Perseverance Creek

Zionville, North Carolina. 1985. My father had passed on in the Month of Snow in the Teepee of that year. I wanted to do something to honor him with the savings he had given me. There was an acre of land off Highway 421 North within 12 miles of Boone. I decided I wanted to have a cabin built from a kit. The builder, Spencer Mains, was offering the land and threw in another half acre as part of the deal. He was getting started with his own company. Right in front of where he thought a good place to situate the cabin, there was a trickle of water, barely an inch wide but to me it had all the makings of a creek. I told the carpenters who were setting up the cabin kit on a flat area beside a rocky hill that I was going to call the trickle Perseverance Creek. There were four carpenters and they laughed with glee. I told them I wanted a bridge going over. The next time I went to see the progress, there was a big triangular stake with RIVER QWAI written on it. The carpenters were not stereotypical. One had BILBOA on the license tag of his truck. He was an expert on The Lord of the Rings. Another was a songwriter who when the cabin was finished wrote such a beautiful message that I framed it and wished him much success. In May, Spencer stopped by to see how we had fared during the winter. I pointed proudly to Perseverance Creek. It was a full blown creek with cascades that went on down to the road and had the sound of a rushing stream. He was so surprised. Word got around and people came to see the creek. Wildflowers sprang up around it and climbed the bridge. He said he would put out a brochure with the model we had used to be called Perseverance Creek. What brought this to mind was watching, "Song of the Mountains" with Lucille. The singer, Donna Hughes, came from Randolph County, North Carolina and the story of her career was pure perseverance at work. She sang a song about a bluebird, asking it questions I wouldn't have thought to ask. I was pleased to have the connection to the mountains revived. One of my mother's favorite sayings was, "Perseverance wins." She was delighted when she came to live with us. Indeed it does and there are lovely reminders all along the way to reaching a destination. The last I heard, the cabin still stands. The first little live tabletop Christmas tree now reaches higher than the chimney and the creek perseveres.
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...may the blessings of keeping to a vision be yours these coming September days...

A Different Sort of Civility

Summer 2001. Woods Edge in Durham, North Carolina. I hear an early knock on the door. Gwen Spizz excitedly apologizing tells me that there is a loveseat left at the dumpster. "I know you don't like the killing of furniture so I thought we could bring it over together. It's got couple of casters." No need to ask if it needs repair. Gwen knows I will mend it. Her expression, "The killing of furniture" has stayed with me ever since. It could be considered a subset to my Theory of Inanimate Objects. The Reincarnationists believe souls come back in all manner of living creatures but what if I'd like to return as a washing machine? At a very young age it seemed to me people did not treat their belongings with appreciation and respect which led to their falling apart. I remember reading that Emily Bronte was polishing the staircase the day she died. Now that's a writer after my heart. She took time to attend to objects. I was saddened when living in Eureka in a house built in 1851 and divided into apartments, one of which had been a bookstore, to discover white plastic chairs strewn around the backyard. At one time somebody had planted roses which grew in wild chaotic exuberance. I thought the garden a lovely setting for reading in the afternoon but I wasn't going to sit on something moldy and gross. I didn't know the chairs were white until I started cleaning them up. In a fit of alarm at their neglect, I took some paint from an art project and wrote, "Be Kinde to Chairs" across the top in fancy script. I felt a lot better. The tenants didn't notice but much of what I do goes unnoticed except for the recipients of the attention. The chairs fairly preened. I guess you could call me a Restorationist, a devoted recycler, instead of a Reincarnationist. I have rescued doors, frames, clocks, teapots, sofas, table, laundry baskets, turned a computer into a planter and revitalized a Wonder Horse. It had lost its handle bars and part of the top of the mane was missing. I threaded a wooden spoon through the holes and glued it with Goop, which Ellen Sachtschale, the potter, suggested. I placed a hat with a sunflower barrette of the "brain damage" and festooned her with ribbons and beads. I gave her to Jennifer Brady to hang from the rafters of her house when I moved from Roanoke. That's one of the rules: pass it on. As soon as I was finished with my Intensive Care of the various misfits, I would take them to Goodwill and wish them a fruitful journey. The horse remains only as the profile picture on Facebook and the Blob. A wicker settee found a place with Vietnamese newlyweds with instructions to send it on its way if they ever wanted real furniture. Is this all because of abandonment issues? Or a form of, "Don't bite the hand that feeds you," or is it simply Feng Shui which declares that the placement of furnishings (appreciation) is a stepping stone to harmony. Perhaps, it is the fact that I saw so many with no possessions when I was an impressionable child. I don't analyze it. I just do it. I was pleased when Henry about four years old, proudly told his little pal who was crying over a broken toy, "Mimsey fixes everything." Yes. At least she tries.

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...may the blessings from the Land of the Discarded roost along your path...

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An American Child in a Foreign Field

photo credit: Robert Janz, Sr.

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala 1928

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On August 9th, young adults from Greenwich, CT visited Jan Hus church for Sunday service. Ordinarily, they would have gone to a Central American country but because of economic concerns, New York City was their "mission trip" destination instead. I was moved by the testimonials. Perky Elizabeth said she had been awed by the sheer number of the crowd in need at Times Square, 2:00a.m. I identified with Colin, clearly disturbed by his experiences and struggling to know if he were doing the right thing. I understood the shock and bewilderment. I grew up with missionaries. As a child, I saw the good they did and I observed the harm. I cringed at the hatefulness. The hardships they endured touched me. My Baptist friends took care of dentistry and digging wells; the Methodists taught reading and washing hands; the nuns were examples of piety and discipline; the beautiful people of the American Field Service brought me to vigils. All of them knew, "Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world." The musical education was the best. I learned Leaning on the Everlasting Arms from Marcia, a Texan in Colombia; the prolific Charles Wesley was Marilyn's treat; the Scots Presbyterians "owned" the bagpipe version of Amazing Grace; and Sister Prisca, the Swedish nun in Panama, sweetly sang Dona Nobis Pacem. My brother cautioned me not to be condescending. "They don't want your pity. Who is to say candomble isn't every bit as powerful as what you have?" I smirked, the only believer in a family of non. Personally, I thought what I had was heaps better but still I knew voodoo worked. My folks were heathens which was a problem as they were highly amused and regularly so at my religious bent. My mother called me, "The Little Seeker looking for Somebody to thank." She often exclaimed, "You have the most interesting companions!" but I don't remember her giving them the time of day past a cheery diplomatic, "Hello! How are you??" She didn't like being preached at unless it was about the lilies of the field. She put my interests first, though, and doggedly took me every Sunday to early Mass despite her recurring migraines and tropical fevers. I sorted through the differing spiels. The Jehovah's Witnesses declared there was no Hell but everybody else knew very well there was and who was going there. The Mormons said there were 7 Heavens, whereas Mavis' brother (one of the kindest souls I met, later to die in Vietnam) stated emphatically there was only one and hardly anybody was going. My mother preferred Dante's Inferno to John's end of the world scenario. Like Colin, I often asked myself if I were doing the right thing. I prayed nightly for direction. Ultimately, I decided that it was not possible to know. What mattered was that the missionaries spread a message of choice to people who were unaware there was one, who were not acquainted with the Prince of Peace. ~~~~~~ ...may the blessings of the quest and trying your best be yours and may it find a rich harvest at your table...

Of Things Botanical

photo credit: b.e. hobbs

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To go on an outing to look for birds is called, "Birding." What would you call going for a walk to look at wildflowers? Petaling? I love to petal. In the July, 2002 issue of National Geographic, there is a spread on flowers and how they changed the planet. The photos, of course, were rapturous and I particularly liked this quote by Michael Klesius:

"Flowering plants have conquered more than just the land. They have sent roots deep into our minds and hearts. We know we are passing through their world as through a museum, for they were here long before we arrived and may remain long after we are gone."

Walking on York Avenue today, I spotted a Dayflower. That's what it's called in the North Carolina mountains. The intense blue orchid-like bloom rivals any painting. Folk accounts have it that the flower only blooms for a day; hence the name. A lesson in being mindful of time passing? I tested the theory. I took a sprig on the principle that the patch of ground it was in was full of crabgrass and dandelions, so I didn't think I was harming the environment. I once was going to do a book of flower poems when I discovered that most of the plants (like Solomon Seal and Burdock) on the land at the Zionville cabin were used medicinally by the Cherokee encamped there long ago. I thought a little book of healing flowers would make a nice bedside extra next to echinacea and a box of tissues for winter grippe. However, as in most things Gemini, I got sidetracked. When I saw the Dayflower tenaciously surviving in the biggest of big cities, I decided to find the old Field's guide to wildflowers (on the net, of course,) and think about that project once more. However, I've noticed when I'm given an idea by the Universe that if I don't act on it, the idea is given to someone else, sometimes by me, who does spectacularly well with its completion. I've come to think of this as my role in life, the catalyst's role. I fully expect, therefore, one of you will publish this little book in my stead. I hope you will include a Dayflower and perhaps a packet of wildflower seeds on the inside cover. Who among my poet e-mailers will it be? Harriet, Carolyn, Rosamund,Billie Lu, Karen, Randy, John, Daffolet, Cheryl, B.E., Micah, Jessica, or an Unknown Reader Yet to Be? I await with interest your replies.

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...may the blessings of armchair botany, of Figwort and Trillium in high mountain meadows, be yours...

"How Can I Keep from Singing?"

With Dr. Braxton's powerful, "Just show up!" message echoing in my ears, I decided I wanted to try a church in the 'hood. Looking at the different websites for clues as to what kinds of outreach the choices mentioned, I picked Jan Hus, a progressive Presbyterian house of worship. Jan Hus, the Czech martyr! As Will and I stepped inside, I was struck by the "feeling at home" signs: the Moravian star hanging high, almost fading into the stained glass window behind; the fat candle resting in a bowl of seashells; the sound of musicians practicing, "Down in the River to Pray. The bulletin had these lines: "Since 1888, the doors of this church have been open to those who seek a new way to engage with the Spirit and eat at the welcome table. In those early years, Jan Hus served the needs of the Czech immigrants...We continue to honor our Czech founders by singing our closing hymn in the Czech language." The sermon began with a song which I thought was a sea chantey but then I realized it must be the theme from Gilligan's Island. Not being familiar with the show, I was intrigued by the summary of characters. And where would this tie in with the Scripture reading about the storm on the Sea of Galilee? It turned out that the "well-intentioned bumblers" on the island were very like the "misdirected band of hopeful Christians" which have served as illumination for centuries. "Name" is the Latin word for "boat." She spoke of us as being "in the boat with Christ." By she I mean Elaine Connolly who urged us to " be each other's reminders" of the "tranquility of God." She said we must raise or voices against the storm and cry out, "Peace!" Two of the hymns on that topic were among my favorites. Peace Like a River and My Life Flows On. Other music included a zippy De Colores and a rocked out version of I Can See Clearly Now performed by Christian McLeer (who also plays the accordion). The title for today's blob comes from My Life Flows On.

"Since love is Lord of heav'n and earth. how can I keep from singing?"

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~~~~~~~~~~...may you find blessings in the storms you weather and be assured throughout that the skies will clear, the stars come out....