How Easily We forget the Miracles

   It was a steamy June in 2005 when my husband and I went to Italy for ten days. We did Rome, Assisi,  Florence and Cortona, staying in convents along the way. I am sure the side trip to Cortona was inspired by the book, "Under The Tuscan Sun." A wonderful book that created an undeniable urge in me to travel .

 Cortona was as lovely as we had hoped. Cobble stone streets, colorful flags here and there, a Stations of the Cross that went uphill with each new step a station. Living the dream, we had  lunch of cheese, baguette and red wine on the convent patio which overlooked the rolling valley below. Waving Poplars made rows along the empty roads in the valley. Perfect. 

 Somehow, we had learned that there was a 13 th century Franciscan monastery outside of Cortona but in walking distance. Even though the streets of Cortona were very hilly and we were tired, we ventured out looking for Le Celle, which means the cell.

The road was a steep downward path and each step made me anxious thinking about the walk back. When we finally arrived, feet screaming and bodies wasted I declared this: "John, you will just have to get us a taxi for the way back." When did I become a princess? He turned around, jaw clenched and eyes blazing and said: "Exactly how do you propose I do that when there isn't a phone in sight nor do I speak Italian ?." "Well, I said "you will have to figure it out, I can't walk back." He stormed off in one direction, I headed another way and found a church where I could find some peace.

 It was a small chapel , dark and cool and I knelt down and in seconds I heard this: "Walk back." "What, are you kidding,?" I answered to the Voice. Again: "Walk back". Never have I gotten a message that was so opposed to what I wanted. I gave up, murmured: " yes",  left the church and after John and I rambled a bit, said, " let's go back", and headed for the road. With relaxed shoulders and a small smile, he joined me.

We hadn't gone 10 feet when a car pulled up beside us and a gracious grey haired lady asked if we would like a ride back to Cortona. Yes.

 

We Writers Begin Again..

 
Next Wednesday,  the writing group will start another 8 week session. I never am sure who will come but some of the writers that started 6 years ago will be there plus two new people I have heard from who are bravely starting something new. 

 I recall the first meeting : who will come? Will I be sitting here alone in the room? Who am I to do this?

Some snippets from the first 5 years:

... a smiling woman I had never met walks through the door. She glows. She exudes God's love. She will be there this time again and she will help me. 

...our website blog keeps us connected through the sessions. I learned how to put it together because my daughter gave me a birthday gift of a day long session with a website guru. It felt like first grade again. Will they like an old lady? My daughter and my husband walked me to my class downtown and we had lunch after. I remember feeling so happy to have done this and to be with them.

...we have a volunteer who sends out caring notes to absent members just to let them knowing we are missing them. She will soon start a book exchange in the group. A brand new idea !

...we have four distant writers from as far away as South Africa, India and Texas who will read the assignment, send their story by e-mail , have it shared in the group and get feedback. They are part of us. Amazing.

These are the gifts we offer to each other: uninterrupted listening, only positive feedback, total acceptance with no judgement. Those words warm my heart.

Not everything offered as a writing assignment is greeted with wide open arms. The day we began writing haiku, the groans were heard in Atlanta." I can't write poetry." "What, only 15 syllables?" "We're going outside?" Now, some of those same resistors think in haiku and offer them as gifts to friends. Wonderful.

 I could write forever about this experience, this writing group,  given as a gift from God's hands to a person who was not a published author but who loved writing. Who saw the value of gaining clarity by putting it on paper. Soon, I will sit again with people who will write about a miniature orchestra at the beach  led by a crab with a baton. Or a grandma who made biscuits and saved a life. Or a whistle that reminds one of a Papa who played music through his fingers. Who can put a price on this ?

Looking for kindness

Art by Alona Frankel

 

 The author of a book I am reading went for a hike in the Blue Ridge mountains. What happened changed his life and is changing mine This hike, which he had made many times, was more difficult because of  the many trees that had fallen across the path. He found himself muttering about the inconvenience and wondering why the trees hadn't been cut and removed.

After reaching the top, he began his descent. Then he noticed all the trees that had been cut and removed. He counted and found that 42 were still blocking the path but 47 had been removed. What a kindness, he thought and felt grateful instead of annoyed. This ties in so well with what happened on our trip to New York.

When John and I boarded our flight to New York in June, a lovely blond young lady sat next to us and greeted us warmly. When we landed she asked if she could help take our bags from the overhead bins. I was so grateful and then a thought dropped down from above. This kindness made me so happy, why not look for more ?That is what I did for the next two weeks.

We hadn't left the airport when the first one happened. An elderly gent, older than us,(there are such people) had been asked in error to remove his shoes at security. When we caught the mistake, John knelt down to re-tie his shoes. Other instances that day.

...a woman finding water for a dog at the outside cafe where we had lunch. The lady who cleaned the table running after us to give back the sunglasses John had left...a smile from another patron. 

Then over the next two weeks:.

..the elderly man in the antique store who wrapped my ceramic yellow and flowered bell in so much gauze it can withstand a nuclear blast. I had told him we were flying home. When I see my bell, I see his tender eyes as he wrapped and wrapped.

..Chuck who invited us for coffee in his cozy mountain house. Friendly men in the thrift store. Clean bathroom in the bookstore...John giving up his hike to take me to a clinic for my sty..

..My niece who set my cell phone up and  alerted my kids that they could call John on Father's Day. Their calls made him so happy.

..There were many many more.

The last one happened at the ice cream shop. John was 4th on line and up ahead a young woman and her Grandma were about to order from the outside window. John saw them turn away empty handed and knew what had happened. The shop didn't accept credit cards. He quietly went up and handed her a 20 dollar bill and walked back after saying, "Please, buy Grandma a treat." I was so moved. No one else had noticed..

I will never forget the joy of the moments that I noticed on this vacation.

Two things: Look for kindnesses AND write them down every day so they can bless you over and over.

..

k

the butterfly visit

 

Today is my Mother's birthday and I want to tell you a story.

We were hiking in Australia in November a few years back. It was hot and hard. I had made it to the top of this long hill climb and was coming down. Everyone was leaving me in the dust and I was mad at all of them. I saw a pile of timber and sat down to fume. The view was startling, hills and mountains rolling in the distance. Immediately, I became aware of a small white butterfly darting around my head, my body, just there the whole time. Don't they usually fly off sooner or later ?

 What was happening was so unusual that I took a picture of the scene to remember later. This is how it felt : like a kindly visit, "everyone else has gone but I am with you." I can't explain it any other way. That's why I had to take that picture. My mood changed and I got up and wandered back to the farm. 

Several months later, I was in church when a young man came up to me. I had seen him before but didn't know him. He started with this: were you and your Mother close?   Backing up slightly at this intrusion, I said that we had been. Then he asked if I had had an encounter with a butterfly recently. Immediately I knew. He said " I just want you to know that this was your Mom being with you, accompanying you as you go." It all came together and I knew it was true.

So Mom on your birthday I have prayed that you are enclosed in God's love and I  want to thank you for always being there, always.

.

Bookstores, Covid and Lent

The Covid lockdown seems to have happened without warning. There was no plan in place to ride out this forced closing of our lives. In the early Spring of last year, we found our groceries in the driveway delivered by Kroger, our Mass on a bench in the woods and our family's faces on Zoom calls. 

What is this? How will we get through this ? 

  And here I give a deep teary bow to independent bookstores. After a few weeks, we had to go somewhere. I rang our favorite bookstore in the small Georgia town of Zebulon called "A Novel Experience". Yes, by golly, they were kind of open: "Tell me what you want and we'll give it to you." So, on a spring morning, we drove the beloved country lanes, past cows and houses set back from the road,  acres of grass and trees to a bank parking lot. I called and asked the owner, Chris, for any Nikki French and a new book or two.  She found a few and we drove around to the back of the store. She handed us a brown bag out the back door with a gracious smile and thanked us for our business. What about that exchange that sticks with me and bring tears? On the way home I read the first line of one of the books and couldn't stop laughing; "Everyone in Shaker Heights was talking about it that summer: how Isabelle , the last of the Richardson children, had finally gone around the bend and burned the house down." From: "Little Fires Everywhere". I  was laughing from the sheer joy of holding a new book in my hand and at having seen and smiled at a dear person who has kept that bookstore open in the midst of all that we have endured.

  And because of this: 

 In Lent, we give up something we enjoy and and that does not include vegetables we don't. I have written of this before. Of the monks who lived on the Skelligs, rock islands off the coast of Ireland. Their love of God drove them to a place of constant prayer and their sensory stimulation was so limited that they savored everything. A sunrise would be a cause of great joy. I think Lent can teach us to savor. Like I did that first line of a new book. 

  In March, we will head off to Winder to the Corner Bookstore. I am looking forward to it as if we were travelling to Paris. What new friend will I make, what treasure will come to hand that will expand my universe ? And on Easter morning, I will have a cup of decafe cappuccino with Creme brulee coffeemate and it will taste like nirvana as it warms my throat because I haven't had any for weeks. What will we savor that we have been deprived of when our lives get back to normal? Lord, thank you for this lesson. Help me to savor each moment of my life as the great gift it is. Amen.

Ash Wednesday

 

For the first Ash Wednesday in my 7 decades, we didn't get ashes on our foreheads, just sprinkled in our hair because of Covid. But the memories of two different Lenten experiences flooded back. 

 I can see us now, two fourteen year old girls getting up an hour early in the dark, bitter cold of February to walk the 6 blocks to Church for Mass in Lent. We met on a corner under a streetlamp and wore school uniforms which meant skirts and frozen blue legs. Yet we did it that Winter. We, who are still friends after 67 years. We did it every day for three weeks which strikes me as remarkable. What small pile of glittering grace did we accumulate from those efforts ?

The second is a story of my Mom whose life was saved by Lent. One time, when she was in her 40s, she gave up Phillip Morris cigarettes for the 40 days 'til Easter. I don't recall her being edgy or out of sorts but she lit up quickly on Easter morning. Then, when a relative developed serious COPD and she saw him struggle to breathe, she put down the "coffin nails' ( that's what they called them.) for good. And I believe she knew she would succeed because she did once before. My Mom lived to be 83 years old..

Ash Wednesday is the day that we are reminded once again that all is temporary, we are here for a short sprint and one day we will leave. 

There are two small plots out at the Conyers monastery green cemetery that have our names on them. Three tall trees shade the spot that is on a small slope in the woods. In the ground will be two small boxes of ashes just like the ones sprinkled today. Between now and the time that the boxes are covered with dirt is a number of days that is unknown. Ash Wednesday reminds me that what I do , how I love, between this moment and that, matters. For eternity.