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Word
a.r1.d
t h e Brea.kirl.g
Bread
for the Chip Lyeth Paper Group
b y Marvin Bowers
June, 2001
of
the
There is a prayer in the Book of Common Prayer that is intended for use
before the Holy Eucharist. The prayer says, "Be present, be present, Lord
Jesus, our great high priest, as you were present with your disciples, and make
you self known to us in the Word and in the breaking of the Bread".
It is my
deeply held conviction, a conviction I share with countless other Christians in
our own time and for the past two millennia, that the crucified and risen Lord
Jesus is present with his brothers and sisters in the Word and in the Breaking
of the Bread, and that his presenc e can only be described as "real". Belief in
the doctrine of the real presence of Christ in the Holy Eucharist has a corollary
that is experienced regularly by people of other faiths of a no particular faith .
It is a corollary that is experienced regularly on the first Friday evening of the
month, when we gather as the Chip Lyeth Paper Group . The corollary might be
called the doctrine companionship. A companion is one with whom you share or
break bread. Something happens , or at least may happen, when people talk and
listen and eat and drink with each other intentionally and repeatedly. A kind
of real presence takes place. People are not merely in the same room with each
other, not merely occupying the same physical space. Rather they are really
present, they come to occupy the same emotional, spiritual, mental space. In
such moments, such people create awareness, which becomes memory, which
becomes story. This real presence, this vivid awareness, this living memory and
vivid story , mark the difference between mere existence and life with meaning.
Meaning. There have been times when many people really feared damnation.
In an interesting way, damnation is only a possibility in a universe filled with
meaning , a universe in which right and wrong belief, behavior and relationships,
are objectively real and have equally objective consequences. A universe in
which damnation is possible (but not necessary) is in its own way a comforting
place. Some people still fear damnation, but it is my impression, both as a
reader of books and listener to peoples' stories, that what more of us fear is
that life may be utterly meaningless. In a world in which many people, especially
thoughtful well educat ed people, suspect that there may well be no ultimate
meaning to life, to have moments in which we at least feel r eally present with
companions, and that such real presence means something, is no small blessing.
As I said above , the Chip L yeth Paper Group, has provided such moments and
is, therefore, no small blessing. A couple of months ago at Ridgely Evers house
there was some discussion about the origins and ordinances of the CLPG . There
is a fine line bet ween history and myth, and I myself and prone to make up
history on the spur of the moment, and fill it with "facts" that fit into my
present view of how things ought to be. Also, I don't have that good a memory
for dates and details like who was actually there. So, I asked Bob Scav ullo the
co-founder of the group , and Dave Anderson, an original member, if they could
remember when we started meeting and who attended the early meeting s .
Subject:
Date:
From:
To:
Marvin ,
some rambling thoughts
In Spring, 1981 Chuck Hobson invited me and Mike McCone to join him at
the Bohemian Club for the monthly meeting of "The Paper Group". Big
deal , has met continuously since 1932, coat & tie, private dining
room, oak panels, all papers archived in UC Berkeley Bancroft Library.
Modeled after the long Saturday lunches Louis Aggaziz, Harvard used to
hold with colleagues and friends .
Paper the month before was " Roald Amundsun , First to the Pole?"
Paper this month was given by Chuck ' s friend and contemporary Bruce ? ,
a hot shot workaholic lawyer. Subject was "What my life has been like
12 months after my divorce. "
The old boys did not like this
Turns out Chuck and Bruce had a not to secret agenda - get some
younger fellows who are willing to discuss personal issues into the
group.
At the following mon th' s meeting the group rejected Chuck's and
Bruce ' s idea. Chuck and Bruce resigned and formed the New Paper
Group.
Immediately we were a mixed group - but all about the same age
mid 30 ' s . Most different was Michel Delatour , Berkeley policeman.
During a round table question, what do you like most about your job,
Michel responded " Kicking down doors. "
I gave the first paper title was "Electronic Music " based on my
interview with John Chowning, Stanford computer music faculty and
inventor of the Yamaha electronic keyboard - made him rich .
Next few papers in a similar objective vein .
Then Ray Sebastian , a founding member, gave his paper on his
experience as a parent of a 16 year old boy whose hormones were acting
up. Ray's paper gave us "permission" to talk about ourselves.
Thereafter , more and more of the papers had a personal content to
them.
I believe you joined us in 88 or 89 . I remember a corc::e:<t- you made to
me after dinner at Doug Grigg ' s house "This is a very spiritual
gathering" .
About that time, Chuck arranged a reconciliation with "The Paper
Group ". His good friend and member of the group Mac McGregor - a
mining engineer with a big heart and open personality, came to a
meeting at Chuck's house, was impressed by the open way we talked
about our feelings and offered to deposit our papers in "The Paper
Group ' s " Bancroft Library archive .
You and I decided that we should start a group in Healdsburg . I'm
guessing 1989 or 1990 . I think I gave the first paper some time
during the winter holidays.
I know that my father-in-law Henry Elden
was present .
I seem to remember sitting in your living room reading
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october 1992
December 1994
December 1998
Bob
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I have written poems off and on since I was in high school. One possible
definition of a poem is words written on a page that don't fill it up from margin
to margin like prose. I have written several hymns that scan and rhyme , but
most of my poems are free verse. Mostly, I c ould n't explain t o myself, much less
anyone else, why I end a line and start a new one, e n d a stanza a nd start a new
one. I do think a poem is mostly truly itself when it is read alou d , particularly
when it is read aloud to companions.
So.
The first poem I wrote that made a difference to me is called "Rescue #6366R"
The title of the poem was the title of the entry in the log of the UC Santa
Barbara Fire Department were is lived and served as a student fire fighter
during the senior year. The first stanza, printed in caps, was the lead to the
brief article in the Santa Barbara newspaper that reported this incident. The
terse, three lead suggested the form of the poem.
RESCUE #6366R
CO-ED DIES IN
FALL FROM CLIFFS
AT CAMPUS BEACH
She had a great falling
Landing broken in water
Dark and inconvenient
So she died on the beach
In life a place of warmth
Making doubtful and old dualism
Not that I loved her
or even know her
It was a chance encounter
I held her in my hands
(broken, ugly and cold)
Not in love, but labor
I labored, still she died
In an instant falling
From lover's hands to mine
I wrote the following lines when I was angry about pretty every things. I'm
not sure I would even call them a poem. Ted Copland, mentioned above, wrote
the last lines as a response to my bitterness and anger. They were very healing
words for me at the time.
TRYING TO PRAY
in the Chapel of the Good Shepherd,
General Seminary, New York
Is not our bitterness our and only our?
If I could share, I would, but share is not
The proper word. For I would burden you,
Would conquer you beneath the blackest me.
The one I pray with feeble prayer is God.
The one I feel, the one that churns with power,
That's vast and yearns to be released on you
And God, that one is only me.
If I could tear this building down I would,
And my black power would loom above your head
My brother and my Lord. So live with this,
And pray and know your enemy when you pray.
***
Compline is the final service of the Daily Office or daily round of prayers.
This poem was written on a warm, New York summer evening when Bonnie and
I were so young.
SUMMER COMPLINE
Warm
And the warm bed
And the cool air
And she is mine
And I love her
Christ
And the Warm Heart
And the Strong Cross
And I love Him
Dumb
My tongue cleaveth
My pen straineth
For some love song
Night
With her beside
I pray to Christ
In ancient Prayer
and I say yes
A few more poems.
THE RITUAL
Between sleep and sleep,
the half heard, predictable noise:
~ur car, engine off, door shut,
boots on gravel, the back door,
muted voices as he finds her
there in the kitchen light,
OK, fine, glad to be home.
Then, not washed yet,
still smelling of the shop,
the circuit of our beds:
the moment of light, the smell,
his hard hand on our heads,
Tykie Bug, Billy Bo, Pinky Binks,
nicknames, friendly, sacred,
half heard, night after night,
between sleep and sleep.
Between sleep and sleep
they stir. Just me. God bless you.
I make the rounds. Now it is I
who need to touch, I
who need to say their names.
Do they hear me coming,
do they wait as I did,
night after night,
for the name and the light,
between sleep and sleep?
MB, December
BL E S S E D
N E
1984
',v
Y E A R
F R 0 N
T n E
for Bonnie
I stand on the church steps
where I have stood waiting
for hundreds of brides
and their mothers:
The knowing parson,
nudging everyone along,
assuring everyone that
it will be just right,
urging them to come along now
because we're just about ready
to begin. It will be
just like we practiced last night.
Today the mother of the bride
is you. I see you, the only one
I've ever really loved,
walking toward me surrounded
by our children as you lead them
one block from our house
to our church. It's Maddy's wedding
and I'm the dad in the rented tux.
You
The
the
It's
MB , 199"6
MB,2001