presence,"

her mother corrected that it was purely just her presence, her power,

which grounds her in who she is, what she likes,

into a sureness to interacting with others, with being herself,

that is the magic trick at the heart of CFS:

an openness to, and encouragement of,

the self within everyone,

the more "one of a kind" the better,

for the unique is a treasure,

then the trick morphs into building the eclectic whole into community,

where difference is treasured, and somehow the pieces fit together,

each unique self building a vibrant whole

that holds all of us as of worth,

that our differences still let us connect

because of the commonality of our hearts,

where that of God shines forth,

and connects with that of God in the other.

by Henry H. Walker

July 25, ‘25

be better than Narcissus

 

Humans, at their best

what is the best of what makes us human?

in an apocryphal story,

Margaret Mead is said to have argued

that we humans differentiated from our animal cousins,

not because we invented tools,

but rather because we found the way

to take care of others of our kind,

the evidence?

a human skeleton from thousands of years ago,

a person who had recovered from a broken femur,

thus revealing a profound reorientation of values,

from self-centered to altruistic,

our cousins, the deer and the bear, could not find a way forward

into healing a bone, this argument goes,

so that humans found a way to hold and help our fellows,

until they healed back into functionality,

I would add corroborating evidence of flowers and other gifts left in graves

for countless years, demonstrating the vitality of our ties to the other,

there is a profound disconnect with such values these days

when so many in power deny the importance of anyone else to who we are,

this Margaret Mead story surfaced during the Covid-19 pandemic

when isolation reduced our connectivity,

I am drawn to noticing deaths,

to appreciating the life of another,

for life is not just of the selfish:

it is also of the bonding that reaches out to the other, in love,

what makes us best is when love enlarges us to care,

and to act effectively upon that impulse,

when we take care of "the least of these, our brethren,"

when we still connect with the dead,

even when we cannot touch,

we can still feel and act upon the connections,

we can be better than to be as Narcissus.

by Henry H. Walker

July 17, ‘25

Bruce Foster, a tribute

 Bruce Foster

each of us is complex, with some parts easily known,

and some parts even hidden from ourselves,

what tells us who we are?

how much is it our role in the family,

our parents' desires for us?

where we grow up, with whom?

what is within us that has to be expressed?

I seek to understand a bit of Bruce Foster,

and to appreciate him a lot,

Bruce had deep roots in East Tennessee,

a culture that fosters tradition, individuality, belonging,

he was the first-born, the oldest in the family,

the "precious prince,"

the first grandchild for his grandparents,

a dutiful son of a lawyer father,

who valued and stressed continuity of profession,

so that his son could follow him,

and Bruce excelled in the law,

loving the intellectual challenge of arguments,

loving doing well for his corporate clients,

such as his long-term relationship with the Airport Authority,

yet the natural world called strongly to him,

maybe he could have been a park ranger,

campgrounds with family called to him,

even more, fly-fishing, particularly in Montana,

where he would lose himself for hours in the fishing,

with a sheer rightness for him in the time,

he would enjoy the beach with his children,

but the mountains of East Tennessee he enjoyed even more,

that's where he loved to hike,

particularly up Mount LeConte,

he loved to explore nature,

particularly to appreciate birds,

I wonder if he had a "spark bird"?

Bruce loved to learn, to expand himself,

to refine his understandings of everything,

if it was printed, he wanted to read it, and he did,

he would stand and hold the newspaper,

almost swallowing it with his full attention,

he believed education was the inheritance 

they gave their children,

the inheritance he got from his parents,

his mother studied French into her 90s,

his devotion to his children, Bailey and Benjamin,

a wonder to behold,

he saw them truly, and he gave himself to appreciating them,

as he also gave his love to his grandchildren,

what Bailey and Benjamin said at Bruce's service brought tears to my eyes,

they saw the grace of his life, his devotion to service, to a good party,

to taking care of those you care about,

to being fully there for this life,

and then slipping away, peacefully,

while his family was there for him, and for each other,

imagine being born in 1936,

with World War II coming at his world when he was five,

having his father captured as a POW at the Battle of the Bulge,

imagine the power of his father's hopes for him,

as lives were being rebuilt in the 1950s,

Bruce lived life fully--

with a strong heart of caring for family and friends,

with a powerful head that loved to be used,

the intellectual challenge of the law

worth the exercise of logic and effort,

family vital:

all the steps before of ancestors,

all the expectations of parents for him,

ready to be followed,

he gave his all with his heart and with his head,

and he made the world better

with his intellectual, emotional, and spiritual brilliance,

he wanted to be a gentleman, and he was.

by Henry H. Walker

July 16, ‘25

to realize upon the page

 to keep true to the work

when I'm working to capture, to hold, to express an idea,

I am tempted by early choices of wording,

I read long ago some advice 

that I should discard

anything with an easy appeal,

warning that how much I'm attracted to a phrasing

might be more self-indulgence than clarity of vision,

there are furrows in my thinking

into which I can easily slip,

and that then shape my journey forward,

I can choose the easier path,

rather than breaking through the clods that hold me back

and need to be broken through

so that I am truer to the vision before me,

I am tempted by the clever phrasing,

the too common allusion,

at my best I hope

to capture, to hold, to express

that which hesitantly comes at me,

and wants to be realized upon the page.

by Henry H. Walker

July 7, ‘25

abrupt drops

 on edge

circumstance, and age, conspire to have me on edge,

I trace it all back to 1962,

when one day I had a father

and the next day he was gone,

that same decade assassinations abruptly

took away hero after hero of mine:

JFK, MLK, RFK,

plus Malcolm X, who I've added to my hero collection,

now I'm 77,  past 3 score and 10,

and susceptible to glitches in my health,

add to that the election of a President

who works hard to lead us back 

into economic and cultural disaster,

I can be fine, feel fine,

and then abruptly drop into despair,

I topple off the emotional edge

and tears sob through me,

I feel for my wife

whose heart is even bigger than mine,

and yet who knows better than I

how to "buck up" and endure,

I hate to pull her closer to the edge

that calls to us all who care,

we age toward an indefinite future.

by Henry H. Walker

July 3, ‘25