George Bernard Shaw

Life is no brief candle to me.  It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.

The Bicycle

The Bicycle

I noticed the bicycle “graffiti” painted on the wall of the building.  It clearly had been painted a long time ago as there were several new coats of paint that carefully outlined, but didn’t touch, the two wheeler’s silhouette.  The building was a windowless, cement monster left over from an era of government efficiency that left no room for beauty or creativity.  Edgardo, a bright fifteen year old native of the city of Resistencia and member of the Christian Church, Disciples of Christ in Argentina took me on a tour of downtown, pointing out the same bicycle painted on different walls around the city. 

But it was that first bicycle I saw that I won’t forget.  It was painted on the wall by the first step leading to an unobtrusive side- entrance to that massive building.  Edgardo took me inside to what had been holding rooms, torture chambers and dungeons during the horrid years of the Argentine military dictatorship.  The stark walls and bare rooms screamed painfully louder than words or photographs.  I could not stand to look past the iron bars of a little gate, down the dark stairs to a water-filled basement, muddy hand-prints still streaking the paint.  I escaped back out onto the street gulping in the cool air, filling my lungs with freedom and willing my soul and stomach to settle.  Edgardo followed me outside. 

We stood there beside the painted silhouette bicycle, and gently he explained.  “You might say this is protest art.  During the dictatorship, two friends met on the street, one riding his bicycle and the other walking.  The friend on the bicycle did not greet his friend who was walking, but rode past and a short distance away, got off his bicycle and tied it to a tree.  He never turned to look at or acknowledge his friend.  The next day, the friend who had been walking, hurt by the indifference, found the bicycle still tied to the same tree.  He never saw his friend again.  Then he found out his friend had been followed by the police the day before and knew he would be arrested.  He did not greet his friend so as to not put him into danger.  We know that there were at least 350 bicycles painted around the city in places where people were kidnapped, detained or shot.  The bicycle beside this doorway indicates the entrance to this detention and torture center right on the main square of my city.  Everyone knew what happened here, but the police denied any wrong doing.  After the dictatorship ended, and this and other buildings were re-conditioned and white-washed for new and less violent purposes, the painters have carefully avoided erasing the silent protest of the bicycle.    This bicycle, and the others painted around town, reminds us that we still have many questions from the dictatorship that we must struggle as individuals and as a country to understand and answer.  This is the silent appeal of the rider-less bicycle: “Where is my friend?”

Elena Huegel

Resistencia, Argentina

July 2014

    

Walt Whitman

...I know nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses
toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet
along the beach just in the edge of the
water, or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or
sleep in bed at night with anyone I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding
in the car, or watch honey-bees busy
around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields, or birds,
Or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the
new moon in spring.

These with the rest, one and all, are to me
miracles, the whole referring, yet each distinct in in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark
is a miracle.  Every cubic inch of space
is a miracle, every square yard of the
surface of the earth is spread with
miracles, every foot of the interior swarms
with miracles.

Rev. Peter Gomes

Hope is a slippery word and particularly so when it is used in connection with the future and as an antidote to anxiety and fear, but it is just hope that people require in facing their futures; and hope´s greatest power is that it enables the present by embracing the future... Hope does not deny the circumstances of the present, and hope doesn't help us get out of our difficulties.  Hope doesn't get us out, but it does get us through.

Madeleine L'Engle

I will not have anything to do with a God who cares only occasionally.  I need a God who is with us always, everywhere, in the deepest depths as well as the highest heights.  It is when things go wrong, when the good things do not happen, when our prayers seem to have been lost, that God is most present.  We do not need the sheltering wings when things go smoothly.  We are closest to God in the darkness, stumbling along blindly.

Nancy Wood

My help is in the mountain
Where I take myself to heal
The earthly wounds
That people give to me.
I find a rock with sun on it
and a stream where the water runs
gently and the trees which one
by one give me company.
So must I stay for a long time
Until I have grown from the rock
And the stream is running through me
And I cannot tell myself from one tall tree,
Then I know that nothing touches me
Nor makes me run away.
My help is in the mountain
That I take away with me.

Earth cure me.  Earth receive my woe.
Rock strengthen me.  Rock receive my
weakness. Rain wash my sadness away.
Rain receive my doubt.  Sun make sweet
my song.  Sun receive the anger from
my heart.