the moon, the sun and the stars

 There is a place to see stars but it's a long trip.

I had always wanted to go to Australia but my husband said no every time because of the distance. But when your youngest son was getting married to the perfect woman by the Paterson River in New South Wales, well, 17 hours on board is nothing. The farm where my daughter-in-law grew up is four hours from Sydney and that country is so wide open that it stuns.There I was that first night gazing up at a sky so filled with stars that I was dazzled and could hardly speak. Then I began looking for the Southern Cross, that array of stars that is on the Australian flag. I never could spot it but that night is engraved in my mind for the sheer amazement of it.

The moon landing happened 50 years ago this July, that place so very far away where an American flag was planted which still amazes me when I think of it. For millions of years that satellite of the earth was looked at by countless humans with never a thought of getting there. In my lifetime, a man stood on its surface.

Of course the sun is an absolute necessity for our lives to be sustained on earth, but I must say that at the end of every August in Georgia, I am bone tired of it. Just give me a morning cloud cover and some rain, please. It might be coming.

When I woke up with these three words this morning it seemed so unusual given the past few themes, but the Spirit comes through each time and so I will saunter over to a dream that I had whose meaning become clear later. Bear with me.

.....It is raining at night and I am alone. I am shuffling along a street in near panic. I stumble into Corky's Bar, to where the drinks are served and ask the bartender : "Where am I ?" He says: "Main Street." I tell him that he doesn't understand, I don't know where I am .By now I am crying. He says:  "Oh , Staten Island. And if you have no one  to help you get home, go down the street to the Catholic School, Stella Maris, Our Lady Star of the Sea, they'll help you." I go off with new confidence and the dream ends.

That dream was so real that I looked up the bar.There is one named that in Manhattan and the school/church is in Queens. But it was that dream and a few others that brought Mary, her rosary and her guidance to my life. "Mary, Star of the Sea, guide over troubled waters, pray for us."

grace...a gift

My journal , blue and green, awaits while I settle in. It is cool enough for socks and after a sweltering few weeks, I am so, dare I say, grateful. The word for this day was given before I got out of bed. Just one word for me to dig around in my roots for something to flesh out. Grace. And from my childhood this comes to mind; unearned, undeserved, subtle like the breeze, a gift from God. I look it up and I am correct. Amazing, what stays in the memory.

But first there is Grace, Gracie, a friend's child. I met her when she was an infant at a road race. I held her and tears were on her checks, it was so cold . But there it was, that smile. Always that bounteous gift of her smile. She is a special girl, indomitable. When I hear her laugh with her Dad at some joke between them, I hear bells ringing. She, who is now 12, wasn't at the last gathering, she had cheer leading practice and I missed her.The gift of her, that smile.

The first and only time I saw Melania Trump walk any distance, I saw grace again, a way of walking that is more like floating. She, a trained model, brought something very special to the path she was on.You had to see it to get it.

Grace is quiet when it comes and we may only recognize when we look back. A decision I made that kept my family together, turning from the easy path. I see now how much grace, God's strength , was needed. In the Catechism, the definition states that that grace is a gift that helps us to live the life as a Child Of God, bending our will to His. The right path.

One more story of grace. He was an American professor, an atheist, on holiday in Paris when he was struck with an illness. As he lay on a gurney in a hallway, he died. His journey to the next place was agonizing. He felt he was being dragged away by dark, mournful creatures to a frightful place. A voice he heard keep saying, pray, pray, and he could only conjurer up the words:"Our Father." As he said those words, the darkness began to lift and he was heading toward light when he came back in the hospital.

I see that last whispering moments as the voice of grace. Mercy, one last chance to know who God is. The book is "Descent Into Death"  and the author is Harold Storm, now an ordained minister. I saw him interviewed and 30 years later, he still weeps when he tells his story.

We rarely think gratefully of grace, that unearned gift that help us to be better than we are, stronger, wiser, committed to the path we are on. So like a breeze, a loving touch, a child's smile.

                                                            A Celtic Hymn

                                                         Be Thou my vision
                                                         O Lord of my heart
                                                      Naught be all else to me
                                                           save that Thou art
                                                      Thou my best thought
                                                   in the day and the night,
                                                           Waking or sleeping
                                                        the presence my light.

freedom

The journal is green, turquoise and brown with a gash on the cover. It bears the word tranquility. Some pages were missing when I bought it so I couldn't hand it out to a writing group member. I now have an inordinate fondness for this little book where the pages are many hues of green and blue. These pages have brought me to a different place.

After I wake up, I take my small journal to another room, close the door and offer praise with my pen. And thanks. Today, for freedom.

This June, I took my granddaughter, with my daughter- in- law and daughter, to Paris for few days. I was able to do that. My grandmother came to America from Scotland as an infant and the furthest she traveled after that was from Long Island to New Jersey. She never drove a car so the chances of her taking me anywhere was nil. She never went anywhere by herself, she had to be driven.

There are many kinds of freedom. 

On Twitter the other day, I noticed two followers, one celebrating 30 years of sobriety that very day, another, younger and, of course Irish,  telling of this impending journey to rehab for alcohol abuse. When I congratulated the veteran AA member he wrote back that his 30 years is for the newbies.To let them know they can become free.I was so touched. One is celebrating freedom from addiction, the other on his journey that way. I pray for both.

I think of the feeling of relief and yes, freedom when I have dumped my failings on the shoulders of a kind priest in Confession. When my kids were younger and we would go as a family I remember seeing them bounding around the parking lot like fawns on a Fall day, unburdened.

That scene in "Braveheart" where Mel Gibson is riding in front of his rag tag troops screaming: "freedom." For whatever freedom you need to find today, a humble prayer from me that you find it.

 This prayer started my day and I offer it.

                                                  A Celtic Prayer
                                             
                                            Life be in my speech
                                              Truth in what I say
                                      The love Christ Jesus gave
                                          Be filling every heart for me.
                                        The love Christ Jesus gave
                                            Be filling me for everyone.

wisdom

                                          "It is better to be kind than right"

I have been dabbling in mindfulness a bit this summer. It seems to go along with what our writing group has been focusing on in the last few sessions. Paying attention. Don't let the little moments of beauty drift away unrecorded. Haiku, look at the simple small moments, pay attention .

  The book I have been reading is "Looking At Mindfulness,  twenty-five paintings to change the way you live."How perfect, since we use art to inspire our stories. I love the cover, it is a painting that I have seen before; " The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog", By Friedrich. I am going slowly through the book but what I have gleaned so far is this: we can control our thoughts. It takes practice but there is a nanosecond between a stimulant and our reaction. And we can chose our reaction. I tried it at Mass on August 15th and it worked.

We have an organ in our small church. Don't ask why. When a certain musician plays the entire congregation stiffens. Teeth are grinding and chipping. To say the "music" is deafening would not do it justice. It is so bad that people head for the doors quickly when the final piece is played. That day, instead of grinding my teeth, I said to myself, "it's loud, nothing I can do" and I thought of something else.My husband began his usual ranting about it and I was elsewhere in my mind. Hooray for me.

But this is a practice and it must be done over and over. I know it works. In meditation or Centering Prayer you are always gently pulling your mind away from the constant flow of thoughts, back to either your breath or your sacred word. It is a discipline that teaches you that you have some control over where your mind will go. Powerful stuff.

The quote above was one I first saw on a plaque at a retreat house I used to go for peace. I recall bristling at the words knowing how attached I am to the right or correct thing. When I was a kid and we'd be playing kick ball in the street if someone tried to change the rules, I would go crazy. I needed, desperately needed, consistent rules to feel some order in my chaotic life.

My cousin told me a story that made all this very real for me. She was going on a cruise with her husband and his sister. They got an Uber lift from the airport in a rather snazzy car.The sister-in-law said: "Wow, I've never been in a Lexus." My cousin snapped: "This is a BMW." Boom, the trip was ruined. The two never spoke for the whole week. What adult likes to be corrected especially in front of others? Was my cousin trying to spare the feelings of the BMW? A nanosecond of thought would have kept that very correct but totally unnecessary remark in her mouth. How often have I done an unnecessary correction?

We have this promise:
         
"Turn your ear to wisdom, incline your heart to understanding.....like hidden treasures seek her out...then you will understand rectitude and justice, honesty, every good path...for wisdom will enter your heart, knowledge will please your soul, discretion will watch over you, understanding will guard you.."Proverbs Ch 2.

things that fly

When I went to bed last night, gratitude for things that fly came to mind. I dismissed it as not being important enough and I decided to wait til morning. But it came back again and so be it.

My first thought was the things that make sounds in my yard, they all fly. Hawks, crows, wrens, cicadas. Amazing how loud and shrill the cicadas have been this year. The hawks too, screeching in the woods and those strange crows that sometimes sound like tin cans with dried peas being dropped in them. They fill the yard with life these high flyers, they keep us company.

One day, I found a gorgeous hawk perched on our storage shed. I eased my way up to him and he just stared. His left wing hung at a strange angle and I just knew it was broken. He managed to hop up to a lower tree branch but then lost his grip and fell on his back to the ground.A terrible thing to witness. I spent the next two hours trying to find some rescue organization to come and get him, to no avail. When I went out again, he was gone. He must have recovered. I swear he comes back now and then for a visit, knowing I wanted to help him. Maybe I am imagining that.

Birds are meant to fly and not hop .Things out of order.The day after 9-11 when no planes flew,. there were strange empty skies.Which brings me to prayer. Where does a prayer go? Does a prayer leave my mind and fly up to the Great Mind? Where does it go? And now to a story that relates to 9-11 and prayer and gratitude.

When I was 13 years old, I fell for the boy across the street who was 15 .Fell hard and for years,  he was my ideal male. Both being socially inept, we were just good friends. Much later, I recalled a prayer I had offered : "Lord, let him be in my life and love me." An offered and then, for many years, forgotten prayer. In 1984, we met again for an evening with family and then years went by. The day after 9-11, I saw his name in the comments section of an article.We connected again for 16 years by e-mail as dear friends and in the midst of this I remembered the prayer. Yes, he was in my life (sort of) and he loved me (in a way.) We talked about important things, like world events and religion. He was away from the Church the whole time, but was prayerful. Two years ago, he passed after surgery, but not before he requested a priest visit. Wherever he is now, it is the place where our prayers go when they fly.

"Gratitude is not a mere word, it is not a mere concept. It is the living breath of your real existence on earth. "Sri Chinmot

for life

Last night, when I went bed, I was sure I had no new ideas for today's gratitude post. Then I remembered that these ideas aren't coming from me but to me so I just let go of the concern and slept.

It came in a dream.I felt the weight of it and was so  glad when I woke up.

John and I were in a convention of some kind and as we wandered, we came to the conclusion that we were both going to stop taking the drug, Tamoxifen, that was keeping us alive. It was more his idea than mine. The future ahead was one of slow disintegration. I felt so heavy and hopeless.Then I left my red purse in the ladies room, met three young women who were showing me their paint brushes and telling me that they were going to the Flint River Inn for a vacation , a gift from their Monsignor friend. I asked his name and they said, Monsignor Mahler. I burst into tears because that is my recently deceased cousin.The dream ended.

Before Mass yesterday, I went up to Mary's statue and handed her two Twitter friends who are atheists, but raised Catholic. I immediately heard this: "Make a list. Pray for those on the list. Peace." I did that in a different journal( I now have 4 different ones going with different themes.) So, after the dream I added my cousin, Fr.Frank,  to three other names. I will be led to add other names somehow, like in that dream.

I awoke today with gratitude because we are alive, we have no life ending disease hanging over us. At our age, we are blessed beyond measure that this is the case. And I have another purpose, my list which I will visit daily and add to as led. All is mystery, all is grace, all is gratitude.

scared spaces

In the rush of getting to Mass this morning, I doubted that I would have time to be grateful. But the One who is inspiring these words had other plans. Churches. And so the word churches went into the journal. What have they meant in my life that spurs gratitude.

Ah, beauty, first recognized  in Catholic Churches. Bells ringing, flowers, always flowers, vestments, especially the rose colored ones, or the green ones in ordinary time that speak of growth, trees, life. Soaring arches, stained glass windows with colorful scenes.

There was a church on Long Island, I think St.Anthony's, that we would go to on Holy Thursday to see.The church was festooned in white banners with gold letters and gold trimming.White altar cloths but most memorable, canaries in white cages high up along the walls.What a sight and sound. Then, on Good Friday, the churches were stripped bare. So empty to show what life is like without Christ because on that day He is dead . No bells even, just wooden clappers.

The monastery church of the Trappists here in Georgia. Built in the 50s by hand out of cinder blocks. No fancy stained glass just windows made of  blue and pink strips of glass that paint the bare white walls with color when the sun comes and the chanting begins. And one Spring, a stunning deep blue orchid in a pot on the altar.

A church in El Salvador that had no walls just some wrought iron bars well spaced. The breeze blew through when it wanted and the Stations of the Cross were beautifully painted tan roof tiles.Light, airy, God's house.

The gorgeous Cathedral in Leon, Spain where I took my concern to prayer. My plantar fascistic was flaring and I had no idea how I could walk the rest of the 500 miles of The Way of St.James, the Camino. I knelt and just said;" help."The Voice said :"Did you think I brought you all this way without being with you 'til the end ? Stretch and stretch and all shall be well."The next day I walked and it never bothered me again.

A smaller place, a chapel in a convent in Alabama. I was resting in my room when I was urged to go to the chapel. I wanted to nap but the urge persisted. I shuffled off and then knelt before the monstrance with the Host exposed. After a few minutes, I gazed up and heard these words,"This is all that matters".Yes.

And finally Notre Dame, where I spent 20 minutes kneeling before the rose colored window and felt that Presence that others have felt and had no words for. Even non-believers. That was before. This June, my family allowed me to have my time there again. Of course, She is damaged, there is no light inside, yet, sitting on a wall praying the Lady's rosary, I felt that, nothing was lacking. Trees overhead were waving and then I felt such compassion for a lady next to me who was in pain. I held her hand and church happened outside, beyond the tall temporary fence.

For these sacred spaces and others, I give thanks.

a paean to.....

He was my first crush, this tall lanky New Englander, this saunterer who died a hundred years before my birth. He gave me permission to be different, to not feel bad that I preferred the company of trees to people. Marching to a different drummer he called it and I hugged him in my heart.

And so he would understand my gratitude this day for feet.The ones who will carry me two miles around my neighborhood this morning, that took me to the sands of Jones Beach as a child and daily, the street in front of my house.One summer my feet were so busy that the red Keds wore out on the bottom after three weeks.A new pair had to be bought; the parents were not happy. Feet. Taken for granted.

In Fall , those feet took me up the street to the bus stop, kicking a stone on the way.Parental disapproval was instant. Summer hikes at Hunter Mountain, and for 30 years these feet obeyed and served my need to jog on Georgia roads that became in a strange way, mine.A teary saunter to the rim of the Grand Canyon where my gaze caught sight of inexplicable pink among the greys and tans.

The Camino in Spain where I really knew I had feet when they screamed for mercy after 13 mile days in boots.Massage, change shoes, rest. And the next day, they again were willing for another 175 miles.They have been my ready servants to my desire to jump rope, hop, climb, amble, run, meander.

Without his strong feet we would have no Maine Woods or Walden Pond. So I offer a paean,. which is a hardy hymn of praise, to Thoreau and my feet.

what matters.

photo by C.P.Burrow

There is a scene in the movie,"The Way," where Martin Sheen is in a bar surrounded by people arguing about the Basque situation.He, being an American, is then asked his opinion.He says that he hasn't one and the men around him fall out of their chairs laughing."An American without an opinion, unheard of they chortle." We do have our opinions, we who are surrounded by news 24 hours a day. Much hysterical. This is important stuff but how do we know what really matters.The answer can come in the early morning hours when we first get out of bed.With pen and paper.

Yesterday was gracious memories, today, was here, now. "Awake, the world is out there , orderly , as it should be. Sun burning the summer grass, clay soil, hard and dry, the trees, still there, quiet, not moving. There is no hurricane or raging woods fire to take these trees away.They stand as they did yesterday, tired green, curled dried leaves below. Fall is coming as it has for all of my 70 plus years. Order. I am grateful.

Memories of lunch with a friend of the soul who inspires and a screensaver with Stanley , my youngest grandson. Smiling and perfect."

 Tucking these things in my heart through my pen and journal. Focus, appreciation. A choice.

The other day I was gifted with this beautiful haiku from a dear friend which she created at Mass last Sunday.. The writing of this unique poem tells me how she is focusing and appreciating.We remind each other:
                                                            Oak white hydrangea
                                                         small green lizard on blossom
                                                             watching church goers.......Kay Warford

there is something to this gratitude business..

For a few days now, I have had a small journal by my bedside. As soon as I wake up, I write down the things that fill me with gratitude. It does start the day better but I noticed something unusual that happened today. Instead of the near things: sleep, comfy bed, spouse etc, I was flooded with memories of my Mother's flowers. It was a trip I was taken on rather one that I chose.

I never saw my Mother garden but, sometime before I was born, the lilacs were planted. If you have never enjoyed the scent of May blooming purple lilacs, you are terribly deprived.They grew on the east side of the house and were as high as the second story. The lily of the valley almost beat the lilacs in the swooning scent contest.The azaleas, white, red ,salmon, pink were faithful every year. Dogwood, and daffodils.These are the gifts that surrounded me in the Spring on Long Island. I miss them.

Then came a different memory.I was laying on a gurney in 2010, waiting for my first colonoscopy. I was afraid and not too proud to admit it. Alone as I waited, I felt this: my beloved deceased dog Cooper was laying by my side next to my left arm.There was just enough room and I knew it was him. I was comforted beyond measure.

Ah, you say, nice memory but you conjured it to feel better. Maybe, but then there is this.When I got home and went on-line to Facebook, the most curious thing happened.On that day, a co-worker of my son's posted a picture of he and Cooper taken at the camp where they both spent the summers. He had taken it a few years before and posted it that day.

So, this was the second memory that surfaced to bless the beginning of my day. One miracle left. I wanted so much to see that picture again and had no idea how to find it. I went to Facebook and found it with ease on my son's timeline. I couldn't believe that I located that 9 year old post. God finds ways to let us know He is with us in whatever form He knows we are able to accept. Bouquets of flowers and a faithful dog. I am grateful.