LEAVING THE LIGHT ON

The years go by,

"North Star Night, Mountains,
Porch Lights"
oil,
by V....Vaughan

and her light is still on.

Her eyes still shine like sunrise,

and her cheeks are roses

in an everlasting spring.

Send some words her way,

and she’ll welcome and care for them.

Hold your sorrow out,

and she’ll surround it

with understanding.

If you want her attention,

just whisper,

just breathe in and breathe out.

She’s still around.

Her hand’s held out.

She’ll leave the light on.

MY WHOLE FAMILY

 

"Family Swim", oil,
by Roxanne Steed

Sometimes I feel far away from my extended family out in St. Louis, but at those times I try to remember that my whole family – my endless family, actually – is always with me. The Salsich family is just a small part of my whole family. I belong to the universe, not just the Salsichs. Among my many brothers and sisters are the stars and seas and rivers and white chairs on porches and pine trees and tables in living rooms – all the things made from the brother and sister atoms formed by the Big Bang some 15 billion years ago. Al and Pete and Joe and Mike are my brothers, but so are all the living things that share this earth’s atmosphere. Barbara and Susie and Maysie and Cat are my sisters, but so are the birds that breathe in and breathe out in our backyard, and so are the gray grass blades just showing through the snow. Yes, most of my human family seems far off in the Midwest, but fortunately for me, they and my whole, undivided, and never-ending family is forever with me.   

PLENTY OF ROOM INSIDE

  

"High Meadow", oil,
by Pam Holnback

Over the years, it has occasionally seemed that I simply couldn’t handle any more difficulties, almost as though my life was a somewhat small room that could contain only so many troubles. I’m not sure where that thought came from – that belief that my inner spirit is a compact and cramped place – but as the years have passed I have come to see it as far from the truth. My inner spirit, my “heart and soul”, like all of ours, is vast beyond measure. There are no walls to someone’s inner being, no boundaries to a person’s thoughts and feelings and vivacity and passion. The inner spirit that all of us have can spread itself out across infinite distances inside us. There’s endless room in all of us for compassion and patience and love and lightheartedness that can last forever. There’s boundless space in our hearts and souls, both for all the blessings of life and for all its countless disappointments. As difficulties arise in my life, I simply need to say, as I do when success shows up, “Come on in. There’s plenty of room.”         

SHOWERS EVERY SECOND

"Shower Light", pastel,
by Johanna Bohoy

 Sometimes I start the day with a shower, but in fact, every single second starts with a cleansing shower of sorts. After all, each moment is made right here, right now, absolutely new, and therefore fresh and spotless. No matter how tired and tedious life can sometimes seem, each second actually spreads out in an upsurge of unreserved newness. Oldness is in my mind, not in what’s made moment by moment. I sometimes think thoughts of oldness, but even those thoughts are as unsullied as a sunrise. No moment in the past was exactly like this one, and therefore this one rises as a new-made miracle, just out of the freshening shower of the universe. 

     

LIKE THE SOUND OF SHOUTS

     

"Colorado Stream", oil,
by Delilah Smith

Sometimes the smallest thought can seem like a high-spirited shout. Just the thought, for instance, that this morning I have somehow come to be sitting in a sunny room in a happy home on a pleasant street on a gracefully spinning planet – just that single thought can start something like applause in my mind. Or the thought that my heart smoothly pulsates perhaps 86,000 times every 24 hours, or that my mind welcomes maybe 50,000 different thoughts each day, or that every second of my life is as spanking-new as a sunrise – these are thoughts that, when I consider them carefully, can seem as strong in my mind as winds sweeping through forests. Even the oddest thoughts, like the thought that any present moment can make me as strong as a mountain stream, can shout inside me in a startling way.      

        

STILL, SMALL VOICES

"Stormy", oil,
by John K. Harrell

The universe is full of still, small voices that are stronger, in their special ways, than tornadoes. I’ve known people who could carry the heaviest weights of life and still speak with quietness and courage. Mrs. Coyle was like that, a warmhearted woman with a dependable kind of power in her calm and comforting voice, and old Mr. Euler, when I was a boy, could seemingly reshape his debilitating disease into a victory with his hushed but brave words. Voices can sometimes grow stronger the quieter they get – a teacher suddenly whispering a math secret to his students, a man making his love known in almost silent words. Even windshield wipers can whisper with a strange sort of power, and your car can impressively hum to you on the highway as you drive with your wife to the mall. 

THEIR FRIENDS

On the couch pillows

there are good-natured crabs,

and a pleasant snowy egret

stands on a small table,

and a small, soft person

perches on a lampshade,

and a sociable owl

smiles from a shelf

in a living room

ready for friendship.

THAW

No more snow! he said,

and suddenly he saw spring

standing in the center

of the yard. Of course,

it wasn’t spring, because

seasons don’t stand

in our yards and smile,

but still,

there was something strange

in the softness of the air,

and the way light

seemed to dress the house

in a springtime shirt,

and the easy music

the birds were making

in a mild-mannered tree

that made the whole yard

look loose and at liberty.

A TEACHER LEARNS A LESSON

Today, because I recently misspoke at two important meetings, I’m recalling some lessons I tried to teach my students. I don’t regret what I said at the meetings, only the way I said it. I spoke with passion, as I should have, but I also spoke with harshness, which I should not have. My words were honest, which they should have been, but they were also ill-mannered, which words should never be. Back when I was teaching my teenage students, I prided myself on always speaking with dignity and decorum, especially when sharing my displeasure. At both of these recent meetings, I sincerely shared my displeasure, but I spoke with neither dignity nor decorum. I’m glad none of my former students were there to witness it. As I mentioned, I would not change the content of what I said at both meetings. I just wish I had spoken in a more courteous manner. The people whom I spoke against are honorable people who served the community with commitment and loyalty, and they deserved to be treated with more civility than I showed them. I used to tell my students they would always make mistakes, but that they must try to always make new mistakes. In the coming months, at future meetings, I hope I can follow my own advice.

AS ONE WHO WAKES

     
I don’t ever recall awakening “half-blinded at the coming of a light”, as the poet Alfred Tennyson put it (below), but I do recall sometimes being so surprised by what I was seeing or reading that it was like a stunning light had been lit in my life. I’ve seen colors in the sunset sky over Mystic, for instance, that were startling to my eyes, and valleys of falling gray rain that seemed to shine with dusky loveliness, and even small stones in tidal pools that made my eyes squint at their iridescent brilliance in the sunlight. Something similar sometimes happens when I’m reading – a single word that shimmers with significance, or a phrase that seems to flash as I read it, or a sentence that throws so much light at me that I almost have to turn my eyes aside. Occasionally a whole collection of pages will sparkle intensely, as if I’m holding a bright light in my hands, and I have to set the book down and rub my eyes so I can see again. 

WANDERING THOUGHTS

“… those thoughts that wander through eternity.”

      -- John Milton, “Paradise Lost”

     These days, when I recall my elementary school teachers saying that I had a “wandering” mind, I actually feel grateful for that unfettered, rambling way of thinking. Although it’s sometimes fun to pretend that I carefully manufacture my own thoughts, the truth is they cascade into my mind -- mostly through reading and conversation -- in a totally undisciplined and impersonal manner. It’s as if, in Milton’s words, zillions of thoughts “wander through eternity”, and some of them happen to spill into me as I’m doing my own kind of wandering. What’s appealing to me about this is that the thoughts I think have previously spilled into countless other minds before they reach mine, and thus they bring along to me the immeasurable treasures of countless thinkers over the centuries. I no more make my own thoughts than a river makes its own water. Rivers flow because a limitless number of rills, runnels, and streams flow into them, and I entertain thoughts because innumerable other thinkers have welcomed in these ambling, dawdling thoughts that forever “wander through eternity” and fall, for a few moments or hours, into my small, strolling-around life.

A WAVING LIFE

"Tulip Leaf Flower",
watercolor
by Gretchen Kelly

      I noticed a branch waving in the wind outside this morning, and it seemed, somehow, to say something about my life. Indeed, there appears to be a lot of waving and shaking and swishing in these senior years of mine. People wave a hand my way, dogs wag their tails toward me, snowflakes in storms flutter as if waving their best wishes, and just now another branch seemed to beckon to me in the breeze. Sometimes people wave aside my words, Social Security forms usually make sizable waves for me, and Delycia, as though she’s catching a cab, sometimes has to wave me down to get my attention, which only makes my heart flutter like a waving flag even more for love of her.     

EVERY THREE SECONDS

      When I read recently that a child dies due to conditions of poverty something like every three seconds, I thought about the various three-second periods in my typical day: three seconds of savoring a delicious apple, three seconds of sitting beside a comforting fire, three seconds of writing on my silver laptop, three seconds of speaking with my grandchildren, three seconds of holding my wife’s hands. While I was taking pleasure in those experiences, five poor children died. Should I feel at fault? No. Should I be saddened and furious that there are ANY poor children, and that they die so needlessly and so often? Yes.

SNOWFLAKES AND THOUGHTS

"SNOWFLAKES" oil,
by Gerald Schwartz

On any given day, my thoughts are usually as gauzy and scattered as the dusting of snow across Mystic this morning, and that’s exactly what I love most about them. I feel fortunate that, instead of thinking heavy thoughts, the kind that create unwanted weight and worries, my thoughts are usually as insubstantial as the snowflakes that floated down on us last night. Even the occasional disquieting ones seem to easily scatter through my mind, and then just as easily disappear, as will this wispy sheet of snow by this afternoon. My thoughts are, by and large, lightweight and light-hearted notions that fling themselves around in fairly disorderly ways. It’s like they’re having fun, these sometimes bothersome but always free-spirited thoughts that dance around inside me, and I often have fun observing them in their escapades. Like snowflakes, they sooner or later come to a stop -- sometimes, quite miraculously, in curious rows on a computer screen called sentences.

ALWAYS AMAZED

 

"Watery Maze", oil,
by Lori McNamara

     I sometimes feel like I’m in a befuddling maze, which is why, perhaps, I often feel “a-mazed” by everything around me. Like many of us, I enjoy pretending that my life is laid out in well-marked roads, and that I know exactly where I’m going and how to get there, but the truth is that I’ve been in an almost daily maze since November of 1941. Honestly, I still have little or no idea who I am or why things happen or where I should be going, and it is in this sense that I feel almost constantly amazed, as though I’ve been endlessly strolling in a maze for 72 years. Perhaps, though, I should say “labyrinth” instead of maze, for in a labyrinth there is no worry of being lost, since all paths in due course lead to the center and back out. A labyrinth is a light-hearted place to be, since all choices are somehow the right ones, and seeming mistakes end up showing you the way. I guess life, for me, has been like a puzzling but relaxing labyrinth. It’s like a maze made for my pleasure and instruction, a place where patience can turn mistakes into miracles.   

A GIFT IS BEING GIVEN

"A Little Gift", oil,
by Debbie Miller

 Years ago, a woman I knew experienced some serious suffering, and I remember being astonished to hear her say, in the very midst of her misery, “I can’t wait to see how this is going to transform into something good for me.” She was smiling as she said it, not a wide and showy smile (for she was, in fact, suffering) but an almost secret one that simply said, “I see something good coming my way.” There was a sense of self-assurance, almost a sanguine buoyancy, in her smile, as though she understood that goodness sometimes gives its best gifts precisely in the center of suffering. She was sincerely interested, I could sense, in seeing how goodness would somehow work its wizardry inside her suffering – somehow transform her anguish into wisdom and advancement. I think of her sometimes when I’m working through some small misfortune. I see her smile in her wise way. I hear her say, “A gift is being given to you. Don’t miss it.”  

WHAT IT'S ABOUT

If I wanted to write the story of my life (which I don’t), the strange fact is that it wouldn’t be about me. It wouldn’t be about some separate person named Hamilton who has been at the center of countless separate, personal experiences, as though I am the main character in a decades-long drama about myself. Life isn’t like that – isn’t separate and disconnected and personal. Life – anyone’s life – is a measureless sea, of which the “person” is simply one of countless essential but infinitesimal currents. My life story would not be about a separate “me”, but about the endless sea of life that  swirled and flowed in the years from 1941 to whenever I die. I am simply an ever-rolling ripple in this sea, and my story, like anyone's, would be the story of the whole and never-ending sea itself. If someone asked me what my life is about, I would say it’s not about me, but about all the mornings and midnights from 1941, and about all the winds and seasons, and all the friends and families, and the trees and blossoms, and the spinning earth and all the stars and planets and the old, astonishing universe. That’s what it’s about.

THE KINGDOMS

When I occasionally recall a boy saying, years ago, as he stared at an ant colony display, “There’s a whole kingdom here!”, it always reminds me that there are kingdoms everywhere. Truly, this universe is a place of kingdoms – of realms and regions more fanciful than those in fairytales. Today I happen to be surrounded by the kingdom of snowflakes, and tonight, perhaps, it will be the kingdom of stars and a sliver of moon. There are even kingdoms inside the toast and coffee I had for breakfast this morning – intricate kingdoms ruled by tiny but mighty molecules. Today, when my wife and I talk together, we will enter the empire of ideas, perhaps the grandest of all kingdoms. We will travel from thought to thought like searchers among the stars and planets, scouts in the far-flung territories of the mind. We’ll seem to be sitting on the couch having a simple conversation, but we’ll actually be far off – and happily so – in the vast and sovereign state of ideas.    

STAYING CALM

“She [stays] calm, whatsoever storms

"Heading Home", oil,
by Kelley MacDonald

 May shake the world.”

-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Idylls of the King”

     Sailing with my dad years ago, I understood what Tennyson meant when he wrote these lines. Dad was as calm in high seas as he was when the winds were softly wafting us along. He seemed to understand that nature knows only calmness, even when storms are swirling. I think he saw serenity in every aspect of nature – in whirling waves as well as in smooth seas – and a similar serenity seemed to spread out from inside him when he was sailing. I recall seeing a strange poise, an almost blissful stillness, in his face as he steered his small sailboat in rough weather. Perhaps he smiled in storms because he sensed the gentleness inside the winds, the secret quietness and lightness in the lifting and falling of the waves. I saw it in him, too – the mildness with which he maneuvered the boat, the almost neighborly way he met the strong winds and waves. Dad’s long gone, but I still feel his calmness, his ability to be quietly brave no matter what -- and I’m still trying to learn it from him.  

TWO OLD DOGS

 

"Old Guard", acrylic,
by John K. Harrell

 I once knew an old dog who was both brave and benevolent. He could be bold, but when someone needed a little canine comfort, he was as soft as April days. This feisty but affectionate mutt threw himself at all threats, but sat down in silence beside lonesome folks. I was thinking of him recently when I needed both the nerve to stand up to negativity and the kindliness to console someone. It’s not easy to be a fighter against cynicism and also a comforting friend, but if that old dog could do it, so, perhaps, can this one.  

MOUNTAINS FULL OF HORSES

  When I feel fearful, I often think of an old story about a guy who thought he was surrounded by enemies, but then a friend said the mountains around him were not full of enemies, but rather of friendly horses and riders ready to help. I need to see those horses clearly – to see that life is way more full of friendship and assistance than hostility and restraint. Support always surrounds me, not hindrance. Like the guy in the story, I need to open my eyes in a new way and know the peace and safety that always encircles me.