In Case Anyone Is Still Here...

Happy Last Night of the Year!        

May the light of your soul guide you.

May the light of your soul bless the work that you do with the secret love and warmth of your heart.

May you see in what you do the beauty of your own soul.

May the sacredness of your work bring healing, light and renewal to those who work with you and to those who see and receive your work.

May your work never weary you.

May it release within you wellsprings of refreshment, inspiration and excitement.

May you be present in what you do.

May you never become lost in bland absences.

May the day never burden.

May dawn find you awake and alert, approaching your new day with dreams, possibilities and promises.

May evening find you gracious and fulfilled.

May you go into the night blessed, sheltered and protected.

May your soul calm, console and renew you.  

John O'Donoghue Anam Cara -- Spiritual Blessing from a Celtic World

(photos at http://searchthesea.blogspot.com/)  

The End. . . or, The Beginning?

Pit Stop

AOL speaks up here.

My response: in the comments section above and here.

 

 

A New Path

The timing of the Great AOL Debacle couldn't have been worse for me.  I have a lot going on right now and not much time to journal about any of it, let alone time to read or comment.  I was barely keeping track of who had gone where, and and then today I deleted all the links on my new journal by accident. 

Nevertheless...please come on over, add me to your bloglines, and give me a chance to settle in.  I miss you all!

Search the Sea

 

Commerce and Community

When I turned on the television in our Chicago hotel room Friday morning, a local station was doing a story on the Marshall Field's Department Store holiday windows.  The eleven windows of the State Street store develop a fantastical story every holiday season, complete with elaborate design and animated figures.

(The Fairy Godmother Delivers Cinderella's Coach)

The exquisite detail and charm of the windows would warrant a news story each year entirely of their own accord.  The interviewer spoke with the chief designer, and showed us the storage space housing decades of costumes and sets -- all interesting stuff.   But the story has a different twist this year, since Field's has been bought by Macy's and the future of the windows is uncertain.  People are unhappy about the acquisition of a local landmark store by a national retailer -- as we were out and about later in the day, I overheard one young woman telling the story to a companion and planning her own boycott of Macy's.

(The Baffled Prince Holding The Slipper After The Ball)

Why do these things matter so much?  What difference does it make whether we shop at Macy's or Field's, at a Home Depot or a local hardware store, at a Walmart or a neighborhood retailer?  What's good for business is good for America, right? 

Oops -- that speaker was discredited over 70 years ago.  Good business is good for America, and the world -- but what is good business? 

We've obviously had a chance to reflect upon that over the past week or so in AOL Journal Land. And I think we all know that one of the things good business does is build community, or create a climate in which community builds itself.  Certainly some of the apprehension felt by Field's customers has to do with their fears concerning the destruction of community.

The folks at Marshall Field's never had to create those display windows on State Street.  They  didn't have to continue thetradition decade after decade.  People would still do their holiday shopping there, even if the windows were full of nothing more imaginative than plasma television screens and the latest in X-Box technology. 

But the windows became a gift to Chicago, a gift that built community.  Whether they are "consistent with Field's objectives" remains unstated -- but my guess is that they are.  Community, good feelings, loyalty -- they are all precious business commodities as well as personal treasures. They are created by a business that cares enough about its customers to welcome them to its premises, year after year after year, and to treat them like royalty once they arrive.

(The Slipper Fits The Lady)

PS: For pictures of last year's windows, go here and here.

 

En Route

Most of the sandhill cranes in easern North America pass through the Jasper-Pulaski Wildlife Refuge in northern Indiana on their fall and spring journeys. There are probably 10-12,000 cranes in northern Indiana right now, although to see them en masse you have to be at the right place (J-P) at the right time (sunrise and sunset), which we weren't. Nevertheless, we saw several hundred in mid-afternoon yesterday. And we were treated to a view of a large herd of deer, a flock of wild turkeys, and four coyotes, all mingling in the fields far beyond the cranes. 

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

PS: Don't these birds just look like they're searching for a convenient ATM?

Well....the subject line doesn't work, but if it did, the title would be:

FROZEN

We're in the Windy City for a couple of days, hanging out with our college junior sons while college freshman daughter spends the holiday with her roommate's family in southern Oregon.

We had a fabulous dinner last night at the Chicago Firehouse Restaurant, and have otherwise thrown all outdoor plans to the winds (literally) -- it was a rousing 13 degrees not counting wind chill when I got up this morning.  So we've been to the Museum of Science and Industry and the top of the Hancock Building and the Field Museum.  We left the Field tonight as the snow showered down and took off for the Marshall Fields' windows (Cinderella this year -- the last that the windows will appear under the Fields' moniker, as the stores have been bought by Macy's) and, quite by accident, the downtown holiday tree lighting.

I have lots of photos to share when I return, although many tonight were taken under less than optimal conditions: a huge and jostling crowd in a white Christmas snowstorm.  But it's been fun.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Pilgrims (including my I-don't-know-how-many-greats grandfather Digory Priest), who made an arduous journey across the Atlantic, mostly died in the cold and snow, and probably did not celebrate what we would call Thanksgiving Dinner with their neighbors, did so in order that they might create a society according to their own designs and, as a result, quite accidentally took the first steps toward the diversity and freedom we enjoy today. 

They probably were't thinking that their sacrifices would bring us flash advertising.  And the Wampanoag weren't realizing that they were on the verge of replacement by corporate America.  But. . . just for today, just because we have made for a ourselves a day to pause and think of what we are grateful for instead of what we aren't:

I want to wish everyone -- including Joe, John, and my new colleagues at AOL Corporate, Bank of America, NASCAR, lovematch, and that pharmaceutical company that has showed up -- a lovely holiday ~ hope your drives and airport waits are not too long, your loved ones show up, your mashed potatoes are perfect, and you enjoy a long walk in the woods!

           HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!!!

 

Losing Patience

Just posted in Joe's Magic Smoke (I only wish I could choose my font size over there) but you can read it here, too, if any of you are left.  I notice that most of the journals I read have gone private or departed.  Not sure how the private mode helps, as my private journal is blasting a BOA ad at the moment, and the dearly departed are hard to find -- I'm working on it, I'm working on it.  In the meantime, for those who have stayed, if you figure out a way to retain your labors of the past months or years in an acceptable form, let me know:

NEW ENTRY, ENTITLED "THE FINAL STRAW -- THAT OLD CAMEL HAS COLLAPSED"

ONE WOULD THINK. . .

that aol might be trying to retain and recover those of its unpaid contributors who might have gone elsewhere.

ONE WOULD BE MISTAKEN.

More than a week after the ads went up:

1.  My archives still indicate 1 post per month.

2.  The archives still go to the wrong month, so to find an old entry you have to go back into archives, click on the CORRECT month, and got to the date in question, and then start all over again for the next one, etc etc. . .

AND

HERE'S THE WINNER:

I have always backed up my journal periodically with hard copies.  I have several notebooks worth.  Today I decided to work on that task a bit.  In the past I would simply open an entry and click "Print." I would get a nice clean copy of the entry, with photos or other illustrations completely intact.

BUT GUESS WHAT????????????  

THE ONLY THING I CAN PRINT NOW ARE THE ADS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

NOT my entries. NOT MY ENTRIES.

For the entries I have to painstakingly copy every single one into Word, save and print -- and the photographs all come out as about 1/10 the size of a thumbnail.

I hope the BOA commerical artists are happy.  

I AM NOT.

Some of you know I've been posting my entries in the Comments Section of Magic Smoke while my own journal has been AWOL.  Here's what I left over there today:

FINAL ENTRY: SWAN SONG

Well, it was nice, Joe.  I enjoyed posting in your journal.  But mine has been returned to me as of last night.  The archives are still a mess and BOA still seems to think it has some kind of right to perch up there at the top, but at least I can post.  And maybe I will.  Or maybe not.  Or maybe I'll post to both blogs for awhile.

I expect there's a lot of ambivalence around town, but maybe not.  I seldom have my finger on the pulse of things.  My journal doesn't get much notice and I think I know why -- I'm usually completely out of it with respect to contemporary culture.  But some of the best writers around -- people who really care about words and expression -- visit me regularly, and I get to see what they are up to.  And it was a delight to be a Guest Ed Pick last week -- just before the s--t hit the fan and consigned me to oblivion again.  

I looked around at some other journal sites last night and sure enough, there are ads all over the place -- which only served to remind me again of how easily I see past much of the junk that pollutes our space in general.  And I'm not so naive as to think that blogspot and typepad and livejournal might not someday do the same thing.  Perhaps they are plotting even as I speak.

But here's where there can be no ambivalence as I see it:  AOL, by providing no advance notice and no means or levels of choice, showed contempt for its customers, a contempt magnified by the lack of reponse from the "higher-ups." And the tech problems demonstrated an astonishing level of incompetence.

Contempt for the customer and technological incomptence are not foundations upon which to maintain a successful business.  I had learned that from my very successful self-employed grandfather by the time I was five.  I would submit that aol has some major repair work to do.

Good luck, Joe.  

AND:

Sheesh.  The last sentences of that last entry thanked you and John for keeping your cool and noted that it seems that you at least tried.  But for whatever reason, they didn't appear.  I rest my case.

AntiJournalsAds

Hey LOOK at That!

I can post again!

Now I just have an ethical decision to make.

Although I'm not so ethical.  As I just emailed Joe,

<<I'm thinking about how many years of free aol service this fiasco might be worth to me.  Decades.  Lifetime.  Think heirs and assigns.  I could be bought.  If I had a journal to post in.>>

And now I do.  Let the bidding wars begin!

 

Testing

Sure, why not again?

Stopping By

Accessing my journal from work again.

Please stop by my new place!  Hot chocolate available, along with some of those new dark chocolate Pepperdge Farm cookies.  (Oops! Advertising?)

http://searchthesea.blogspot.com

Testing....

Since I haven't been able to access my journal for over 24 hours, I'm trying from work.  If you see this and you'd like my new address, please leave a link (to an address you plan on keeping!).

Survey Like None Other

The goal is to have this in every single AOL Journal. What do you have in common with others? Do you like the same things? Post this and put the title of your entry "Survey Like None-Other!"  This is a great way to introduce yourself to new readers!

And you should do it even if you NEVER do these.

1. What sign are you?   Leo.

2. What is your favorite color?  Crayola Blue Green

3. How many waffles could you eat in one sitting?   One.

4. Can you touch your tongue to your nose?  No.

5. If you had to choose between cats and dogs, which would it be?  Cats.

6. What is something you have learned recently?  Who Natan Sharansky is.

7. What is your favorite quote? The Henry Beston one that pops up in this journal from time to time:

We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals . . . We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.

Alternatively, from maps of centuries past (apocryphyl but whatever; still a great concept):

"Here there be dragons."

8. What is your favorite entry in your own journal?  Oh, I like this one, I guess. And my Judi Heartsong winner.  And this one, written after my stepmother died.  I guess three pieces out of a year-and-a-half isn't bad. 

9. What color is your bedroom?  White.

10. Where is your favorite place to visit?   St. Augustine, Florida.

11. What is one thing you want to accomplish this year?   To catch up on my photo albums.

12. Why do you write in a journal?  It's fun and I'm obsessed with it.

13. What is your favorite joke? I can't remember a joke from one second to the next.

14. Do you like the city or the country?  Both.

15. What style is your house decorated?   Totally eclectic.

16. Who is your favorite artist?  I have eclectic taste in this department, too.

17. Can you pat your tummy and rub your head at the same time?  Apparently not.

18. Are you a night owl? Once in awhile.

19. What is something youlove in your house? (If you have a picture you get extra credit!) The photographs of my children.

20. Do you believe in God?   Yes, usually.

21. What hobby could you never give up?   Reading.

22. What color makes you think of Hope?  Yellow.

23. What color makes you think of Love? Purple.

24. What is your favorite flower?  Daffodils.  I have another favorite, too, but I donlt know what they're called.  Freesia?

25. If you had one wish for the world, what would it be?  Conversation.

26. Whats the best surprise you have ever received?  My trip to Williamsburg with my grandmother when I was ten.

27. What can you cook like no-one else?  Believe me on this one -- absolutely nothing.

28. What do you think about most?  My work.

29. Who is your favorite poet?  Mary Oliver, at the moment.

30. And last but not least, if you could wrap yourself up in one word...what would that word be?  Appreciative.

In A Pickle

I've spent quite a bit of time on what can only be described as a conservative Christian message board.  But I have come to the conclusion that staying there is such a violation of who I am that it is impossible for me to continue.  At the same time, I can't really say good-bye to some of the people whom I genuinely like and respect, since "drama queen" would be the inevitable label.  

Here's the conundrum:  

When someone posts something with which I completely disagree, my choices are:  

(1) I can state my disagreement, which enables me to be true to myself, my beliefs and values, and my friends, but invites vigorous disapproval and accusations that I am trying to create controversy where none exists.  

(2) I can, without indicating my opinion one way or the other, note that we had agreed to avoid controversy, in the hope that people will stop posting on the topic.  This prevents me from being  true to myself, my beliefs and values and friends, but enables me to remain a gracious observer rather than a pot-stirrer. Nevertheless, it invites vigorous disapproval and accusations that I am trying to create controversy where none exists, just as if I had made an argumentative statement to start with.  

(3) I can remain silent, keeping my objections to myself, as I very often do.  This also prevents me from being  true to myself, my beliefs and values and friends, and enables the original poster and supporters to believe that their position is unquestionably supported.  It is also unhealthy for me, as my ears begin to steam and my blood pressure to rise whenever I see the disputed topic heading,  which almost no one else will publicly admit to seeing as controversial.  

(4)  I can stop visiting the site.  This also prevents me from being true to myself, since I do believe that reconciliation  among people is a Christian imperative, and since it, too, enables the original poster and supporters to believe that their position is unquestionably supported.  However, my presence is hardly mandated -- it's a message board, not a community in which I must live, and my absence will no doubt improve my mental health.  

I think I choose (4).  In my own community, the real life one in which I live, I have an obligation to vote my conscience and to speak out against injustice at least once in awhile.  I am extremely fortunate to live in a place in which most people share my views on political and social issues.  I suppose that those who do not share them agonize over whether to leave, just as I would if I lived in a real-life community in which my own values were attacked on a regular basis.  I know that people have left my church over the liberal social views of our pastors, and I would have to leave if the situation were reversed.  I guess a message board is about the same.  

It's discouraging, though.  I was at a church meeting tonight in which we talked about how devastating it would be for the worldwide Christian community if we cannot find ways to talk to each other across political lines.  Easier said than done, that's for sure.  

Ominous Walk

I had my first uncomfortable -- probably dangerous -- experience in the cemetery yesterday.  I've walked there for years, and now this.  I am a little shaken and a lot pissed.  I treasure my time alone, and now one of my favorite places has been marred.  

****************  

I am about half way through my walk and have stopped to look out over a huge ravine when a large white van passes me and then, to my dismay, begins to back slowly in my direction. The back of that van looks really big and has no windows, and the guy driving it looks a lot stronger than I am.  I am hoping that he is accompanied by a woman -- the cemetery roads are winding and confusing and people often ask for directions.  No such luck.  

 "Have you seen a little deer?" he asks out his window.  

What kind of a dumbass question is that?  I wonder.  In a 400-acre cemetery there are probably 400 deer.  

"No, I haven't, " I respond.   

"There's a little deer in here -- so friendly and tame -- been here about a month," he persists.  

"Nope," I say.  All the deer around here are nonplussed by humans.  My husband passed within three feet of one when he was out running the other night. Is this the adult version of the "Want to see my kittens?" trap?  

Warning signals are passing through the back of my brain.  Its reptilian portion is emerging from what had been a rather dull nap during a pleasant walk through crunchy yellow and brown leaves, reminding me that would-one attackers are supposedly repelled by confidence.  

"Haven't seen any deer today."  I look directly at him and feel a sense of panic as I realize for certain that there is probably no one else within a mile of us.   

He looks at my dog.  Small and cheerful, but you never know.  I'm hoping he's looking at my cowboy boots, very hard and very pointed.  Maybe he's thinking, now that he's actually pulled beside me, that I am older and more resourceful than he might have imagined from a distance. More alert, too.  And not the least bit afraid to use those boots.  

Later I realize that at this moment I am actually really scared, but I am not letting myself know that. "No deer," I say firmly, and begin to move away. He puts his car in gear and I walk with determined steps in the other direction.   

The second half of my walk takes a lot less time than the first.  I don't see another soul until I am within half a mile of the cemetery gate where a young woman is finishing her run and opening her car trunk.  I stand some distance from her so that I don't startle her and wait for her to remove her iPod to tell her that someone has just approached me in way that has left me extremely uncomfortable.  I hope that if she comes back here to run she leaves the iPod at home -- it was probably two full minutes before she had any idea that I was behind her.  

I have a lot of time to think on the way back.  I feel like an idiot for not glancing at the man's license plate, but I conclude that you can manage only so much at one time.  Staying safe is going to have to be good enough.  I try to decide if I am overreacting, but then I realize that not one of my male friends would stop his car to attempt a conversation with a woman walking alone in a deserted location.  I am not overreacting; this guy has gone way beyond the normal boundaries between strangers of opposite genders.  

So.  No more late afternoon walks in the cemetery.  What a BITCH.

    

On a happier note (and with a thank-you photo that I hope works; I had a lot of trouble with it the other day): I couldn't be more flattered than to have been nominated as a Weekly Pic by Guest Editor Jim, one of J-Land's finest writers and gentlemen.  Thanks to him and to those of you who have emailed your congratulations and left comments.  And if you haven't been by his journal before, take a peek, and be sure to check out its name.  There's a remote chance that I will make it to Skellig Michael this summer, in part thanks to what I've learned from Jim.

Blues, the blues that make the walls rush in ~ Walls that tell you where you've been

If you even noticed her tonight, you would think that she looks like an ordinary suburban woman.  Jacket, boots, calf-length skirt identifying her as a teacher in a religious school.  Standing in the aisle looking for lean doggie food and Charmin Ultra.  Standing in the checkout line reading the local newspaper and noting with satisfaction the defeat of the city councilman who sought to void a gay rights ordinance.  Driving the several blocks home in the early darkness, enjoying the light from the houses set closely together when the neighborhoods were created seventy, eighty, ninety years ago.

But there's something about the waning nights of fall that evokes the melancholia of youth.  Fall evenings when she strode across the fields of the Connecticut River Valley, wearing a jacket and boots with a much shorter skirt and much longer hair, ruing the demise of a relationship rushed into too fast and too far and ended too soon, trying to sort out whether she should let that hair swing down and waitress on the Vineyard or put on her big round tortoiseshell glasses and head for halls of ivy.

There's only one thing for a night like this.  Pop a CD in and play Laura Nyro, LOUD ~ VERY LOUD, all the way home.

~ So let the wiiiiiind blow, Timer, I liiiiike your song.
And if the sooong goes minor, I won't mind . . .   .  ~

Religious Democrats? Imagine That!

The other day on NPR, Robert Siegel did a story on the Virginia gubernatorial race, much of which focused on the differing religious and political outlooks of Democratic candidate Tim Kaine and Republican candidate Jerry Kilgore.  You can listen to the story here and correct for yourself any unintentional errors that I make in this entry.  

The All Things Considered website says that the campaign has "one particularly unusual twist."  And indeed, Bob Siegel seems genuinely baffled by Mr. Kaine's forthright references to his Roman Catholic faith and his willingness to discuss its influence on his life and work, and Mr. Kilgore's comparative reticence about his Baptist faith.  Mr. Kaine's life of public service began when he took a year off during law school to work as a missionary in Honduras, an experience which altered his perspective and set him on his life's path.  

I am puzzled by Bob Siegel's treatment of Mr. Kaine as somehow unusual in his openness about the role that his religious experiences have played in his life, and unusual particularly because he is a Democrat.   

Or maybe I'm not.  Maybe I'm just sick and tired of the media's pandering to the religious right and open-mouthed astonishment whenever it finds people of deep faith and religious conviction whose political and social values tend to run counter to what the media persists in describing as religious.   

You know what? -- we aren't so hard to find.  But we aren't particularly loud-mouthed, we don't go around making outrageous statements for the sake of shock value, and we have this terrible habit of being tolerant of the views of others.  And we aren't afraid of our doubts, our questions, or our uncertainty.  

Nearly everywhere that I worked as a lawyer before I switched careers, I found myself in the midst of people who made decisions every single day on the basis of thoughtful and carefully articulated religious belief.  EVERY SINGLE DAY.  Jews, Protestants, Catholics.  Some were pro-life, some were pro-choice.  Some were pro-death penalty, some were ag'in it.  Some for prayer in schools, some not.  Some Republican, some Democrat. Some passionate environmentalists, some who probably own three SUVs today.  People differ.  But it is not unusual, in the United States of America, to find people who make daily decisions, ranging from how to treat a difficult colleague to how to resolve complex ethical dilemmas of advocacy, on the basis of religious beliefs which they readily discuss and evaluate.

It's also not all that unusual, although perhaps more so  than I would like to think, to find Christians who believe that their faith tells them the following: Care for the impoverished and disenfranchised.  God made us all as we are, so: Include everyone.  Don't go to war.   God forgives everything.  Be attentive.  Cherish and protect the created universe.  Try not to kill people.  If you can't help it, regret it and try harder not to.  Extend yourself to all of the people of God. That means everyone.  GIVE AWAY EVERYTHING THAT YOU HAVE.   

Me?  I do all those things to perfection.   Okay, so maybe I make a teeny little mistake every now and then.  Especially on the humility part of Micah 6:8.  And I do have a little bit too much in the way of stuff.  

But I am here to tell you that there is nothing unusual about Tim Kaine and his attempt to live according to the dictates of his religion.  The religious right does not have a lock on that. 

THIS IS IT ~ RIGHT NOW ~ IT'S HERE

Spring extends across a few weeks, from the arrival of the rough-winged swallows, shivering against the cold mornings of mid-April, to the departure of the final stragglers at the end of May, the black-throated blue or Canada warblers who just can't get themselves underway for the final leg of the journey north.  Summer is long, usually too long, with the Perseids providing a  welcome break during the hot, sleepless nights.  And Winter extends itself far beyond any reasonable welcome.  ("Reasonable" might be defined as about ten seconds, and yet Winter persists in its delusion that its presence is required for months on end.)

But the height of fall, the most perfect, most spectacular, most welcome time of the year, lasts for only a few glorious days.  This is it.  This is all there is.  Right exactly now. 

Backpacking with Bugs

In our decade Before Children, my husband and I did some backpacking -- in nearby forests, on Isle Royale in Lake Superior, in Glacier National Park.  We always thought that we would share those experiences with our children, but they went the organized sports route from elementary school on.  Years and years and years of week-ends sucked away by soccer games and tournaments.  I loved watching them play and grow, but I was always aware that we were giving up on some special times with them. 

We did go backpacking as a family once, in western Pennsylvania when the kids were all in middle school.  It was a perfect fall week-end, with the gently rolling hills all mellow yellow in color and a layer of leaves crunching under our boots.  And when we made our way back to the parking lot after two days of hiking, the place was dizzy with ladybugs.  Ladybugs on the trees, in the air, parked all over the cars. 

The same event took place a couple of weeks ago along the Lake Erie shoreline.  Thousands of ladybugs made their stand on the beach, nestling against one another in patterns of color on driftwood and rocks as they huddled against the wind.  They reminded me of a really good week-end when children still lived here.

How You Learn to Write

I was just engaged in a conversation elsewhere about writing, which reminded me of certain exchanges in the deep and murky past.  The protagonists are my classmates and I, 11th graders in an advanced English class. The antagonist (the only one with a speaking part) is Miss Palmer, the woman who taught us all to write.  The time period is some decades before the self-esteem movement in vogue today.

"Young ladies, the fewer words, the better."  

"There was no reason to hand in three pages of verbal diarrhea when you might have made the same point more effectively in a paragraph."  

"The language on this campus is appalling. Girls, if you had any command of the English language, you would not find it necessary to use swear words.  The simple fact is that your vocabularies are pathetically limited."  

"You're smart, but you're not nearly as smart as you think you are."

All Hallow's Eve

All Hallow's Eve

Chant for Samhain

A year of beauty. A year of plenty.
A year of planting. A year of harvest.
A year of forests. A year of healing.
A year of vision. A year of passion.
A year of rebirth.

This year may we renew the earth.
This year may we renew the earth.

Let it begin with each step we take.
And let it begin with each change we make.
And let it begin with each chain we break.
And let it begin every time we awake.

                                      ~ Starhawk

Written by oceanmrc . (Link to this entry) This entry has 5 comments: Hide Recent | Add your own

Simply beautiful.  Thank you.

Judi
Comment from emmapeeldallas - 11/1/05 6:02 PM
Absolutely magnificent photos.  I look forward to seeing this journal evolve.
Comment from carolbcmo - 11/1/05 10:15 AM
The light in this picture is wonderful.    I will save this chant for future Samhain celebrations.


Comment from kathjensen - 11/1/05 8:30 AM
We all seem to be drawn to things Celtic, these days...  Lisa  :-]
Comment from lisaram1955 - 11/1/05 12:51 AM
Stunningly simple.  Stunningly beautiful.

Let us all go forward, wiser and fresher, into the creation of a new season, bringing light into the darkness,

Vicky
http://www.livejournal.com/users/vxv789/
Comment from vxv123 - 10/31/05 11:35 PM

How Does This Happen?

Yes, I know more or less how this happens.  The weather changes, chlorophyll production stops, and the green that it created fades away so that it no longer masks the true color of the leaves.

I tend to think it really happens because God the Painter is at work.  Whenever I read the creation story in Genesis, I am struck by what a delightfully imaginative and good time God has.  "Hmmm . . . I think maybe an eagle . . . and an owl . . .  and a black-throated blue warbler . . . and a gannet, the best bird of all . . .  and some furry things, and some fuzzy things, and some striped things, and palm trees and Norwegian spruce trees, and the ocean, and glaciers, and, oh, back to those trees, all those hundreds of colors of green are very nice, but couldn't we have red and orange and yellow ones, too?"

No, I'm no Biblical literalist.  But I do think the Bible tells the absolute truth:  God is an artist.  How God must have loved those dinosaurs, to turn them into birds!

I have two main walks that I take.  One goes through the neighborhood to what we call Lower Lake, a small sort of oval shaped lake in the heart of the suburbs.  Sometimes I drive up there and walk around and from Lower Lake to Horseshoe Lake, half a mile further away. The walk around and between both lakes is about 3.5 miles.   My second regular walk is through the huge cemetery a couple of blocks away.  This maple is on one of the cemetery roads, a short distance from where someone I cared for was buried last week-end.  The cemetery was positively on fire with color yesterday.

Written by oceanmrc . (Link to this entry) This entry has 4 comments: Hide Recent | Add your own

"No, I'm no Biblical literalist.  But I do think the Bible tells the absolute truth"


At first this struck me as completely contradictory.  Now, I can't stop thinking about it.    Did you see the Harper's article on the Christian Paradox in the August issue?


Comment from kathjensen - 11/1/05 8:32 AM
Dear Robin:  

Good luck with this new, focused journal.  As ever, your photographs are quite beautiful.  I think this will be a delightful trail for us to accompany you on.

Vicky

Comment from vxv123 - 10/30/05 10:08 PM
Well, Robin, I think this could be a good place for you.  And, might I add, you are one of the few in the journal community who can correctly spell the word "cemetery..."  LOL!

I'll be back as often as you are...  Lisa  :-]    
Comment from lisaram1955 - 10/30/05 8:19 PM
beautiful! Living in FL, I miss the fall colors.

Beth
Comment from stampinmom - 10/30/05 8:00 PM

OK, I Give Up

Can't do it -- can't maintain two journals.  Hell, I can't even maintain my life. So I am moving my entries from Sycamore over here and continuing on at Midlife Matters.

Other people have written eloquently in the past few days about the journaling quandry.  I second everything they've said (y'all know who you are) and add:  it's just impractical, at least for me.

Speed Living

It's been an intense week:  we had to go out for dinner tonight so I could have a margarita, and it's only Tuesday!

I'm the Testing Coordinator at our school.  (What can I say? -- I needed the money.) We offered the ACT last week, we're in the middle of the state graduation tests, the PSAT is tomorrow (postposed due to the High Holy Days), and we're trying to organize an SAT prep course to start in a couple of weeks.  Since the Jewish holidays decimated most of our October work schedule, nearly all of the preparation for these exciting events -- room assignments and proctor negoatiations and location of materials and instructions to custodians and last minute calls to the College Board and dire warnings to students about, oh, whatever --  has been crammed into the past few days.  I finally left work a bit after 7:00 tonight, having spent much of the late afternoon roaming the school to pilfer clocks and pencil sharpeners for the testing rooms tomorrow.  And somehow today I also taught eighth graders about Maritime Canada, 11th graders about the Berlin Wall, and 9th graders about the Tang-Song dynasties

It rained all day, so I didn't have to feel too bad about missing the action outside.  But I was aware, all day, of the contrast between the  mindset that dreamed up the idea of standardizing and testing and slotting human beings and the mindset that appreciates this:

There are, by the way, more tree pictures over at Sycamore. 

A Slow Start

I may have figured out a solution for my malaise.  We'll see how it goes.

SYCAMORE

In the meantime, the trick-or-treating continues all over J-land.  Feel free to drop by (previous entry), whether you have a journal link to leave or not.  I've added Kit-Kats to the mix!

Trick or Treat Thru J-Land!

A great idea from Teresa via Jude:  stop by and visit the folks with their porch lights on!  Halloween Hospitality!  We have Milky Ways and Snickers in the bowl!  Leave a comment and see how many visits you get -- between now and 9pm Monday (we'll accept any time zone at this house)!

 

Pushed and Pulled - and Not By Myself

I'm just trying to decide what I want to do ~

Public or private?

AOL or not?

Eclectic or focused?

Journal writing or other writing?

Four funerals in one month is a lot.  At least at my age.    Each one of them a reminder of how little we know about one another.  Each one of them a reminder that we will, every one of us, be remembered in some way.

How do we spend our time?  How do we spend ourselves?

I'm feeling introspective just when I don't want to be.

Yesterday: calling hours for the fourth of the recently departed.  I didn't know him at all, although I'm sure we were introduced at parties on occasion.  My connection is his sister-in-law, a classmate from boarding school (35th reunion upcoming, for those of us skinny enough to put in an appearance).  I was there probably less than an hour, but here's who I encountered: 

the family, of course, which includes my friend, whom I have known since we were girls struggling in an advanced English course with probably the best teacher either of us would ever encounter, and her husband and three daughters, including the gorgeous young woman I first visited in a  NICU 18 years ago after she had had the temerity to arrive three months early, and her sister, who has just lost her husband, and her mother, a retired Presbyterian minister;

another mom from those Montessori days that weren't really so long ago;

a woman whom I worked with when she was a legal secretary and I was a lawyer;

and a set of parents, now brand-new acquaintances, who also have a displaced Tulane daughter.

The best thing about my life is the variety of people I encounter.  In any given week, I am teaching in an Orthodox Jewish school, studying at a Jesuit Catholic university, and worshipping in a progressive Presbyterian church.  The funerals have been for a brilliant lawyer-educator-world traveler-musician-writer, a solid and and steady veteran-engineer-Mason (yeah, that part was interesting), a generous musician and vocalist with a vast circle of influence among colleagues and students, a gifted artisan whose work shines across our city.  All of them spouses and parents.

Life is so much and so full and so short.  How can I live it better?  How can I write about it and do it justice?

 

Here's something wonderful to read:

 

Scroll down to "Catching the rabbit," an October 24 entry in Creek Running North.

 

 

Prior Owners Have Moved On

On the island beach near Northport Harbor on Prince Edward Island, crabs and gulls have come and gone.

Three weeks ago, a memorial service for an 84-year-old lawyer-actor-singer-educator-writer-war hero-friend, all par excellence.

Last week, a service for a good friend's father, another gentleman in his early eighties who also served in World War II with distinction and then came home to build a family and a career and a warm circle of friends.

This week, the service for my daughter's voice teacher, only 61 and a woman so full of life and music that she could not possibly have simply collapsed and died on Tuesday.

Next week, the service for a friend's brother-in-law, aged 54.

**********

One of yesterday's readings:

Going to Heaven!
I don’t know when—
Pray do not ask me how!
Indeed I’m too astonished
To think of answering you!
Going to Heaven!
How dim it sounds!
And yet it will be done
As sure as flocks go home at night
Unto the Shepherd’s arm!

Perhaps you’re going too!
Who knows?
If you should get there first
Save just a little space for me
Close to the two I lost—
The smallest “Robe” will fit me
And just a bit of “Crown”—
For you know we do not mind our dress
When we are going home—

I’m glad I don’t believe it
For it would stop my breath—
And I’d like to look a little more
At such a curious Earth!
I’m glad they did believe it
Whom I have never found
Since the might Autumn afternoon
I left them in the ground.

                                     ~ ED (79)

 

 

 

My Beautiful Daughter

She overcame a devastating experience in high school, holding her head high and exuding compassion and good humor.

She weathered several disappointments during her junior year at a school where the word "Achievement" is spelled in 100-point font.

She spent a year-and-a-half looking at colleges, preparing applications, and suffering the endless scrutiny that that process entails. 

She went off to college 1000 miles away, got turned back by a hurricane, came home and replanned her life in 48 hours, and went off to college again, 2500 miles away that time.

The child whose "phone phobia," as she jokingly refers to it, means that a telephone call to one of her best friends is an agonizing transaction,  put together courses and books, joined an intramural team, and applied and trained as a volunteer, all in a completely unknown environment.

She's keeping one eye on the future, making plans to return to the city she wants to call her own, and one eye on the present, making friends, playing soccer, and working at an animal shelter. 

I have no idea how my DNA could possibly have made a contribution to such an independent, balanced, and self-assured young woman, but I would be happy to claim any responsibility at all.

Almost Ready to Concede

I want to give Harriet Miers the benefit of the doubt.  I really do.  That tends to be my naturally ingrained approach to almost all people in almost all circumstances.  One of those wishy-washy liberal things, I suppose.

But Give Me A Break.  The Senate Judiciary Committe has returned her judicial questionnaire and asked for more information, stating that her responses were "inadequate," "insufficient," and "insulting."

Contrary to popular opinion as generated by prime time television, what lawyers mostly do is write.  Voluminous amounts of writing.  They do that after they have done their research (or gotten someone to do it for them).  Voluminous amounts of research.  It's understandable that television viewers may not be aware of this basic fact of lawyer life, because a television show depicting lawyers doing much of what lawyers actually do would be insufferably boring.  However, the sad reality is that most lawyers are not sexy babes in short skirts arguing dramatic cases before curmudgeonly judges.  Most lawyers are scrunched up behind a computer with stacks of papers and books sliding off all available surfaces as they try to make enough sense of conflicting arguments to create cogent ones of their own.

So how embarrassing is it that a lawyer would produce written work that is characterized as  inadequate, insufficient and insulting?  Let me count the ways.

No, on second thought, that would be one of those boring lawyer activities. 

Ms. Miers, however, SHOULD be engaged in boring lawyer activities.  She needs to convince the rest of us that, should she make it to the court, she will be capable of developing and writing an opinion. 

Not lookin' good so far.

AUTUMN III

Lighthouses just look so. . . hopeful.

Harriet Miers and Abortion

Who knows?

The fact that Harriet Miers indicated that she would support a ban on abortions in all cases except where a mother's life was in danger means. . .

NOTHING.

Some conservatives are finding a nugget of comfort in the revelation that years ago Ms. Miers responded to a pre-election questionnaire with a response indicating her opposition to abortion in almost all cases.

Some liberals are, as a result of the same revelation, cooking up questions designed to put an end to the entire Miers fiasco.

But, as Ms. Miers no doubt knows, she will have to put aside her personal views on abortion should she ever in fact find herself seated on that bench from which she will have an opportunity to rule on an abortion case.

Roe v. Wade could be with us for a long time.  Lawyers are taught, from the first moment of law school, to value precedent -- to give incalculable weight to prior decisions of the court.  The importance of legal precedent cannot be underestimated in our system of justice.  Lawyers are paid to advise clients of the probable outcome of various courses of action -- advice which they render on the basis of precedent.  Why do we teach our young people about Hammurabi's Code in high school?  Because the establishment of precedent is followed by a certain degree of order (which, given that we are human, is always relative to one degree or another) -- and Hammurabi's utilization of that concept was a watershed event in human history. 

Harriet Miers as Madame Justice Miers might find it well nigh impossible, despite the sincerity and unshakeability of her personal convictions, to do anything in the context of an abortion case other than to apply the Constitution as it has been interpreted thus far and, for instance, to determine that the parental notification rule in the case presently pending before the Court is outside the limits established by prior cases.

Of course, Hammurabli viewed precedent within the context of specificity -- as do our courts today.  We insist that a court ruling be founded upon the specific facts of a specific case.  There is plenty of leeway within Roe v. Wade itself for a complete upending of abortion law as we know it.  If nothing else, that case is over 30 years old and depends to at least some extent on a trimester-by-trimester assessment of pregnancy which, given today's technology, is on fairly shaky ground.  And each case that comes before the court raises a set of facts which, presumably, differs from those in decisions the court has already handed down. 

Any justice, despite his or her personal views and committments, might find, given the right set of fact and argument, that she or he is compelled to vote to overturn Roe.

The most disturbing aspect of the whole Miers scenario is that the President of the United States, James Dobson of Focuis on the Family, and several other poorly informed individuals seem to think that the President is entitled to the support of his opinions from any of his nominees to the Court who eventually make it to the bench. One of Miers' supporters has said that if she is on the Court when the parental notification case comes up, she will not "disappoint the President."

In fact, she may well disappoint the President.  Once she takes the oath of office as  a Justice of the United States Supreme Court, her allegiance is to the Constitution, not to either of the other branches of government nor their leaders. 

That being the case, we should be asking how she views the Constitution and the role of a judge with respect to interpreting it.  That she devoutly and sincerely practices and draws strength from a profound faith is laudable, and will no doubt affect her approach to her work.  But it will not determine the keenness or depth of her skill set in legal processes and reasoning, nor the predilections and preferences that she as a lawyer will bring to the Court.

AUTUMN II

I called up a friend this afternoon and told her that it was so beautiful out that, whatever we were doing, we needed to put it aside and go to the beach.

Not that I was doing so much. 

Plus, I had an important errand to run at the beach.  Someone had asked me to collect some flat Lake Erie stones for her.  I mean, really, what choice did I have?  Such pressure.

Plus, my friend really needed a break after 10 days of focus on her father-in-law's death and funeral and various extended family matters. The only real option was a trip to a  beach.  I am SUCH an altruistic person.

When I dropped my friend off this evening, I mentioned that, while theoretically I was cleaning the kitchen, I hadn't bothered to wipe off the counters yet.

"I'm sure you can think of another field trip for this evening," she said helpfully.

Autumn I

The Monday Photo Shoot   

The leaves haven't changed much yet -- our proximity to the lake delays fall by several days.  But every so often there's a dramatic reminder of what's coming.

Green Wave Optimism

Unearthing Church History

We are having such a good time in our adult education program at church this year.  Today a local professor of religious studies spoke about the earliest church fathers; next week she is coming back to talk about Augustine, the one whose tracks we follow.  Most Christians, of whatever ilk, have little awareness of just how extensive our reliance on Augustinian formulations is -- much of what we take as "gospel" truth first came from his pen in the 4th and 5th centuries. 

"Early church fathers?" -- a term that referred first to bishops considered to be direct successors in the apolostic chain from Christ and his original followers but was expanded over the first few centuries CE to include all members of the clergy, it also refers to a select group of early writers.  Most of them, interestingly, were in what today we would call the Eastern Church: Northern Africa and the Mideast.  Many of the struggles over early church doctine had to do with the fact that these men were writing in Greek, a much less precise language than Latin.  And since they were inheritors of the Greek as well as the Christian tradition, the footprints of Plato are sprinkled liberally over early Christian writings.

One of the early debates was whether God had in fact created Christ -- whether there was ever a time when Christ was not.  The Nicene Creed, which many of us repeat in church on many Sundays during the year (and in which we proclaim that Jesus is "eternally begotten of the Father, begotten and not made"), is basically the fourth century formulation of the argument against those who set forth the position that there was a time when the Son was not.  (The debate is known as the Arian Controversy, thanks to Arius, the chief proponent of the losing side.)

We also touched on the development of Trinitarian Christianity.  Contrary to casual Protestant belief (and Protestants like to think that we rely on upon the Bible -- sola scriptura, in the words of Martin Luther -- rather than on the Roman Catholic amalgamation of scripture and tradition), there is no articulation of the doctrine of the Trinity in the Bible.  While all three persons of God appear in the Bible, the co-equal status and relationship among Creator, Son, and Spirit was worked out in the council debates of the third and fourth centuries. 

In other words, we Protestants, regardless of what we might want to think, descend from the traditions of our ancestors in the fairth just as our Catholic brothers and sisters do.

Miscellaneous October Notes

Yesterday I clambered out along a treacherous breakwall to a lighthouse, hoping that I would not make an idiotic mistake that would result in a sprained ankle or a crushed skull, either of which would have rendered my 45-minute drive home impossible, which would not have been a good thing, since no one knew where I was.

Then I saw a mink scampering over the rocks.

I spent a lot of today on funeral-related activities.

If I am ever a minister doing a eulogy, I promise to wear an attractive and stylish jacket. 

This is what Byron Calame in last Sunday's Times reported, in part, about the paper's readers:

<<Dan Wakin, a culture reporter, wrote that readers who pick up the paper "have an inherent curiosity as part of their basic intellectual makeup." For John Geddes, a managing editor, this means "They're curious about the world around them - the 'why' behind an event or a trend." Added Jonathan Landman, deputy managing editor, "They're curious (and this is crucial, and not so common these days), interested in stuff that happens outside their own lives."

After putting the curiosity of Times readers at the top of his list of their notable attributes, Mr. Keller cited four others. "Second, I think of our readers as people who use the news. They are engaged. ... Third, I think of our typical reader as somewhat skeptical. ... Fourth, I think our readers are busy and jealous of their time. ... Fifth, I think of The Times reader as someone who loves the language.">>

I love getting love letters from the editors of The Times.

Here is another humorous part of the Calame column:

<<In producing the Thursday and Sunday Styles sections, Trip Gabriel, the editor, explained: "We write for people who might want to sample the latest in fashion, night life, fitness or a dating trend; but perhaps more importantly, we write for readers who crave knowing about these things with no intention of experiencing them. That's why our stories invariably include a degree of sociology.">>

I, for instance, might want to be a dazzlingly stylish minister.

That's why I'm sitting here in jeans, a purple waffle-texture t-shirt, tiny glass beads from Yellowstone, clogs and a gray high school hoodie.

But I have seen a wild mink this week-end, and that was VERY cool.

Also, I have decided to read all of Shakespeare's history plays and unearth my daughter's flute and learn to play it.

 

OCTOBER SUNSET ON LAKE ERIE

Time Out For Awhile

Did I believe I had a clear mind?
It was like the water of a river
flowing shallow over the ice. And now
that the rising water has broken
the ice, I see what I thought
was the light is part of the dark.

Wendell Berry, Breaking

It Takes a Long Time

Some conversations with friends who have recently moved, yesterday's Round Robin "Village" topic, and occasional comments on blogs by women who pretty much stay at home and build their entire lives around their families, have had me thinking about how we build community.  Those thoughts presuppose a wish to participate in a real-life community of  people and buildings and spaces, which does not seem to be a universally shared desire.  I can only speak from the experience of someone who values community intensely, and who wonders how I would go about building a context for myself if I were to move.  So . . . just some meandering thoughts:

I think that I wanted friends as soon as I knew that friends existed.  I grew up way out in the country, and my first companions were animals -- real and stuffed -- and my younger brothers, who weren't of much use from a conversational standpoint.  What a delight school was!  And although I had the same struggles with cliques and acceptance that every child faces, when I reached boarding school in seventh grade I began to learn to subsitute friendship for family and to live in close-knit communities, with all the good and bad that they entail.  One of my aunts, who to this day lives on farmland far from the city to which my uncle commutes, asked me once how I could stand to live where I do.  "All those years in dorms?" I wondered.

One of my friends, a politically active individual in our small city, an inner-ring suburb, says that it took her four years -- four years after moving here to begin to feel a part of things.  (She said this is the context of a discussion some time ago in which several of us were contemplating what it would be like to move somewhere else.)   She is an extremely outgoing, engaged, and opinionated person -- someone who has no trouble interjecting herself into a conversation or situation.  And when she arrived here, she had six young children, which gave her multiple opportunities for involvement in all kinds of places. Yet it took her four years.  I wonder whether I could manage it in that time frame as an empty-nester old fogie.

I remember a woman in a moms' group -- that would have been exactly 21 years ago! -- saying that when she first found herself at home with a small baby, she tried to "pick up" other moms, in the grocery and at the park.  We all laughed with deep appreciation -- wasn't that exactly what we were doing in that group?

Throughout much of my life, I've been able to become part of a community because I've been in an environment where it exists -- a school or a workplace -- and there are usually a few people with whom I feel some kind of ineffable bond.  One of my frustrations with my current workplace is that I am in a most definite minority, culturally and religiously, and the people with whom I feel the most affinity are 25 years younger than I -- so that while we share political and professional views and frustrations, we don't share a social life.

My group of closest friends comes from my former church -- clearly a result of almost incomprehensible serendipity.  We all turned up at about the same time in a large church -- meaning, in that case, a church that encompassed all sorts of religious, political, and social leanings -- and we found each other through a neighborhood community program there, were all parents of young children, were mostly  without extended families in town, and were all in search of a life of faith in a questioning and open-minded way.  We were able to connect on so many different levels in so many different circumstances -- how lucky was that?  As the religious right comes more and more to the forefront of American life, I realize that if I were to move to a new geographic area, I would have to do extensive research before I could walk into the door of a church and hope to feel at home -- but the first time, I was certainly no more than an accidental tourist. 

And having switched churches, I do have some sort of a gauge for estimating when community begins to feel real.  I attended my current church for nearly 10 years before making an official change of affiliation -- at first I really wanted to be left alone to worship in peace and do some internal work.  But as I began to indicate an interest in becoming involved, it took no time at all for the phone to start ringing and, once I became an official member, I found plenty of places in which to build friendships. 

In the end, I  guess, it's a combination of personal openness and geographic fortune.  I know a couple of women, one in my neighborhood and one at work, with whom I would probably be engaged in very close friendships, but for the aura of private space with which each of them surrounds herself.  I recognize it, because sometimes I encircle myself with the same wall, and there's nothing to do but respect it and enjoy them to the extent that they do extend themselves.  And I know that there are locales in which, were I to move there, I would be lucky to find even one true friend, places where I would be Hannah in The Witch of Blackbird Pond.

I have no conclusions.  But I do wonder.  I would like to move to the edge of the water somewhere -- but would I have friends?

Village (Round Robin Photos)

Yes, I realize this doesn't look like a village.  But it was a moment, sort of on the outskirts of what might be called a village, on the coast of Prince Edward Island.  And if I lived in a  village, I would want its border to look like this.

 I don't think I want to live in a village.  I love living in an inner-ring suburb that sparkles with diversity and people who like it that way.  But then, my city is sort of like a village.  If you live here long enough, and I've lived here almost 30 years, then the libraries groceries schools churches temples parks pools rec center restaurants theatres stores all teem with people you know, or people who know people you know.  

If I did live in a village, though, a REAL village, it would need to have boats.  

*****  

Take a look at the other Round Robin entries:

Carly......Ellipsis

Karen...Musings from Mavarin

Sara...Photographic Memories

Mary...Alphawoman's Blog

Dorn...Through the Eyes of the Beholder

Betty...My Day My Interests

Kimberleigh...I Shaved my Legs For This?

Aunt Nub (Liz) Fool's Paradise

Maryanne...My feelings are real

Chris...It's all about me I think

Derek...Derek's Photo of the Day

Mary...Hunybea's Open Journal

Renee...Timeless Calligraphy Studio

Marie...Photographs & Memories

Robin...These are the days of our lives

Rose...WAIT-NOTYET-/

Cosette...Pandora's Bazaar

Robin...Midlife Matters

Steven...sometimes photoblog

October

October is my favorite month, despite all three of the worst events of my life having jammed themselves into those 31 days.  (In three different years, thankfully.)  

October's beauty is the prelude to November's bleakness, which is one reason I like it.  Life in a nutshell, as Hildegarde said.  There is nothing that exudes dreariness like a midwestern landscape in early November, and you know that it's coming when the tress blaze gold and red in October.  

October is sharp and jagged, which is another reason I like it.  None of the gentle ease of spring, when rain gives way to daffodils and daffodils welcome kinglets and, finally, the warblers tumble all over one another in their haste to make it to Canada.  By October the birds are mostly gone, it pours one day and streams sunshine the next, and the trees do this THING that they do.  Go figure.  I brought home a maple leaf yesterday that I had picked from up from the slick sidewalk.  It sheens an extraordinary scarlet that fades into a deep orange at the edges, but its veins are lime green.  How can such a thing be?   

October roads in the Berkshires shrink under wave upon wave of hued ancient mountains.  October soccer balls sail across turquoise skies bordered by transient deciduous color.  October darkness brings memories of a night when this world and the next seemed almost to touch. 

The Myth of Clytie

Clytie was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her no return. So she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold ground, with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders.  Nine days she sat and tasted neither food nor drink, her own tears and the chilly dew her only food.   She gazed on the sun when he rose, and as he passed through his daily course to his setting; she saw no other object, her face  turned constantly on him.   At last, they say, her limbs rooted in the ground, her face became a sunflower, which turns on its stem so as always to face the sun throughout its daily course; for it retains to that extent the feeling of the nymph from whom it sprang.

 

(www.online-mythology.com)

 

 

West Point Sunset, Prince Edward Island 8/05

It is so dark and dreary and rainy here today -- need to recall evenings as they should be.

Celtic Echoes

Prince Edward Island 8/05

We're In No Hurry To Leave

October Is The Cruellest Month

I could fill reams of paper with stories of a family under seige, a family marked forever by that relentless stalker, grief.  I could write about growing up without a mother, under the twin shadows of loss and alcoholism.   

But for today, I simply want to do the events of October 5, 1960 the honor of recording them.  

It was a perfectly ordinary day.   Everyone says that, according to Joan Didion in the recent Sunday Times article in which she explores the staggering grief she has experienced since the death of her husband.  Everyone begins the narrative of sudden and unexpected death with the same preamble.  "It was an ordinary day."  Even Joan Didion begins with those words, despite the fact that she had spent the earlier part of the afternoon on which her husband suddenly died visiting her daughter, who was in the hospital in a coma.  

It was for us, however, really an ordinary day, exactly 45 years ago.  I was late to school and missed the bus.  I almost always missed the bus, because my mother wanted me to eat breakfast and in second grade I was never hungry that early.  As she did almost every morning, my father's mother waved to us from her dining room window as we drove down the hill past her house. 

A little later, as she would tell me when I was grown, my mother's mother, who lived a mile away, in town,  walked into our house, calling the name of her daughter.  Dishes had been left on the table and a load of laundry was running in the basement.   

"Carol!  Carol?" she called.  It was an ordinary morning and she was going to spend it with her daughter and grandsons. She had begun to clear the dishes when my father's mother walked in.  

"Oh, Dorothy," she said, in a pained voice that barely emerged from her lips.  The two grandmothers looked at each other and thought, This is not happening.  This communication that is about to pass between us cannot be.

After she had waved to us, my father's mother, still in her nightgown and robe, had turned back to her kitchen from her dining room.  Before she had taken more than a few steps, she heard a thunderous crash from the road below the hill.  She grabbed the telephone and called for an ambulane, saying urgently, "I think my family has been in an accident."  Then she took off down the hill, running at breakneck speed down the drive and a quarter of a mile down the road.  

My mother was already gone.  My baby brother died a few hours later, having been transported to Children's Hospital with massive brain injuries.  I lay in the ditch, screaming for my mother.  

My other brother, who was four and has no real memory of ever having had a mother, is the only one left who has any recollection of the moments before the accident.  He says that our mother glanced into the back seat where we were located, and then there was darkness.  Apparently we swerved just over the center line as an oncoming car crested the hill in front of us.  

When my brother woke up in the hospital four days later, his skull fractured and his elbow shattered, I had been lying there conscious for 48 hours already, weighted down by my full leg cast and abdominal stitches. And other things.  The adults wheeled my tiny brother out of the room to tell him what I already knew, and the hallway stiffened against a child's wails, just as it had two days earler.  

And then we began, my brother and I, murmuring in our hospital beds as the leaves outside the window turned yellow and red, to build our lives anew.  We were children, and so we were brave and did not know that we were small.