misha and the sun

Another stunning October Georgia day.Off to the park to do some running.More like a 12 minute slog.

On the cool-down walk,I saw her.Small,bent over the asphalt,very busy.She was about 8 years old and had mocha skin and a pile of black hair tied in a bow on her head.When I stopped,she looked up.I asked what she had drawn and she said,"the sun."And it was ; a chalk drawing the size of a dinner plate with a bright circle of yellow and rich orange spikes .I told her it made me smile and asked if she was an artist.Without skipping a beat,she said ,"yes"."Awesome", I said and left her.

As I walked away,I knew that I had to tell about her,her smile and her art.On the next pass,I found out that she is Misha and that with the plastic glasses she handed me,I saw that her glorious sun was also magically 3-D.Amazing.I told her that I wasn't an artist but a writer .I asked if I could write about her and her sun.Smile,yes.And so I offer you the artist ,Misha ,who has a sun shining so brightly in her that has to get out.

Now that she has said that she is an artist,she will be one.She will watch things more closely than others.Observe,tuck inside and one day,put on asphalt or paper.Monet sat in his garden for hours before putting one stroke on canvas.Watching,watching the sun move and things change.

This is what artists and writers do.Because they need grist for their craft,they are wide open to the world.They find this grist and in the most unlikely places.It can be a small carved angel in the roots of a tree.Only an artist can hear that voice underneath; tell my story.Or asphalt that yearns for a sun.

givers and takers

When the Spirit moves, it is like a soft but persistent breeze touching your face.You turn.Here ,the breeze says,consider this.

Yesterday, we met my son and his family for breakfast in a near-by town.I was looking forward to it because they live almost two hours from us now and we don't see them enough in the growing,sprouting age they are.Changelings.

As I was getting ready ,a thought kept whirling and dashing through my mind:You think so often of the special moments these three grandchildren have given you over the years.Offer them as gifts to each of them.I struggled with this as it seemed I would dominate the gathering but decided,why not,when will I ever tell them?

A thought came: suppose one of the kids makes fun of another after they receive their memory and takes it away?Why not tell them about the Givers and the Takers.

Givers make you feel good in the way that they respect and appreciate you.Takers make sure that that good feeling is taken away.I gave them an example.Once my husband and I ran six miles in the mountains,down the road that takes you to the Post Office.It was a hard but glorious run ,brook rushing beside us ,trees surrounding and mountains.As we neared the finish,feeling such satisfaction, a close relative was standing outside the Post Office.She called out:"looking mighty slow there." The good feeling was replaced immediately.She took it.

We settled in and ordered.Then I began:"I have gifts for each of you."The middle son got very excited ."I want to tell you of special memories that I have because of you".It got very quiet."The day that I went for a run and you said that you would wait for me on the porch and although you were just four,you waited in the cold just as you had said.That meant alot to me to see you there.The day we went to the thrift store and you found a silver dolphin on a chain and you had me buy it for your sister because she couldn't come.The summer afternoon that we both took naps in the quiet guest room while the sun slanted on the trees.Such peace to be there with you."The memories tumbled out for all to see.

In that building , something special unfolded.My son joined in with a regret,shared it and promised to do better.Perhaps the whole thing was leading to that.And there were no Takers that morning.

sweet moments

I wish that I had kept a journal sooner or been more aware of special moments when I was growing up.They can bring such pleasure to the present when they are savored and held close.

In 1996 ,my husband and I made a long desired trip to Ireland,land of my people.Those pale ,thin survivors of a terrible famine in their homeland of 1848.They came here to survive but the Emerald isle always filled their deepest memories.This love of Ireland surely was passed on in my genes because I never knew Ellen Ambrose,she who stepped onto a wharf in New York at the age of 18.Nor did I know her daughter,my grandmother Hannorah, who died when I was two.Did she buy that summer place in the Catskills because it looks like Glendalough?

How to describe Ireland or the idea of it.Steeped in "The Quiet Man" and Maureen O'Hara or Yeats and his wonderful "Isle of Innisfree":"I hear the lake water lapping...I hear it in my deep heart's core.."
Bright green grasses,border collies, lakes,the raging sea,islands like the Blaskets.The saints ,Patrick,Aidan and Kevin, and the wonderful round towers dotting the country side.All these things we drank in on our ten day trip.But there was this moment .

We had arrived in Doolin on the coast and the sun shining seemed perfect for a trip to a castle,so thought my husband.We had seen so much with so little time to ruminate.I wanted nothing more than to sit with my journal.I told him to go on and off he went ,not at all happy.I took my book and pen into Mrs. Kennedy's flourishing garden and sat among the blooms.A large,happy bumblebee joined me ,careening around the flowers ,a sweet symphony for my writing.In that moment ,I was at peace, wanting to be nowhere else.I rolled around in the words I was writing in pure delight.

Ah, the pleasure....."And live alone in a bee-loud glade."Yeats

I had another moment like this recently:after a long steep 5 mile hike,through drenching rain, we arrived at the Hike Inn near the Appalachian Trail.After changing our clothes,we had an hour before our meal was ready.We found ourselves on a comfortable couch in the main lodge with a warm fire and a library of nature books.For one hour, I read the beginning of a book about a kayak trip on the Altamaha River in Georgia.I loved every word and after our hard hike, I felt such peace being with Janisse Ray and her writing.

On any given day,I can pull these memories out .I know that there are more;I just need to stop to have them.

I will always remember...

One of my sons occasionally reads my blog and told me something like this: "Mom ,all you talk about are con-incidences."Guilty am I but I prefer to call the things that I see and hear as something else but I don't have the perfect word.This is today's 'co-incidence".

Last night I, had a dream.;a very long dream about a trip that my husband and I were on.Planes and buses and waiting in between.One of  the people on the trip with us was a stewardess who organized a road race through sand dunes for all of us while we waited in between rides.We all enjoyed the race and as she was getting onto one of the buses, she turned to us and said these words:"I will always remember who I was today". Odd words ,but even in the dream, I knew what she meant.She loved and treasured the person who she had been this day because she had served others well.

When I woke up this morning,I wrote down her words and was determined to make this a day to remember.At church,  I was able to affirm two precious friends and comfort another who is struggling.Co-incidently, the words of St.James and the sermon spoke of service.Let me offer their beauty:"Wisdom from above ,by contrast, is first of all innocent.It is also peaceable,lenient,docile,rich in sympathy and the kindly deeds that are its fruits,impartial and sincere."James 3-17

In the Catholic faith, we are encouraged to examine our souls at the end of the day to see how we have spent this time that is given to us.To see if I want to ...."always remember who I was today."

And now for the last "co-incidence" of this extraordinary happening.We sang a beautiful hymn at Mass,one of my favorites,The Center of My Life" ,and the second verse goes like this:"Who even at night directs my heart...".

I am on my knees.

the dolphins of September

As ordinary as this September day is, I must go deeper and deeper.Take the time to do that. It is a great grace to have this time alone to sit undisturbed in the sun and feel its power on my arms.To look at the garden and its hues.It should be totally depleted after this unbearably hot summer but the pale pink,bright coral and red roses and the new yellow swamp daisies continue to paint the area by the wooden fence .I tuck this sight into my mind for another day.

Today is the feast of St.Matthew and the readings and prayers are full of praise for the God of Life and Creation, whose will is seen in It."Let the earth bless the Lord...praise and exalt him ,forever...mountains and hills....seas and rivers ,you dolphins and all water creatures ,bless the Lord.

I have often prayed this Canticle of Daniel and wondered why, out of all the praises, the dolphin is mentioned singularly.A sadness always comes over me as I recall a special that I saw once about the dolphins of Taiji,Japan.I hesitate to write about this;there are some things that I know about that I wished I didn't.But maybe Daniel is reminding me that the dolphins need help.

Humans seem to have a unique affinity for these sea creatures: maybe it's the smile, or their proven intelligence and friendliness.Who wasn't touched by the story of the Cuban boy,Elian Gonzalez,alone in a raft heading towards Florida and when found,he was surrounded by a pod of dolphins,seeming to be protecting him.Who would harm these creatures?

Without going into too much detail, the Japense of Taiji have a tradition of capturing and slaughtering the dolphins who migrate in September.They are corralled into a cove for that purpose.It is not food but tradition and there are people who monitor this disgrace and are trying to stop it.Each year they are  weeping witnesses as the dolphins cry for help.Literally.The movie,"The Cove", documents this effort.It is horrifying to watch.In response to a world-wide outcry,the Japanese have beefed up security around the cove.Awesome!

None of us are innocent as long as this and other death dealing practises exist without our protest.Tolstoi said this:"For life is only life when it is the carrying out of God's purpose.But by opposing Him,people deprive themselves of life,and at the same time,neither for one year,nor for one hour,can they delay the accomplishment of God's purpose."

a hymn to first love

On Sunday, my family went to the Georgia Tech football game to celebrate my first grandson's fourteenth birthday.While we were hanging out, he brought his phone over to show me the face of a girl he likes, she of dark hair and sweet soulful eyes.I admired her and have thought of her since.What does he feel for this girl, this pretty teen-age girl.Is it anything like my first love? Could anything be like that?

 It is a summer evening on Long Island, after I graduated from the 8th grade. One of my classmates, Teresa, has invited me to her house to meet a neighbor friend of hers that she thought I might like. I really didn't want to go but she was my friend, so I headed off towards Jerusalem Avenue, crossed that big street and went several blocks to her neighborhood of old, stately brick houses. She introduced me to her friend: I am shy and don't say much. I can recall nothing of this guy or what was said, but what I do remember is the walk home in twilight.

I was going home to my room with the pink bedspread, the tall maples that guard and shade, and the street where my heart has been captured. As I walk, I am hoping  that maybe, when I get home, he will be out shooting baskets or hanging with the neighbor kids and I will see him. "And you walk down the street on the chance that you'll meet , and you meet not really by chance".And my heart fills with a joy that I recall to this day.

This boy rode into my heart on a lightning strike when I was 13. Until that day, I had been a normal kid and then, besotted and bewildered was I. He was tall, well-built and had a perpetual grin that lit up my world. He was also unreachable.

 This is the scent of first love: lilacs, sea breeze, mouldering leaves, lily of the valley.The sounds, I can still hear as I type: calling robins on the evening lawn, planes from Mitchell Field revving their engines, the slap of a ball being kicked and laughter.

This boy is older and my perfect boy.My devotion is pure, and never-ending.

I have shared some of the photos that I take of things that I see in my wanderings .The attached was taken last week at Stone Mountain and like the picture of the rocks on the beach,  this one had something to tell me. First of all, how is it blooming by a stream in September ? It is an azalea. I's flowers are pure white and tucked into the green leaves off to the side of the path, easily overlooked. It finally said this:"Tell the story of that pure devotion and how if you sit still, close your eyes and remember, you are there again."

There is more to this enchanting story, this perfect boy and I are still friends.We hold each other in prayer and the devotion that I feel towards him is still intact.

"Eye has not seen,ear has not heard what God has ready for those who love Him".First love is a taste.

the camino is now

When you decide to walk the 500 mile Camino in Spain,your pilgrimage begins at that moment.My thinking has changed because of this spiritual path ,before my foot has even touched Spanish soil.

As I read about other's walks ,I am struck by the gracious notion that everyone helps each other on the Way or you won't make it.Feet being tended by strangers,food being served free by goups who have walked before and want to help.Mass being joyously celebrated,strangers encouraging when others want to give up.I recall reading of a young, handsome blonde German who wanted to give up after 250 miles.An older Hungarian woman approached his slumped over body,massaged his tight neck and said,"you can do this" and he joyfully finished.

Now that my husband and I are hiking hard places once a week, my thinking has become "camino-like."I find myself helping him hoist his backpack on, sharing my Gatorade, putting away his hiking sticks.We are both pretty independent and tend to take care of ourselves and our stuff but now the stones under my feet, the hardness of the hikes is bringing out the servant in me for him,my fellow pilgrim.

Yesterday, one who is not walking showed me the Camino spirit.My oldest son took us all to a Georgia Tech football game with tail-gate lunch and birthday cake for his oldest boy.Alot of his effort went into this party and after we put everything away,we headed to the game.As we entered the stadium, I mentioned to him that I had never seen the Tech Hall of Fame display that prominently features my second son's picture as the only Georgia Tech Cross Country runner to be an All American.This first son, who also was a high school runner ,took me by the hand and off we went to find that display.It took many special permissions,an attempted bribe and long walks but I got to see the above picture.All because my first son never resented but relished his younger brother's achievements and wanted me to see his name in lights.

I tuck this wonderful memory in my mental Camino book and stand in awe of my son's love for all of us.

Camino is now my verb and to camino is to help on the way.It all makes sense to me-that is why we are here.