Rss

Once Upon an August Day

Posted by :James Howden On : August 24, 2026
0

Category: At First Glance, On Second Thought

Tags:, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“Only that day dawns to which we are awake.” So said Thoreau. And my Mum.

[Six-minute read. But take your time, friends. I did. And by God, so did they.]
[Furthermore: I don’t know myself whom I thought I was talking to. You might think it was just to myself. You might think, “Ancestors.” The heavenly choir. Imaginings. Muses. “The con-chorus on high.” (I made up that word. Praise and prizes to you if you figure out its etymology!) In any case, it was my birthday when this convo started. They were kind. I learned things. I’m glad we had this talk…]

Happy birthday to you, James H! Hard to believe that you are x years old in the visible outer world as of today. You don’t look a day over x-5.

Ha! I appreciate that. Only rarely do I truly feel as shiny and blessed as I fortunately and undoubtedly am, but I worked on that this morning. “My God, my Adored One, my King, my Desire! What tongue can voice my thanks to Thee?…” That’s an oldie-but-goodie, and it helped. First Bahá’í prayer I ever got by heart.

Yes. You were so cute at 15. Walking home from 463 Caithness, head down, eyes down, somehow managing to see through all that hair. It had been another encounter with that dazzling young woman and her gentle mother and their various co-conspirators. (Such dangerous folks!) They had given you your first prayer book and there you were, muttering that first prayer over and over, all the way home.

Dangerous, yeah. They pushed me head-first into wakefulness. “This little piggie” recited prayers, all the way home. It felt strange and absolutely essential. Aid and Assistance was the first theme in the American collection, still is! “My God, my Adored One…” was the first prayer in that edition. So off I went.

You were so earnest! We could see it felt logical to you to approach it that way, but we also heard the monstrous idealism that hummed and drummed behind that “rational” choice. It was the first prayer in the book, written by Bahá’u’lláh. You decided that should be the first conscious deposit in your spiritual memory bank, alongside The Lord’s Prayer¹ and surprisingly large pieces of the 23rd Psalm. And only a couple of hundred more to go!

Well, I didn’t count them, but thanks for laughing with me.

You surely didn’t do the math. And you also thought that prayer book contained ALL the prayers, you English chauvinist, you!

Guilty as charged. I was quite in love with the Báb, all those stories of youthfulness and radical inspiration, heroism and joy that weren’t ancient history. And I was fascinated — I had some embarrassing theories — that there were so few of His prayers, and they were all so brief! I figured that He was a short-prayer specialist.

Your 15-year-old thoughts are safe with us. But listen. “Embarrassing“? We’ve been trying to tell you this for a long time: do keep working on backing up that blame train; it’s rolling and sounding in the back-country of your mind all the time, and its horn bellows too loudly and too often. It’s no wonder, though. You did hear that stunning phrase a little too often. You know the one we mean. So don’t blame the Blamers, either. It was always a less-than-helpful sentence, but as folks used to say, it was “in the water” back then. That tainted stream ran all the way back to the Church Fathers. Easy to say, here and now (whatever those two words might mean!), that perhaps if there had been some Church Mothers on the construction team, some of that Original Shame might have been left out! Well. Let’s say the words out loud, and remind you that they aren’t and were never true. “You Ought To Be Ashamed Of Yourself!” What a thing to tell a child! Especially when a tender heart and romantic mind (to be clear, we’re talking about yours) learns to regard this phrase as not just a finger-wagging criticism, but as some toxic cousin to the Golden Rule.

Whoa. That’s a lot. Are you saying that I just, um, inhaled y’oughta be ashamed as, I don’t know, one of the laws of life? Is that what I did?

Yes. You came to feel that you should, in a general way, feel shame about the whole business of being James. It was always a lie. It took you a long time to find enough words and experiences and tools for reflection to see that, but now you do.

By God! You’re right. I can hear it now. Aunties. Parents, certainly. Frustrated and thoughtless teachers, probably even exasperated older siblings, and I see what you mean: probably they had all been forced to inhale those sinful fumes themselves. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Really?! Who thought that these were Words to Live By?

You took them to heart, so literally, but well before you could read much. You were still very young by the time they were fully installed, in the years just before turning 15. And all those people that delivered this thought? They were, as you have realized, mainly doing the best they could, most of the time, with what life had offered to them. And that’s a more useful sort of rule to adopt – that folks in general do and think what they regard as good and proper, though they may be dead wrong. 

Yes. That one works for me, even when I (on special occasions) apply it to myself. The following phrase feels related somehow, so what do you think about this one? “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” This is another heavily loaded sentence that comes to mind for me, time and again. There have been so many ‘good ideas’. Smoking cigarettes. Tackle football. Cheez Whiz. Paving paradise. Bellbottom jeans. Trickle-down economics. (Never quite got that one.) Coaching basketball, apparently forever. Fidget spinners. Burning fossil fuels.

Those are a good start. How about the invention of billionaires?

Wait. We did that?

Maybe not on purpose, but of course you did. Did you think that was God’s plan? Remember Christ and the moneylenders? How He compared rich men to camels? And long before we got to the level of “wealth inequality” we see now, Bahá’u’lláh warned against such unjust extremes. And here’s another one: what about the idea that redemptive violence is effective? Remember all those comic books you inhaled before you could think?

Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos. (I was reading them awhile before I realized Sgt. meant “sargent”, in American.) Iron Man. Captain America. I remember. They solved problems by kicking bad-guy butt. We like that playbook, don’t we?

Many of you know better, but it’s a seductive story to tell yourselves. Humans have a lot of narratives that are thrilling to tell, but idiotic to live by. So let’s step back a bit. Ready? Consider this paradox that so many of you still seem to swallow so easily: the undoubted fact that you, and those close to you, are mainly well-intentioned and benevolent, but that somehow “human nature” and All Those People Over There are certainly dangerous and prone to evil?

That’s a good one, yes. We hear that all the time, in various forms. The people I know are good folks, but human nature is cursed and humanity is awful. Seems to be an obvious flaw in the logic, but it sums up the way huge numbers of people see the world. Holy jumpin’! That must be pretty painful to watch from over there.

Don’t get us started. (Okay. Too late.) You earth-bound types often appear to toggle back and forth between the glorification of war, that redemptive violence fantasy again, and a toxic stew of defeatist assumptions that while war is clearly horrible, it is also inevitable and constant. “It’s a feature of the human condition,” it has become trendy to say, “and not a bug.” Of course, war is terrifyingly awful. War does destroy civilized arts and wonders and constructs. But why insist on imagining that the slow work of building and growing and learning, all those fruits of cooperation and peace, are strange? Exceptional? From here, it’s so obvious that all those grim modern fairy tales of existence as the “nasty, brutal” battle for individualistic domination and control — sorry to say, James H, but you ingested a lot of this nonsense, too! — were incomplete, at best, and often just foolish. “Survival of the friendliest” as a new look at human evolution — isn’t that an idea from that Dutch writer you were all excited about a few years ago?

Are you still with us?

Ouch. My brain hurts. You’ve had a lot more time than me to think about all this.

Well, yes. That “time” concept. Now that’s an entire discussion in itself, but this is enough. Your mind isn’t “blown”, exactly – notice what an explosive, war-like analogy that is, with its implication of lasting damage and a difficult re-build? – but we can see that you have some mental digesting to do. “My brain is full,” we’ve heard you smilingly protest. The old meal metaphor, much more apt in this case. And we liked to use that one, too, once upon a time. 

You’re right. I need the proverbial stroll after dinner to process all this. But it’s been wonderful, consoling, wistful, humbling. I’m honoured that you stopped by to visit. Happy birthday to me!

Well, you did open the door. “What tongue can voice my thanks to Thee?” is an awesome way to start ANY day. And look how clever you were, putting that into your heart when you were just a boy! Now, remember to leave the door unlocked. And open a window now and then, okay? 

That’s a shot of loving-kindness. Yes, I will! And thank you, wish I knew y’all better! Don’t be strangers. Please. (But I do know what side the estrangement comes from.) And hey, I have some time, right? I guess I just keep on beseeching, is that it? “…aid and assist me at all times and under all conditions, [I] seek from the heaven of Thy grace Thine ancient favour…” Don’t be afraid to ask for help, and all that? That’s the way, isn’t it?

Right?

I suppose I answer that one for myself. Time to go. And thanks again.

 

¹ “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowèd be Thy Name! Thy Kingdom come…” was the way we recited it in school, and in the Baptist Church right next to it.

A Boy, a Man. And All Those Nutbars In Between.

Posted by :James Howden On : August 19, 2026
0

Category: At First Glance

Tags:, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

It’s never really about basketball.

These boys were neither cute, rambunctious children, nor young men launching themselves into the orbit of their adult lives. Not quite yet: they were “my guys”, a coupla dozen nutbars (he fondly called them) entering grades 8 to 10, students working on their basketball skills in anticipation of a new academic year and school team tryouts. It was August 14. It was our last of 23 training sessions. There were Freezie pops for everybody, and a chocolate bar (or two) for the guys who showed up the most and weren’t afraid to be “try-hards”. (Try-hards. In the joy-killing cynicism of youth basketball “culture”, this is a term of dismissal and a weird sort of shame.) I preached courage all summer. And concentration. And yes, competitiveness, the willingness to rise to the challenges presented by other players, by a keen and pushy coach (me), and by the ever-green imperative to improve on our previous best selves.

So. Good last session. We tried hard. I was glad to be finished. Eleven more days until school begins. But only two boys of that final day’s 20 thanked me for the summer’s (volunteer) work. Empty Freezie pops were left on the gym floor. Ideal outcomes were unachieved. Irritating realities intruded. Mainly, I wanted the gym cleared and the equipment stored and the boys gone. The coach was weary, and fighting off the typical post-feverish-engagement voices: shoot, I thought we’d get more done and wish I’d seen more of *those* two but also there *was* massive improvement, admit it and don’t forget that C is really starting to lead…

The gym was finally quiet when Amalia’s text came. WHAT? That little boy I had loved was suddenly gone? That 20-year-old man I was longing to meet in his adult flowering? Won’t ever happen. That gorgeous family — an Italian sweetheart and his lovely American wife and those three delightful little boys – the one that I loved to meet whenever our ex-pat group in Dalian (China) could get together? It is devastated now.

It’s less than two weeks since we reunited with Piero and Tannaz at a large conference in my home city, a dozen years after leaving Dalian. Our periodic connection during our shared years in China was especially sweet for me; I had been father to a three-boy family, a second try-hard at marriage had brought along a fourth son, so I was helplessly smitten by Jian and his littler brothers. Tannaz and Piero brought us up to speed about their boys, on a convention centre escalator and in between conference sessions. Jian was now 20, a lean and handsome extension of the bright-eyed 6- to 8-year old tornado I had known back then and there. He was now a college kid, spending a few weeks at Green Acre Bahá’í  School, deepening his knowledge and commitment in summer sessions of the Institute for Studies in Global Prosperity. (ISGP is a phenomenally impactful institution, dedicated to training young people to transform their worlds.) I had a hundred questions for him, which would have been summed up in one basic query: Who are you NOW, young fella? 

Amalia’s text was a sudden lament. There had been a drowning. The Piscataqua River, near Green Acre, empties into the Atlantic. A young man, our dear Jian, full of energy, intelligence, deep commitment and enormous potential (and so handsome, and how could he have been otherwise considering the parents who had raised him?), had suddenly leapt from the worldly stage he seemed destined to stride with grace and purpose, with joys and usefulness.

I had been relieved to have the gym to myself for a few minutes before I got on with my day. Now, I wanted to call my players back. I wanted to tell them about Jian Grant Morano, what a sweet small boy he’d been and the grief and loneliness I felt about a young man I would never know. My loss is nothing against the earthquake of a father, a mother, two younger brothers and the tide of people who knew and loved this family. I wanted to warn adolescent boys: nothing is guaranteed, life is sudden, don’t waste a second, all those earnest cautions that I would not have heeded at their age.

Prayer helps. I am led to believe that it can stir distant hearts, even those souls that have passed on. What I know is that it helps me in ways that my oh-so-strained understanding cannot. So does the Old Testament, specifically the blunt comfort of Ecclesiastes 9. The voice in that book, the Teacher, has been telling us for millennia that our limited views of human justice are inadequate for the scope of the life of humanity, and that a Creator infinitely beyond our comprehension should not be judged by our petty standards. Death comes to all:

For I considered all this in my heart, so that I could declare it all: that the righteous and the wise and their works are in the hand of God….All things come alike to all:…(Ecclesiastes 9:1-2)

In Chapter 8, the Teacher had famously advised his hearers that “there is nothing better under the sun than to eat and to drink and to be merry“. Similar encouragement follows later in the ninth chapter, which I was coming to know when I was the age Jian was, back when we were together in Dalian, twelve and more years ago:

Live joyfully with the wife whom you love all the days of your vain life which He has given you under the sun, all your days of vanity; for that is your portion in life, and in the labor which you perform under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might;…I returned and saw under the sun that—

The race is not to the swift,
Nor the battle to the strong,
Nor bread to the wise,
Nor riches to men of understanding,
Nor favor to men of skill;
But time and chance happen to them all… (Ecclesiastes 9:9-11)

(Sigh. Nobody gets to marry Jian.) However, for those who believe in what we blithely call the “hereafter” — I count myself among them, though I can’t say I’m very good at it — there are comforts beyond Ecclesiastes. For example, the New Testament’s vision of the soul’s continued existence (“in my Father’s house are many mansions”) is confirmed and amplified in the Bahá’í teachings, which at one point compare the untimely death of a young one to the actions of a “kind gardener” who transfers a tender plant to a wider and lovelier place. Furthermore, a treasured prayer of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá has been on my mind and tongue since I learned of Jian’s death, one in which we beg the Lord of the universe, on behalf of someone whose loss we grieve, to

…cause him to enter Thy glorious paradise, and perpetuate his existence in Thine exalted rose garden, that he may plunge into the sea of light in the world of mysteries. Verily, Thou art the Generous, the Powerful, the Forgiver and the Bestower.

But how do I make sense of this loss? I keep learning to pray, yes, and hope that perspective sets in. I also hope to keep hearing the Teacher, to do “whatever [my] hand finds to do” with all my might. I’ll try hard, and remind my nutbar ballers that there’s no shame in that! (Not ever.) And when I’m coaching or otherwise working with the youth I am so drawn to, I will look to Jian and his example. We all need help down here.

 

 

Thirty-OneDERFUL. Time. Taste!

Posted by :James Howden On : August 7, 2026
0

Category: At First Glance

Tags:, , , , , , , , , , , ,

[3-minute read]

Looks like Gold Medal Ribbon’s in there. I WIN!

This silly “one/won” pun has always been about ice cream for me, until yesterday arrived. I achieved a new marital milestone, a personal best! And dessert is always on the menu…

Once upon an ad campaign, Baskin-Robbins touted their flavour for every day of the month (well, the 7 months that have 31 days) conceit by calling themselves “31-derful!” Who am I to disagree? I’ve likely sampled at least 31 of their flavours, and carry a cool, smooth and only occasionally crunchy minor grudge against B-R for their shelving of two of the greatest: German Chocolate Cake and Oregon Blackberry. Yummm. But this isn’t about loss, far from it!

Yesterday? This ol’ sweet-tooth and his sweetie celebrated another anniversary – oddly enough, exactly ONE YEAR AFTER we had observed thirty years of marriage! – with bicycles and Baha’i Studies and a basketball training session (okay, that was just me, and not-quite-31 high schoolers) and a freshwater swim (that was just her) AND an evening with the great Colson Whitehead, he of Nickel Boys and The Underground Railroad (and a truly odd first novel about elevator repair (!)) and his recently completed “Harlem Trilogy” of novels. Yes: a long and eventful day, a gorgeous one, and neither one of us had the time to write our annual tribute to each other and the wonders of making it this far. There’s a just-us dinner coming, later in Anniversary Week. But I seized this day’s hurried writing moment to praise my dearest friend and partner-in-time, and the brightness and consolation of our colourful marriage.

I’m a lucky man, that’s for sure. It looks like my latest application for a one-year marital contract-renewal will be granted! COACH JAY FOR THE WIN! I like to think that there are advantages also for my Sudden and Inexplicable Lady, but here’s to her, with an added sauce of why we’re blessed to still be doing this Togetherness Dance.

This year our anniversary coincided with the beginning of the North American conference of the Association for Baha’i Studies, which began in Ottawa 50 years ago. We share adherence to and exploration of the Baha’i teachings, and enormous thankfulness for the peace, hope and understanding that they give. We’re deep-diving into those teachings and practices and implications this weekend, and also greeting dear ones from all over, new friends and old. We dive in different waters and in distinct ways, and share what we find with each other. It’s rich, confirming, joyful, and it’s challenging, sometimes heart-breaking (“how come history takes such a long, long time?” Bruce Cockburn’s lyrics echo in my skull), but steadfastly scientific and visionary. When we’re serving and learning and yearning together, the troubles and trivialities of life fade away.

She came with me, after supper with American friends, to a sweaty stone Presbyterian Church, not far from the conference, for the Writers Festival event, her company a sweet gift to me. Although I’m the one who geeks out on literature and writing, and who stands in awe of the Whiteheads of the world, she’s a reader and investigator and appreciated an evening with the Festival folks nearly as much as I did. Bounty.

We pedalled home through downtown, across a canal and a river. “There’s nothing better than biking on a summer evening!” she sang out. I smilingly disagreed – I can think of a few things – but it was pretty sweet, and not only because I was in tandem with my favourite VeloGirl.

She’s healthy again after a year of health concerns that slowed her down, almost to my pace, and I’m thrilled to once again try (and fail) to keep up with her, while also granted occasional permission to help her slow down, maybe read her to sleep or leave the driving to me. Wonders. It’s amazing that I get to be with her, so often and for so long now.

She loves her work – yes, and she’s a federal government employee, so industrious and dedicated – as a promoter of green energy and other ecological solutions. Retirement would appear to be in the front view,  but while she’ll never lack for things to be doing, her vibrant public service in such a critically important field has her thinking she’ll keep at it. I am proud of her work and the adventurous way she approaches it.

She loves to bike. She shines after a swim; heck, she’ll duck out (another bad pun, very much intended!) during the conference’s lunch break, ruffle her own and other feathers, and jump in a swimming spot near where the Rideau Canal joins the Ottawa River, not far from Canada’s Parliament and the downtown conference site. She’s a happy woman in open water. She’s her, as my ballplayers might say.

She loves and loves and loves, and I try my best to love her well. It ain’t just ice cream that’s thirty-oneDERFUL, in my fortunate little world. Happy me! Happy us (fingers and toes crossed)!

Canada During Covid-19: A Third Layer of Silver

Posted by :James Howden On : April 13, 2020
2

Category: At First Glance

Tags:, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

PM Justin Trudeau, to the nation from outside his residence. (Photo from Maclean’s magazine, Canada’s national newser.)

[6- minute read. This is Part 3 the “Silver Linings Playbook” series, looking for Canadian good news amid the Covid-19 crisis. Part 1 is here, Part 2 down there.]

The slowdown that many of the fortunate among us have enjoyed – count me front and centre in that squadron – is not so obvious a benefit when we consider one’s country as a whole. Inevitably, and properly, the cost to the national economy receives scrutiny: how can workers in precarious jobs (or the under-employed) be supported, local businesses be sustained? And then imagine how many times the problems are multiplied in the majority of countries that are, to varying degrees, well behind Canada with respect to economic and social stability, particularly their health care systems, AND are not blessed with Canada’s combination of geographic massiveness and fewer than 40 million folks! And we all know: the pandemic is no picnic here, either, but imagine how awful things have been, or will be, in [insert your favourite fragile state here]!

All that pertains to illness and economic strangulation having been said – and I just read a New York Times piece in which Nicholas Kristof gets inside access at New York hospitals, so I’m not blind to blackened horizons – still, there *are* silver linings, and even in a careful, fearful nation state they’re not hard to find. Here are some of the Canadian beacons amid the gloom:

  • UNITED POLITICIANS. Sure, there’s some sniping, but the volume of dissent is much reduced. In our Parliamentary system, in which the elected government is shadowed (or hounded) by “Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition”, there is audibly less emphasis on opposition than on the preceding adjective. Ontario Premier Doug Ford, an arch-Conservative, has had public praise for Liberal Prime Minister Trudeau and members of his government! (My respect level for Ford is increasing; I might have expected him to be foot-dragging, ignoring scientists and muttering about “getting back to business as usual”, but he’s been a strong, sane and thoughtful voice, from what I’ve heard. He seems to be responding smartly, and with a humane compassion I wasn’t sure he could summon, to the needs of the time, and not holding on to partisan dogma. I’m pleasantly shocked, to be honest.)
  • CONFIRMATIONS: We can be oh-so-careful, maddeningly slow and frustratingly divided in our national conversation, but one strong silver lining is the continued reassurance that Canucks are actually reasonably well-governed, and have a clear tendency to often do the right thing, especially when the chips are down.

Continue Reading >>

Paradise Is Always a Garden: The Baha’i Thing, From Then to Nearly Now

Posted by :James Howden On : May 1, 2019
3

Category: On Second Thought

Tags:, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

After finishing this piece, I learned of the passing of a great pillar of the Canadian Baha’i community, not to mention an internationally renowned painter. His name was Otto Donald Rogers, “Don” to most who knew him. He was a quietly magnificent human being, and I’d like to retroactively offer this as a small tribute to a great man. Peace to his family and friends.  
[12-minute read]
A rather different (shorter) version of this piece appears at the Baha’i Teachings website: click here for Part 1, here for Part 2. 

Maybe you’ve been obsessing about the NHL or NBA playoffs. (No Canadian teams left in the quest for the hockey grail. No LeBron, no more Spurs.) Or wondering if spring will ever come. (Spoiler: it will. It’s underway. Just ask flood victims all over everywhere, but don’t mention climate change. That would be rude!) But for the Baha’is, it’s coming near the end of the “Most Great Festival” of the Baha’i calendar, and I’m all in.

This is not the original Najibiyyih Garden that Baha’u’llah called Paradise, but it evokes the same spirit.

This festival is called “Ridván”, an Arabic word meaning “paradise”, and the best my Canadian mouth can manage is something like ‘Rez-VAHN’. It’s a 12-day period that celebrates the public “mission statement” of the Faith’s founder, Bahá’u’lláh, in a Baghdad garden in 1863. This Persian nobleman, already stripped of wealth and social status and banished from his homeland, was turning a supposedly humiliating further exile into, well, a mighty big party now celebrated by millions around the globe. It’s Day 11. Two nights ago I prayed and partied with a small group not far from my house. I’ll do it again tomorrow night on Day 12, but on April 21, I joined in with a big crowd of Baha’is and their friends for the Big Ridvan Opening, where we were invited to consider how the Baha’i community got from 1863 Baghdad obscurity to the world-wide reach it has today. I’ve been trying to follow Baha’u’llah’s mighty System of knowledge and practice for a long time now. Sometimes it feels I haven’t gotten very far, but I’m still walking, and the Baha’i Big Picture is bright and ever-developing.

Anyway, it all got me thinking about histories: my own, that of the Baha’i community over the past century and a half, and even of earlier crossings into New Millennium territory.

And I thought: I would have made a very poor 1st– or 2nd-century Christian. I would’ve wanted the Kingdom to come NOW! But the growth of Christianity was slow, and the times were confusing. Heck, Pope Gregory wouldn’t be born for centuries, so the Gregorian calendar that dates our lives based on Jesus’s life hadn’t been invented; 100 years after Christ, the word “Christian” was just beginning to distinguish this tiny community from the many other Jewish cults and sects that had arisen. Even 300 years after the life of Jesus Christ, His followers were found only in tiny pockets in what we call the “Middle East”¹, Turkey, northern Africa and southern Europe, basically within a few donkey-days journey of the Mediterranean Sea. They were just beginning to organize their scriptures and get their doctrines and dogmas together, 325 years after Christ’s life, and the Christians wouldn’t become a major population even in the Mediterranean region until the 6th century. Today, it’s the most widespread religion in the world, of course, and we all take its supernatural degree of influence and prestige for granted. But I would have been so impatient as an early Christian!

¹ Ever noticed how Eurocentric that term is? As if everyplace should be measured from London or Paris (which, for many centuries, it was.)

So listen: when I joined the Baha’i community as a 1970s teenager, I began to wonder, Why are other faith groups, often younger than we are, seeming to grow so much faster than we are? I was noticing the Hare Krishna chants on Toronto streets, or the sudden North American splash, in news media and in recruitment, of the Unification Church, the so-called “Moonies”. I wasn’t tempted to join them, or even emulate their methods, but their bursts of public prominence bugged me.  A wise Baha’i elder answered our youthful questions in his deep, heavily accented but utterly logical way. (If you want to channel the voice of Dr. Danesh, imagine American diplomat Henry Kissinger, but with a Persian rather than a German accent, and with a devotion to the psychology of peace and justice rather than to strategies of conflict.) He calmly explained it this way: Think about what we are trying to grow. If you look at two plants in their first season of growth – one of them a pumpkin, one of them an oak tree – your conclusion might be easy. The pumpkin is obviously more impressive, vines and bright flowers and, within months, gigantic orange fruits! Meanwhile, the oak looks like a tender, fruitless twig. The community of Baha’u’llah is growing like an oak tree; as impressive as pumpkins seem to be, at the end of a year you have a few pumpkin pies and maybe a rotting jack-o-lantern, and that’s it.

That made sense to me then. (The reference to pie and jack-o-lanterns is probably mine, but you get the point.) There must have been a host of movements, 1900 years ago, that would have soundly defeated the Christians on a “Most Likely To Succeed” ballot. But the followers of Jesus, in the above analogy, were a slow-growing but eventually mighty oak tree, not a flash-in-the-pumpkin-pie-pan. I still have a lot to learn about patience, but the evolution of the Baha’i community, from its quietly intimate beginnings in the rose-coloured Garden of Ridvan to what I see now, is enough – barely – to keep me hopeful and sane. It’s over 150 years since Baha’u’llah announced his mission in Baghdad, which isn’t as long ago as our present-focussed obsessions and shortening attention spans can make it seem. His writings confidently predicted the growth of world-wide attention to his teachings and of the community that would arise in his name:

It is incumbent upon all the peoples of the world to reconcile their differences, and, with perfect unity and peace, abide beneath the shadow of the Tree of His care and loving-kindness….Soon will the present-day order be rolled up, and a new one spread out in its stead.

The original “Ridvan” garden, on the shores of the Tigris River in Baghdad. There were roses, roses and nightingales, and joy.

Ridvan now feels like a mighty Declaration, but back then even an attentive neutral observer might have missed the planting of that seed. Baha’u’llah confirmed publicly, to only a few people, what many of his family and friends had quietly known: that he was the one who would lead us to the long-promised day of peace and justice. He thus transformed his upcoming banishment into his modern community’s greatest festival. So how did we get HERE from back THERE? The Baha’is then were few in number, decimated by persecution, and frankly their fellowship seemed like a rather hopeless little twig. I seized on five pivotal years in the steady, seemingly unspectacular growth of the Baha’i community into the beautiful young tree it is today. Here is annual snapshot number one:

 

1892. My father’s parents were young, and would soon meet each other. It’s a little over 125 years since then, the year when Baha’u’llah passed away, leaving his son and family and a still-tiny band of followers to carry on the astounding, world-changing mission he had described and put into motion. Baha’u’llah (an Arabic term, meaning “splendour/light of God”) was not much more widely known than Jesus Christ (“the anointed one”) had been on the cross. His son, ‘Abdu’l-Baha, still a prisoner of the Turkish empire, was left to encourage and inspire a few thousand believers, in a few Middle Eastern countries, to live as his father had prescribed, and to tell the world of Baha’u’llah’s message of world peace, world unity, and the essential oneness of humanity. Good luck with that, folks! But listen: they began.

Continue Reading >>

There’s a party in my mind / And I hope it never stops

Posted by :James Howden On : April 27, 2017
0

Category: At First Glance

Tags:, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Party at Farm Boy! It’s my party, and I’ll write if I want to². (Behold: the second obscure pop-musical reference. Didja get the first¹ one?)

I don’t always write when I want to. I am not, and have never been, blessed with my bride’s Do It NOW! gene, at least when it comes to things requiring effort. TV, and fridge doors (see: opening of), and thinking about sports, and reading whatever falls under my eyes – these things come as naturally as does scrolling through a Twitter feed long after my original sharing-impulse or micro-news hunger has expired. Yes: a fresh entrant to this category of Indomitably Easy Activities.)

But I am writing now.

I sit upstairs at a high-end supermarket called Farm Boy. It’s across the street from Tom the Mechanic, where my wheels are getting readied for summer. Breakfast has merged into lunch. I like buying groceries and eating them at the store. There’s even a chance to be healthy. (-er)

(And yes, music historians, the title was a pop lyric, too. I now have Spotify³ on my phone. Most of my downloads are decades old, but surely “To Pimp a Butterfly” will join my invisible milk-crate library.)

It’s my mother’s birthday, and I’ll cry if I want to. I don’t think I will, though. She’s been gone 10 years now, and I’m easy about it. I will admit, though: when I went by the asparagus downstairs in the produce department, I pronounced it “Ass-per-AG-us” in my head, because that’s what Enid just about unfailingly called it. She was never a teacher – heck, never went to university, why would she? She was female! – but reliably pronounced words in such a way as to make their spelling graspable. “Skizzers” for scissors, “fatty-goo” for fatigue, and so on and on. Whether this was with her five kids’ spelling tests in mind – we all aced ‘em, always – or just a mock-fashionable bit of extreme word-nerdery, I couldn’t say. Ennyhoo, as she also serially concluded: Hi, Mum. You had an effect.

Mum was a Christian, less nervous about death than about tidying up before Mrs. Adams, our housekeeper, got to our place for a weekly clean. She was ecumenical before it was cool, absolutely friendly with those Presbyterians and United Churchers, and dismissive of attempts by an earnest young Baptist pastor to condemn her weekly bridge games as the devil’s playground. When one of her sons was allegedly barred access to the gates of heaven because of consorting with Baha’is, she sniffed, “Well, it won’t be much of a heaven for me if my kids can’t go there.” She hated confrontation, but as I recall it, her comment snuffed that pseudo-theological debate right quick.

Maybe my mother would have liked Benjamin Sledge. I don’t know Mr. Sledge, but in the way of Internet Things I read a blog post of his on a stealth-Christian site called Heart Support. In the article, “Let’s Stop Pretending Christianity is Actually Relevant, Okay?”, Sledge jumps from the Vans Warped Tour (a travelling rock music fest with faithful underpinnings) to 2nd-century Rome, and then back to a moral landscape – modern America – that obviously troubles him. What troubles him most? “Christians”, mainly, both the mainstream don’t give it a second thought kind, on one hand, and the minority have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Saviour and hated gays and abortionists enough? brand. It’s unclear which type is the supreme irritant, but he “welcomes”, actually seems to long for, the growing irrelevance of the Christian faith in modern America. He prefers the heroic, supremely loving and sacrificial expressions of the Gospel that he finds in early Roman history, the reason Christianity originally achieved a civilizing groundswell of popularity in the centuries following the life of Jesus. Ennyhoo: you can read the piece yourself. It’s quite refreshing, especially if you reflexively shudder at the excesses of faith-gone-political. It’s not that, not at all. It gives Christianity a good name, actually.

I’m writing in a Farm Boy supermarket, and yes, it’s been awhile since I got anything Out There. And Mr. Sledge has been pleasantly irritating me: a small snippet of the “Relevant” piece has been a brain-worm, burrowing about because of its significance and its craftiness. So thoughtful and cleverly written it was, in fact, that I Actually Wrote It Down in my sorely neglected paper’n’pen journal, as well as a handy just-in-case-I-get-the-typing-itch Word doc. Sledge refers to a simple, under-acknowledged bit of cultural oddness: people hitting other humans over the head with a book they consider Holy, the Bible. Who DOES that? he basically asks. And what in the world do they think they’re DOING?

“It’s a strange practice to ask people who don’t hold the same beliefs as you to conform to your morals because you quoted a book they don’t read.”

Not bad, eh? One thing I’ve loved about the Baha’is is that they bend over frontwards and backwards to avoid using sacred writings as hammers. Another story.

It’s good to write. Sledge’s article did come my way via Twitter – not that there’s anything wrong with that — but reasoned faith and my mother’s ever-living example (for example), are far less momentary. And all these things — along with old tunes, and squeaky-cheese curds ‘n’ apples for lunch, and sunshine on a day of swapping out the snow tires — got stirred into a bloggy stew. I feel good! Like I knew that I would.₄

And if you’re a long-time reader here, thanks for sticking around. I know this could have gone in the He Said/ She Said section, but as I said:

It’s my party.

¹ “Memories Can’t Wait”, by Talking Heads, from their 1979 album Fear of Music. Spooky good. I like old music, but this doesn’t even feel dated.
² “It’s My Party”. It’s the 1963 Lesley Gore version that I hear, one of my big sisters’ 45s. Quincy Jones’s first big hit, the writer learned!
³ Spotify is tremendous, but I still haven’t given away my vinyl yet, even if it’s no longer in milk crates that I can hunch over as I read liner notes and enjoy album art. I miss the bigness and tangibility of LPs, not gonna lie.
₄ James Brown, of course! 1964. The horn break — da-dum da-dum da-dum DA — was included on the imaginary spoken-and-sung-word version of this post. First heard this on the 8-track player of my high school coach’s faux-wood-sided beat-up station wagon. That was a trip, Donny.

Save the Thinking for Later

Posted by :James Howden On : December 17, 2009
0

Category: At First Glance

Tags:, , , , , ,

I ran this morning, and it was surprisingly good. After a November that was sickly and often rather blue, I’ve begun to re-establish a (physical) fitness routine, which includes a half-hour run every other day. It’s been going fairly well, considering the draggy condition of my posterior during that sorry excuse for a month, but today I didn’t feel at all like running – until I was five minutes in.

Prayer is like that. The disciplines of prayer and meditation have rarely felt easy or natural for me. Although I grew up in a faithful, churchgoing family, I didn’t learn to pray, and certainly not with any system to it; there were only the odd rapid-fire mutterings of grace before a special meal. Though a Baha’i seeks moderation, this one has always been fond of extremes in temperature, immoderate efforts in sport and elsewhere, and those edges of life that “proved”, however uselessly or painfully, that I was no average Jay. Throw in a little melancholy perfectionism, and I found the pathway to prayer free and open only when I felt especially good (read “worthy to approach the sacred threshold”) or remarkably bad (read “emotional free-fall”, “worthy to approach the rocky bottom”). Spirit feast or soul famine. Yet I’ve discovered – and it has felt lovely and fresh every uncountable time – that, mainly, I only really feel like praying once I’m praying. I found that out this morning. (Again!)

In the four months I’ve been heading toward or living in China, the walls to writing have seemed similarly high. For awhile, though I had a very fuzzy imagination of myself being set free to make new word-things here, I was paying attention to the thousand things that a newbie  needs and wants to do. How do we enrol our son in school? Buy groceries? Find this? Understand that? And then I started to think about writing, about creating the psychological and physical space in our modest apartment, about how hard it is here, about the books/time/energy/order I wish I had, and the disappointment of being so far behind writerly young men that I once tutored in the art.

And then I started to write, hesitantly. And it’s early days, yet, but I think I’m remembering that the way in to writing is to write. (As if I hadn’t taught that, not least to myself, for centuries.) It’s such an old and stubborn error: we imagine an existential order in which we have values, and then realize them outwardly; in which we have a recognizable emotion or intellectual impulse and then act upon it. But all the artists who have “gone pro” (as one hard-bitten writing coach put it), all the great Sages, and all the top jock gurus know that it’s often the other way ‘round.

Inspiration comes to those who show up at their workbench, expecting it.

Certitude comes to those who practise, though uncertain.

Guys who can run can run ‘cause they run, so run!

Thinking About Persepolis

Posted by :James Howden On : March 21, 2008
0

Category: At First Glance

Tags:, , , , , , ,

(This is adapted from a piece I wrote for the Grand River Sachem earlier this year.)

What can I tell you? I’m fascinated by many things Iranian. An Ottawa girl, whose parents fled Iran not long after the Revolution in 1982, won Canada’s largest university scholarship in January, in large part because of her activism in publicizing the human rights violations of the Iranian government. (17. Wow! What were you doing at 17? I was mostly trying to perfect my jumpshot.) I’m also a fan of Marjane Satrapi’s bittersweet graphic novel, Persepolis, which has just come out in cinematic form. Persepolis (the ancient Greek name for the Persian empire) was born of a similar love for Iran and lament for its struggles and the oppression of many of its best people.

But now hear this (the tragedy of speechwriting, exhibit A): many people can’t hear mention of Iran without the malignant phrase “axis of evil” echoing around in their skulls. (The George Bush speechwriter who coined this famous political mantra, David Frum, is actually Canadian. I loved his mother Barbara, journalist/interviewer extraordinaire, but his influence in America is no cause for flag-waving, say I.) That Iran is a troubled state with shaky governance is obvious. I am only too aware of some of the political and religious repression that goes on there — my spiritual brothers and sisters have endured nearly two centuries as scapegoats — but I also appreciate Iran’s mighty contributions to world civilization.

The Zoroastrian and Bahá’í Faiths were born there, and some of the fairest fruits of Islamic civilization grew in Persian soil (including the towering mind of Avicenna – Ibn-Sina – a “renaissance man” who pre-dated the Renaissance by hundreds of years). Cyrus and Darius, as we call them in Western histories – Suroosh and Daryoosh would be more nearly correct – are only the best-known kings of a Persian empire that was the greatest of its age. The poetry of Omar Khayyam and especially of Hafiz are landmarks of Iranian culture. In my small contemporary experience, I know some of the sweet expressions of Iranian cinema, music, cuisine and their perfection of the art of courtesy. I see beautiful faces, generosity and a deep pride in their rich and ancient culture. There is so much more to Iran than nukes and turbaned mullahs.

If you’re interested in more on this intriguing and deeply important country, I can recommend a couple of things. Jean-Daniel Lafond – known in Canada mainly as the husband of our Governor General, Michaëlle Jean – is a prominent documentary film-maker. Over a year ago, I saw his 2001 film Salám Iran: A Persian Letter and heard Lafond interviewed immediately afterward. He followed, in his film, the return of an Iranian Canadian, living in exile since the revolution, to his mother and his motherland after two decades away. Lafond collaborated in this film with the writer (Persian Postcards: Iran After Khomeini), translator and lover of Iranian culture Fred A. Reed. In early 2004, the pair returned to Tehran. It was the eve of elections that would spell the end of the reform movement and install the hard-line conservative regime of President Ahmadinejad and all the blustering and crackdowns that came with it.

Lafond’s and Reed’s interactions with ordinary (and extraordinary) Iranians resulted in their newly published book Conversations in Tehran. I still haven’t read it yet, but I was impressed by these two men at an Ottawa Writers’ Festival event. They are worldly, compassionate, scholarly and curious. I detected no particular axe to grind, although it was clear that they hope for more openness and less theocracy in Iran, and for greater understanding and appreciation of the country everywhere else. These are the kind of films and books that most of us never look at, but we’d see the world in a much more interesting light if we more frequently did. These authors aren’t showmen. They are understated, moderate, marvellously articulate and, in their quiet ways, intensely passionate. They love Iran and Iranians with such intelligence and force that no one who listens could fail to think or say, “Maybe there’s more to Iran than I thought.” What Fox News gives us surely isn’t the whole story!

And I know how Reed and Lafond feel. I have much to be grateful to Iran for: some of my most deeply cherished friends and co-workers, for one thing, and for a Persian exile’s vision of peace and hope that keeps me sane, that helps me walk a faithful path with (fairly) intelligent feet. Salam, Iran, indeed. Salam means “peace”, and may it someday be so.

Remembering Iran

Posted by :James Howden On : November 11, 2006
0

Category: At First Glance

Tags:, , , , , , , , , , ,

I  read a reference to James Baker today, that long-time American political operator who’s been well below my radar for years. (Admittedly, my American political radar runs on a Commodore 64.) Mr. Baker is in the news again because, along with Robert Gates, the replacement for Donald Rumsfeld as U.S. Defence Secretary, he is a member of the Senate’s “Iraq Study Group”, an apparently marginalized group which is suddenly relevant. What really piqued my interest was a suggestion that the Group might be leaning, in its efforts to advise the President on how to deal with the dreadful Iraq situation, toward rapprochement with Syria and Iran. Now there’s an idea which is shockingly logical: consult with the neighbours. I hope somebody listens.

But now hear this (the tragedy of speechwriting, exhibit A): many people can’t hear mention of Iran without the malignant mantra “axis of evil” echoing around in their skulls. (That the apparent author of the phrase, David Frum, is Canadian is not a cause for flag-waving chez nous.) That Iran is a troubled state with shaky governance is obvious. I am only too aware of some of the political and religious repression that goes on there, but I also appreciate Iran’s mighty contributions to world civilization. The Zoroastrian and Bahá’í Faiths were born there, and some of the fairest fruits of Islamic civilization grew in Persian soil (including the towering mind of Avicenna – Ibn-Sina – a “renaissance man” who pre-dated the Renaissance by hundreds of years). Cyrus and Darius, as we call them in Western histories – Suroosh and Daryoosh would be more nearly correct – are only the best-known kings of a Persian empire that was the greatest of its age. The poetry of Omar Khayyam and especially of Hafiz are landmarks of Iranian culture. In my small contemporary experience, I know some of the sweet expressions of Iranian cinema, music, cuisine and their perfection of the art of courtesy. I see beautiful faces, generosity and a deep pride in their rich and ancient culture. There is so much more to Iran than nukes and turbaned mullahs.

All of which is a long-winded introduction to a brief report. At the National Library and Archives this week, there was an intriguing chance to reflect on other aspects of Iran. (Thanks, once again, to the folks at the Ottawa Writers Festival.) Jean-Daniel Lafond – known in much of Canada mainly as the husband of our Governor General, Michaëlle Jean – is a prominent documentary film-maker, and he showed and spoke about his 2001 film Salám Iran: A Persian Letter. It follows the return of an Iranian Canadian, living in exile since the revolution, to his mother and his motherland after two decades away. Lafond collaborated in this film with the writer (Persian Postcards: Iran After Khomeini), translator and Iranophile Fred A. Reed, and in early 2004 the pair returned to Tehran. It was the eve of elections that would spell the end of the Khatami reform movement and instal the hardline conservative regime of President Ahmadinejad.

Lafond’s and Reed’s interactions with ordinary (and extraordinary) Iranians resulted in their newly published book Conversations in Tehran. I haven’t read it yet, but I was impressed by these two men. They are worldly, compassionate, scholarly and curious. I detected no particular axe to grind, although it was clear that they hope for more openness and less theocracy in Iran, greater understanding and appreciation of the country everywhere else. M. Lafond was slightly limited by the event taking place in English, but nevertheless spoke well. Mr. Reed, meanwhile, is an understated and moderate presenter but a marvellously articulate and, in his quiet way, an intensely passionate one. He loves Iran and Iranians with such intelligence and force as to silently rebuke anyone who would think of that as “consorting with the Enemy”.

And I know how he feels. I have much to be grateful to Iran for: some of my most deeply cherished friends and co-workers, for one thing, and for a Persian exile’s vision of peace and hope that keeps me sane, that helps me walk a faithful path with (fairly) intelligent feet. Salam, Iran, indeed. May it be so.

Paradise by the Carney Lights

Posted by :James Howden On : August 18, 2006
0

Category: At First Glance

Tags:, , , , , , , , , , ,

Well, maybe not paradise, exactly, but I found a small flood of spirit in the midst of Mammon last night. The Ottawa SuperEx was opening in all its sticky-fingered, gut-heaving glory. The girls had layered on the mascara extra-thick, the boys were gelled and bare of arm, and the same classic rock was blaring from (mostly) the same rides. And I swear that the exact same guys were trying to extract money from my pocket as when I was a flat-bellied kid trying hard to impersonate a Man at the county fair. Can’t win if you don’t spin.

But weirdly enough, just next to the BMX Oooh-Factor Bike Ramp – not its real name – was a stage preparing for a “Joy of Faith” concert. Prayer and proclamation facing down snowcones and kewpie dolls. Hymns and dancing and spoken Word versus the Ferris wheel. It was an odd conjunction but a rather sweet one. The Hindu and Jewish community choirs were in full voice, as were a Mormon crooner and a Muslim rapper who mixed gangsta sounds with between-takes appeals for peace and understanding. The Jain and Sikh communities delighted with colour and dance, and a thundering band of evangelical Christians blended power chords with the Book of Revelations. Bahá’í youth sang and spoke and played in French, English and Gypsy Swing. (Django Reinhardt at the corner of Faith and the Fair! That was better than fun.)

Beside the contrast between the midway and the spirit way, there was an ethic of appreciation for the different ways in which communities express devotion. Some groups were clearly more comfortable than others with this concept of a shared spiritual heritage, seeing unity within religious diversity. But they all came to the table, and they carried something more than caramel corn. I liked it.