Give Me Truth

"Give Me Truth. For I Cannot Take the Surface."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yesterday was a beautiful day in New York. I decided that I would skip my usual run in Central Park or gym routine on 76th Street.

Instead, I walked. I walked along Central Park from 82nd to 112th. Essentially, I walked from the Upper West Side to Harlem. Along the way, I was amazed at the architecture of the buildings facing Central Park, most of them pre-war vintage. On 105th, the first hospital in New York City devoted solely to cancer patients, has been rehabbed. It is now elegant two to four bedroom condos. The building is terra cotta, with two towers connected by a walkway. Bear in mind, that before 1990, this part of Central Park West( between Central Park and 96 to the river/Morningside Park ) was "owned" by crack dealers and pimps. Gentrification certainly agrees with the neighborhood.

I turned the corner onto Amsterdam at 110th, and on the hill above was the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It is magnificent and reminds me of Notre Dame in its massive size and lovely grounds ( but no flying buttresses ). I love this grand Episcopal church which is known for its dedication to the surrounding community, and for its involvement in social justice issues locally, nationally, and internationally.

When my sons were younger, I brought them to the cathedral for the winter solstice concert. Every year, Paul Winter, New Age musician par excellence, brings musicians from all over the world to celebrate the bringing back of light. The performance always ends the same way. Every light in the cavernous church is extinguished as Winter's clarinet fills the space with dark, sultry sounds. Other instruments join his plaintive song and a crescendo builds. Suddenly, just above the altar, a man appears clothed in a loin cloth and begins banging a gong. The spotlight brightens as he is raised up toward the ceiling, continuing his primal sound until he reaches the top. The room is full of light, the music quickens, its now joyful sound almost deafening. I always leave that ritual glad to be alive.

But yesterday, there was no music, no people at all. I walked along the perimeter of the massive nave where there are a dozen or so side altars. My favorite is the American Writers Corner. On the floor of this niche, each author's name is carved on a granite rectangle that measures about 3 feet by 2 feet. And beneath their name, a quote of theirs. Whitman, Dickinson, Thoreau, Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop, Thomas Stedman Eliot, Longfellow. They're all there.

One stood out. "Give me truth. For I cannot take the surface." Maybe it's the 60 marker that has made me impatient, less tolerant of people who hide behind structure and convention, or more troubling fear and pride of being "found out". I wonder if Emerson was 60 when he wrote this quote? I don't know. But I share his yearning.

I do not want to take the time to find what is beneath the surface with those who do not want to be revealed. And yet, in an imperfect world, I can only hope to be met with truth. It's mighty hard to find most days.
M.C.