Maddie and I on the Way

It was lovely.We had just returned from writing poetry by the river. Moments of peace. Now, I am sitting by the fire with my rosary in hand. Then, it struck me. It's Tuesday.The Sorrowful Mysteries.On Christmas. I was tempted to cheat and do the Joyful. Who would know ? But that didn't seem like it would be a true rosary, so I relented.

Tell me I am not the only one who would rather focus on joys and glorious things rather than sad ones. I think that I am a little afraid of the sorrowful mysteries and I don't even know what that means. But then something happened that was so wonderful.

The night before, at the Children's Mass, my 6 year old granddaughter, Maddie,  asked about one of the Stations of the Cross that she could see from her seat.These Stations are created out at the monastery and are of stained glass.So colorful and beautiful. They catch the eye even though that night they were hard to see for the crowds.These stations depict what happened to Christ in His last hours on earth and as He walked the streets on His way to the cross.Pretty grim and sorrowful.

Maddie's first question was: "Did He want to die?"Then," why are they taking His robe?" and on it went. I felt privileged to be holding her hand as we journeyed from place to place. I had to move  the choir bongos to see the last one; Christ wrapped up and heading for the grave. This was much like going from one sad bead to the next.

As I prayed the rosary,  this came to me; when I travel these sorrowful mysteries twice a week, I am no longer by myself on this sad trek. In some way that I know to be true but have no idea how, my Maddie is with me , holding my hand. I am not alone.

visiting graves to say thank you.

What else can you do to pay homage to those who have transformed your life ?And so it was on a startling blue fall day that we traipsed around the cemetery in Concord looking for Thoreau.Why him? Reading what he wrote and seeing the way he tried to live gave comfort to my nature loving introverted soul."I love to be alone....books are the treasured wealth of the world..we need the tonic of wildness...".He spoke my language and he is beloved.

I am not the only one who loves Henry.We finally found his plain tombstone and unlike his three siblings, the top of his was white, clean white. I could almost see the hands of the thousands who love him, stroking the top as I was.

It was by accident that we came to be looking at Robert Frost's grave in Bennington , Vermont. There he was, that American poet who wrote about the solidarity he felt with the grass mower who left a tuft of wildflowers uncut as the poet himself would have.The three of us caught in the beauty of those flowers in his poem.And yes, there were three birches surrounding his grave."One can do worse than be a swinger of birches."

Willa Cather, that writer whose gorgeous prose almost had me packing a bag and heading out for New Mexico or Nebraska, is buried in New Hampshire. Maybe,I 'll get there one day. Georgia O'Keeffe, whose art and life enchant me is spread on top of her beloved Perdenales mountain.What a wonderful trek that would be to pay my respects.

There is one person in my panoply of hero artists that I will probably never visit. She wrote light, enchanting Christian books in the 70s. These joy filled, honest memoirs helped my stumbling faith in its beginning. Ann Kiemel was a runner when I wasn't, she shared her faith when I didn't but she loved the Lord as I was starting to. And she was bold about it.

The introduction to one of her books begins this way : "every morning I wake up with a prayer: 'Jesus , i am just ann,  my city is so big (Boston), make me creative, give me ideas for my corner of the world.' I can't tell you how much I love that.

Having read most of her books, I then lost touch with her doings. A few years back, I found her blog, "I am running to win", and again, she inspired. In 2014, she passed away and I can't find where she is buried. I am sure in California where she lived then.

This Christmas, my runner granddaughter is going to get two of her books. They are used but to me those are the best. Most have a message of love on the inside; I find them to be treasures. Maybe Ann's words will stir something wonderful in my McKenna and in her time, perhaps she will visit and say thank you for both of us.

trying hard to show love.

Four male turkeys are resting in the leaves in the woods out back. They are huge and pretty stunning when they chase us around our driveway. Windham Hill artists are pleasantly filling the day with calm and cheer. Winter.

Something kept going through my mind as Mass was about to begin.....God tries so hard to show us His love.That thought kept swirling around like a colorful mist. I know it is true in my core. I sat in peace with this knowing. Yes, above all else, that is what He does. It is the direction that His energy goes:  a sunset here, a particularly beautiful leaf there, a swaying branch with snow when everything else around is still, a kindness.

If we truly know that, what else matters? Truly.

As I was leaving church, a member of our writing group shared an insight that she received while on retreat:
Be still and be in the moment.Yes, oh yes. What a gift. Will we see that sunset, that leaf, that snow encrusted branch at all? Pay attention, He is moving. Do not think ahead, see the leaves under your feet ? Here. Now.

Another member of that group of courageous writers gifted me with his first book today. So much work has gone into this labor of his heart. Inside was a poem of his creating, that thanked me for our group. A very lovely thank you.

On a Sunday morning, what I heard came to be. "Look at these two gifts that you hold to your heart. See?"

looking for Thomas Merton.

It was a bright summer day. I remember every detail. Having been urged to faith by the words of the monk , Thomas Merton, I was on the way to a pilgrimage of sorts.Now living in Louisville, I would finally be able to see the Trappist monastery where he lived and wrote, Gethsemane.

This sentence he wrote in 1965 touches me again: "I come into solitude to die and love. I come here to be created by the Spirit of Christ."

John and I and our three young children wandered the grounds and visited the chapel. I have pictures of them tumbling down a small hill as we sauntered in the shade of old trees. A most pleasant day, as I looked for the spirit of the monk whose writings had lit a fire in me. Merton had died 5 years before in 1968.

Up a gravel path came a monk in denim with a sunshine smile of hello.Ah, here was a monk like my dear Merton.We can chat and talk of holy things.We walked and talked and I found him to be so honest, so likable.He was tall, slender and in his 40s and before long he shared this: "I don't know what I am doing here.I have lost my faith and want to leave." Oh, my.

He became our friend and would write beautiful notes to us. I loved his writing. He came for dinner a few times and later revealed he had fallen in love with a nurse and was due to leave.Soon we moved back to Georgia but kept in touch. I would send him an overtly religious Christmas card and he would offer a black and white card with birds.We continued this for years and, when
 I could, I shared my faith.

His last note , a few years back, brought tears to my eyes.It was just this, part of a famous poem:

                                         "I fled Him down the nights and down the days,
                                         ..I hid from Him..........still with unhurrying pace came 
                                                the following Feet and a Voice, 
                                                 'Rise, clasp My hand and come.'

                                            'The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson...

Streams will burst forth in the desert.

His friends must have loved him. He lay on a thick mat and with ropes they hoisted his weak body up onto the roof and then down through a hole in the roof. What a sight to those gathered as he lay at Christ's feet. Eyes searching the Face. Heal me, please.

This reminded me of something that I hadn't thought of in years. It was spring break thirty years ago and I took my youngest son and his friend to the monastery in Conyers. They may have been 11 years old and ready for an adventure.

It is always there, the entrance road that leads past tall, full magnolia trees.They are the welcoming committee. The path through the trees begins the transition from the profane to the holy. From the  noise to deep silence.

On that day, as we sauntered down to the pond where the geese rule, I saw a stranger ahead. As we approached, I could see he was a young priest and his face was beaming with warmth. As we got closer, I could tell that he was wanting to talk.We sat on a bench as the boys wandered. I wish I knew his name. He shared that he was on retreat after the busy Easter doings at his church in Massachusetts.And then he began as tears filled his eyes.

It was Holy Thursday and, as he gave out Communion, he noticed an older man who had just received, standing in front of him. He was swaying and his face was awash in tears. He stood there for the longest time before returning to his pew. After Mass, the same man approach my new friend and simply said: "I can see."The man had been blind for many years as a result of diabetes and on that holy night his sight was restored. We both sat in profound silence and wonder. It was such a holy moment and for the first time, I can tell this story of healing.The paralyzed man walked and the blind man saw.

Across from the monastery is a green cemetery. Surrounded by three tall trees is the place where John and I will rest after our journey. The hill slopes a bit but it is shady and peaceful. It is here that our remains will be but..."Those whom the Lord has ransomed will return and enter Zion singing, crowned with everlasting joy; They will meet with joy and gladness, sorrow and mourning will flee." Amen.

can a park become glorious?

Can a humble place where animals shelter and feed be glorious? Hmmmm. The writer of today's Advent meditation said that very thing.The Lord did not need a castle as a place to be born.Where He was born didn't matter because anywhere Love appears becomes glorious. I really like that idea. And then it came to me. A scene in a park.

It was a Facebook video of a curly haired little boy, perhaps three years old, wandering around Piedmont Park. His parents had told him it was time to go and to say good-bye and off he went on a mission. Sitting down, walking towards him, people with their backs to him, nothing mattered as he hugged each person and then moved to the next.The smiles, the unconstrained joy!  It was if this child had golden pixie dust and he just sprinkled it on everyone in the park.What he did that day, brought tears. A glorious thing.

"Then the wolf shall be a guest of the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid;The calf and the young lion shall browse together, with a little child to guide them.....There shall be no harm or ruin on all my holy mountain; and the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the Lord as water covers the sea." Isaiah 12:6-9.

Abide the Winter

Dried leaves crunching under my shoes. Broken sticks blown down. A pink rose petal in a puddle.The only color in the woods, the tawny beech leaves. Spare, stark, clean and simple : winter.

The darkness comes and will reach its depth at the solstice. By then we will be looking for more brightness beyond colored Christmas lights. Windham Hill artists present a song, "Abide the Winter". Perhaps we can do more than abide it. Maybe we can poke around in the darkness of this bitter season and find bright shining objects.That is what I will do this Advent.

As I listen to the music of the above named group,  I think of a call I made today to a person that I have met just a few times.The last time was at the doctor's office where I was dreading the discomfort of a mammogram. I know Irma from church and, that day, she walked up and whispered: "I have breast cancer."This dear soul has been battling this disease off and on for years. She is now 80 and you will find no person on this earth who is more alive and joyful.And loving.It is an honor to breath the same air as she.Today, her news was good, she has stopped taking some medicine and is feeling well enough to go to church again.

As we closed the conversation, I told her about the new baby Graham that arrived last month."Oh" she said, "he must have a warm hat and a blanket", which she will make.Light.

Advent is the season of waiting for the coming. And in the rich dichotomy that my faith provides: He is coming and He is here.The Light.

on the grace train...

 



It always starts with a nudge.

"Go and talk to her."So I leave my pew, make my way up to the wooden statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe and touching her feet I whisper :"Help." Her gaze is off to the right, eyes half closed but I know she hears.

Our chats are brief .She advises patience, peace and always prayer. I nod.

What I have brought to her is a painful situation in my family.New and troubling.The holiday time of family has become sorrowful. When I walk away from our talk, it is with the confidence that I just need to keep my eyes open and watch. My mood lifts. I know I have been heard.

When I get home from Mass, I open my e-mails and find one from a high school friend who reads this blog. I have not heard from Alice in months. My mouth falls open when I read the link she has sent me. It is an interview with a Jewish, atheist Harvard professor named Roy Schoeman, whose heart was converted when Mary appeared to him and they had a chat. Alice was looking for a music video on you tube when she happened on the conversion video and sent it on. Mary at work.

That day, an e-mail and then in awhile, a call and the healing has begun.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

an American original

The wind whips fiercely as she stumbles along the desert floor. It is winter and the white sun gives light but little warmth. It suits her mood. She has always been drawn to the dry, empty waste that is the West. Here poets write, painters sit and saints pray. She is none of these. She has come to seek his bones.

He has been missing for over 80 years; but she hears his voice sometimes. Is it that face, full of youth and maleness? Or is it the picture of his burros, abandoned and grazing idly by the stream ?Or is it enough that he was a young painter and poet who cut all  ties to be as free as the eagle? She is haunted.

This young man took the road less traveled and left these words behind: "I have seen almost more beauty than I can bear."By foot and burro he would walk the empty spaces of Utah and the surrounding states for months, seeing no one.Setting up his easel occasionally and with great simplicity, he painted what he saw.

"Where is Everett," his parents in California were asked time and again."Oh, he's wandering ", they always said." We send him money to a post office in Utah and that keeps him going. He comes home once in a while."And then all contact ended in 1934.Silence.No word. The world empty of Everett Ruess. Men searched for years. Bones were found , not his; theories expounded. The poet never found , never seen again. Did he cry out at the end? Did he regret his wildness?

His last words answer:, "I'll never stop wandering and when the time comes, I'll find the wildest, most desolate spot there is."He was 20 years old.

Summertime in Venice

Have you ever watched a movie that broke your heart ?

When I was a teenager, that movie was "Summertime in Venice" with Kate Hepburn. Kate played the part of a lonely spinster who saved her money for a solo trip to Italy .I can see her now, after arriving, throwing open the doors of her room enchanted by the piazza below.
Venice.
And then later, eating with a married couple on that same piazza feeling like a fifth wheel. Trying desperately to fit in somewhere. .

It seemed to me that I rather looked like her but without the glorious high cheek bones. Slender, freckled, unremarkable hair., knobby knees .We were nothing like the busty stars of that day; Marilyn, Jayne, and Sophia.
Kate and I.

I have to confess that I always thought I would be a spinster, an unmarried lady, still on the shelf , alone. I hadn't thought of this specter, that had hung over me for many years, until the other night. It all came to mind as I looked around the restaurant where my family was celebrating my milestone birthday this month. Another woman was partying at another table with female friends, relatives (?) She had her sparkling crown on her head as they sang lustily to honor her day. I looked around our table, with just half my family.there, the other two grown children being away.My heart swelled. How could I tell them what having this circle means to me? A marriage of over 50 years through turmoil and calm , a place where I belong with arms that hold and protect. A son and a daughter who, no matter what, will be there for me. A daughter-in-law who is raising my two grandchildren with wisdom and love; the little grands who call me Grandma Graham. So proud to be that.

The last scene of that movie is so poignant. Kate is leaving on a train to begin her journey back to America and in the distance, her married Italian lover is racing to hand her a gift. A perfect white flower. He cannot reach her, but it's O.K.,she sees it and waves in joy. For a season, she had been loved. A season, a lifetime, I am grateful beyond telling.

This is all that matters

The dragonfly visits.Whenever I leave the house , he swirls nearby. A garden friend whose colors often make me smile. Who knew they come in blue, green , yellow and black?.They enchant me and I am grateful that I have time to notice.They flit, then light and wait, for a traveling food supply, I suppose.

How like those little insects are my thoughts, going here and there but yesterday I had a revelation. I should know this of course but something made it very real and I am holding tightly to this knowing. I offer it to all who drop by.

In the Catholic Church, the belief is that the bread consecrated at Mass becomes the body of Christ, Him and real. Not a symbol. This is something I have accepted without understanding how this can be so.What in the natural world is like this phenomenon ? It is like believing that God had no beginning and will have no end: always was , always will be. When I explained this to my 5 year old granddaughter, she did a head slap and walked away.I know, it's hard.

Perhaps by just putting this belief in my pocket for another day, I was rewarded. On retreat in Alabama a few years ago, I knelt before the host in the monstrance on the altar and with eyes closed, I heard this: "This is all that matters." If you were next to me and spoke, it wouldn't have been as clear as this. And the only reason the Host would matter is if it is Christ. I believe.

Now to the other day.I was fretting over some slight, some sharp tone headed my way, a  feeling of being overlooked and I brought that to prayer.This is what was given to me:.".if you have done your best, as you know it, the rest is out of your hands.Seek first the kingdom and leave the rest at My feet. It is of no consequence." What freedom! To know, really know that I have a choice about these matters.I can dwell on the hurts or release them and focus on what, in the end, IS all that matters.

where you are going....

Art by Everett Ruess, Desert Light.

"I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude."

 I found these lines while reading a book about writing for the Fall group that starts in September. I have had some solitude lately with my husband gone helping one of our sons.The time on the porch in the cool morning perched in a wicker chair is wonderful. I stop reading to feel the breeze on my cheeks and think there are no better moments than these.

The words at the beginning were written by the American icon, Henry David Thoreau. I visited his grave once on an autumn day in New England. The memory is a happy one.We, my husband and I, were tired from the drive and the dogs that kept us awake the night before.We slogged through the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, Massachusetts, looking for Poets Hill and I was ready to give up. John, however, kept at it because he knew how much it meant to me. Finally, there was the Thoreau family plot. Holy ground.

I noticed something right away that touched me.The stones just had the first names of Henry and his siblings.These are old stones and grey. But unlike the others, Henry's stone was white on the top and I immediately knew why. Pilgrims like myself feel compelled to stroke the top of his stone, to connect, and thus it is rendered almost clean. In front of the stone someone had left a small bright orange pumpkin.A gift for a poet, a solitary, that has touched something deep in me.

Alone, in the quiet, is the only place that I can hear the Voice, the lover, comforter, guide, the one who encourages. In the stillness , face turned away from everything, pen in hand, yesterday I heard this. I offer it in love to all who may need to hear:

"Once you were lost, hanging by a thread.You remember those times of pain and shame.
See where you are now. All the things that hurt can be looked back on and forgotten.Where you are going, nothing like that exists, even in memory."

the legend of Jingwei

Across the room she stood looking so healthy, way beyond what I knew.I had heard about her deep faith and wanted to know this beautiful, blond young woman.We fell into an unexpected friendship.

The painting above depicts the Chinese tale of Namu, a young girl who is playing  in the Eastern Sea. She was unable to reach shore and drowned.She is then transformed into a bird called Jingwei. She lives on Departing Doves Mountain among the mulberry trees.Namu now resembles a crow with a patterned head, white beak and red feet She regularly carries twigs and stones to the sea in an effort to fill it up.The sea laughs at her and she answers that she will spend the next hundred million years filling up the sea, so no one else will share her fate. From this myth comes the Chinese chegyo idiom which means Jingwei tries to fill the sea or dogged determination and perseverance in the face of seemingly impossible odds.

My friend Michele was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005  when she returned from her honeymoon. The honey of that trip left her shortly thereafter. After treatments, she was doing well but in 2010 her cancer returned with a vengeance. At that time she was given 3-5 years .That was 8 years ago, She fights, she hopes, she endures.

In the midst of her journey, she has been led to produce beauty products specifically for cancer survivors whose skin has been affected by chemotherapy. She now goes to a retirement facility and gives facials weekly. But what she brings is her story. One that has touched me so deeply that I can't explain it. In the painting above, my sweet girl stands facing that dragon which is cancer. Through all of this, she has a heart filled with appreciation. Her most recent note says this: "I am so grateful to the Lord , especially for putting all these angels in my life.." Those are the white doves swirling about her speaking words of love as she faces her journey.

if you are in My boat....

Katie's first memory is of overwhelming sadness.

It is Christmastime and she was unsure of what was happening but all her family members were in tears. Her father had just passed away and the family was trying to find a way to celebrate Christmas for their beautiful little girl of two.This sadness is engraved on her soul but somewhere along the way, Katie decided that this was not going to define her, this loss.She is sunny, this daughter-in-law of mine. Loving and sunny.I treasure her more than she knows.

Our first memory is usually of something out of the ordinary. Mine was. I may have been four years old and my sister and I are playing on a dock at a lake in Winsted, Ct. All I recall is being over my head in the lake and a green hand reaching down to grab mine. My sister pulled me up and I am sure I shrieked loudly for the next hour.What a fright.

My grandson John is 4 and he tumbled into the pool a week ago at the place where he was getting swimming lessons. My son alerted the comatose life guard who hauled him out.Will this be his first memory?It's a frightening experience.Will it color his life?

My son Sean and a friend were lost on the Flint River behind our house when they were in high school. I remember that the day's light was rapidly leaving  when it occurred to me that something was wrong. I stood on the hill above the river frantically praying for their safety. I never knew until later that that happening was the most  frightful of Sean's life, he who has handled snakes and traveled to strange places. Finally, they spotted a house and went to find an open door and safety.

We are instructed to hear God's words and put them into practice. When the rainy season and the torrents set in,  if we have built our house on that rock, it will not be destroyed. We will not be destroyed.

Today,I heard this:

"Today you are Mine, tomorrow, Mine, through eternity, Mine. Nothing can harm you or your thinking if you just claim that knowledge and trust it.
What can go wrong as long as you are in this boat of My constructing ? This is what the stormy sea story is all about. You are in My boat and no harm can come to that essence which is you."

the mysterious circle

Raise your hand if you are weary of my dreams.Sorry, not enough hands, so here I go again.This dream happened at least twenty years ago and though brief, it stunned me and left me mystified.

We are in a circle, a group dancing with abandon and great joy. God is in our midst, I am holding His hand. To my left is Jesus and I hold his right hand as we twirl.We are all at peace and sodden with joy. Then, it happens: Christ lets go of my hand and starts to drift away.I say, "No, You can't go.What will we do?" He took my hand , put it in the hand of the person on His other side and said clearly: "Now, you lead the dance." He drifted away and we danced on.

What did this mean? What was I being asked to do?I had no idea and for years when I thought of this occasion with Christ it still made no sense. Until last week.

A circle suggests a lap where a mother will hold her child until the child decides it's time to go off. That's the best kind of circle.The stones on the beach on Iona, are all round and smooth, tumbling around for eons in the ocean until they are finished and are flung up on the shore in their dazzling colors. And then there is our writing circle at church. Three years ago, I put an ad in the bulletin and wondered if anyone would come.

We have gathered in a small classroom to share our stories, inspired by art pieces. The joy is palpable.We have even started Joy Journals to record our happy moments. The circle is safe, affirming and inclusive. Everyone is heard because everyone is seen. Some comments:"writing has given me such peace of mind and soul,.'..we are all better people for this experience, '.'we have a loving environment to be as creative as we want to be,, this class opened the door to creativity and real joy."

A circle.

.Sometimes the circle feels like a carousel as we laugh and  go up then down in mood. Sometimes, it feels like circular confessional as we share our wounds.The tissue box travels easily in a circle as do the hands of compassion..

A circle, no beginning and no end. In all of this Christ is the center. I can see him looking through the door window as His grace circles, swirls and heals.I nod.

the eternal fog

This story has been haunting me for awhile now. What to make of it? How does it fit ? Where to start?

It begins when my second grandson was three and was having a serious chat with his Dad. Out of nowhere Riley said this: " God said that I had to go down the steps, down to earth and into Mommy's tummy and I had to go by myself."My son asked if he was scared and Riley said ,"No, but I just had to do this by himself and that was that." I think my son was stunned and never thought to ask more, nor would I have.

Riley is now a tall , ginger, good looking young man of 17 years who loves children and is kind in every way. I recall giving him a small bag of Teddy Grahams when he was 5 and the first thing he did was offer one to his Grandpa. Sweet. In my wildest dreams I cannot see Riley being a bully, his heart wouldn't allow it. He has no memory of this conversation and I had no idea that this kind of memory is offered up by many children.

"Memories of Heaven"  by Dr. Wayne Dyer is a fairly recent book and it jumped off the shelf into my hand the other day when we just happened to be wasting time in the library. In reading some of the amazing stories I found this: the youngest child in a family, Abigail, describes "coming down and into her Mommy's tummy."That struck a chord.

A particularly touching story involved a mother who struggled to feel love for her son and then this happened: "I tucked Sean in and he began to sob uncontrollably.As compassionately as I could I asked him what was the matter and he said he wanted to be with his mother in heaven and he couldn't take being here anymore.I asked him what his mother in heaven gave him that I didn't and he answered; "Pure Love"?.He said that God was a being of white light and filled with love and that his Mother and God decided I needed to go to earth and be your son to help you learn. how to experience and give pure love.Sean was 8 years old at the time.

Wordsworth, who I adore, said this:.." our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting." Perhaps this is why we are restless here, down the steps and away from the Divine: we know better. But there is work to do and we must turn our backs and forget.

In prayer, I asked for help. What could the meaning of all this really be ?This was poured into my empty bowl:

"The point of the story will be that you are never without Me. Not here or there. Always cared for, always loved. From the ends of the earth to the heights and depths, nothing can separate you from the love of God.
God cannot withdraw His Love because it is all there is-it surrounds and seeps in all the cracks like an eternal fog that cannot be dispersed. It is all there is."

the covered girl

We never met and yet, Cynthia owns a portion of my heart.

My second son, Kevin, had made a trip to Honduras with our church group a few years ago and when we picked him up at the airport, he looked shell shocked. The trip was almost too much for his tender, compassionate heart. As we ate dinner, he tried to tell us about the journey but was too moved to speak. We have pictures of him dancing with an elderly lady at a retirement home, and surrounded by children playing a game. He is glowing. I love those pictures. In the days after, we heard more of his stories and one day he quietly told us about Cynthia..

He met her in a small village on one of the group's side trips.She peeked out at him from beneath a ragged thin grey blanket.This girl of eight kept herself covered for two reasons: the sun was her enemy and the tumors were a sight. They covered her small back, neck and head and they were growing. Cynthia had been born with a rare genetic anomaly, xeroderma pigmentosum. Her body lacked pigment and therefore any exposure to the UV rays of the sun would cause irreparable harm. In her case, by the time someone took her to a large city for a diagnosis, it was too late.There are case in the United State and with early diagnosis and extreme measures, the victim can live a long life. However, a very restricted one-no exposure to the sun.Windows treated to keep out UV rays, only night playing outside.There are camps for these afflicted children and all the boating, Frisbee throwing, swimming is done at night.My mind cannot understand such a life.

Part of Cynthia's story is remarkable. I heard of the way that her siblings took care of her. More than one piece of candy for her; if she felt unwell, back rubs, cool cloths on her forehead and hand holding. Perhaps they sang her a sweet song as she suffered.They protected her and loved her deeply.

The next year, a new group was going and I put an envelope in the hand of the friar leading the group.I wrote her name, included a small note and a little pink beaded rosary. If I recall the story correctly, when they got to her village, she was out so they left the envelope at her hut.I like to think that holding the pretty beads made her feel special.

Cynthia's story has often tested my faith. When I close my eyes, I see this: a small grave in the dusty village cemetery with a poor wooden cross carved: Cynthia, aged 10yrs 4 mo.. But now I also see: a free child, whole, laughing, running through golden fields surrounded by love. And when each of her siblings leave this world, she will be smiling and leading them to that brightest of Lights that doesn't hurt the eyes or harm the skin.Amen.

a dragonfly, vapor and me.

The day is etched in my mind. I had just retired  and was feeling decidedly uncomfortable with my life.What now, my inner Sharon said. Is the next phase just a time of waiting til the first fatal disease shows up?Perhaps this is normal when a person stands on the edge of a cliff and then jumps into the unknown. The freedom was delicious but the unknown left a prickly feeling in my body.

We were at Mass and it was time to say good-bye to a associate pastor who was going to D.C. The love and joy but also sadness swirled around the church. One could feel it. It was in these moments that I heard something like this: "this is what the future will be like, filled with love and joy and some sadness.I am in charge, you are my child, just go in the future with confidence." The message was also a reminder that as I had not been alone in the first half, I certainly would not be abandoned in the second. The fear left and the anticipation began. A turning point.

That was 18 years ago and this next hill of my life has been just as promised. I thought of all this because yesterday I had a visit.I don't want to read too much into this but a beautiful dragonfly with gold on his wings attached himself to my screen porch just where I sit to read and pray.It was there all day.

When we were kids, we called them darning needles, who knows why. I never paid much attention to them but now that I often sit in my garden to pray, they seem companions. I had no idea of the variety.I have seen ones with blue bodies, some with green but the one from yesterday was much larger and the gold on his wings was beautiful. I met them when I started praying the rosary in my garden a few years ago and yes, I feel as if my life has opened up like a lotus in a still pond.

When I looked up dragonflies on-line, I read this "When a dragonfly jets in as your spirit animal, it's time to find the positive in all situations." In the folklore of many cultures, when they appear in a special way, they are advising that change is coming.The first thought fits perfectly with my starting a Joy Journal. And the second with the changes I have seen.

The life span of a dragonfly is 7 months and I just knew as I pondered yesterday's friend that something in today's readings would speak to this and it did. James:4-14. "You have no idea what kind of life will be yours tomorrow.You are a vapor that appears briefly and vanishes".We, the dragonfly, the trees, all are vapor.But we have this moment.Amen.

the joy of haiku

This is a rainy, porch perching kind of day and in the stillness I am reading about haiku. This poetry form has been embraced madly by the writing group that I belong to.We only spent one session on it but in these teaching moments we connected with nature in a new way. It is as if we finally looked and began to experience what a child must feel.

It was a spring morning, Easter Sunday, a few years back.My granddaughter Maddie was two at the time.The older kids were playing football in the street and she was sitting in the grass playing with some wildflowers. Her Grandma, as is always the case, couldn't take her eyes off her. Then, I saw it. I viewed that magic moment when a child new to this world experiences something wonderful. A breeze came up and caressed her cheek and she looked up in awe and smiled in happiness.Later, I went to collect those few bedraggled flowers and found one of her hairs tangled in them.That treasure is in my journal.

A new member of our group spent her entire vacation composing  haiku and her description of the joy she felt in the writing is worthy of mention. She feels like she is noticing, seeing and looking with new eyes.Yes.
Just reading one person's article on how to write haiku on the porch in the rain has made for a joy filled morning.What a gift.

The author Jane Reichhold mentions some of the attitudes that are necessary for one to have a haiku mind: being aware, being non-judgmental, being reverent, having a sense of simplicity and humility.What wonderful virtues to carry in our pocket as we walk through this life.

Haiku moments are encounters that stay with us forever.Like the day, after having lunch with a friend, I found something as we walked.to the car. It seemed like a gift from the bounteous Hand meant just for me.Here is what I wrote:

                                                              sweltering cement
                                                        in a crack some roots growing
                                                             a johnny jump up.

As if that wasn't enough, next to it was a thrown away plastic spoon for me to dig it up and take it home to a spot in good soil in my garden.

The other day I posted a haiku on Facebook and an old friend wrote 5-7-5 in the comments. Ah, another poet in the house. I first met Charles when he was 6 years old and in life I have seen him just a few times. But we share a bond that God has ordained. He is grown now, married with two beautiful children and a lovely wife.When I think of him, the virtues above come to life. He is awake, treasures every minute, and has an aura of humility reflected in the words he writes. How I love this young man. I told him my haiku bowl was empty, so he provided. This haiku prayer will open the next session of our writing  group when we start back in September :

                                                      He has risen indeed
                                                    yes, we believe it is He
                                                    who will return again........Charles Jackson

And the people say,Amen.

ask Grandma Graham

The honor is all mine, for now. If my sweet granddaughter who is 5, has a question and the word God is in the sentence, she is told: "Ask Grandma Graham."I think it's hilarious. A few weeks back I got this one: "Grandma Graham, why did God make my ears so that I can't close them like my eyes and mouth?" What??? Thank you, Maddie's parents, my son Kevin and his wife Heather,.I got this one.Not.

Well, last night, Maddie had another one."Grandma Graham, when was God born?" I said, "You mean Jesus?" ?and she said "No, God."Well, now. I told her that God was never born that He always was and always will be. Puzzlement filled her face.I said, " It's hard to understand but that is how it is."She hand slapped her forehead and walked away.I thought, I know.It's hard.

Let me tell you about the soul of this beautiful child.There is a fellow kindergartner who has trouble behaving. He has pushed my Maddie down and treated her badly .He is like this with all the little children and the other day the whole class turned on him. He needed earphones and no one, not one child, would let him use theirs. Imagine his feelings .That's when my sweet girl walked up and handed him hers to use.My son has trouble telling this story because it moves him so as it does me.

Today's psalm is so perfect for my story: "Who is like the Lord, our God, who is enthroned on high and looks down on the heavens and the earth?" Ps. 113:5-6. If we could understand Who God is He wouldn't be God, He, who holds out the truth for us as we wander towards Him.We get it only slightly but as the journey goes along, it becomes a bit more clear.

This little girl with the big questions is being held in the palm of that great God who always was , always will be and waits for us at the end. Nothing could be more comforting.

out of Africa.....

The music that I am listening to makes my heart so full that I need to write.What will come, I have no idea. I am listening to the beautiful  soundtrack from "Out Of Africa "and thinking of people in my life who bring joy.

In the movie, Robert Redford takes Meryl Streep on a flight over the African plain in a small piper cub.From her seat in front of him, she sees the antelope running below;the lakes shimmer in the sunlight. She reaches back to grab his hand. What more can she do to thank him for this wonder? Listening to the music, I can see this scene and it moves me again. What can you do to thank people for their unexpected presence in your life?

My 75th birthday is coming soon and my husband, who will be out West, has bought a ticket to fly home just for that day. What a gracious gift. No words do that justice.My oldest son, busy beyond all telling, meets me for lunch monthly where we catch up, he who has always read my mind and watched out for me. Around the house are several small articles that he had given when he was a child.Where he got the money I have no clue but there they are.

When I retired in 2000, I thought I had left my friends behind but one, through grace, has stuck.She is my cheerleader as I embark on my wild adventures.We are writers and believers; those connections keep us close. I can tell her anything and she nods.I have cried in gratitude for this gift .

I have a special friend who helps with my writing group.She makes sure all my stuff is packed and helps me lug it to my car.I know writing has enriched her life and that inspires my own efforts.I count on her and her ideas.Where did she come from to bolster what I do?

A niece who, when walking down a country road said this, only this, as she felt my heartache and put her arm around me: "sweetie" and then she listened. A long ago friend who I met at 16 has found my blog and me.We share pictures and memories and what I feel from many miles away is his appreciation. I can hear him clapping his hands when I share what I am up to.Where does a gift like that come from?

To each of you, and all the others, I reach my hand back and with misty eyes, squeeze in gratitude.

You, who took me in....

It didn't make any sense, last night's dream. But........

I am in my childhood house on Long Island; I am a prisoner, kept there by force and being starved to death. No food allowed. I am wasting away and desperate. Suddenly, an opening to escape appears and I run out the front door.I can see it as I go into the yard.;this heavy oak door that had deep gashes on the inside from the scratching of a dog that I loved .

Through the yard to a neighbor's back door, knocking frantically and finally a young person lets me in."Please don't let them know I am here, tell them you haven't seen me.".Yes, he nods and I am safe. And in a quiet voice I ask for an Ensure to keep me alive.

Most of the dreams that I remember, the vivid, like "a movie on a screen" ones, I understand immediately. This one? Later, after prayers, something tells me to open my last journal and read the words I have been given.I drink in the notes for November 2nd, 2017. As I read and ponder, my mind expands to hold the real meaning and I get misty with gratitude.

I am starving in that house on Webster St.We all are. For love. For a word of affirmation, a kind thought about something we have done.We don't speak that language, we don't know it exists.We know sarcasm, we make small cuts with it rather than risk the truth.

The young person letting me in without question or judgment is Christ who has been waiting for me to be brave enough to reach out. I recall the exact moment though not the date.We , my small family and I, are living in California in the 70s and I am feeling a dreadful emptiness, I silently say these words; "God if you are there, help me."Nothing happened, I felt some relief at having done something but now I see that this was my mad dash to His back door.

Soon after, I casually picked up a book for a friend and it spoke of His love.A library book that I had thought was a love story turned out to be about the conversion of St.Augustine. It enchanted me. Co-incidences piled up that made and still make my head spin.

Here are the sunshine filled, gold dusted words that I received on November 2nd from the Hand that took me in::

"The stars tell of the distance from Me.Your heart and it's co-incidences tell of My nearness. Ever and ever believe in these small , inexplicable moments that come like the dew to point out the closeness of My heart to yours."

Only Grace

It was years ago that I heard this word spoken in an interview on a talk show. Daniel J Trafanti, was being quizzed about his success on the TV show "Hill Street Blues." It came to light  that the actor had struggled for years with alcoholism and finally was able to reclaim his life. Then his acting success followed. When asked how, he said a simple word: grace. It was stunning to see his face shine as the interviewer looked on in puzzlement.

At Mass today we celebrated the First Holy Communion of a friend's eight year old. It brought back thoughts of my First Communion on a glorious day back in May in the '50s. We were trained down to the last detail of the ceremony for weeks by the nuns who held our lives in their stern hands for 8 years. I was so uptight, so afraid of making a mistake that I broke out in hives and could barely walk.Such fear, such rigidity that allowed for no mistake. One must be perfect. I recall in detail that my view of God was that He was up there watching and just waiting for us to make a mistake.What a horrible burden for a child to bear.

This day also brought back pictures of an entire family, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins all on the lawn in the back of our house after the happy ceremony .At a young age I recall the early afternoon drinking to excess to celebrate this holy day. It all mystified me.The disconnect.

How did this fear filled child survive? How could she, a child who was so intimidated by the thought of coloring outside the lines of her coloring book that she put a small grey dot in the middle of an elephant and called it coloring, how could she make it? I thought of that as I sat among my community of friends .People I have known and loved for over 40 years. As I sat with my husband of 50 years in contentment and joy. I heard the words of the gospel," I am the vine and you are the branches and cut off from me you can nothing. (of kingdom value)."My life has had value. I have been connected. Put your hands together for grace.

the writing group

It started with a painting by Alfred Sisley. In somber tones, it shows a hunched woman, wrapped against the cold, walking alone in an alley.The swirling snow and the dim setting came alive in my mind. My first story.When it was finished themes had emerged:  fear of being a lonely widow, my grandfather's kindness, a caring deacon, all emerged into the light. The process of uncovering these unseen understandings brought me joy. Pure joy.

It was years before I ventured to share this gift with others.Writing, finding new ways of expressing, were used, honed and many prayers said. Should I do this? Would others see its value ? And then the time was right and a writing group was launched. Not having any idea how the first session should begin, I tapped the shoulder of a mentor writer whose gentle heart had warmed me when I joined her memoir group in upstate New York. Her one page of ideas is enshrined in my writing group notes.

We are now in our third year of using art to inspire our stories and I am amazed still at the depth of the sharing. And healing. Writers who have said they would never use the internet now have their own blogs with followers from around the world. People resistant to poetry write haiku daily as a way of capturing the natural world that is at their fingertips.

We have fallen in love with Van Gogh's cathedrals, envisioned a mighty ram from a skull, traveled to Russia in words, embraced modern art with creativity , told stories that are unforgettable, shared faith, written simple haiku that sings, and uncovered how we feel about our time of life.We have been drawn into the symbols of our round stained glass window by a poet and his artist daughter.Not to mention digestive leavings.Who doesn't love the adventures of Lizzie? We are brought colors and attention to detail that are surprising in such a good way.And if we cry.....

There is an expression in Aboriginal culture that expresses the environment that we writers have created. It is called: dadirri. For an individual, it is entering nature with an open heart and listening deeply to its whispers.For a group, it is a place of safety and deep listening without judgement.Without planning it, this is the nature of our group. The emotional charge is released a little at a time as the circle around us offers an unwavering reflection of loving acceptance.

It is only in this third year that I understand that what we are achieving is dadiiri. Creating sacred space that holds the stories.that burn within us, that corrode if not aired.That we were formed in the image of God to be like Him, creators of beauty.Our stories are important; here they are honored.

To all those who came for a season, for those who are in the circle still, for those whose courage humbles, for the kindness that pours from each heart, for writers here and everywhere, I applaud you.I will end with a haiku written by a new poet. It sums up what we do perfectly:


opening closed minds
to love art and start writing
expressing joy.

what is the color of hope ?

                                                       

What is the color of hope?

Is it yellow?

There is a scene at the end of the movie "The Passion of the Christ."It is finished. The tomb is sealed, the dead savior within.The air is cold and it is midnight black. All hope has vanished in this death. And then, and then, slowly a tiny sliver, then a half moon and then yellow light enters.He is risen as He said! Rejoice.

Or is it white?

The white of an old lace shift being worn as she goes from window to window.Is she looking for him? We know so little of her but it is said that she loved deeply and that her love was not returned. How did she feel wandering through the house in the daytime and in her garden in the evening?

She was a watcher, an observer and from that watching, in the early hours sun and the evening gloom, she put pen to paper and became an American icon.She wrote letters, poems, read devotedly and rarely left her home. Emily Dickinson was obsessed with death and loss and in her final years became the town recluse. If someone made their way into the house, she would talk to them through a closed door.She wrote to a friend that her only companions were the hills, sundown and her dog Carlo.

Emily died at age 55 of  heart disease. Her burial was as simple as her life.White flannel robe, white coffin, handles and ribbons and a few small flowers, blue and white that lay next to her body.The bulk of her poems were found after her death and she received little recognition in life and if one were to paint a portrait of her life,I expect the colors would be white, grey and death black. So grim.

Or is hope as multi-colored as a tin full of buttons?

I pick up a piece of art by a young artist, Mia, that makes me smile.It has a dark background but the girl's dress is red, green, has flowers,white and pink and on the bottom are common, ordinary but bright and shiny buttons and I read of the whisper that is hope.

Mia, Mel Gibson, Emily and I know a thing or two about hope. Emily wrote:

                                                  Hope is a thing with feathers 
                                                     that perches on the soul
                                                         and sings the tune 
                                                         without words 
                                                      and never stops at all.

just dolls

                                                    who are these strange dolls?
                                                   they listen, love and don't judge
                                                      just friends of the heart.
                                                             
                         s                                              

March

                                                             under all the writing
                                                         in the midst of everything
                                                              is sadness and you.

the quiet by the river..

At the Basilica of St.Francis in Assisi, there was a tall, thin priest whose duty appeared to be one thing. Every few minutes, as the din from the voices of many tourists became annoying, he says :"Silencio".Poor man with a hopeless task. Not hard to know what he is requesting. I appreciated his efforts because I didn't travel thousands of miles to talk but to soak up the sacredness and it was difficult with the chatter. Talking to and hearing from the Spirit , for me, requires some quiet.

And so again , with snake proof boots on and an extraordinary blue sky above , I went to the river seeking "silencio.".

Journal notes 2-14-2014.

..".the log holds a writer who comes as a witness to silence. Just water, trees and bird trills. Nothing else is here but an emptiness that feeds my spirit. I need this. The sun wraps its rays around my face and hands and glistens on the brown water...."

"This is the silence that poets and saints yearn after. Only the birds are busily present. A Barred Owl and something else explode in sound across the river .This must have aroused the cows over there to complain but only for a minute and it is still again."

"There is one lone Beech here that refuses to drop its leaves and they stand out in tan/beige among all the other bare trees. A very strange green bush is growing out there in the water, attached to a dead log. Floating southward , a small thin brown leaf turns sideways .Alone, drifting."

This land that I live on was once a huge farm and there are still places where rusted barbed wire goes from tree trunk to tree trunk.The cows are long gone, the farmer , a memory,   and one day this writer will be shuffled off to somewhere else. But this spot, this dead log that sits by the river's edge, has been my church for years and I breathe in its air with gratitude.

the net of your heart....the joy journal.

The fog seems to be lifting, a flu fog that has left me capable of only the barest activities. I haven't even noticed my winter trees and their grey trunks that always bring me calm.Thanksgiving, Christmas and then the beginning of January.A blur.

Now, the calm of January is here, where I hoped to get back to my routine, the one that holds me on this Fourth Hill of Life. Praying and writing. The rosary, that for weeks has been my safe place, centering prayer that gives me the exact same feeling of being held above the turmoil. How blessed I am in these. Then the routine of desert time, using a pen for praising, thanking, and asking and then the precious Word.What gifts to my soul but so many distractions render these untouched. My own fault.

The only thing that I have been faithful to completely is my Joy Journal. I found this lovely quote from Sister Wendy that reveals the truth of what joy is: "Joy is not a constant condition. Most people manage a settled cheerfulness, but this, however admirable, has nothing to do with joy, which flashes suddenly upon our darkness.....joy does not merely illuminate our interior landscape, it transforms it .The world becomes different, marvelous, and unique."

I think of a morning after Christmas.I noticed a man who I have seen for years, but never met ,walking towards church from a different direction.than myself. I went over to him, he opened his arms for a hug and then he proudly lifted his foot to show me his gorgeous new boots."Wow," I said, "someone knows you well". He said:, "my wife". I nodded, and he said,"I'm just a country boy."Then from my heart, passing  through the rest, came this: "Country boys are the best". We both beamed. The light shines again as I type.

An e-mail that I received before Christmas from a wonderful new friend, Liz, made my journal note for 12-13-17.She attached a recording of "Jesus is Love", by the very upbeat Commodores."My spirit soared as I listened and because I transcribed it, it's back.What a gift.

Stick your head out, walk out of your way, keep your eyes open, you can capture joy with the net of your heart.