Sunday, June 25, 2017
How did I not know about this; about this wonderful rose bush that has been blooming in Germany for over a thousand years ? It hugs the wall of an old cathedral in Hildesheim and although the church was destroyed in a bombing raid in World War 11, this rose bush managed to survive.
I have to tell my granddaughter about it. She and I talk about important things . I want her to know about this Cathedral which is dedicated to Our Lady's Assumption into Heaven and this rose bush which has survived for so long.She is five years old; will a thousand years mean much to her?
It is a struggle to keep my knock out roses blooming and I have had them for just a few years.I despise using poison but the black spot, Japanese beetles and other insects terrorize my garden. In fact, as I look out, the first green beetle of the summer is dining on a leaf. The desert heat of summer in Georgia doesn't help either.I try to imagine the strength of this particular bush that blooms and thrives.
The Feast of the Assumption is celebrated by the Church on August 15th which is also my Maddie's birthday.I can't tell you how beautiful Maddie is with her big black eyes, her long black wavy hair and her serious look. She will be getting a colorful wooden child's rosary for her birthday .At Mass last Sunday, I suggested that she talk to Mary in her mind. She looked puzzled and then said ;"show me".So I closed my eyes and talked to my Mother and wondered if she could understand what I was doing. She, Mary and I have this connection ..
I am sure that I will never see the wonderful German rose bush but knowing it is there gives me inordinate pleasure.To complete the circle, my mother, whose green and gold beads were never far from her hands, passed away on the feast of the Assumption, August 15th, in 1996.
As we approach the green sward that leads to the cathedral wall,; I hold an old gnarled hand and a sweet smooth one. We approach with quiet reverence. Although Maddie is only a little girl, she is subdued as if she knows we are doing something special. My mother knows that this moment means much to me and I am so happy that she is with us. We bow at the age and hardiness of this plant and ask that it will continue to thrive and I pray this in gratitude:
"Mary, protect my sweet girl, hold her to your breast and guide her life. I am so glad that she is my granddaughter. For the mother with the green beads, eternal gratitude for her faithfulness to your Son. For your unexpected entrance into my life in so many ways, Mary, I consecrate myself to you."
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
Safe spaces, that's a constant theme when college kids are faced with a challenging thought or two.Where can I go and hide? I actually think that this response is probably the first one when confronted with danger.If a bear were chasing me, I would look for a huge carved out log and crawl inside.Wouldn't you ?Ah, a safe place.
I have a wonderful postcard of a hero's safe space, Rob Roy's cave on Loch Lomond in Scotland: one can see the cleft in the jagged rocks where he would slip in and wait. Safe.
When I was a kid, riding on the U.S.S. Chaos with my four family members, I found a way to escape. I so enjoyed going to bed because there, in my mind, I entered a place I called 'thinkland" where I was in charge and could have anything I wanted. As I type this, I see how important it must have been for a shy, powerless, unworthy girl to have some control. In Thinkland, I steered the ship and all came to me at my beck and call. I would go into a large house and each room was filled with anything I desired. It was organized by room. Exquisite fabrics in one; silk, gold and red, satin yellow and blue, mauve gauzy material, all mine to play with and feel.That for some reason was my favorite. Other rooms with perfect colorful gems, all for me. Bright red rubies, gorgeous sparkling purple amethysts, diamonds to wear, turquoise rings. .Any jewel that I could imagine belonged to me. Those are the two rooms I remember. Perhaps another held hundreds of dollhouses or another, Nancy Drew books.A room with beautiful music playing. Oh, the pleasure of walking from room to room in my thoughts.
I wonder now if this wasn't a form of prayer, as shallow as it seems.Now that I pray for the desires of my heart, wasn't "thinkland" a trip there? Was I lead to do this musing by a benevolent Spirit who knew that I needed some brightness in the haze of sadness all around? I think so and what's more, as I reflect back, there was much beauty sustaining me that at the time I took for granted.
I will now add them to the house.:
A room full of pale purple lilacs that grew next to the house that never failed to produce blossoms whose scent would make a marble statue swoon.
A side porch of Lily of the Valley that grew by the front door whose scent transported .
A front stoop with of a passel of good kids, friends, who never failed to bring the enjoyment of sports and the joy of laughter.
Azaleas, red, orange, white all clustered around the front to the house, never failing to appear in May.
A room where faith was taught that gave hope in the dismal times.A radio program called, I Heard the Master Speak.
Our thoughts are heard, our prayers are heard and we are loved and lifted beyond measure and the only response can be, Deo Gracias.
Art -Fairy Land-Tom Anholt
Saturday, June 17, 2017
When I take time to sit in my garden, I am always rewarded by something; a color, a bird, and often a visit. A dragonfly will perch on the steel pole that anchors the hose. I like to think it is checking me out, another garden sprite like him, but it may be the heat feels good to its delicate feet. I have seen brown, green and even a special color of blue on their bodies.When I was a kid we called them darning needles.Who knows why?
The dragonfly will be so still, so poised with their transparent , delicate wings occasionally changing position for balance.What is the world to them as they pose? Where do they go in winter and what is their life span? From reading, I see that this insect's lifespan is 7 months so no need to worry about winter. I saw a dead one the other day curled up in the dirt. Sad.
Eighty percent of the dragonfly's brain is taken up with sight and it can see 360 degrees around. In some cultures, it is thought that it's appearance signifies change, and an uninhibited vision of the mind and an ability to see beyond the limitations of the human self. Such a rich interpretation of this wonderful creature and so it is that this all comes together, this meditation.
In prayer, I was given this:
"When the time comes each step will be revealed. Each builds on each and nowhere is a moment of grace lost. It is all around. It seeps through every moment , every thing . It shines as it seeps but only those who look for it can see it.
Your work is to reveal it subtly, warmly, lovingly, in the places where you are put. Be gentle in those places, gentle also with yourself. Your job is to be there, show up while the grace flows. Peace and no worries."
Friday, June 9, 2017
It was a sunny, mild June day when we arrived at the mountain cabin. The first thing we did, as always, was to go to the small pond down the road to look for beaver.My young son had often said that this beautiful spot was his favorite place in the world. Surrounded by his three huge favorite maples, it was a shaded paradise. His freckled face beamed whenever we talked about it .We only went to the cabin once a year, so this trip to the pond was special.
As we started to approach, something seemed very wrong. There was the pond, but two of the trees had been chopped down and lay in pieces around the pond. My young son sat down on a log and started to cry. He was inconsolable over this desecration. He turned and ran to his room in the cabin. As slow as a funeral procession, I walked back alone, sat at the old kitchen table and mourned.
As I often do, I started to read some psalms and then write in my journal. My hand flew across the blank pages with words of wisdom that were not mine:.
"Take heart, this is a most important lesson. How much empathy do you have for those who have suffered a loss greater than the death of two trees? Talk to your son about some losses you have had.Tell him about the card you sent to an acquaintance who almost died in surgery and how that note brought a wonderful new friend into your life. See if he remembers the sympathy card that meant so much to you that your other children sent when your special friend, the Lab, had to be put down. Use this heart break to lead your young son to understand that he has the power to help those suffering as he is suffering. Ask if he would like to help to plant two new trees, renewing the pond place with your own hands. Do you see the beauty of living ?"
I wiped my tears, and called my son to the table. In my mind I could see the acts of empathy that we could do, together or apart, as a field of bright lighted fireflies, dancing and following our souls into eternity.
Saturday, June 3, 2017
The Creator must have a special place in his heart for the blackbird.
I once saw a squirrel try to rescue a blackbird who was trapped under the claws of a hawk four times his size. Like a tiger, he charged the hawk who released the blackbird only to catch him in mid-flight. I will never forget this action, this seeming kindness by the furry grey animal that steals our bird food.
Today is the feast of St.Kevin. My second son bears his name.This Celtic saint of 1400 years ago had an encounter with a female blackbird who started to build her nest in his palm, outstretched in prayer. Seeing her efforts, he held his arms out til the baby birds fledged. I love that story.
It does seem a bit of a stretch doesn't it ? But the saint was a real pray-er, hours of it and he withdrew from all contact to keep the connection with God firm and all important. Off he would go, into the woods for years but always someone would find him. Maybe he glowed. He would eventually be dragged back to preach about what he had found in God's presence. He founded a monastery in Glendalough, Ireland and brought Christ to the thousands of pilgrims who made their way there in the 600s A.D.
As I contemplate the long gone Kevin, words of a poem keep coming to mind:.
"The world is too much with us: late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;-
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon.".....
Standing at Wordsworth's grave in England two years ago, I could hear his words, smell his golden daffodils. The quiet under those tall trees was Wordsworth quiet.The meandering stream across the way knew his gaze. Poets and saints, they know.
In my mind is a painting. It is an American woman in her fifties, sitting on a rock circle in Glendalough where the quiet was a pale blue. A yellow September sun shone around her and with eyes closed she prayed, overlaying hers with the many that Kevin had uttered. Knowing peace that could only be described as a Presence, she wanted to put down green spreading roots and never leave. Along came a young British girl who sat down for a chat. Our older tourist looked up, nodded, and engaged. (You never know when a bird might land in your hand.)
The world is always too much with us. Rambling William knew, holy Kevin knew. But those who seek that quiet, that solitude, have much to say when they come back.
Monday, May 29, 2017
A slight breeze grazes my cheek as I stand with uncertainty at the gate.The sun is beyond and here, the chatter of voices , the grinding of wheels, are checked by the walls around me.The blues and other soft colors are as refreshing and comforting as a spring rain. Everything here is so familiar and under my control but a nagging voice keeps asking for more. Go out, let go, let Me handle everything. Be alert, and follow.
I don't know for how long I knew that I was being asked for more than just weekly church, good deeds and prayer. When did I realize that I was using all these "good" things to keep a distance between me and the One who wanted everything? The date of capitulation is unknown to me. The hour when I decided to jump off that cliff and fly through the air, trusting that strong arms awaited. It had taken at least 7 years to realize that all my small little hidden corners could be exposed to the light without me, myself, disappearing.
So here I am, His servant. Watching in wonder at the things that has been asked. Start a writing group.Me?Start a prayer group. Me? And as if a wall has been breached, that step into the sun has lead me to places never thought of. There is a plan. A good plan. A perfect plan that once assented to can change everything.
Or we can go our own way, never knowing the best.
I once told an old friend that God loves us and has a perfect plan.Those words changed his life. Powerful words, life saving words.I have walked through the gate to tell you that.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
|Study in Marigolds , Gwen John|
It was such a moment when my 15 year old oldest son asked his older sister if he could join her friends on a trip to the ice skating rink at Stone Mountain. He had been hanging with some friends that I didn't care for and when she said yes, I was thrilled.Jessica had found a peer group by joining the cross country team and these were good kids who worked hard at being the best they could be in that sport. I saw her hesitate when he asked and then nod in assent.I was proud of her and of him for asking .Shortly after that, he joined the team and by the end of his first season had run an awesome mile time.He and she still run to this day.In his heart he knows that this decision to run probably saved his life in many ways.
Another "yes" comes to mind that I had forgotten.When my youngest son was 9 or 10, he and I went to Maggie Valley,S.C. to stay for a few days in a cabin by a small lake.Nearby was the Soho Zoo, a place of refuge for snakes and other herps. At the zoo, was a small gift shop. We wandered around and then my son spotted a Petersen's Field guide to Reptiles and Amphibians and asked if he could have it. My habit, even after going to work ,was to spend as little money as possible on anything. I recall the price of 13 dollars seemed like a lot.Sean told me later that I kept wandering around the store with the book and a tight mouth and furrowed brow until I finally said yes.It is true that this small book changed a boy's life and gave him a passion that he still holds for the natural world. At that age, he became a scientist and he now teaches young adults to honor and respect all of the natural world.
The above painting, "Study in Marigolds" by Gwen John caught my eye as I looked for a piece of art to bring a story to my mind. In her later years , Gwen followed her lover, Rodin, to a town in France where she began dropping into Mass to sketch young girls in their Breton costumes. Eventually, she said "yes" to the love of God who was embracing her in the quiet of her desperate life. She left us with a quote that touches me to my depths;
"Every moment is holy; don't soil the moments.".
I was so delighted to come across this simple painting of hers; these marigolds of such subtle colors. Did she love them as I do?
The first shoots appeared and my joy was uncontained.The plain black dirt was being brought to life from the dead looking seeds that I had planted in a small patch on Long Island. I was 11 when my mother had assented to my request to buy three packets of seeds; marigolds, nasturtiums and bachelor buttons.The first to appear were the marigolds and I have a cache of them here by the door of my Georgia home. When I got older, I recall thanking my mother more than once for investing that dollar in my new passion, one that grabbed my heart in that sprouting moment and has never let go.This story is for you, Mom.
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
One of the Joyful mysteries of the Rosary focuses on the story of Mary and Joseph looking for Jesus and finding him in the temple but only after three days of frantic searching. This story always brings to mind two things; when my oldest son was lost at the beach and my own lostness.
This is a mystery that evokes gratitude. And that is where it takes me every time. I had gone to a small beach with four year old daughter and my two year old son near where we were living in Georgia. I never liked doing this as I was nervous the whole time.This is water after all and they were just little children. I remember the day so clearly. I had brought a People magazine which I never intended to read because my eyes had to be glued to those little bodies. But this time , just for a minute, I read a few lines.When I looked up, my son was gone.The feeling that came over me was hard to describe; a prickly rush went up my spine and my mind went blank.What do I do? I got up and looked around and saw only my daughter. Do I start screaming? What? I headed for the water and out of the corner of my eye, here came my sweet boy with his big smile.Without a care, coming from I don't know where, he was miraculously there. My relief and joy was without end. I feel it now.
My own lostness, chasing illusions and empty things to fill the God size hole in my heart would take a longer writing. I just hum Amazing Grace and know that, for all of us, grace is available to find our way back. Another reason to be grateful.
These things came to mind as I pondered something that happened yesterday as I left the Goodwill store. I went to stock up on treasures and I had found many.I was happy when leaving, especially after getting the senior discount. As I walked to my car this thought came with great force;"You are going to find something soon."Well, I figured a dime might be on the ground, or I would find a penny and consider it a gift from the Creator. Instead, while putting the bags in the back, there it was , the earring that I had lost the Sunday before after church. How it got there, I don't know since I always sit in the front. An earring you say? Big deal ! But it actually was because I was very sad about this particular earring that my wonderful daughter-in-law had made for me from some beads I found in a thrift store.I always think of her with love when I wear them.The earrings are silver with three small blue beads hanging down on thin links, so perfect. And it was gone. How did I know that I was going to find something special? It is a mystery to add to the others.
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
His story haunts me. The tale of a wanderer who had seen beauty and couldn't live without it.
I can't remember how I stumbled upon Everett Reuss, his art and poetry. He, though brought up in California, found himself in the Southwest, and was so smitten by what he saw that he lived for going back. . With a glint in his eye , and art supplies in his pack, he left his family, bought two burros and drifted across the desert like an aimless tumbleweed. Through New Mexico, Colorado, Utah and Arizona.; he would be gone for months and then show up to restock and take off again. His first solo trip commenced when he was 17. I imagine him now in things like a hawk circling above on a breeze or on a windblown, desert trail.
In Everett, I see my son Sean, my last child, who was never as much at home as he was on the Flint River and now in the deserts of West Texas. He made a film once when he was 15 years old about the Flint that flowed behind our house.The hours he spent exploring the woods and river created the man he is today. A wanderer, teacher, explorer, who takes students to Mexico looking for undiscovered species of snakes and lizards. I can feel his excitement, see the glint in his eyes as he packs for the next adventure and I worry about the desert.
Everett's poetry and art are not regarded as more than average by some, but I see them with my own eyes, those of a minor would be drifter. Everett was full of life and had no confusion over what he wanted to do. There were no roots to be put down beside a stream for him. His was the wanderer's path.He sought out beauty and tried to express it; his works touch me.
The following is the last paragraph of a poem that he wrote when he was 15.It is a moving and heart-breaking harbinger of a short and well lived life. It is called "Pledge to the Wind"
.."By the strength of my arm, by the sight of my eyes,
By the skill of my fingers, I swear,
As long as life dwells in me, never will I
Follow any way but the sweeping of the wind"
In 1934, the poet and artist disappeared among the red rocks of Utah and has never been found. He was 21.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
The scene before me takes my breath away. The enchanting colors, turquoise, deep green ,stunning white.I am drawn in by the stillness.The cranes are regal, guardians of this oasis. They are elders who stand in silence.They seem so centered and composed, as I watch from the bank. I want to wade out to them with my toes in the mud and stand stone still beside them. I long to look in their yellow eyes and see what wisdom is there as a gentle breeze ruffles our feathers.
A crane will sleep standing in the water, so the story goes, with a stone held in the one claw that he keeps up by his side.If he falls deeply asleep, the claw will open, the stone plops and he awakens to alertness again. .Aesop told the tale of a peacock taunting the more bland crane about his lack of beauty.The crane answers that he, unlike the earth bound peacock, can soar to the heavens and what price can one put on that?.
The crane is a popular symbol in Asian culture.There is a practice of making chains of paper cranes for good luck, healing, happiness and success and taking them as offerings to shrines and temples..How lovely. If you see a crane flying, it may be drawing your eyes to the heavens, lifting your spirits and inspiring you to trust in the universe.If you notice one standing, it may be advising vigilance and alertness.
Soon, I notice one of the cranes bending to fly and I creep like a child unto his back and hold on to his feathered shoulders. As he lifts, for a second my breath leaves at such height, but I settle in and we are drifting, flowing , free to ascend.We are over the trees now and I want to just rest here and go wherever this creature takes me.I feel so free and alive.
My crane is the Spirit and I have turned my soul over to it; my destination and safety are in His hands.I have no idea where I am going, but we, all of us, are made for this journey.My hands grab the tops of His wings and we soar.
Sunday, March 26, 2017
Where else can you spend 86 dollars on two truffle omelets and juice? And I actually read the sign in the window telling the price in French, did the math and still ate there anyway. Delicious.
Paris is the city of poets, painters and kisses galore.The buildings are low, pace is slow and everyone you see looks relaxed.This is not the New York of tall skyscrapers and business; Paris is love, museums, cafes, bridges, a clean river. We stayed in a small room where the bed touched both walls that year in September. Hemingway's ghost kept drifting along the avenues we trod.
Some memories linger: the moments of prayer in Notre Dame where despite the din of Japanese tourists, I felt God's presence as I gazed up toward the rose colored window.The trip to Giverny, Monet's home.The lovely pink stucco walls and green shutters of that house made me so happy.The ponds, the tired fall gardens, an enchanted place.We went to Versailles where those same tourists inside the palace made me hastily head for the gardens where I sat on a stone bench under a sweet willow and read the psalms.Nearby a young artist in a blue blouse and khaki skirt with hair twirled on her head, was drawing with such amazing concentration; it was a scene I will never forget.
So when we were deciding where to go for our anniversary, Paris beckoned. Reservations were made for a small studio apartment in a courtyard with potted trees.The pictures looked lovely.I couldn't wait to write at the little wrought iron table in that small enclosed space; me and Hemingway's ghost. But Paris is no longer the City of Light but one of riots, fires and attacks on women.I have cancelled my dream.
So many places I wanted to see; Louveciennes, to gaze down the alley where Sisley painted that lonely figure in the snow, the Louvre, Sacre Coeur. Instead, we are heading for the wide open skies of Montana, New Mexico and perhaps some of the Lewis and Clark Trail.I am now getting excited about this and a coincidence happened that leads me to believe what we are doing is the right path. I had mentioned to John that I wanted to go to Chimayo in New Mexico, a place with a small chapel and sacred healing sand that has mystical properties, it is said. An hour later, someone on the prayer group that I joined wrote about praying and lighting a candle at that very place the day before. Her prayers were for each one of us on that Rosary group site.How wonderful, how affirming.
....Adieu, dear Paris, the last time I saw you , your heart was warm and gay.No matter how they change you,, I'll remember you that way.
Friday, March 24, 2017
The woods have finally lost their winter grey and here and there is the light green of spring. How gratifying to see this every year.The lone turkey who comes to my window is no longer moping as he has a lady friend.This new relationship causes his brown sunlit plumage to flair out in a protective, threatening way. He is at his strutting best and I am happy for him. It's spring and thoughts turn to love.
An old friend from New York has a grandson that has recently been diagnosed with a terrible condition. It is not life threatening but it will limit his life profoundly and he just turned two years old.This is a beautiful boy with blond curls and big brown eyes.The road ahead looks so grim and empty. I struggle to understand what his life will be like and how he will be cared for. This is a stone lying on my heart.
In prayer, I received this heartening answer which I hold unto amid the swirling waters of sadness: "This child will be cared for and will know My love and Me for his whole life.The people who will suffer mostly in this situation are those who don't know Me.They need your prayers."
I wasn't going to write about this until today when I found something that Thomas Merton wrote about the Prodigal Son story that felt so in line with all of this...." the lost sheep, the lost drachma, the Prodigal Son.Our dearest Lord is showing that he means everything about the fatted calf and the rejoicing to be taken literally, that He means to pour out every kind of happiness in rivers upon those who ran away from His Mercy but could not escape it."All saints, pray for us.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Is it possible to describe how delightful it is to have a bit of solitude in my life ? A small retreat from the noise of life with others? The feeling that comes over me as I read in the quiet of this room that is my own is one of ease and gratitude. Quiet, no obligations, no reason to rush. Oh, the first 13 years where I stayed and raised the children, then twenty years of satisfying work; these I wouldn't trade for any gift; but this, this is the time to read a book just because you want. There is no warm coffee, Lent deprivation, but I will live.
The book I am reading is by a poet, Jane Kenyon ; the essay I am about to read is of her trip to Estonia. I like her writing, it is lyrical and about things that I enjoy, like hiking ,church and people in her town in New Hampshire.
Certain places just settle in your heart and Estonia, little brave place, is one. The people there, ruled for too long by the USSR, had a soft revolution once, a strictly small country one, that moves me deeply.On our Baltic trip two years ago, we went to the stadium where they have monstrous concerts and during the occupation thousands of Estonians would gather there and sing national songs. Just to keep their country. Just to keep their souls.They actually were forbidden to sing some of the songs but they did anyway.Even the Russians weren't stupid or cruel enough to open fire on families lifting their voices.
They are free now, these good people but nervous because they have lost their country before.I took a picture of their flag because they impressed me so. They were forbidden to fly it during the communists years and no wonder.Here is what the colors signify:
The blue stands for faith, loyalty, devotion and also the lakes, sea and sky.and endurance"until the skies last". Love that line.The black is for the soil and the dark past.The white represents striving towards enlightenment and virtue and is also the color of birch bark and snow.
In 1989, it flew again over black dirt, birches, lakes.It was unfurled and flapped gloriously over the sea, snow and sky.It's my second favorite flag.
Thursday, March 9, 2017
My first penny for today came before 9 A.M. when I opened a special book.
I have written before about a great bookstore just south of us in Zebulon,Georgia where they sell new and used books with a fireplace, coffee machine and cozy chairs for visitors.We make a pilgrimage to this place on the square at least twice a year.Number one book store with titles you will see nowhere else.
Number two bookstore is a small room attached to a little library in Alpine, Texas where my youngest son lives. He can walk to it amid the granite mountains and desert that surrounds the town. One main street, a train that goes through and some small shops with a western flavor.The small Catholic church is up the hill and as usual in church, we found quiet.
The bookstore was a magnet for us in our pursuit of the perfect read. And so I found an oddity." Celtic Night Prayer" is the title of this plain little book with a Celtic Knot on the cover.You had me at Celtic Knot. And 75 cents.It is published by the Northumbria Community of Felton,U.K .How this book came across the pond and into my hands is worthy of a fiction story. However it came to be, I am grateful.
Each day there is a reading and today's thought by Frederick Buechner made me snicker.He talks about:
" the invisible power of God working not just through the sacraments but in countless hidden ways to make even slobs like us loving and whole beyond anything we could conceivably pull off by ourselves." Ha.
Buechner also says that although we may desire this transformation we are very committed to our slobbery and hold on to it for dear life.I totally agree. It seems to me that we are quite content being the inferior slobs that we are until some crisis comes along and we realize our slobbery isn't enough and we cry out. He hears but requires our cooperation.We think, why doesn't he just fix it! ?Because if He fixed the mess, we would stay in our constant state of slobbery. He seems to want us to be more like Him. Quelle Horreur!
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Perching in the fresh air, the sun warming. Six feet away is the lone turkey. I know he comes for corn and bird seed, but I 'd like to think that we are friends. I always talk to him and tell him how pretty he is. If you have never seen a turkey with the sun lighting him up, you won't understand.The neck that is loaded with colorful plastic beads, the feathers which are luminous, all beautiful.The turkey was once our national bird and well he should be. O.K,.if you want to project power , the eagle is better although I have seen the turkeys chase deer twice their size.
My turkey is today's penny. And as if he wasn't enough, a note from a friend who says that our writing class has brought her great joy.Yes.
Are we grateful enough ?This morning my left eyeball hurts when I bend over. Probably sinus issues. But 364 days out of the year, my eyeball is just there, letting me know that my turkey is here, allowing me to read my friend's note and lets me see my blue Indian bedspread with the white circles that I love. How often to I thank God for my left eyeball?
Gratitude is a practice.We have to be aware to be grateful. It is not our default position. Looking for the negative is. I believe that. If you run into ten friends and nine pay you a compliment and the tenth cuts you down, what do you ponder for the next three day ? It is an evolutionary construct. We watch out for danger and thus develop negative thinking.Can we get over this and be grateful people? Scripture says: "Rejoice in the Lord, always." If it was not possible, it would not be asked of us. It's a choice and today I choose to rejoice.
Monday, March 6, 2017
Under the yellow vine that is hanging near my writer's desk is a male cardinal. What a striking bird he is. I don't even mind that he is grabbing some of the flowers for lunch. He deserves those and more. Jumping around in and out of the vine is a brown thrasher, the state bird of Georgia. If I sit still, all this comes to me.
I have written of the bounty that I find when I stroll the park near my house. A crayon of the most beautiful blue,.a Happy Halloween sign, a thick artist's pencil, a dime. And once in awhile in my life a special gift comes; an old friend appears bearing his story, and memories. In the fifty years since I have seen him, he has accomplished much and raised a beautiful family.Olive plants a plenty around his table.A good man who remembers me as a teenager : who knew my long gone family.What price can you put on such knowing in a world that is spinning so fast ?
Black and white pictures of Jones Beach and smiles.We were young then and good.There is nothing in the memories to mar who we were. Trips to N.Y.C., football games, movies, trying to learn how to drive a stick shift in the beach parking lot. American stories. Who knew that running under all these things was movement towards a good life for us both. It brings me untold pleasure to know that this man, with determination and grit, has had a successful life.Not without challenges because of his service to our country, but a happy one.
There is such bounty in this world if we slow down and be still.; if we look for it as one might check the ground for pennies.(I always do). Maybe that will be what my pen records this Lent.
May we feel His Presence in all things.
Thursday, March 2, 2017
The sun is so bright today that I can hear the trees starting to bud, a gentle pop of green here and there. The Bradfords are in full white, their cotton puffs will soon be replaced by light green shoots and then the leaves. The lone turkey is stretched out in the sun and every once in awhile his eyes close for a few seconds.Nap time on the Graham plantation.
There are so any disturbing things going on in the world and we know them all instantly because of the internet.So I read a bit of Scripture daily to keep in balance."The Word is near you, deep within you, the Word is on your lips.The Word who made you, yet will save you...The Word is in you deep within you, the Word is in your heart..."
Today, the reading jumped out at me because of where my thoughts have been. Madonna has been on my mind for the last few days. She, who offered sexual favors to anyone who voted for her candidate.She who fantasizes about blowing up the White House and whose children's woes are front page news. I want to reach out and hug her.I don't care how many fans or how many Grammys(7), she is lost.
The first time I noticed Louise Ciccone was in a favorite movie, "A League of Their Own."How I loved the feisty girls of that all women's baseball team and Tom Hanks memorable line;", there's no crying in baseball."'Madonna was one of the girls and exuded kindness and grit.She has adopted a few children later in life so she must have a heart. I pray for those children and Madonna.She, who left the Church and yet used many of its images in a profane way to gain fame and fortune.
I do not back away from quoting today's reading :"What profit does he show who gains the whole world and destroys himself in the process."Luke 9:25.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
I went down to my river spot on Sunday. It is always with a bit of trepidation because of the cottonmouth snakes that live back there.I step daintily, keep an eye out and am relieved when I reach my writer's log. It is a half mile walk through the floodplain and Sunday there were many animal encounters. A pair of mallard ducks were roused from their island peace and flew up the Flint. Four deer took off at my approach and a flock of Sandhill cranes were calling overhead. I never could spot them but they travel by us twice a year migrating up and down the river. I kept thinking; " follow the river, follow the river" and my thoughts, like a bird after a long flight, slowly brought a story that haunts me.
In 2013, Geraldine Largay, a 66 year old hiker from Tennessee was living her dream. She was fit and healthy and perhaps at her age she thought":, now or never". She took off from West Virginia with a friend, to hike the Appalachian Trail to its end in Maine.There are pictures of her smiling, glowing, as she walked slowly along. Many thought so much of "Inchworm", her trail name, that they wanted their picture taken with her.Then the first of several unfortunate things happened. Her friend had to get off the trail in New Hampshire. I can see her in on the trail wrestling with this; should I go on; I am almost to Maine? She was known to have direction difficulties. She went on.
She went on and knowing what I know, I choke up as I type this. At some point in the deep Maine woods, she left the trail and when she started back, she was lost. She found a hill and tried to use her cell phone.The messages to her husband were found on her cell phone two years later. Geraldine had starved . She kept a journal and it seems that she decided to put down her tent on that knoll and wait for someone to come along.The spot unfortunately was a mile away from the trail. A monumental search was launched to no avail. For two years her family wondered what had happened.
The part that saddens me so is that there was the Oberton stream was nearby and in August it probably wasn't terribly full.There is a hiking rule; follow the stream. It eventually will take you to something; a bridge, a town, something. Perhaps by the time she decided to do this she was too weak. If you have hiked from West Virginia to Maine and are near to your goal, the one thing you don't want to do is go backwards or down.
In 2015, they found Geraldine's neatly piled clothes near her journal , a water bottle , a rosary and her tent. If I close my eyes, I can see her there, praying.
Saturday, February 18, 2017
The Carolina Jessamine is now in full bright yellow bloom on the fence at the back of the house.I see it each morning from the window of this room, which is my own. Although I relish the bare, spare trees of winter, to see some color is pleasing. I read somewhere that when women turn 40, they start to wear muted greys, browns and blacks. Why, who knows. Perhaps an unconscious mourning for the end of childbearing? I am determined to add color to my life. Everyday, I am going to look for color and celebrate it.
This came to mind as I read today's meditation from Thomas Merton. He mentions that when he closed his eyes on this winter day in 1952 , he saw purple and blue fish swimming in his mind. He seems to delight in what comes when his eyes are closed. Mostly, when my eyes are closed, I may see some white or shapes but there was a day in church when I saw something else. I can tell you exactly where in the congregation this happened. Six rows from the back on the right side. I was kneeling with my eyes closed and I saw her face. It was round, plain, with eyes closed.That is what I saw. I opened my eyes not believing what had had happened and then closed them again.There she was. My first thought was to stay there with my Mother, Mary, and visit. It did seem just like a visit where a chat or a hug would have be appropriate. But then, it was time to stand up and knowing that if I kept kneeling I would be questioned, I stood, and she was gone.
Why did this plain faced, closed eyed being appear ? I didn't have time to ask but over the months, impressions have come .I hope I am following her urgings in a faithful manner.They are not new nor are they always easy.I would like to think of them as colors. Prayers said in the bright yellow of a sunny day as I walk in the tree shelter of deep brown and grey woods. Small sacrifices that I see as an empty white coffee cup. Believing that I am loved by the Creator; this feels like a warm pink and orange shawl thrown around my body. And trust; that all shall be well, all manner of things shall be well. This knowing is fluffy white, the color of falling snow, the lightness of angel's wings, the soft white of a peony that has sweet streaks of red. This trust is not my usual first thought in a crisis but perhaps if I recall its color, I will fall into its warm arms right away. Mary Queen of the Angels, pray for us.
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
There couldn't be a clearer, brighter blue sky.Now that the veil of rain and fog has lifted, not one cloud drifts across the blue. For my Yankee friends, cover your eyes.The daffodil spears, so green and sure are up, as are the day lilies. There are specks of yellow on the tips of my Carolina Jessamine.
There is a story in the Scottish Hebrides about a mother watching as her young daughter gets ready to head off for a good job on the mainland.A city girl she is to become.The city "where gold weighs more than love, and folks are too busy to think of sun or sea."This line touched me deeply.
Another book, a memoir, weaves a tale of desolation that crowds in on a young boy, the victim, along with his mother and siblings of a sexual and physically abusive father. It is hard to read. But there are words that redeem.The boy used to sneak out in the evening, lay on the grass and commune with the stars."Each night, I gave them memories to hold for me-memories of beatings witnessed and rapes endured...in return the stars gave me understanding.They said to me,""This is not how it is supposed to be.This is not your fault.You will survive.We love you.You are good.""Derrick Jensen.
How startling to read these words. How many of us are saved by these ; the sun, moon, sea, trees, rivers, birds.I have a friend who always seems to encounter a bright red, male Cardinal when she most needs comfort. And then there is the small green shoot that is growing by my special spot at the river's edge.I go there in the winter on sunny days just like this and sit on my writer's log. This log is flat and runs a few feet off the ground like a l bench., with grey smooth bark and an interesting hole here and there. The river curves around the bend just to my left but next to the log is a green plant that looks like bamboo.And this plant one day said this:"You are never alone.Not here, not anywhere."
Thomas Merton writes:"Today, said prayers with great joy, overflowing joy, as if the land and woods and spring were all praising God through me.The sense of angelic transparency of everything, and of pure, simple, total light. The word that comes closest to pointing to it is simple. It was all simple. But a simplicity to which one seems to aspire, only seldom attain.A simplicity, that is, that has and says everything just because it is simple."
It is is all there and simple.
Monday, January 2, 2017
who knows what your words might stir
a year to ponder
For many years, I have used a guide book to start my day, "A Year With Thomas Merton". He, the deceased writer and Trappist monk. His encouraging words have changed lives for over 50 years. Today, I was struck by this sentence: "How good it is to have a rule in which simplicity, and poverty, and hardship play so large a part so that you can give yourself up to God by it !" Why did this sentence cause my heart to swell? I ponder his life. He had just come back from breaking rock with his brothers: hardship. He lived in a cold cell, clothed in simple black and white garb and ate plain meatless meals: poverty. His entertainment was prayer and liturgy, five times a day: simplicity. What could that possibly mean for my life?
Some small ways came to mind.
I took my wooden Russian rosary and walked our property in the rain. Hardship?As it turned out, it was the opposite.The beeches, who refuse to let go of their tanned curled leaves brought me joy. As if they say: "I will not let these woods be just dark brown and grey. Against odds, I will show off with my shaking leaves that provide color and when the breeze blows, the sweet murmur of shimmering paper. Yes, I heard them say that. And then there is water in the floodplain, in some places cascading over logs and through spaces between the trees.The river comes over the rise to greet me and remind me that it is still there.
Simplicity? I am slowly making my way through a stack of cookbooks that forlornly sit on a spice rack; sad from never being opened. Let's let them go to another who may find the perfect meal to make with its
And then there is poverty, which I will have to struggle to even imagine. All I could do today was not go to Ebay and look longingly for Tuck's Postcards.These cards are over a hundred years old, and often have paintings of nature with a snippet of an old English poem.Heaven!I will not think of those today.These are small things, I know, but in the world of the Spirit, one never knows where an idea, stamped in gold with my name on it, might lead.Amen.