Toward an Angelic State of Mind

The teachings of Emmanuel Swedenborg have shaped my ethical and moral values since I was a child. My subsequent introspections, experiences, studies, discoveries and teachings developed by the works, philosophy and spiritual teachings of Swedenborg form the narrative basis of the 37 essays and letters that comprise Toward an Angelic State of Mind: Essays of Spirit from a Swedenborgian Novelist.

Many of the essays in this collection first appeared in New Church Life, for which I wrote for twenty years. Thus, there are literally hundreds of attributed references to Swedenborg’s writings and commentaries. The other essays convey my experiences in the world as a teacher, author and lifelong student whose works and actions are bedrocked in Swedenborgian philosophy, mysticism and thought.

Consequently, as the reader passes through Toward an Angelic State of Mind, he or she will not only see various elements of Swedenborgian philosophy as they shaped my life, but also how I grew to integrate them in my every day walk — whether in a classroom full of inmates, down to the pristine Havasupai Falls of Arizona, along Thoreau’s Walden Pond, or navigating the heart of marriage with my wife of 42 years, Betsy. Toward an Angelic State of Mind is very much a series of photographs of a Swedenborgian’s life — a life filled with adventure, discovery, success, error, redemption, and the greatest of all gifts: lifelong love of wife and family.

Fall Colors Trip

We celebrated our 50th class reunion at the Academy of the New Church in Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania on October 9-12th. Four high school chums - Bill and Carol Kronen, wife Betsy and I, headed out by car for two weeks of digitally capturing a million fall leaves as "they brighten up and let go," just as we hope to do at the end of our lives! Whale-watching and moose hunting (all with just our cameras) were on our agenda.

We clicked away to Deep River, Connecticut, and enjoyed Verne and Carolyn Wehr's lovely home on a lake. Thanksgiving dinner came early!
We hung out two days on the Cape Cod hook, whale-watching from Falmouth to Provincetown. We returned to Walden Pond, to the Minute Man statue, staying at the Colonial Inn, where my hero, Henry David Thoreau once lived. We love and always have loved Concord, Massachusetts. Concord initiated the Revolutionary War with its Minute Men, and led the charge of the American Renaissance, with great thinkers such as Emerson and Thoreau, Hawthorne and Whitman, Dickinson, and Longfellow. From Concord we travelled to Bar Harbor, and from Bar Harbor to St. Stephens, New Brunswick.

At St. Johns, we boarded a fast car ferry to Digby, Nova Scotia, and drove all the way past Halifax, Nova Scotia, to Eastern Passage. After the sights of Nova Scotia, we drove all the way up to Baddeck on Cape Breton Island to take in the vast talents of Alexander Graham Bell demonstrated in his museum. Impressive! We came back to Bangor, Maine, via New Glasgow, and wallowed in the beauties of the White Mountains of New Hampshire and the Green Mountains of Vermont. After forty years of wishing, we avidly drank in Bennington, Vermont, with its Battle Monument, Bennington Pottery, and the Bennington Museum, where my Grandfather Gilbert Haven Smith has oil paintings from where he lived in South Shaftsbury, Vermont.

On our last day of the trip, on Sunday, October 26th, we were delighted to attend the Cadel Chapel (It's a Cathedral, actually) at West Point. We soaked in the most beautiful music from its male choir, including the tenderly sung hymn, "I Love You, Lord, and I Lift My Voice," which floated out to us from the nave. We were touched by readings of one of our favorite Psalms, Psalm 19, by a guest speaker from the American Bible Track Society, which that day donated one thousand Bibles to the new freshman plebes, just as it has done for a hundred years....

...Leaves surrounded us on all sides on our 3,000-plus mile Fall adventure. The yellow-purple White Ash leaves stand out in October, but after they change color, they are the first to fall after a heavy frost. Red Oak leaves glower at the paler Pin Cherry, whose purple-green leaves change to yellow, followed by the late blooming Quaking Aspen. Speckled Alder refuses to change color and alternates with the White Birch golden leaves, while the single-leaf Tupelo blushes next to the three-leaf stems of the American Mountain Ash with their bright berries and red leaves, prominent on high ridges in early fall. The Yellow Birch, along with White Birch and Mountain Birch, color the high slopes bright yellow in early October.

...The pale yellow Linden or Basswood leaves had no luck hiding all the skinny Sumac dark red and purple leaves, with their fuzzy twigs resembling antlers "in velvet."Mid-October's most prominent colors came from the yellow, orange, and sometimes red leaves of the Sugar Maple. The Red or Swamp Maple stands out early with bright red--with yellow and orange--color leaves, but it's the first to bare all. The aging American Beech leaves seem full of veins. The yellow leaves fade to bronze, but often stay on the tree all winter long. The Witch Hazel's yellow leaves provide camouflage for its small yellow flowers. The Striped Maple's huge leaves turn bright yellow or even creamy. The Large-Toothed Aspen brags with its larger leaves, but has the same colors as its smaller cousin, the Quaking Aspen....

...The names of places we encountered flashed with poetry, rhythm and humor. Where else but New England and the Canadian Maritime Provinces could you find these couplings?

- Bucks Port, Bar Harbor and Passamaquoddy.
- Bath, Boothbay Harbor and Christmas Cove.
- Round Pound, Nobleboro and Hog Island.
- Mashpee, Mushaboom, Meddybemps and Ecum Secum:

(that's right--Ecum Secum! No wonder Stephen King wrote maniacal novels--he's a Maine-iac, and not that far from Nova Scotia...)

- Pictou, Caribou, Necum Teuch and Tatamagouche.
- Lunenburg, Bayhead and Pugwash.
- Oromockto, Stewiale, Memramcook and Bangor, Maine....

Thoreau and Walden still rock!!

Think of numerous Academy teachers who introduced us to Thoreau and Walden.
Okay, so I’m the only guy who liked the book.
It took at least fifty-eight years for the United States to treasure this author and for the book to become a classic.
Eight hundred out of one thousand copies of Walden were still on Thoreau’s bookshelves when he died…in 1862…

Have you guys seen the 1995 Walden, by Henry D. Thoreau: An Annotated Edition Edited by Walter Harding??

It is just about the biggest find since Eckhart Tolle’s New Earth or Tutankhamen. One of the best gifts I ever received.

If you love incredibly good nature writing and thoughtful reflections on mankind, try it.

Did you know Ralph Waldo Emerson had his Transcendental Reading Group in Concord read Emanuel Swedenborg’s True Christian Religion, Heaven and Hell, and Conjugial Love?
Another touching story…..

Tornado Fever Excerpt

Just to whet your appetites, here's an excerpt from the beginning of the soon to be released Tornado Fever...

Call me the kid with a vivid imagination. The midnight flyboy. The dreamer. Luke comes from the Latin word for light. The world in which I traveled in was nothing but dark. It was all quiet when I said goodnight and fell asleep. Then… listen! Winds howl. Storms rage. My ears awaken me as if I’m in the middle of the Glenview Naval Air Base runway. A whole flight of jet engines crank up to full volume… It was the summer of 1949 and I was about to turn ten. My bed and the whole house shook in terror.

I crawled down to the end of my bed and put my trembling hands on the windowsill. I pressed my face against the cool windowpane; turning my eyes into saucers blanched white and etched with blinking images of destruction that crossed my irises left and right as they traveled at the speed of light. Looking out, I couldn’t see the familiar mulberry branches, splayed out in front of me, that hid the beloved view of our green side yard, the grass always ready for games of baseball or croquet. No, I was looking into a different world in a different time and space… Where was I?

First thing I see is cars pushed off roads, trees uprooted or snapped off, windows broken, some trailer houses toppled.

With every passing minute, more damage… roofs torn off, boxcars pushed over, and entire trains derailed… instant carnage. Through lightning flashes, I see rural buildings demolished, whole frame houses demolished, cars lifted off the ground, trees in a nearby forest uprooted, snapped, leveled, or debarked by flying debris. Screams stuck in my throat. Fear paralyzed me. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t yell for help.

Botanical Walk

Here are some flowers encountered along a morning botanical hike with our former pastor, Frank Rose, in Pine Canyon Camp in the Chiracahua Mountains... beautiful!!

They remind me of a couple of quotes from Thoreau:

"The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour."

"Morning is when I am awake, and there is a dawn in me."

Globe Mallow

Mentzalia Multiflorum

Bearded Penstamen

Son of the Academy

“Who is he? Who is he? Truly he is a Son of the Academy.”

At times he shone magnificently like the Andromeda Galaxy or like the Great Orion Nebulae, twinkling both in the skies above us and in the classrooms--in front of us. I was privileged to be taught by him in the ‘Fifties and ‘Sixties, and appreciated him even more in the ‘Seventies and ‘Eighties.

Swedenborg described a man he had once known on earth, who communicated with him from heaven. This friend could manifest himself by pleasant and enjoyable representatives, such as beautiful colors of every kind, and colored forms, and by infants beautifully decorated and clothed. I immediately was reminded of our mystery teacher. When we run out into the back yard to see the infrequent rainbow glimmering in grey clouds still full of moisture, I think of Mr. Academy. Both Swedenborg’s friend and our teacher acted with a soft and gentle influx, and insinuated themselves into the affections of others with the purpose of making our lives pleasant and delightful.

His twinkling eyes remind me of the Orion Nebulae, the Andromeda Galaxy, the rainbow sparkling in the clouds, and the family campfire. He is easily able to illuminate the darkness and bring light and warmth to whole groups of gathered individuals during their natural and spiritual quests in his classrooms to determine their identity, their purpose, their mission, and their belongingness.

I sit at a small table, drink an green iced-tea latte, take bites from a blueberry scone topped with an occasional small pat of butter from Glenview Farms, and I glance out the window and for a moment - I thought I saw a phantom rainbow in the sky. I close my eyes and feel the warm campfire presence of this mystery man and am warmed by the memories. I turn to the very last page in the New Church Life, and see all that’s left of my imaginary campfire. The embers glow, sparkle, and twinkle up at me. Dismayed, I read in black print under Deaths: Mr. Charles Snowden Cole, at Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania, May 18, 2008. 93….

He wasn’t just Mr. Charlie Cole. He was Professor Charlie Cole. He was Dean Charlie Cole. I hear a bell ring in the Children’s Reading Room nearby and think, “Charlie just became an angel.” I think of meteor showers from the Orion Constellation, and console myself that, “The Orionides will remind me of Charlie Cole every October 21st….” I remember the Andromeda Galaxy’s misty patch of light took two million years to reach us, but now, like Charlie Cole’s twinkle, its gleam will be with us forever. Okay, Charlie’s earthly body is gone from us. But everything he stood for, corresponded to, and represented lives. His campfire never dies. It just turns to the man we all called charcoal (CharCole), still warm and light and alive, full of all the love he gave us; full of all the love we gave him back….

Genealogical Memories

As the Gilbert & Nora Smith Family Reunion in Tucson comes to a close, I think that perhaps my penchant for writing stories comes from my grandfather. Here's an excerpt from one of his stories:

Memories of childhood center for me in the larger town of Easton. The stable, the family horse and buggy. Father was also a horse-trading parson. The stable, most enchanting of all places. I drew horses on scraps of paper, interminably sketching that subtle line that runs from the ears to the tail, over the parapet of intervening stalls. I remember riding with Father on preaching expeditions to what then seems far distant villages, waving sad good-byes to Mother as she stood, beautiful, like an angel in the lane. It broke me up to leave her for an over-night journey with Father. But it was fun with Father too. I remember how eagerly I contested with him, on the return trip, to see which would be the first to lay eyes upon the Easton standpipe.

I remember watching in summer the terrifying clouds blowing up a “gust,” old Mr. Gelon across the way, standing in his shirt sleeves, with his red beard blowing, welcoming the coming storm as relief from sultry afternoons; the torrential rains which sometimes followed, flooding the gutters on Railroad Avenue, filling the dirt street with rivulets through which the horses splashed; the joyful aftermath of tramping with bare feet in the dammed up rainwater along the side of the road until there were vast areas of soft black mud to “sqush” in and out between the toes; revelling in winter in the deep moist snow that hung thick on peach, poplar, and maple; watching rich Miss Covey, daughter of the livery man, jingle furiously by in her black slay behind high-checked black horses; in the dreamy autumn, lying in the sheltered angle of the front porch, out of the wind, watching the tossing tops of the poplars, their leaves turned up, and catching the broken sound of the voices of people passing, distorted voices in the noisy breeze; just dreaming, and wondering at the mystery of consciousness, and why it was that I was I.

Excerpt from Tornado Alley Fever

Finishing touches on my latest book: Tornado Alley Fever:

Annie brushed tears away from her eyes. Please God, no more trials! Give me my ticket to heaven—life with Luke right here on earth….She picked up the sound of the approaching Army transport. Far down the runway, but coming toward her, the plane’s wheels tantalizingly sailed long over the runway and touch down with a distant double- erk—erk from the protesting wheels on the two main landing gears. She breathes outward slowly, savoring the wheels-down. Annie’s heart squeezes tighter and tighter with every concrete section of runway as the plane taxies up to a stop, its propellers spinning soundlessly.

Ten base hospital attendants follow the two air base’s runway attendants as the privates push the big stairway up to the plane’s left fuselage, and stand at the bottom, waiting for the steward inside to crank the door open. The door opens and the attendants run up the stairs. In less than two minutes, five wounded soldiers are carried off the transport on stretchers—one right after the other, with two attendants carrying each soldier and loading him onto a hospital gurney. Five ambulances leave before anybody else comes down the stairs. Seven soldiers on crutches come next, making their way carefully, and manfully down the long flight of stairs and heading toward an old beat-up brown Army bus. Double that number walk down the stairs unaided, and then nobody appears at the top…

Excerpt from Freedom of Vision

As we're redoubling our efforts in marketing the Freedom of Vision Prison Anthology, here's an excerpt from one of the pieces... Enjoy!

A part of me is gone now too
yet a part of her remains
in a holy mystery that is beyond my comprehension
as if two having become one
can no longer be divided
I sleep alone in our bed of dreams
watching her
barefoot in the backyard
shampooing her long auburn hair in the sunlight
with water from the garden hose
Two hawks fly circular patterns
over green fields near the coast
I cannot remember when I did not love her

—From Bereaved, by Gordon R. Grilz

Dick Shelton Interview on Jim Lehrer's NewsHour

Dick Shelton's Crossing the Yard is written so well and so convincingly. In addition, it is highly condemnatory about the failure of the American Prison System, so that it caught the attention of the Jim Lehrer News Hour. They came out; filmed a prison classroom session at the Rincon Unit of the Arizona Department of Corrections at Tucson, Arizona—where I used to teach prior to retirement, and then came to the University of Arizona’s New Poetry Center to interview Dick Shelton. I was right there for the ninety minute film session.

Here's the video from Jim Lehrer's NewsHour:

Prisoners Find a Voice Through Poetry


Here's a link to the transcript of the interview as well:
Poetry Program Gives Prisoners Unexpected Voice

Excerpt from Tornado Alley Fever

Tornado Alley Fever, the third installment in my series, is working its way toward completion. Here's a scene from a whitewater trip that our main character is on...


Nothing in Sixth Weather Squadron prepared me for this pell-mell rush down a wild river. Nothing in Army Combat Diving prepared me for the tornadic torrents of water. Swimming a half-mile in the surf off Coronado Island in California did nothing to prepare me for the Middle Fork.

Outwardly, Chris could not tell a thing. I am glad he could not hear my heart pounding or my lungs straining to capture more fresh air.

“You’ve logged in another five miles!” Chris yells. “Get ready for the last biggee on Day One: Pistol Creek Rapids. Ben calls it Russian Roulette—you don’t know which chamber is going to get you.”

Sufficiently forewarned, I began running the famous Pistol Creek Rapids with heightened awareness and a quick prayer. It doesn’t matter.

“Stay away from the inside!”

We accelerate into a lower S curve, Chris’ warning dissipating in the swirling waters. I jump into the oar to guard against striking a house boulder on my near left. I head straight into the three huge rocks looming in midstream on the right, but remain in the middle of the S curve. I crank the oar blade madly to the right for forty feet and then madly to the left, so I can ultimately sail parallel to the homicidal granite obstructions. I steer for the outside—as if I want to kill myself on those huge raft-killers—but at the last minute, the main current catches me and sharply sweeps me laterally left. Feeling like I might pass out, on a parallel course, I shoot past the Pistol Creek rocks going by my near right shoulder.

Swedenborg Links

As I am working on a collection of essays, many of which are influenced by Emanuel Swedenborg and his teachings, I thought it prudent to give you, my readers, some insight into his teachings. Here are some valuable links:

Emanuel Swedenborg on Wikipedia:
Biography of Emanuel Swedenborg

The New Church: General Church of the New Jerusalem:
A new Christianity based on the Old and New Testaments and the Writings of Emanuel Swedenborg.

The Swedenborgian Church of North America:
A community of faith, based on the Bible, as illuminated by the spiritual teachings of Emanuel Swedenborg.

The Swedenborg Project:
A non-profit Christian organization, dedicated to effectively spreading the good news of Jesus Christ’s First and Second Comings to every corner of the world.

List of Writings of Emanuel Swedenborg:
A thorough listing and links to Swedenborg's writings.

Excerpt: First Class at Marysville Woman's Prison

At London Correctional Institution it was easier to market my career development and job placement services for male ex-offenders along with the classes I taught. At ORW (Ohio Reformatory for Women), it was a different story: good jobs for female ex-offenders are harder to come by, especially if you are trying to cross-train them from prostitution, say, into available jobs of cleaning, clerking, cooking, or waitressing. For one thing, it’s a drastic pay cut. My class of twenty at Marysville had mixed backgrounds….Teaching female inmates was even more dangerous for a male teacher. The inmates could set the teacher up through more hidden manipulations. Where a male inmate would take pride in tricking a teacher on his own, the female inmates had no shame in their game: they would more readily gang up on a teacher with lies, or trick him with their softer persuasions.

We were warned of many things: Prison teachers are put into a trick bag from jump street, or the beginning, as convicts would say: we are given students—over ninety percent of whom have drug and alcohol addictions, but we are not given this information. We are given students with a multitude of emotional and learning handicaps, but we are not encouraged to look into this, in order to modify our individualized educational programs for each student. We are given students who failed to learn in the public schools and whom the public schools failed to teach, but we are not given the details, so we might know where to begin.

(Editor’s Note in retrospect: Given a whole new headstart and a chance to become educated, many of these female inmates could have cross-trained into respectable and well-paying jobs.)

Celebration of Time

Up on Mount Lemmon, near Tucson, in the visitors' center there is a 300-pound cross-section slab of a Douglas Fir, some six feet in diameter. It still makes a statement. “Sir, I exist!” Each ring says, “I’m alive!” Solid yellow, full of substance and history, the slab has personality, gusto and permanence flowing from it. This tree was 700 years old when it was cut down. We can tell that by counting all the growth rings. The ring for 1492 is highlighted-a big date for us in the so-called civilized world; it was just a tiny blip in the immense history of that tree. Some rings are thick, others are so thin that only an expert can count them. Good years, bad years. The growth rings show a total of 700 trees within that one tree: 700 rings, 700 years, 700 dimensions of time.
We are like a tree with growth rings. Our brain records every sensory experience, every thought or stimulation of the imagination. Our growth rings are in our memory. When certain electrodes are attached to our skull, vivid memories, emotions, even smells, of our childhood are immediately called to mind. Imagine that each ring in our memory fills up with fifty-two more chapters of sensations. Multiply those 52 chapters—one year—by how many years old you are. That's how many rings of you there are. You might have twenty good rings and only one bad ring. Or maybe it's ten good and ten bad rings. Still, it's half good! We cannot get stuck in one ring, live in the past, and suspend our growth. We cannot get stuck in a behavior that keeps us from creating a new ring of growth, flowing forward down Time's river.

NewsHour Interview with Dick Shelton

The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer interviewed Dick Shelton concerning his book "Crossing the Yard" and his prison workshop.

The producer, Terry Rubin and his crew went into Rincon Unit of ASPC-Tucson with Dick Shelton, and Dick told me it went extremely well. Then they came to the Poetry Center, where they interviewed Dick at length. Terry Rubin had talked to Ken on the phone twice prior. So I thought he would be the man I should approach.

I took the opportunity, went down to the Poetry Center, stood for an hour and a half fifteen feet away from The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer Productions, as Terry Rubin, the producer put his crew through each step of Jeff Brown's interview with Dick Shelton and one man handling the lights and camera and the other man the sound system recording.

Jeff knew an art teacher at the Univ. of Az. who came to watch—who knew him back in San Francisco, so after Jeff and Dick and Terry talked, and Dick signed two books to give to Jim Lehrer, who was not there, I introduced myself to Terry Rubin, gave him a signed FREEDOM OF VISION book for Jim Lehrer—with my letter folded in half inside the front cover, and the backgrounder folder inside the back cover. Jeff and the art teacher walked out together, giving me the opportunity to walk out with Terry.

I verbally dedicated the book to the inspiration that Dick and Ken were to a national audience of FOV, as well as the inspiration for prison writing groups here in Arizona. I then went to my briefcase, got out a second copy of FOV, signed it for Terry Rubin, saying THANK YOU for coming here and for giving the public a chance to see another side of prisoners. I walked him all the way out to his car, and told him about Gordon Grilz, and Ben Gastellum, and others who rehabilitated themselves and shared their growth and their vision via their writing. Terry was very pleasant and was happy to get a book for himself as well, and I talked enough so that he had images and details from me to go along with the two books. He peeked inside to get a sense of both the letter, and the backgrounder. I was glad I took the chance.

The Value of Prison Education

Freedom of Vision’s roots lay within prison education—teachers such as Richard Shelton, contributors Lollie Butler and Shaun T. Girffin, and myself, co-editor/co-author of Freedom of Vison. We believe that everyone has the ability to express themselves, and everyone has a story to tell or experience to dig out of their hearts and souls. We also believe that the vast majority of inmates can be rehabilitated, and that the road to lasting rehabilitation lies through reconnecting these inmates to their innermost selves through writing. With that comes a renewed sense of self, responsibility, respect for others and accountability — the base of sound choices and decisions in life.
Once a teacher proves he is a man of his word and demonstrates his mission to help the men find the real intellectual, emotional, and spiritual keys to freedom and safety behind bars which lead to a life of freedom and hope outside prison walls or he wins their loyalty and trust. However, he has to prove it every day. He has to pass all their little and big tests. Inmates will push as far as they can on every issue they can. But from their classroom successes, maybe the first such successes in their lives, real self-esteem grows. What a challenge!
Once a teacher understands the secrets behind prison walls and prison masks, he or she is hooked. He knows he is doing something most people won’t do or can’t do. He realizes that one person can make a difference in an inmate’s life.

Excerpt from Tornado Fever

Here is an excerpt from the upcoming new book, Tornado Fever (third in the series):


Velvet Fall Rapids comes up fast, and I knew many rafters had misjudged its strength by its seemingly harmless appearance. I kept in the middle of the channel, and head for the clear chute between obstructions, the current steeper and faster than the surrounding water. Down river and around a bend, I watch the boil line—where upwelling water misleads, some of the surface current going upriver, and the below surface current going downriver. Five miles past Velvet Creek Rapids, I steer past a boulder fan from an incoming Horn Creek on the left side—the sloping fan-shaped mass of boulders deposited by the tributary stream where it enters the middle fork, constricting the river and causing rapids. Six miles further down I think I’m back in Heavy Artillery, Army, at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. I encounter Artillery Rapids, go past Rapid River Pack Bridge, then watch for rapids from Mortar Creek, followed by rapids from incoming Cannon Creek.

Five miles further, I hit the famous Pistol Creek Rapids. We accelerated coming into a lower S curve, as I guard against striking a house boulder on my near left. Now I’m heading straight into the three huge rocks looming in midstream on the right, but in the middle of the S curve. I cranked the oar blade madly to the right for forty feet and then madly to the left, so as to sail parallel to the granite obstructions. I have to steer for the outside—as if I want to kill myself on those huge rocks--but at the last minute the main current catches me as I suspected and sharply sweeps me laterally left. On a parallel course, I shoot past the Pistol Creek rocks going by on my near right shoulder.