Bagshot Row

Bagshot Row is an artistic community which seeks to apply the values and lessons of true, good, and beautiful art to both the spiritual and practical elements of life. Originating in Dubuque, IA and founded by Graeme Pitman, David Kern, Tyler Smith, Justin Phelan, and Riley Miller, Bagshot Row is a mixture of faith, literature, word (both in essay/blog/musing and poetry), photography, prayer, design, and music all bound up in the belief that our very lives can be worship. If you believe, like we do, that art has power to change lives and hearts, be our friend at www.myspace.com/bagshotrow.

On Age and Time

There is a sort of magic in an old man with a cane. It is the magic each man carries inside himself, the magic which says damn time and damn old-age. It says though I am old and though the motherland will claim me, though I soon shall meet a final resting place with peoples of the past, though my body soon shall be devoured by dirt or flame, I won't give up without a fight. It is a magic which allows a falling man to stand, which allows a broken man another chance. Though temporary in it's physical medicinal qualities there is a higher quality for which, I think, it strains: that of soul healing.
Now this is certainly no attempt at a clever introduction to an anecdote concerning any sort of Blues music, it is merely the most concise use of words I can think to describe the idea of which I am considering. What is this soul healing, you might be asking? Think of yourself as older than you are today presently- in some cases much older, in others let not you imagination wander to far. Imagine yourself as 85 perhaps, or 60 might do (Perhaps you cannot imagine yourself being even 40, let alone 21: try anyway.). Imagine that you have lived a full life. Imagine that you've raised a family. Imagine you've been part of something great. Maybe you were a solder, maybe you were a politician, maybe you were a missionary, maybe you were a mother. Let your imagination run wild! See yourself fulfilling all of the dreams that you have today, dreams which might seem impossible, see yourself completing them. Now look back on the life you've just lived (your still imagining) and ask yourself what more you could have accomplished, what more would you like to accomplish. Now look at your cane, sitting stretched across the table where your grandson left it, sticky with candy fingers, and then remember that you can barely walk, remember that you can barely do a thing without that cane. A think of how that cane has given you a chance, these last days of life, to do the things you've yet to do, to re-do what needs re-doing, to go places that need seeing, to talk to people who need goodbyes, to fix what needs fixing. And so that cane has given you another chance, a last chance to say a sweet goodbye to all the things you've done and to say hello to friends you could have had. Stumble to that pipe, but be careful not to fall, and claim for it your own. Draw it like your sword and wield it like a battle-axe. Claim the ending yet to come, for though it may seem a sad thought, it is yours, and final chapters bear the glory of the book.

*****

I often let my imagination run wild while at work, when upon a quiet afternoon an elderly couple ambles in from their Buick with the reflexes of tortoises. I am impressed by the way they speak, often slowly and purposefully, as I am by the looks in their aging eyes. I sometimes imagine that they were eyes, once, which bore the brunt of beauty and now are relaxed under the less scrutinized burden of the face of wisdom. I sometimes am privileged to speak with World War II veterans, men's whose stories are legends and who are many times heroes. I am never not impressed. I imagine the struggles they met upon their return home, to civilian, peace-time life. I imagine job-loss, and disease; I imagine financial struggles and reunions which new fewer men each year. I imagine failing marriages and failing businesses. I imagine families of children and pets and grandchildren and Christmases and long car rides and tears and funerals and paying for college many times over, and retirement, and a condo in Florida, and sending money to great-grandchildren, and spouses passing away, and being alone, and fighting on, like they did so many times before.

****
It is a beautiful thing to see: that same elderly couple arm in arm, helping each other to the table, helping interpret each others sentences. It is a beautiful thought: 50 or 60 years of marriage, of love, of till death do us part. It is a beautiful thought: engagement, marriage, weddings nights, first houses, children, jobs, working through issues together, homework and soccer, high school and proms, college payments and being alone again where it all began. I pray that one day I too will experience such beauty. I pray I too will have been with one person for 50 or 60 years, growing and living and loving her till death do us part.

****

I have of late been thinking much of the idea of time and our relation to it. Graeme, who is good at these types of things, directed me toward the following quote by Pascal from his Penses which summarizes, I think in good measure my own thoughts: " When I consider the brief span of my life absorbed into the eternity which comes before and after.the small space I occupy and which I see swallowed up in the infinite immensity of spaces of which I know nothing and which know nothing of me, I take fright and am amazed to see myself here rather than there: there is no reason for me to be here rather than there, now rather than then. Who put me here? By whose command and act were this time and place allotted to me?" (Penses 205).
Truly, the answers to these questions are central to any argument concerning our existence, but beyond our beliefs concerning such philosophy, there is another question which remains, and which remains, too often, unanswered: with what will we reward said "allotter?"
Throughout history some men have lived and died for kings, some for books, and still others for women, but there is inside each of us a desire to attain honor, to experience love, to know truth. Now few men experience each equally: some desire honor more than love, and some love more than truth, but these three stand out above the rest. Too often though, in my estimation, they are forgotten, there is no conscience effort to know any of the three, no honest undertaking to have relationship with them in any way. Do we allow ourselves to go on through life, wasting the time we are given with frivolity no nearer to honor, love, and truth than the Easter Bunny is to the North Pole on Christmas Eve? Consider.
This evening I had the privilege to watch the Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Ring again and I was moved at Boromir's farewell scene towards the end of the film. He has attempted to steal the ring away from Frodo but realizing his wrong has jumped to the aid of the hobbit's friends Merry and Pippin who are being attacked by Orcs. He fights ferociously before he is killed by the arrows of an Orc archer. I imagine him fighting for his honor more than his life, in defense of his soul and personhood than of his body. I imagine his restitution coming with each sword thrust, with the shriek and death of each orc: a sort of reckoning. He was given one final chance, and when he died he was forgiven, forgiven by himself most importantly of all.
This came after wise words from the wizard Gandalf when in the dark mines of Moria he encouraged Frodo by responding to the wanderers worries with the following advice:
FRODO
I wish the ring had never come to me...I
wish none of this had happened.

GANDALF
So do all who live to see such times, but
that is not for them to decide. All we
have to decide is what to do with the
time that is given to us.


All that we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. Indeed, Indeed. And so let us determine to seek after honor, love, and truth. Let us consider the time we are given as something more than coincidence. Let us deal with it accordingly.
There will come a day when your days will be nearing their end, when you will look back and judge your self, you will be forced to judge your life. What will you see? What will you wish you could change and for what will you use your cane? Will you be Boromir fighting for restitution, seeking a reckoning? Or will you be Frodo, having endured the journey as it came, prepared to enter the joys of the gray havens?

"The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say."

-Tolkien, in the words of Bilbo Baggins


"Still round the corner their may wait
A new road or a secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will com at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun. "

-Tolkien, in the words of Frodo Baggins

In Between Here and There Is War

To catapult your image into our inane and inept culture is so easy at first, your first volley successful; and so attractive too, but, as you cross the moat and enter into the layers of the fortress of "life" you realize that the victory would be so much less easily won than you planned at the outset. Allies fall, wounds mount, the fight becomes expensive on so many fronts. And so the siege begins. On the one side our world stands firm, behind it darkened walls, all the intrigue so desired, hidden behind the shadow of fire and pain; on the other side there is you and your army of curiosity, desire, and flesh torn up from fighting unknowingly for the enemy, yet for themselves. the paradox of selfishness and our culture: the thing you seek is the thing you serve.
and at night, when all the lights go down, and all you see is fire and all you hear are the painful cries of your own heart arguing against your mind as strategy is invented, the moment comes. a final volley, a final attempt---or, or, maybe your better side will win out, and, just maybe, you'll reverse field and crawl away, your attempt at getting in swallowed up by your realization that there is something more real than whats inside that castle of our world. and you will raise up your army of thought, reason, and faith and seek out a more true victory. Seek a castle where the doors are open, just waiting for the inquiring mind, the inspired soul, the faithful heart, to cross the moat and enter. A castle built on cornerstones of truth, of beauty, of life; Paved with heaven's hope, decorated with the jewels of eternity's Joy. Which castle will you barrage? Which victory do you desire? Which battle are you fighting?
There's one to win, and one to lose. And tommorrow's hope depends upon your choice.

Riverstages. Column I

The Old Guys Did It Best

By: D. Andrew Kern

Capra, Hitchcock, Bogart, Hepburn, Welles, Brando, “Citizen Kane”, and “Casablanca”, the names roll off the tongue much like Emerson, Kipling, Fitzgerald, and Lewis might, amazing in their own right and remembered by a few loyal fans, but largely forgotten by much of young America. It is a sad truth that such greatness is only remembered by connoisseurs of film and movie history, people who know intricate details of cinematic progress, and not by the simple moviegoer, the average American; for in not knowing these great stalwarts of immense talent they are surely missing out.

Without understanding how Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane influenced modern cinematography and photography, or how the character development of the suave Humphrey Bogart changed the typical models of character analysis and portrayal, and how his classic film “Casablanca” challenged all the old ideas of script writing, how can today’s moviegoers truly appreciate what they see on screen?

I suppose some may say, in response, that it doesn’t matter if they understand, who cares if we are educated moviegoers, why can we not just pay our 10 bucks and enjoy the film as it stands on its own? Well first of all because no movie today, just stands on its own, just like no album by Switchfoot, Kanye West, or Kenny Chesney stands on its own. Sure, every artist brings their own creative flair to their product (or at least it is reasonable to hope they do), but no artist, in any industry, is completely un-influenced by past greats.

This is certainly true in literature as well. The great writers of past generations are too easily and too often forgotten, their words fading away into the pages of high school textbooks and outdated editions, their ideas obscured and confused between library woodworking and bookshop shelves. And this is a great injustice to the dignity of their work. Their words ought to be thought about, discussed, enjoyed, and most importantly, read. To banish the great writers of past generations to categorized realms of disinterest is to cheat the newest generations of readers of a great wealth of thought, imagination, and revolutionary concepts. In so doing we are, ultimately, banishing our own minds from realms of wonderment and amazement.

And so, I say the old guys got it right. Let’s bring them back. Let’s remember what they did. Let’s use their talents to better understand how to make movies, how to write; lets not cheat ourselves of the great wealth we can have.

That’s what I propose to do in this column, to review, in the truest sense of the word, what the “old guys” did, review the old classic films and books, the actors, directors, and writers. The worlds they created and the characters they brought to life. Let’s talk about Casablanca, Hitchcock, Fitzgerald and the rest. Because the “old guys” truly did do it best.

Yellows, greens, golds,blues, and whites, and acts one to the end. the greatest play write of them all.

Quietly the yellow grass, tall from the long summer and the rainstorms of the past months, blew serenely in the light breeze. The wind whispered to the tree, tall and kingly, Lord of the field. The tree responded with a royal bow, its branches gave a regal curtsy, in acquiescence to the sentiment expressed. It wore a brilliant crown, that stately arbor did, it’s colors changing as seasons conceded to each other. Its cloak was colored in browns and grays, its décor intent on camouflage, though alone as it was, camouflage was hardly a likely possibility. High above, across a deep blue sky, as if adopted by a Tar Heel, a striking cloud, looked down intently as it journeyed to another place, this sky its highway to a greater destination. Its speed was never great though not so slow as if to cause much consternation. This sky was glad to have another visitor; it now could share its tea with more than just the sun. Together the three, in dress of blue and gold and white, contrasting delicately would share those middle hours and renew old friendship as grass, wind, and tree were doing just below.

I came upon this little scene, breathtaking as it was, when, once upon a morning’s dew I’d set out for some silence. To my dismay I walked through market, queue, and neighborhood, the things of life and busyness arming my continued discontent. ‘Bout noon I sat upon a bench, sun bleached and painted by the violent discontent of others with whom, though I’d never met, I still identified. My head into my hands fell; disappointed with my unsuccessful attempt at finding some sort of tranquility. But I was hardly ready to give in. And so, from my seat I gladly rose and my journey again began, my persistence soon rewarded.

Not long afterwards I came upon this quiet field, this place of contentment and satisfaction. I felt as if I’d walked upon, accidentally, a scene from heaven’s Globe, a stage set, characters prepared, first line in mind, and director waiting to give first cue. The colors danced daintily, exquisitely, elegantly before my starving eyes. I stood; my senses enveloped in the scene, my unrefined soul in awe, and admired the movement of the actors. The noiseless tensions, the silent action, relationships prepared with utmost care, the scene was witty and clever, dramatic and vivid, a love story from ages past. The script was written with a flawless hand, penned with ink from paradise, each transition, each high, each low, was composed with angelic melodies in mind. The harmony of all that stood upon that stage was matchless, burning into me a peace of heaven. My own dull world, my place, my home, my existence meaning less and less each moment of my visit.

But all good things must end, and soon another world was calling- my market, queue, and neighborhood. I left, my vision stored away, my dream kept in a quiet place, and I understood that the best, the greatest things in life are quiet things, which speak no words and never argue, which never look in jealously upon a neighbors own, which exist, alone, no matter who is looking on. The greatest things are the silent, little things, the visions of heaven, the dreams of paradise, the raptures of bliss. And I will go back often… I will go back often. I will go back, for I know that in doing so I am worshipping the greatest play write of them all.

life is fragile

Life is fragile, lest we forget, read this link:
http://sports.espn.go.com/ncf/news/story?id=2172623

Everyone should read this link. its a great story. I know some of you may see "espn" in the link and shy away, but its not a sports story as much as a human interest story. Read it.

It's amazing how fragile life is, any day any of us could be diagnosed with cancer, or die in a car crash, or be terribly scarred for life in an accident. Where does your faith lie? When it's all said and done, and when the fat lady has finished her last shrill note, what will happen to you?



Consider.

A Question On My Heart

Consider...

What does it mean to be a christian? In a culture where 80 percent of it's citizens claim eternal security and heavenly citizenship and yet is permeated with idolatry, things such as sex, cars, and food being specific idols, how can we know what it means to be a true christian?

well, as for me, when an unbeliever asks if i am a christian i want to be able to say this: ''if, by christian, do you mean someone who loves their Lord and wants to be like Him and follow Him with all my heart and life, then yes i am a christian, for their is no other definition worth considering.'' And indeed, what other type of christianity is worth pursuing? Chrisitianity ought to be about relationship and as such a relationship with Christ ought to be permeated, in contrast with our society today, with servanthood and a constant gaze upon the throne of heaven from eyes desiring to truly see the Beauty of God.

Do you claim to be a christian?

If so, do you desire to be like your Lord, and are you willing to enter into servanthood and gaze upon the ever beautiful throne of grace?

consider.