Winter in the Shire

Luminaries

Photo Credit: B.E. Hobbs

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My mother used to say that the most important thing in life was to feel useful. She didn't "pursue happiness." It came to her. She wasn't big on presents as, according to her, they put the emphasis in the wrong place and there was the undercurrent of obligation . It tickled me how my dad would buy something he'd like to have and she would buy something she'd like to have and they would exchange those as gifts. I'll never forget the year my dad received a tray with legs. He exclaimed, "I didn't know I wanted breakfast in bed. What a great idea!' and she said, "Big slippers! In the same style and color as in years past. What continuum!" Continuum was the name of a book my brother had a photo in so we used the word a lot. When I said one year that I was going to start a new tradition of only giving Christmas presents to children, my folks heartily agreed, "Such a relief!" My dad was a fan of C.A.R.E. Off would go a package to a different location each year. We were very budget minded as money saved was money that could be shared.

I found such a batch of old Christmas poems here in the Shire that I decided I'd post two from long ago. As you can see, my writing style has not changed over the years and my tender view of life only acquires more patina.

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I sit with Christmas on my lap,

my tiny gift encircled by

bits of pine and ribbon,

shy angels ever making music

on sea-blue paper;

hopefully it holds the scents

of a cheery morning,

the memory of snowy childhood years

read about in books darkly illustrated,

the sound of tunes quietly harmonious.

I muse on how to wrap

the wishes that it brings--

how to stow away

a thousand crystal moments

of good will and joy

that I should like to place in it,

which when opened would burst

like time-studied flowers

into an exquisite bouquet.

Go, my little messenger,

my packet of good thoughts,

spread dreams of hope and peace

and Merry Christmases to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chrysanthemums lean like choristers

singing an earnest prayer;

measures greet me on the way

up the garden steps as I welcome

happy parcels in...stories all the quiet evening

with the hum of distant carols...

scents of dry jasmine, salvaged

from a summer's scouting,

and fir.

Everywhere, irrepressible joy--

messages, smiles, songs, secrets,

gentle rememberings

and scattered projects

stuffing each moment's fill

exceedingly.

A special time brings

a special wish:

Merry Christmas

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....may the blessings of a holy night be yours...

The Music of Thanksgiving

WQXR, the classical music station in New York City is hosting, "The Gratitude Project." I'm fascinated by the comments, the little histories. Most of them have to do with the first time the writer heard a particular piece at what age. The variety of pieces is amazing, not much duplication. I can't remember the first time I heard anything. My favorites seem to be part of my childhood, as though I heard them all at once. I thought about what I would choose if I were to comment. I associate different works with different people rather than thinking about the music itself. Pictures at an Exhibition takes me back to Cali, when my brother was sketching a "book" of short poems and I thought he would become a famous artist. The New World Symphony reminds me of Jonesy, the violinist/soldier near the end of the Second World War. Appalachian Spring became very important when I lived in Boone and heard the North Carolina Symphony play it in a summer concert. Un Bel Di is clearly a June Till memory; I never tired of listening to her singing, so powerfully, so lightly, when we were in high school together and she was Most Talented. The Russian Easter Overture instantly takes me to when Daff was studying Russian at Appalachian State and we went to Winston Salem with my mother to see the Lovefeast at Home Moravian Church. The Organ Symphony brings to mind the family visit to EPCOT where in the country of France, the simulated hot air balloon was accompanied by its lush grand chords and sweeping melody. Chopin's Tristesse "belongs" to my dad and The Lark Ascending belongs to Will. Nobody better claim Der Ring des Nibelungen; it's Lucille's! There is a site for old mysteries posted on YouTube. It is a gift to us all from a fifteen year old in Spain who had a grandmother he called Nan. He has uploaded videos she had in her attic. She apparently taped British comedies and comedic mysteries for years. He writes that he doesn't watch them himself but this is his tribute to her. I know now that whenever I hear Capriccio Espagnol, I will think of Nan. Should Gustav Holst's The Planets air, I will think of starman2110 (whoever he or she is) who has brought the uploaded many episodes of Waking the Dead, A Touch of Frost, and Inspector Morse. I don't understand the copyright issues. There should be some and I hope these sharers will not see fines in their lives. Meanwhile, I appreciate their efforts. As for the topic of gratitude, foremost for me is The Moldau. Its rushing river, wedding festivities, optimism, and longing for home never ceases to astonish and gladden me. Tell me what you would choose, or tell WQXR.

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...may the blessings of melody reminders uplift you...

Reminder

Posts while in New York may be viewed at http://mimseyinthetreehouse.blogspot.com

Shuttering

Sophie with Will's Flowers

Photo Credit: Lucille Fidler

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There is and has been a lot of speculation about Emily Dickinson's life as a poet and recluse. Some say she was a lesbian in love with her aunt. Another book I read said she wore white everyday because of a severe eye condition which is why she had a trip to Boston to visit a doctor about an operation. A recent work suggests she had epilepsy. A writer from Tennessee claimed to read abortion in the lines that include a known potion used in her time for said event. Personally, since I heavily identify with her poetic reclusive nature, I don't delve into the why's. I don't like to think of her dearest friend in the family feuding with an outsider. I let them rest in peace. For all I know she might have worn white after reading Alice in Wonderland. At her bidding, the extensive correspondence was burned after her death and it occurred to me, though I would never compare myself to her, that I wouldn't want my correspondence burned. Today's post is about leaving the Shire. It's time to shutter up, to say goodbye to the Shire for awhile and I thought I'd print part of a message I sent so that people wouldn't speculate about me. I have been a mostly contemplative person but an open one. I treasure transparency. If I start a family feud about what I write, I think that is unfortunate but it would be started anyway for those who do feuds. My friend Dian in Roanoke types me as a faerie and I have always liked that image, touching lightly here and there. I think you'll have a good sense of the identity of the blobber from this portion of an e-mail. Alas, with no mysteries to solve, there will be no book written about me and my poems. A very good thing. Old-fashioned correspondence is rare in this age of the quick, texted note but I'm a harker back. I like the pretty stationery, the time-consuming pace of handwriting which is almost an art form, the wax stamps. Here then is my version of Emily's, "Letter to the World"

"good morning to you. i'll be sleeping as you read this. it was a

lovely outing with daff and b.e. to casa ibarra and then getting

some groceries for the remaining few days. henry was with his indian

friend who had moved to vancouver but is back for a visit. it was

nice talking about b.e.'s next year at app. it will be her last for

band. she hopes to go on the trip the band is taking to spain but

money is tight. even at an instate school, her tuition is

outrageous. it was a rare girls night out. i doubt that there will

be another. times change and she will be involved with her friends

and jobs. i've been lucky to be part of her life. i expected to come

down from boone to babysit when she was one and then go back up to

the mountains but here i am still. we talked about mimsey camp when

i was at woods edge and had the little corner screened porch right

by the woods. i was able to put a lamp out there at night and it was

really like camping. deer would come up and fireflies galore. in her

junior year, she hopes to have an apt which will cost less than dorm

living. i'll bet it will be a lot like woods edge as far as decor

goes. i can imagine her staying in boone the rest of her days."

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...may the blessings of old-fashioned correspondence be yours..

Hand-Me-Downs and Pass-a-Longs

Out of the Closet, Housing Works, Angel Street. Those are the names of some of the thrift shops in Manhattan. Ever since I first fell in love with a table (yes, the nine kinds of love such as agape, platonic, romantic, and everlasting don't mention love-of-furniture-with-a-history) at a Goodwill in 1963, I have been a frequenter of thrift shops. I gravitate to the ones whose mission is of particular interest to me. I was delighted to discover that Club Nova in Carrboro--the Town of a Different Flavor next door to Chapel Hill--is patterned after Fountain House in New York City. Mental illness is their focus. I saw The Snake Pit with Olivia De Havilland when I was 12 and it influenced the rest of my life's peace efforts. I felt if something could be done about mental illness, something could be done about interpersonal relations. All good things would come of this! Here is what I found on the web:

"Club Nova is a psychosocial rehabilitation (PSR) program for adults with severe and persistent mental illness (SPMI) that are over the age of 18 and residents of Orange County. As a clubhouse community, Club Nova guarantees members a place to come, a place to return, meaningful work, and meaningful relationships. Membership is completely voluntary and without time limits. Each member decides his or her level of involvement and participation. Club Nova highly values work as part of the rehabilitation process, providing meaningful work during the day, as well as opportunities for employment in the community though the Transitional Employment (TE) Program (see links to the left for more information about employment). Club Nova also provides a social program and community support services, as well as some case management and crisis intervention."

"Fountain House is dedicated to the recovery of men and women with mental illness by providing opportunities for our members to live, work, and learn, while contributing their talents through a community of mutual support.

We are committed, as we have been since 1948, to bettering the lives of people with mental illness everywhere. We do this through the development of innovative techniques, research and sharing knowledge with others."

A new thrift shop which I will have to post at a later date has the clever combination of "thrift" and "Tiffany's" in the name. It's somewhere along 3rd Avenue as I recall. When I get back to the Treehouse, I'll let you know. Meanwhile, my wish is that you take a couple of items from times past to your local thrift shop and remember the advice of my Uncle Halit, "If you buy something, you have to give something away." In this age of Share, passing along your favorite stuff is the ultimate sharing experience.

The photos include a banner from Fountain House, a logo from the New York City Opera, an inside look at the (diabetes research) Cure Thrift Shop, and the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center.

...may the blessings of the river of giving be yours...

Homes Away from Home

Summer has arrived in its fullest brightness. These sweet sunny steamy southern days remind me of when my dad was assigned to Liberia while my mother and I fanned ourselves in St. Pete before air conditioning in our house was a staple of any month from March to November. I remember going to the movies not so much for the movie itself but for the icicle decorations outside advertising to the world that inside we could be chilled to the bone. Those were the precious afternoons of "double features." I remember coming in from school to see my mother happily ironing (!)while listening to the latest on the radio which seemed to be tuned solely to news of Mickey Mantle. Letters from my dad ran to five or six typed pages. He didn't fade under the heat the way I did. The mail boat went out on Fridays so each letter was diary like. He never skimped on detail and found humor in everything. His postcards, on the other hand, said all we needed to know in few words and a good picture. B.E. said something nice when she came over. She said, "No matter where you move, your place always smells the same." I was surprised. I asked, "What does it smell like?" She said, "Wood and memories."

...may you find old postcards and significant scents to bless your day...

Nearing the Solstice

It was a seashell kind of morning. I expected to walk out of the door of the Shire and find the ocean rolling along instead of the trees. I put on the bracelet I received on my sixth birthday and Diansica's beads from Key West. Daff and Oto gave me a L'Occitane tote which I immediately decorated with a sunflower. I wore my Thomas Tallis skirt (named after the fact that I had sewn it just before singing in the tiny New Hope Presbyterian Church for the first time and the anthem was by Thomas Tallis). Then it was off to Mexican food at Casa Ibarra, the beautifully restored yellow house in Hillsborough. After lunch we stopped in at Goodwill where I gave a little gasp. The Angel of the Day had been a card B.E. made several years ago, "The Angel of Kite Flying." I've never known quite what it meant but as I was browsing the books, I saw The Kite Runner for 81 cents. It's a book on my list to read. I opened it to see how I liked the beginning paragraphs and discovered it was set in Golden Gate Park where some kites were flying, "...a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky." A blurb review by Isabel Allende stated that after reading this book, everything else seemed bland. Sounds good!

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...may your special day be either a good memory or sometime in the future and bring you blessings.

"An Actor's Life for Me"

mad hatter art by henry hobbs

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The first movie I remember seeing was Lassie Come Home. I became an instant fan of the movies and, of course, Lassie. The year before, my family had a cocker spaniel but since I was very small, she sufficed as a big dog. Subsequent to Lassie, favorite actors and actresses included James Mason, Juliet Binoche, Jeremy Irons, Julie Harris, Harrison Ford, Theresa Wright, Jane Wymark, Susan Wooldridge, and Jennifer Jones. I gravitated to movies about spies and couldn't resist a good romance. A remaking of a Victorian era novel was a true happening for me. I was intrigued by an interview on the Dianne Rehm show with Simon Tolkien, the grandson of J.R.R. Tolkien. Simon has stepped into the writing field with a "courtroom drama" which begins in WWII in Normandy. My cup of tea and if a movie is made, I hope one of my favorites is in it. Alas, it probably won't be Johnny Depp who is one terrific actor but turns down standard parts. The first time I saw him was in a movie where he was bagging groceries. The next had him making a grilled cheese sandwich by using a steam iron and ironing board. Quirky is also my cup of tea. As a teen I bought two movie magazines in hopes of seeing Jean Simmons or Richard Burton. It was not the gossip I looked for. It was the photos of roles they played. I begged my uncle to draw a sketch of Jean Simmons as Young Bess. It was as good as Hans Holbein any day. My high school days were full of art from the silver screen adorning my room. I also was keen on finding out about the stars' childhoods. How did they get to where they were? So when I read an article last week about Johnny Depp in Boom! (a Piedmont publication) I thought, "I need to put him in a blob and I need to quote this paragraph. It may explain why Johnny Depp has a fund of joy in his acting." I asked permission from the writer of the article, Barbara Perry, and her reply was, "... if you footnote the quote and say something about 'reprinted from the Internet - unverified' it should be ok." So here is the Unverified You Didn't See It Here First choice paragraph:

"'At my house dinner easily could have consisted of a bologna sandwich, and then you'd split. You might come back later and grab a few peanuts, and you'd split again. I would go to my buddy Sal's house for dinner. I couldn't understand what was going on with everyone sitting down together.There was salad and appetizers and soup. I had no idea about that.'" Perhaps he and I have a quixotic childhood in common. Perhaps a quixotic childhood is the training ground for superior acting. My mother thought so. She said I had the makings of a fine actress. I said excitedly, "You mean I could play the legendary tragic heroines--Anna Karenina, Juliet, or Camille?" My mother did the arching the eyebrow thing and replied, "I was thinking comedy."

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...may days of theater magic bring you blessings...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYmtN8aG3zQ&feature=player_embedded#!

Boxes and Boxes

Life after the Foreign Service for my folks was very much like life before; they moved on the average of every two years. Was this out of habit or because of opportunity? The coffee reports my dad wrote morphed into a newspaper column--same wit, detail, and optimism. My mother began a oft repeated mantra, "This is my last move." She described each as, "Boxes and boxes." No wonder. The souvenirs, the books, the writings, the scraps were treasures. I'm glad to have been the family historian even though I had no sense of systematizing, archiving, labelling. Things simply ended up in boxes and boxes. However, these boxes tell the stories of my life and how I held together the evidence of other people's lives in reverent cohesion. Here is the my cross-stitching of an alphabet sampler with peacocks bowing gracefully. Over there is the budding collection of blue bottles. The poster made from a photo of Winston Graham's garden is hung with "The String of Stars," paper stars Barbara Emily and Henry made one summer in Roanoke. An antique jewelry case holds broken halves of earrings but not just any. Nothing is Just Any. A decorated shoe box with Helpers written across it contains letters from friends along the way. A scrapbook is filled with calling cards of people long dead who stopped to visit my parents when they lived in Guatemala, their first post. I have considered scanning and filing objects and drafts and art but what a project! And wouldn't it be missing the tactile thrill of touching something very old and kin? For years the realization that after "I'm gone" most would be tossed, recycled, and worst yet, ignored, has haunted me. Yes, I have been haunted by Proust and Time Passing. My possessions would be kidnapped, somebody else's project, and I worried. It has become increasingly clear to me, though, that the worry was not about me. It was about these things being cared for. A sketch meaning nothing to an outsider has been lovingly protected for decades. A tiny geode which might be overlooked has housed memories no one could replicate from viewing a photo. My connection to inanimate objects began at the age of three when I explained to my dolly that tea would be late. Letting go would be appropriate but not characteristic. The clutter proofing magazines all tell me peace would be healthful. However, my health may be better because of my "friends": the petite Eiffel Tower with its patina harboring the scents of World War II; the wooden camel with the miniature perfume bottle in its cargo, the perfume long evaporated; and what about the "Remember Who You Are" bracelet crafted in Eureka? Or the wreath of fox grape gathered behind the cabin? Must I really dispose of the mint tin filled with my grandmother's buttons? Who would know about the candleholders made in the garage opposite the beach house by the policeman who escorted me to the polling booth? Who's to note the scratched water color set (with some missing) was my mother's when the jungle was her back yard? Lucille writes, "The organizer I follow, Julie Morgenstern, objects to folks who tell you to clear out everything. She does not think that is necessary. You organize to retrieve stuff because you need to be able to find what you want when you need it. You also clear out things that YOU do not want, but not things other people say you shouldn't have. You have to be safe (can't leave the unused bear traps on the floor covered with old laundry--my example) and clean enough to be sanitary, but you do not have to be minimalist. She says that beautifully organized houses on the outside that have organized and kept the wrong stuff are not organized. Nor are houses where things have been where things have been stacked and stored to be out of sight but where no one can get to what they need."

City Song

He has 2 friends and me.

Incredible variety.

My son climbs dreams instead of trees

and leans to swing off rocking chairs

carefully angled to miss by inches

the farthest point

he calls, "Land Ho."

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...may the things that you have bring you the blessings of remembrance of things past...

A Morning Unlike Others

In 1988, while living in a cabin in North Carolina near the Blue Ridge Parkway, I came across a publication from Caldwell Community College. I was impressed with the artistry and layout and decided to submit a poem for Volume Four. This was a jewel of a poetry "magazine," printed on white cardstock style quality paper. The name appealed to me, too. Branches. I was delighted when my poem was included and even more delighted when it was accompanied by a photograph by Peter Morris whose name I knew from Boone's The Mountain Times. It was a photo of an Amish boy peeking around a barn. It captured what I liked most about the publication--clean simplicity like laundry hung on a country clothesline gently flapping in a breeze. This was not one of those pretentious modern poetry (?) concoctions where I would have to weed through a poem to find at least one image I could latch onto. Neither was it sappy in any way. For Volume Five, I decided to submit two more, one an Easter poem. Laurette LePrevost didn't give me any hints so when I saw it had been illustrated with a drawing, my delight was even greater. I didn't know if it had been especially "commissioned" for the poem or she found something she thought would fit. It's one of my regrets that I never took the time to find out or thank the artist. I did meet Laurette when my daughter took me "down the mountain" to Hudson, NC to hear Clyde Edgerton speak at CCC. I hope I remembered to thank Laurette for the sketch by Hannah Hunt. I tried Googling Hannah to see if I could have permission to use her drawing and that took me on another adventure. It's such a name in history. I was glad to discover Hannah Hunt married Thomas Grey. My mother often quoted the lines from his Elegy in a Country Churchyard. "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the summer air."

For your Easter Sunday, here is the poem:

April

Down the road, a child practices

"Rustle of Spring" on her grandmother's Chickering.

The small farmhouse windows are propped

by foot and a half split logs;

the arpeggios reach our cabin as if

a part of the night's programme.

The cats sit on the porch rail

contemplatively, a model audience

grateful for the warm companionly air

which brings a crowd--moles, robins, tree frogs.

Easter here is a sneak-up-behind kind of joy:

red leaf buds suddenly opened,

creek violets in a
"Surprise!" pose,

juncoes twittering at our

slow-to-see handicaps.

I hum along. Spring rustles in

and out of Amanda Beth's fingers

and joins the quiet roar

of the land reborn.

~~~~~

...may the blessings of renewal be yours...

Passion Week

artwork by bobby janz

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"Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stand about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide."

--A.E. Housman

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This time of year brings many things: rains, flowers, deep-dyed Russian Easter eggs, open windows, plant sales, top to toe cleaning, sneezes, and the kind of optimism which comes from surviving winter. Consumer confidence rises and shopping bags begin to fill. Store windows display comfortable easy-care clothes one might actually be interested in wearing. Not all of these apply to me. For instance, cleaning fits come over me on Tuesdays regardless of the season and I am consistently confident consumers will pay a passel of pennies to eat out. The mortgage may fall behind but a latte a day is the last to go. From whence this confidence? Passion Week is a clue. Pastor Ray gave a sermon on "knowing." "Be still and know that I am God." I've thought in the past that people come to knowing through experience; enough incidents add up to an aha! moment. It happened to Charles Wesley and John Newman that way. But now, I think there is also a brain/visual component. You either "see" it or you don't, the way some people see turquoise and others don't. Maybe faith is akin to cataract removal--suddenly there is clarity. I always feel sad when a person doesn't understand my cosmic connection. It's like someone saying, "I don't believe in quarks." What to do? What to do? Go forth. Do good. Hope. I have a constant need to tell all. "Did you know that at a Moravian Lovefeast the service is all music and the Communion elements are a mug of coffee and a sweet bun? Did you know that in southern Mexico, a church serves 7Up thinking it is a sacred mineral source? Did you know that gossip ranks right up there with murder as a sin? Did you know that the definition of sin is to be separated from God?" The drawing above is my brother's from when we lived in Jerusalem. How did we get there? A miracle plain and simple. I love the exuberance of those sketches which I keep in a special box. I regret that his faith changed as well as his art. Mine didn't. It couldn't. I was there. I had been led there. I knew what there was about. I was healed there. My mother said we were there because I "asked." I wanted to go to the Holy Land more than anywhere else on Earth. The complications said journey entailed could only have been managed by a loving hand. My brother was faster paced than I and yet he took me for jaunts all over Palestine with a running monologue. "Solomon ruled here. Right on the very spot you are standing on. That's Rachel's tomb. It's not as fancy as the pyramids. She was modest and dutiful." I've been walking in that beauty ever since. In high school my friend, June Till, sang what might be called my anthem, "I Know that my Redeemer Liveth." A woman named Clara Scott wrote the hymn, "Open my eyes that I may see" and Fanny Crosby, the blind hymnwriter from New York wrote 9,000 hymns! including Blessed Assurance. Oh, oh. Here I go telling (well, telling it like it is necessitates calling it preaching) again. Bon Jovi says he wasn't born to follow. I, on the other hand, was.

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...may the blessings of knowing that all is known be yours...

FROM THE DESK OF

This is anniversary week at the Blob. On January 7 of last year, I investigated a link sent by a friend. It was a blog called My Manifested Reality. It was quite spectacular with a daily quote from the Dalai Lama, fishes swimming, and a gorgeous sort of brocade green silk background. I noticed a "Create a Blog" sign. I says to myself says I, "Why not?" I was only going to post one time just to see how it worked because Michael Evans had wanted my opinion on what was the best way to mount his memoirs of life with Susanna Foster. Well, my blog didn't come out nearly the extravaganza as his did or Mr. Manifested Reality's but I was hooked after that first post.

It was the ideal format for me and I liked the perky modest look. Then came the "widgets." Instead of fishes, I had a climbing frog. Instead of the Dalai Lama, I showcased Tolkien. I added photography (microscopic and scenes of New York City--how prophetic!) and the front page of the NYTimes. In honor of my father, I tossed Aristotle and Socrates in the mix and a slideshow. On my first "cover letter," I made a typographical error which came out to the whimsical word, "blob." Perfect. Dian of Roanoke suggested Facebook. I says to myself says I, "Why not?" I was only going to try one post to see how it worked. Sound familiar? I discovered I could post Chad Mitchell songs and articles such as the one about Grover's Corners. There were orgs which I could link like Save the Children, Poets, and Oxfam. And quizzes. Did you know I'm a Basset Hound? Somewhere along the way, I spotted Share the blob. Next came "Be a Fan." Why not? I became a fan of so many sites I can hardly keep up on the feed. Ask me anything about the latest in science, San Francisco, gay marriage, farmers' markets, and opera (among other topics) and I can make a good stab at a fairly lengthy conversation. Four days into my Facebook adventure came a Friend Request from someone Dian knew in New York. Why not? After that came Amtrak trips and this is the last post from the Shire because I'm off to the Treehouse by the East River.(http://mimseyinthetreehouse.blogspot.com) There is a lesson in this folks and it's not the one about, "Be careful what you wish for." It's the "Say to Yourself, Why Not?" lesson.

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...may the blessings of little ripples be with you hasta the second anniversary...

Car Talk. Car tips, advice, and troubleshooting. | Car Talk in the Comics

Car Talk. Car tips, advice, and troubleshooting. Car Talk in the Comics

2010

photo credit: Henry Hobbs

Lo and behold. I must have known I was going to be a blobber. I found an old very short poetry column I did for the community newspaper my dad started in retirement. Here is the New Year's entry for 1962:

"January is the time for kings. The Magi brought gifts for the Child, while in the west, the god of gates and doors was being worshipped. Let us be kings in our own hearts and remember our treasuries of blessings this first month of the year.

The beautiful days of my life

Have lost their number

And weave in quiet assemblage

Through endless, lanterned archways.

Clouds and trees and monuments,

Gulls and winds and elegies

Dance with people, passing.

I have seen festive tables

In stately elegance

Shimmer in the sun.

I hum a soft surprise

And step in time with the grand parade."

~~~~~~~~

The following year, there is this entry.

"Don't forget that whoever opens the door and lets the New Year in has its responsibility and must be hospitable to the unpredicted guest.

A whisper of a smile

And January comes.

A year begun on gentle sighs,

A heart that bravely strums

Its song of love.

A whisper of a smile will linger,

Will caress us as we dream."

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...may the joy of good resolutions, this time kept, be with you...

People of the Year

Hobbs & Sachtschale

I'll spare you a treatise on Time's Person of the Year and tell you instead whom I would like to have seen on the cover: my young friend, Eva. She's 16 and represents to me the spirit of perseverance, creativity, and honesty that make me glad she is on the planet. It's people like Eva who will be the fixers of the world us elders have handed down in a shabby state. She had a sudden, tremendous loss this year and I so loved what she wrote on her Facebook that I asked permission to post it.

"About Me:

I lost my dad over the summer, he died on a hike with my brother, he just got dehydrated. Dying should never be so simple, so quick. Not now. Not my father, my role model, he cannot die while I am but 16. My mom devastated, my little sister still cries herself to sleep, and my older brother who was there to see him die, is stone. It confuses me so why he remains so unemotional, is he scared by what he's seen, by trying to save his father for hours on end without water or a phone in the mountains? I do not know. But how can my father, my ONLY father, leave in a blink. He had climbed the enormous Half Dome mountain and come out smiling. And yet no matter how hard I think it through, how much I want not to believe it to be true, he died on a day hike climbing Mt. Diablo. Mt. Devil as I see it now, the monster whose dryness, and dirt took my father from me. I am strong. I am 16, I am lost, I am old, I am wise, I am withering. Not the typical things you'd find on a facebook page..."

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I would also like to mention some young people my daughter is acquainted with. She does the website at UNC's Physical Rehab. http://www.med.unc.edu/phyrehab/local-global-outreach/rehab-reader/spinal-cord-injury-sci-rehabilitation-reader-2009

The stories will inspire you. I was struck by one man's thoughts after she interviewed him, "What's the point of being negative? How does that help me?" It reminds me of an Emily Dickinson poem:

"Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune--without the words,

And never stops at all,

An sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

....may the blessings of a new year of healing, joy, and cosmic encounters be yours...

Jubilate

******************************************

++++++++++++++++

CANTATA

The angel choir at Yosemite

is different from what you might think.

Oh yes--it's there all right

scattered about

a small band at the bridge over Happy Isles

a chorale-sized group near Tioga Pass

a handful of soloists circling El Capitan.

Because of the hidden garden quality of this place

and because the Yosemite were such a

welcoming tribe, the angels assumed

certain of those pagan ways

(good angels can be tolerant, after all,

without contamination; fallen angels, weak,

have left Yosemite as there was too much

backbone to its beauty).

Their wings are not the mighty

unadorned style we've come to know.

These come greatly feathered and decorated

with carved bells,

mica glittery beads, slender dried vine ribbons,

bright cranberry-dyed woven ringlets,

and miniature pine garlands.

Their glory is so rare and charming, as

astonishing as a secret robin's egg

on the valley floor.

Tonight, I strain to hear

the scented wind of Yosemite,

the jubilant, innocent vibrato

of wing-blown angel's hum

shaping the sacred notes,

rehearsing the refrain,

"Venite. Adore."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may beauty and peace follow you this day...

"When the Snow Lay Round About"

...The images above feature Christmas in Roanoke, Eureka, at Jan Hus Church, and Fisherman's Wharf...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

****

Emily Dickinson wrote a poem which begins, "This is my letter to the world." I echo it by saying, "This is my Christmas card posted to the web" from the Shire, where the creek announces to the sparrows that Christmas is coming soon and they sing their carols in return. The starlight trims the skies and the silence is broken only by small creatures (advent)uring in the woods. Yes, I have caught them decorating, too! I am enclosing an old poem but new to most.

+++++++++++++++

I sit with Christmas on my lap,

my tiny gift encircled by

bits of pine and ribbon,

shy angels ever making music

on sea-blue paper;

hopefully it holds the scents

of a cheery morning,

the memory of snowy childhood years

read about in books darkly illustrated,

the sounds of tunes quietly harmonious.

I muse on how to wrap

the wishes which it brings--

how to stow away

a thousand splendid moments

of surprise and joy

that I should like to place in it,

which when opened would burst

like time-studied flowers

into an exquisite bouquet.

Go, my little messenger,

my packet of good thoughts,

spread dreams of hope and peace

and Merry Christmasses to come.

~~~~~

...may the wonder of these winter nights keep you warm...

Destinations on the Happiness Road

photo courtesy of Jessica Osborne Stafsnes

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rosamund calls New York City a "vibrant city." She should know about cities. I've seen her mention London, Vienna, Paris, and San Francisco. What strikes me about New York City is the quiet places, the unexpected suddenly-come-upon tranquil spaces: a meditation pool inside the Frick Collection; the necklace of gardens on Roosevelt Island; the Shakespeare quotations in Central Park; a street of cottages at City Island; the bench at the Statue of Liberty. Perhaps the contrast is part of the vibrancy. If it were all noise, there would be sensory overload. Even the Ring Cycle needs an intermission. This posting is short as tomorrow I will be boarding the Carolinian, Train #80. My next post might be about the newest special contemplative spot I have discovered. Or it might be about the difference in lodgings between the Shire and the Treehouse. It might very well be about Ivan Ivanovich, the hurricane cat. Who knows where the roads goes? For certain, it always goes ahead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of the Irish greeting about the road rising up to meet you and God keeping you in the palm of His hand be yours...

May I Quote You?

My mother gave the impression of being a friendly, chatty person but actually she was quite shy and if one analyzed her conversation, it came down to a stringing of quotes which were timely and as decorative as popcorn strung on a garland. She read as fast as a passenger pigeon homing. She didn't write down her sayings or quotes. She had a phenomenal memory for long narrative poems and short rhyming stunners. And she used them. If I wanted desperately to have a dress ordered from the Montgomery Ward catalog, she was quick to say, "Consider the lilies of the field." If I pined for true love someday, she'd pull out the story of Barb'ry Allen. If I procrastinated on practicing, she would intone, "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air." There were quotation books in our house but my favorite was a large brown paper homemade looking collection called Elbert Hubbard's Scrap Book (1923). I've seen quotes in magazines and as introductions to stories but I've never come across any quite like Elbert's. My research into his life has shown me that, what's more,
there wasn't anyone quite like Elbert so it's no wonder! Coincidentally, a documentary about him is being released this month. I still have not made it all the way through the book, the reason being that each time I have returned to it, I am awash in memories of my family--my dad who liked Tennyson, my mother with her quantity of cautionary sayings, and my brother eloquently reciting, Spartacus to the Gladiators. I don't have my mother's memory. I usually quote people I've overheard on the bus or friends. I only remember these gems of wisdom if I take out my pen and jot them down. What I am going to quote today, though, is the inscription my dad wrote to my mother when he gave her E.H's book:

"To my sweetheart and wife;
With the hope that these gentle
Words and kindly verses may be
The inspiration to her that she
Has been to me~~

Your eyes--and a thousand stars
Leap from the heavens to aid me;
I scale the impossible bars;
I mock at a world that dismayed me.

Your voice--and the thundering skies
Tremble, and cease to appall me;
Coward no longer I rise,
Spurred for what battles may call me.

Your arms,--and my purpose grows strong;
Your lips,--and high passions complete me.
For your love; it is armor and song,
And where is the thing to defeat me?
May 18, 1928"
`````````````````````````````````
The blessing this week comes courtesy of George Page:

..."My cheer is with you!"...

Goblins and Ghosties and Hallow to You

I don't get into the politics of Halloween. Yes, I know the origins of Jack o'Lanterns and the sinister side of witchcraft but my pumpkins are allowed dentures during the day and my witches carry buckets of silvery stars to cast as blessing spells, or brooms to sweep away bad dreams.

I only draw happy. AT OUR HOUSE-1979

They come by close sets of five or six,

never too many at once.

It can be counted upon that

there will be a rock star,

a hula dancer, a clown,

an ever-young princess.

In the past, it has often rained here

on this special night.

Generally, though, the weather

joins the masquerade:

fog patches tease and enhance,

swirl and lie low.

The cries of, "Trick or treat!"

echo down the dark back alleys,

echo down to the boundary road.

My little ones grow;

their imaginations flourish.

They refine their old favorites:

the Straw Man and the Wicked Witch.

I send them off with goodbyes of,

"Happy haunting!"

and listen for the echoes

down the streets,

the clear crisp replies,

"Trick or treat!"

magically, ever-fair,

down the lanes, down the years.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

*******************

....may the blessings of feathery masks and bumpy gourds be yours...

Ticking Along

1974. I met Julia Miller in a Southern California writing class at a place called Everywoman's Village. It was in the forefront of the women's movement. I was not and that's probably why I liked Julia. I took three buses from Manhattan Beach to the San Fernando Valley wending my way once a week, reading War and Peace. I wore a blue flowered hat to shade my freckles. The bus driver on the last part of the trek nicknamed me Little Blue Riding Hood. Julia was a backup singer on the Mac Davis show and had a quality of beauty I didn't see in most of the feminists who were continually ragging me to get "fulfilled." Julia had an old-fashioned modesty. She was beautiful in so many ways. We became friends quickly and corresponded for several years after the class was done. Her father wrote music scores for movies but I don't remember now which ones. One summer, she sent two clocks manufactured by her husband. She told me to pick one and send the other back as she didn't know which I would prefer. One clock was simply a round mirror with the numbers 1 2 3 and then the word, "etc." The other was a square framed in wood, very solid looking which reminded me of a carpenter's holiday with the same number pattern and the word, "etc." I immediately named the round mirror Donna and the square, Daniel. I name everything. I noticed that Donna ran slower than Daniel. I wrote to Julia and said I was having a difficult time deciding but at the moment Donna was across the room from Daniel and seemed to be trying to catch up to him, like Evangeline and Gabriel in the tragic Longfellow poem. Julia replied that I could adjust Donna's pace on the back of the clock but she suspected I wouldn't. She said, "Keep them both! I can't bear to separate Donna and Daniel!!" Everywhere I have moved since, the two clocks have been across the room from each other. I haven't been able to give them away because I, too, can't bear to separate them. They are a symbol of faithfulness and longing, of endurance and dedication. Plucky clocks. I know Julia would be pleased that they accompanied me in my travels and many, many people have heard their story. I'm certain that thirty years after the gift, Julia is still the delightful old-fashioned songstress she was on the day I met her. When I set the clocks to "fall back," I'll be sure to set Donna a little behind Daniel and thank Julia all over again for these stalwart companions.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...may the blessings of very special gifts be yours....

The King of Postcards

My first memory of my older brother is of his standing in the corner facing the wall. What a fascinating hobby!--because it did seem to be a hobby. I'm told that when I learned to walk, I was often seen attempting to squeeze in to stand next to him. I kept trying to figure out what he saw there. Later, I discovered this was a punishment for drawing on the walls. I was profoundly intrigued by the fact that he didn't appear to learn his lesson. He still hasn't! as you can see on his voidvisions blog. Ultimately, I was the great beneficiary to having stood by him: postcards. I have circa 200 postcards in my collection. I found one without a drawing but the lettering of the 3 word message and address were the best of letter drawing, of course; the stamps, the tops in art. Another gift was that my brother became my advocate at times during which I stubbornly refused to listen to others. My mother would say to him, "Reason with her!" This worked for I knew He Who Stands in the Corner also was He Who Knows His Sister's Heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...May the blessings of kinship find you and welcome you home...

Older Than Columbus

My dad was born on the day before Columbus Day so the running joke in the family was that he was older than Columbus. Year after year, "The Daddy," an Irish term, was delighted to know how old and sage he was. After he passed away in 1985, I wrote an annual memorial poem. In this one I have included a quote in respect to his mother who was of Apache descent.

IN LOVING MEMORY

"Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glint on snow."

--Chief Seattle

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Was that you I just heard in the veery's call?

"Patchy frost,"he predicted.

"Circle Columbus Day!"

I listen for you these evenings

near this veery's thicket.

Giddily, he is busy in the piney grove

reminding me of your clattering newsroom,

something politic is always

hot off the presses.

His co-workers gather their copy

the length of the woods and back before

Pegasus touches light, square hooves

to the trail of the night sky.

Do you ever tire of their amazement?

Did you? I remember your joy

at a sketch from the Far Flung Correspondent,

the urgency of your passionate editorials,

and your last words:

"You never know when you're going to

learn something new."

I go into the woods in the twilight chill

to catch the latest,

to return the call.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of remembering the ancient ways be yours...

Cabin Fever

I have adored cabins ever since as a youngster, I cut out a photo from a magazine of a rustic cabin in the Adirondacks with snowshoes hung on the porch. Adirondacks! Such a beautiful word! and snow was something seen only on the distant peak of Mt. Huila. In 1984, a trip through the High County of North Carolina led to a For Rent sign: "FOR RENT: cabin." There was an arrow pointing up a gravel road with the impressive name of Highway 1111. A small wooden bridge was like a border guard, only the appreciative allowed. I knew when I saw it that this place had a story. It turned out to be perfect for me. The owner said it had once been a post office in Tennessee and some folks dismantled it to bring over the mountains to Vilas, North Carolina, home to Frasier fir tree farms. However, it had been a two storey structure and the Some Folks hadn't brought a blueprint. Consequently, it was now a one storey. When I walked in I could feel the energy of pioneer letters, lovelorn letters, happy news letters, and sympathy cards. I knew "snowed in" was a real possibility. There was a 3x5 growing space which you can see from the photo was good enough for me. During the winter, my tabletop pines and hemlocks could be seen by visitors passing far below on the main road, 105. People coming to ski, to attend madrigal dinners, Appalachian alums of various fields, would have the greeting of the cabin to welcome them. Letters have been such a big part of my life. First there were Uncle Henry's and Aunt Stella's. Then letters put on the Friday mailboat from Liberia; college campus notes with no stamps required; ultimately, the same day delivery @earthlink.net. Here is Uncle Henry, my dad's little brother, quoting a poem of my Aunt Stella's, my mom's big sister shortly before he passed away.

ROME

The streets sink drowned in shadows

Night claims all

Save one sun-drenched spot

One weathered wall.

Where last the sunlight gleams

Like burnished gold

In simple lines the passer-by

Is told,

The young English poet, John Keats

Died here,

And nothing more is written

Save the year.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first poem I wrote at the cabin was enclosed in a letter, "Chance of Snow." To me, cabin fever does not mean stir crazy from staying in too long but instead, the delirium at the opportunity to nest with stationery and pen, paints and, these days, restickable glue stick.

~~~~~

~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of autumn pumpkins and nostalgia trips be yours...

At the Head of the Table

The best introduction to my dad is to use his own words. This is a sample from the Spring 1971 issue of the family newsletter he called, "Lost Causes."

SHOPPING WITH ERIK

A motor car is not a thing

That should be purchased lightly,

We do no buy one every day

Or even every nightly.

So when I go to buy a car,

I take along my grandson.

He spots a lemon every time

And will not let my buy one.

My grandson Erik ( he is receiving private tutoring in preparation for entering pre-nursery school) know cars. He himself has a Volkswagen, with psychedelic flowers on both sides, and he is very glib when reciting its statistics. The chassis length, he will tell you, is five inches, and he will add enthusiastically, "It has a man in it." The man inside is to run the car with assistance from Erik, who winds the motor. If the car does not go fast enough, Erik knows what to do He picks it up and throws it preferably at his older sister. With so much first-hand knowledge about the durability of cars (there are few things harder on a car than being thrown at a sister) Erik is the ideal counselor to take along when shopping for a new one. So when I decided to replace my four-year-old Valiant, I invited him along. Before I had finished the invitation, he was in the driveway waiting for me, attired hastily in his fancy pants and red sweater, but no shoes. If Erik had been born ten years ago he would have been the original flower child. Now he is just another member of the cop-out generation, a member who has, however, a base hankering for the finer thing of life, and who along with his unshorn hair, his unshod feet, and his scorn of material things, takes a morbid interest in Disneyland, MacDonald's, and breakfast at the Pancake House. My inspiration to take Erik automobile shopping came when I decided that something had to be done to get us out of the house. I had been seated on the sofa having my first cup of coffee when suddenly, as I was lifting the cup, a cloth puppy flew towards me and hit the cup in mid-air. Coffee spilled everywhere. Erik, it seems, knows how to throw cloth puppies as well as Volkswagens. While I was sopping up the mess from the sofa, Erik's mother was taking care of the disciplining. She had Erik in her arms and was kissing him over and over, telling him how much she loved him. It's the new child training: give the child plenty of love. It is probably an indication of something to say that Erik is undoubtedly the most loved child in southern California, as well as the most accurate with a cloth puppy from six feet. So Erik and I began looking at cars. In theory, he favored the BMW, with the Audi a close second. In practice it went something like this. With the whole day before us we sauntered into the showroom of every dealer along automobile row, getting the salesman's latest jazz on braking power, luggage capacity and centimeters of torque. In every showroom I dutifully followed the salesman's suggestion to get into the car, twist my spine to conform to the convolutions of the driver's seat, and test the ease with which I could reach the cigarette lighter. (I quit smoking in 1953 when the price of cigarettes soared to 15 cents a pack.) Then I would insist that Erik try out the car, giving me an unbiased opinion, His diagnostic procedure and his opinion were invariable. He would get into the driver's seat, twist the steering wheel, and, forgetting his preference for the BMW and Audi he would exclaim, "Let's take this one!" The lesson to be gleaned from all this is elementary: if one wishes to spend an incredibly enjoyable morning shopping for a new car, take along Erik. If one wishes to do some serious comparison shopping, induce Erik to stay home by telling him he has to wear shoes. I finally decided to end our pleasant morning when Erik, after testing the horn of a bright red Duster (successor to the Valiant--only the name and price have changed), said, "Let's take this one!" I had been making some hasty calculations on my mental slide rule and had decided that by using my charge card I could just about afford the repairs that would enable me to run my old Valiant another year. It was no problem to get Erik headed home. I invited him to the Pancake House where he ordered a child's half plate of pancakes and eggs. I ordered the same, worried only that it would be too much for me. It was; but I need not have worried. Erik ate all of his and was glad to share mine. Allowed that much of a handicap, I was able to break even with him. We returned home and parked in the driveway, Erik looking a bit glum. We had bought no bright-red Audi, not even a BMW in conservative shades of primrose and pale crimson. We still had our Valiant, with no twin-barrel carburetor, no torque, no rally stripe; just a four-year-old clunker that hardly does two hundred miles between periodic major overhauls. As I eased out of the driver's set I invited Erik to slide over under the steering wheel. He did. He sat immobile for about two second, then instinct took over. He twisted the wheel a couple of times and hit the horn a vigorous blast. He blasted it again, and he was sold. "Let's" he said enthusiastically, "keep this one."

~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of cheerful helpers and concerned advisors be yours...

Of Stamps and Uncles and Poems, Oh Yes!

I have an unusual stamp collection. No, it's not all neatly set out in albums. It comes on postcards and letters starting when I was very young and my Uncle Henry, who worked on a railroad mail run, took it upon himself to send letters and postcards overseas. I didn't start answering those letters for decades. I don't know why he kept up his end of the bargain because it seemed he was "talking to a wall." My dad must have mentioned how much they meant to me. Uncle Henry decorated his messages with National Wildlife Federation stickers which I thought were the world's best art next to Arthur Rackham. One year, my dad sent for a set of Metropolitan Opera "stamps" I could paste in a scrapbook. That was the extent of my stamp collection. I never finished that project. It wasn't the same as receiving a stamp on a letter. However, I was hooked from the very first encounter of an Uncle Henry stamp and was delighted when he sent a packet of foreign stamps of birds. In the 1960's, he bought a farmhouse he named, "Cardinal Hollow." The National Wildlife Federation sent him a plaque for being a devoted "back yard" naturalist. In a letter:" WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT--I PLANTED OVER 2000 SHRUBS AND TREES ON THE 60 ACRES AT THE HOLLOW WITH THE AID OF AN INDIAN HELPER. I ALSO BOUGHT A TELESCOPE AND BECAME A WATCHER OF THE SKIES, PURCHASED A PAIR OF BINOCULARS AND BECAME A FAIR TO MIDDLING ORNITHOLOGIST FOR A COUNTRY BOY. MY IMMORTALITY WILL BE BACK THERE WHERE I MOSTLY PLANTED VARIETIES THAT WOULD REPRODUCE THEMSELVES FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS AND WHERE MY UNKNOWN, UNSEEN EPITAPH WILL LIE AT THE BASE OF A MIGHTY OAK." I was in my twenties when I began the dedication to commemoratives. I would buy a small batch and put them on my Christmas cards. Somehow, I thought the stamp and the enclosed poem was as Christmassy as I wanted to be. I wasn't a Santa person. Christmas was indeed about joy but a reverent, exhilarating inward kind of joy, a stately three kings kind of joy. I thought gifts should be only for children. After exploring on my first computer and discovering Photostamp.com, I felt I had found my medium. The first one I created had an Uncle Henry postcard in the background. My favorite, though, is of Barbara and her little brother, another Henry. It's a tip o' the hat to someone they never met but would have been overjoyed to know. Perhaps soon, I can write about the King of Postcards, my brother, who faithfully, also didn't mind talking to a wall. I hope I can include one or two photos at that time. Uncle Henry was the poetry reciter in the family, even better than his sister-in-law, my mother. He said once, "You need to learn long poems by heart in case you are ever in jail." I decided to reach in, eyes closed, to the Uncle Henry shoebox with the birdhouse design to see if there was a poem I could share with you. Statistically, it's almost impossible to pick a letter or card without a poem and sure enough, here is the one that found me. I've put it in Uncle Henry capitals style:
"GROW STRONG, MY COMRADE...

THAT YOU MAY STAND

UNSHAKEN WHEN I FALL; THAT I MAY KNOW

THE SHATTERED FRAGMENTS OF MY SONG WILL COME

AT LAST TO FINER MELODY IN YOU
THAT I MAY TELL MY HEART THAT YOU BEGIN
WHEN PASSING I LEAVE OFF,
AND FATHOM MORE."

Typically, there is no author cited. Uncle Henry expected me to know. Or find out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of old stamps, old poems to remind you of the best of old times be yours...

"Jerusalem the Golden, with Milk and Honey Blest"

Sometimes I get the dates mixed up. I know I was past five because that was the year I was in kindergarten in Tuckahoe, New York. It must have been very early in the following spring that my mother, brother, and I set out for the Azores to unite with my dad who was on a secret assignment there. It was the beginning of a dangerous time. Even the start of the journey with the ship sailing across a stormy Atlantic, with the possibility of u-boats stalking, was worrisome. My mother remembered jokingly that we had only been on the island a few months when I told the soldiers who visited how I was going to be "sick," meaning that I was going to be having my sixth birthday soon but already, there was something growing on my vocal chords and my voice was husky. I felt well and happy romping around with our cocker spaniel and exploring the old stone fort behind our house. However, the medic at the nearby army base who examined my throat flatly refused to operate. He said he was only equipped to patch up the wounded on the planes which refueled there. He did know of a fine surgeon in Jerusalem, a Russian Jew in hiding. Maybe we could locate him. Was there a possibility of going to Jerusalem? My poor mother! They didn't know about anti-anxiety pills in those days. She had only Camel cigarettes and vino. This story is so long, it would take a couple of months of blobs to tell you all the in's and out's, to cover the geography and the intrigues. I offer this nutshell version in order to show you why miracles are a given for me. Yes, during dangerous time, 1944-48, we took a troop plane which was downed in Casablanca and then a train to Cairo. We found the doctor in Jerusalem and met with him at regular intervals to practice the operation. He used a form of surgery which I can only call a symbiotic sort of hypnosis. I see it all so clearly even now: the little girl sitting on a stool, still as a statue (is this why I love statues?) no anesthesia, while her brother recites a poem and the doctor says a prayer in Hebrew. My voice was saved in the city I most wanted to see, the "holy city," because by then I was a believer in the Prince of Peace who once shared bread in an upper room off a dark alley. And I concluded that my voice was saved in order for me to sing and to tell stories. My mother, who couldn't bring herself to believe in God, believed in what she called, "Christine's miracles." She accompanied me to see all the places I longed to see: despite waiting for the clearing of landmines, we ventured to Bethlehem. Despite the barbed wire detours, she saw me playing the part of an angel in the parochial school pageant. She said of all the places she had traveled, Jerusalem was her favorite and clearly a miracle had gotten our family there. That was neither the first miracle nor the last; there was a procession of them. People question me, "Why don't you doubt? What is the source of your unshakable faith?" I can conjecture and tell of the missionary who comforted my mother during my difficult birthing by singing, "Jerusalem the golden with milk and honey blest." I can quote Scriptures. "Suffer the little children to come unto me." I can give other reasons but I think it simply comes down to the fact that I was a child and when I heard that message, I went on an expedition of discovery to find this child advocate who came into the world as a baby and changed it that very night. What happened next is the story of my life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may you become as little children and find the miracles they find around every corner and beyond the stars...

On a Tuesday

My dad called Tuesdays, "Goodnewsday" after the Gershwin song with the line. "Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day." It must have been my favorite song when I was twelve as he took up the theme thereafter. He wrote letters to me on Tuesdays faithfully for decades. So what I remember about 9/11 is that it was a Tuesday. I was volunteering in the children's section of the Durham Public Library, Revere Road Branch. I liked thumbing through the books quickly as I put them on display or away. There is something magical about children's books--the freedom, the alternative worlds, the improbabilities, the magnificent art. The head librarian came over to me and asked, "Is your brother in New York by any chance?" Yes, for once my brother was in New York. Ordinarily, he could have been in Ireland or Spain, Italy or Germany. He led the life of a visionary artist. I relied on sibling telepathy to know where he was. Every year or so a fabulous postcard would drift in with gorgeous foreign stamps. She asked me if I'd like to go home. Hesitantly, she explained, "There has been..." She couldn't get the words out. A catastrophe in New York involving the Twin Towers. It was the time of the morning my brother would have been walking over there for a muffin from his studio on Duane Street. I said quietly that my brother would expect me to stay with my work and not worry about him. So I stayed, I didn't hear from him till the next day. Meanwhile, I had a message from my son in San Francisco. There had been rumors at Luxor Cab of terrorists around the Transamerica building. He told me a story which will stay with me always. He said there was a cabbie from Vietnam who wore some kind of good luck medal around his neck. On 9/12, he came to do his shift but didn't have his medal. Erik asked what had happened to it. The cabbie said, "I don't need it. I got you, Ewik." In times of trouble, there are those on whom we can depend to get us through. I depended on my faith, my angels, and trust that whatever the outcome, I should do what I was assigned to do and help would be on the way. That was 2001 and I can't enumerate the helpers I have had--so many! These days, my gentle brother thrives with an exhibit in Germany. My son rises through the ranks and keeps everyone's spirits up; he's a natural. And I? I continue with my thank-you's and my assignments and yes, sneak a few glimpses at children's books, my little affirmations.

*********************************

ANGELS GUARD

the mountains,

although we no longer give them credit.

Their fanning, lowing wings gently shift

the snow to higher elevations.

Their nodding sighing comments

on our customary pace stir the fat

pine cones to drop.

We gather them for decoration,

heedless of a better purpose.

In very quiet moments, still-hopeful angels

tap our shoulders in greeting.

"We're here

if only you will stop awhile to look.

Long before the dinosaur,

we knew of your coming.

We could tell you how the earth was made!"

It takes a fine-tuned adjustment to

our vision which we have scant time for,

not being inclined to believe,

to see the silver shadows.

Over eons they take up their vigils

at newly-formed crags and river forks.

They discuss metaphysics and cry a little

over the nature of Man.

Brave, good-hearted angels.

They await redemption

more heartily than we,

having known what Paradise was like

that time or two ago.

--CT

published in BRANCHES

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may you find succor wherever you go and the path lead you

past the narrow places to wide plains...