J.M. Jacob Books

I stand small,

insignificant

to the firmament

that stretches beyond.

I stand in awe

of the universe

to which my soul,

puny, does ascend.

I stand enthralled

by the infinite,

beyond my control

yet made real

by my place in it.

I stand tall,

knowing

each moment,

created by what I intend,

Truth told, dear.

Fewer years lie ahead

than have gone before.

Held close

this reflection proves

time passed.

Deep lines

on cheek and brow

show happiness and sorrow.

There is nothing to fear;

Draw near the echo

of where you’ve been,

look long.

Learn to love

each crease and furrow.

The mirror, laid down

reveals the world

The Past

We are rooted in the past.

Children are set on a course over which they have little control. Those who experience neglect and abuse are like a seeds cast recklessly onto the soil. They struggle to grow in spite of their beginnings, their roots stymied. The focus of their energy is instead drawn upward, hearkened by the need to survive.

Children from warm homes with loving families feel connected. Their roots burrow deep, multiply and expand. For them, equal measure is given to setting a strong foothold, and to reaching heavenward.

In adulthood, who we are is of our own making. We are responsible to contend with the experiences of our youth, and with the mistakes we made along the way. What do we do in order to thrive, regardless the past?

Our Practices

We are what we practice.

Each leaf that festoons the stem leading from the root to the flower represents our practices. Practices create who we are. Long walks in the forest, meditation at dawn, home cooked meals, travel with friends, and listening to music that feeds our soul, are examples of positive practices. Bad habits, too, define us. Yet they can be plucked from the stem, causing no harm and providing the space needed for a new, healthy habit to grow.

Practices are completely within our control, and ultimately determine who we are. Our habits, good or bad, inform our decision-making and affect who will come into our lives. The right choices, repeated, can mitigate the ravishes that came before, sending our roots down and down, and setting our sights higher and higher.

Our Presence

We are present but ever changing.

The people in our lives, our possessions, and in some measure our professions, reflect who we are. Expressed as the blossoms of the flower, these outward aspects of our character present our face to the world. They may be lovely, but they are also transient. Blossoms form and fall. The acceptance of this reality is vital to our sense of wellbeing.

If we find ourselves in crisis, we must become more self-aware. Who is in our lives, what do we possess – those things we hold onto but do not need, and equally what possesses us, are important questions to ask. This self-examination provides awareness, yet doesn’t bring change. Change comes from engaging in new

behavior. These practices blossom, and the petals that grow reflect our changing nature. We are transformed, and our world transforms around us.

Our Promise

Our promise is fulfilled through giving.

If I had

wise words to say

would I wait

until another day?

If I had

advice to share

would I tarry silent

your feelings spared?

If I had

caution to bear

would I stay at ease

hiding my fear?

If I had

hope to give

would I keep quiet

knowing all isn’t fair?

 If I had

a calm repose

would I state my case

without concern?

If I had

a heart wide open and free

would I sing and dance

showing the way?

If I had

truth to tell

would I shout out loud

making certain I’m heard?

If I had

the skill to sway

would I bring you close

and your doubts allay?

 “How fortuitous,

life, the chance

to be here.

Each moment, a gift,

for us to hold dear

The steps we take

as we travel along

through twists and turns

create who we are.

Ideas encountered

some made our own.

Others, for good measure,

we lose and move on.

Who we will be

when at the end

is for us to choose,

My heart,

which holds you dear,

is broken wide-open.

Rived by sorrow,

all I have left

is not knowing.

Will the world still turn

without you here?

This loss, demurred,

was destined.

Loving you

promised the morrow

That feeling.

You aren’t where

you’re supposed to be.

Without a home;

the unknown

beckons.

You roam,

looking for

a place to rest.

Fraught

this wanderlust;

steps taken

to erase memory.

Lay down

the burden past.

The wrongs, wrong.

The rights, right.

But they are gone.

Things remembered

are only as important

as you deem.

What’s carried in your heart

Religion is the coming together of people who share similar beliefs. Our beliefs are formed in the same way our opinions are formed, by the influence of tradition and life experience. There are multitudes of religions that have existed around the world, and various sects within those religions. The image of the divine has varied widely. The Vikings revered Thor with his hammer, while Christians venerate an elderly man sitting on a throne. Each illustrates the ongoing endeavor to elucidate the divine.

This begs a question. How can the omnipresent be changed? The answer lies in our understanding that how we imagine the divine is a reflection of our struggle to cope in the world. Our needs, individually and as part of a culture, change. Those attending a church, mosque, or synagogue have differing views of the world. Their differences aren’t about being right or wrong, but instead reflect their unique cultures. As cultures change, religions evolve to accommodate those changes.

We frequently encounter members of a particular faith who claim that their beliefs provide the only true path. In concert, we are warned that if we don’t believe as they do, we will experience eternal torture. If I have doubt or disbelief, and I die during a time of spiritual confusion, am I headed to hell? Some would say most certainly, and provide the example of Job. Others would say that to have doubt is to be closer to the divine, because only by living honest lives due we encounter the true, human experience.

President Trump isn’t the first president to use vulgarity. He isn’t the first president to be racist. He isn’t the first president to use vulgarity to express his racism.

There can be no more vulgar an expression of racism than slavery, and eight of our presidents were slaveholders. Andrew Jackson, who enslaved 150 people, is known for his ruthless treatment of Native Americans, abrogating their rights in favor of White settlers. (Notably, Mr. Jackson is a hero to our current commander in chief.) We have more recent examples of racism in the Oval Office. Lyndon Johnson, whom we credit for the 1964 Civil Rights Act, referred to the legislation as the “nigger bill”. His successor, Richard Nixon, went on racist tirades that were recorded for posterity and are on file at the National Archives.

The Nixon tapes may be a reason our expectations changed. Our embarrassment at his bigotry made us insist that our presidents not be so crass. It didn’t matter that our presidents were racist, but we needed them to keep it well under wraps. There had been too much pain, too much bloodshed, for us to tolerate an openly racist attitude. Presidential racism was instead camouflaged as conservatism. President Reagan, who was adept at dog-whistle politics, implemented policies that gutted programs intended to mitigate the impacts of racism.

In 2008, something historic happened. We elected our first African-American president. Some viewed this as a defining moment, a moment that could atone for our racist past. They were given hope. Others perceived Mr. Obama’s presidency as a threat, and expressed their fears as “birtherism”, a notion that plagues us still.

The reemergence of open racial hostilities during President Obama's two terms forced White America to face what it tried so hard to ignore - that the racial divide still exists.

The preference, for those of us who live with the claim of whiteness, is to forget. If you remind us that we still have far to go, we become irritated. If you persist, we take it as an ultimatum. We prefer indifference, and if pushed to take notice we become hostile. We do not want to face this reality, one that we find so upsetting. So we deny our history, and pretend that racism no longer exits. In psychoanalysis, denial is a psychological defense we use to reduce our anxiety in reaction to circumstances that we find particularly disturbing.

10.7 million Africans were shipped to the United States. Two million Africans died during the transatlantic voyage. It is estimated that 80% of the Native population was wiped out, due to war, disease, displacement and genocide. It was rationalized that their deaths were God’s plan; their demise made way for European settlement. Who wouldn’t want to deny this reality?

Their purpose, served.

To bring beauty,

they endured

longer than expected.

The leaves,

edges furrowed with a touch of brown,

arch upward determined to hold on.

The blossoms,

colors muted by the passing hours,

are lovely still.

Each soft fold

carries the promise

you made with yourself.

Tired in their undertaking

the petals fall

tumbling to the tabletop.

That moment

makes it known –

the joy in longing

is equal to the joy

Every day the news informs us of another incident involving men who are well known and the women who’ve accused them. If not for the men’s notoriety, we would not know. Yet the behavior of which they are accused isn’t unique to the rich and famous. No, it is ubiquitous.

When the news sends us reeling, it is easy for our emotions to run high and our judgment to become clouded. Our gut reaction is to paint all of the accused, regardless their behavior, with the same brush. I believe that it is important to take a step back, to become more rational and measured in our reaction. To this end, I propose we ask questions that will enable us to analyze these situations:

1.     Was the perpetrator in a position of power over the victim?

2.     Was the perpetrator more physically imposing than the victim?

3.     Did the perpetrator engage in the misbehavior repeatedly?

4.     What was the outcome for the victim of the perpetrator’s actions?

5.     Was the perpetrator’s behavior a crime?

The answer to each question provides a guide for us in judging the behavior’s severity, and for considering what the outcome for the perpetrator should be. For example, I will use our set of questions to examine the repeated harassment I experienced when I was in high school.

1.     Were the perpetrators in a position of power over me? No, we were peers.

2.     Were the perpetrators more physically imposing than me? Yes, given that I weighed all of 115 pounds.

3.     Did the perpetrators engage in the behavior repeatedly? They most certainly did, and seemed to take great delight that their lewd comments caused me embarrassment.

4.     What was the outcome for me, the victim? I dreaded the walk between my locker and my next class, I felt angry and humiliated, but more significantly I felt that women were at the whim of men, without recourse.

5.     Were the perpetrators’ actions a crime? No. 

So am I owed anything? An apology would be nice, but that is unlikely given the intervening decades. There are some who would say I should just get over it. Well I have, by and large. But I still remember.

I wish I could say that the most significant harassment I experienced was from those immature lads in high school. That is not the case. Have I been the victim of a crime? Yes. These things happened years ago. There is no remedy, no satisfactory outcome. I live with the memories, and therapy has helped. I was the victim of men who see women as a commodity, a thing to be used.

I have known good and noble men who find sexual harassment and assault appalling. I have known immature men who made mistakes that can be forgiven. I have known selfish men who used the imbalance of power to get their way. I have known immoral men who took what they wanted against my will.

Whether it be the dirty joke told at work to illicit a reaction, the man in the subway who grabs your ass, or the guy who decided, that regardless your reaction, he’d be having sex with you – it’s all manipulation, based on the notion that men have the right to impose on women.

Evil exists in the world

but not in us.

It is made manifest

by the actions of those

who lost their way.

Compelled to share their burden

our hearts ache,

yet our spirits remain unbroken.

We are allayed

by the good in the world;

certain in knowing

Golden slices rest

in the glass Mason jar,

sitting on the cupboard shelf

waiting for you to

take them down.

And with a twist of the lid,

sealed long ago,

by loving hands,

the treasure is opened.

You, in anticipation

of the sweetness promised,

One of the reasons women don’t talk about their experiences with sexual harassment and sexual assault is the concern that in telling their story, it will define who they are. So they remain quiet. The fear of what others will think causes women to keep secrets.

Secrecy is an act of self-preservation. Why is it necessary? Because the victim knows others will see her as being tainted, and ultimately culpable. The fact that this happened changes how she is viewed, even though she had no power to prevent it. It is a characteristic of our society - those who are marginalized carry the blame for what is done to them.

We have inherited an egregious legacy from the misogyny of our culture. It is expected that men will act on their sexual impulses. Women who act on their impulses are considered to be sluts. Women who fall victim to the impulses of men are also given this title. It is unearned. 

Men, too, are the victims of sexual assault. Although women experience 86% of assaults, the statistics don’t negate the pain of male victims. The stigma of this crime knows no gender.

In 1619

a fog began its creep

across this land.

Billowed by

the avarice of man,

curled tendrils,

dense-white,

seeped into our conscience.

Shrouded by clouds

of our own creation,

we stumble,

lost yet clinging

tight to the notion – 

the haze is the light

the sun is the mist.

Blind by intent.

The truth, swept distant,

is stained by the blood

Days bygone

flow forever

into the past,

making memories.

Those held dear, a gift,

others, made aloof by pain.

The water awaits.

Your cares cast

into the current,