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.