GREAT LIGHTS

    

"Downtown Night, San Diego"
oil, by Kevin Inman

 I was struggling recently with some puzzling passages in a book, when suddenly it was as if a light illuminated the sentences and I was able to quickly and clearly see their meanings. To me, it was a startling illumination after many minutes of confused reading and re-reading. It seemed like a great light had been given to me from somewhere. It started me wondering: How does it happen that all of a sudden some mystifying words on a page can shine with significance? Why does the light of understanding sometimes swiftly switch on where there was, moments ago, only obscurity and confusion? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, because this kind of sudden shining occurs in my life more often than I sometimes realize. As I’m writing this, I can see the old quilt of snow across our yard, and even after many weeks and under gray skies, it still glows with a baffling kind of brightness. It’s as if long, bright light bulbs are laid out beneath the snow, bringing a luminous brilliance up to the surface. What’s interesting is that I almost never notice this brightness in old snow cover, just as I often don’t see the meanings in sentences set down in a book many years ago. I guess it takes some stroke of magic to make both month-old snow and perplexing sentences abruptly light up for this old but still enthusiastic fellow. 

PLEASE COME, SPRING!

We do love snow, and winter sometimes wins

our prize for pristine beauty, but

today we hope that spring begins

tomorrow. We need to sing and strut

in warmth and sunshine. We would like

to stroll on silken grass and ride our bikes

down pleasant streets. We want to take a hike

up springtime hills. We’re shouting “Yikes!

We’re sick of snow and ice! We need spring

to come! We need to hear the robins sing!”

SAILING OFF THE EDGE

 

"Sailing", pastel,
by Karen Margulis

    Recently, as I was listening to someone speaking about the venturesome mariners who, centuries ago, sailed off the edge of the horizon and revealed the roundness of the globe, it caused me to think, again, about sailing off some edges myself. Those discerning seafarers simply did not believe what theirs and everyone’s eyesight suggested – that the earth was flat and ships would sail over the edge to destruction. They trusted that there was a larger and more wondrous world out there, even though their eyes couldn’t see it. They saw through the façade of appearances and discerned the astounding truth beyond. Like many of us, I frequently get confounded by appearances, especially by the apparent smallness and separateness of my life. I appear to be just a fairly old body containing a brain that’s slowly slumping with age. Outward impressions say my faculties are probably fading away and, before too long, I’ll be falling off the edge of old age into who knows where. However, I often feel like those mariners of history who held true to their vision of a spherical and spectacular world. More and more often now, I get a glimpse of the greatness of the universe, and of my special and necessary part in it. It is at those times that I set sail in my life, with no borders or boundaries in sight. The edge called “old age”  dissolves, and what’s left is vistas of wisdom and  happiness that stretch out without end.          

WHAT I NEED

  

    I sometimes slip into my old practice of listing things I need – another shirt, some better boots, more stamina when working out – but the truth is that something bigger than me makes a much better list. Call it God, or the Universe, or Life, or just Inspiration – there’s a power, I sense, that sees what I need and somehow supplies it. When I occasionally get my busybody self out of the way, and just listen to what this wiser power is saying to me, the things I really need (not just want) seem to unmistakably shine in my thoughts. This morning, for instance, when I was doing some of this silent listening, it became obvious that I didn’t actually need another shirt, but instead, perhaps I needed just that moment of silence during which I was seeing clearly the birds breakfasting at the feeder. When I set aside my persistent and restless ego, and simply listen to this soft but measureless voice from somewhere, I sometimes understand that all I really need is the new blood my good heart is constantly giving me and the thoroughly new thoughts my mind is always making. I sometimes see that this particular moment – any moment – is all I really ever need.

MUCH LOVE

    Good friends sometimes close a letter with “much love”, and just now, on another frozen, snowbound day in Mystic, I see much love all around me. I see it in my wife’s purple orchids carrying themselves with great grace on a window shelf near where I’m typing. They were set there months ago because Delycia does more loving than anyone I know, and now the blossoms are beautifying both our home and the snowy scene outside the window. I see love, too, in the pendulum clock hanging on the wall behind me – a clock made, I’ll bet, by craftsmen who loved their labor, loved setting the parts in their proper places so the chimes would reliably sing their small song every fifteen minutes. When you love your work, the love lives on in your creations, and this is true even for the cold, old streets of our town which have been dependably plowed, over and over this winter, by drivers who do their work with precision, and perhaps (I hope) with some pride. They may not see it this way, but I see much love in what they have done for all of us, allowing us to move about town and take this fairly wild winter in stride, and maybe even in occasional joyfulness.         

WINTER STORM NEPTUNE

"Winter Titmouse", oil,
by Debra Sisson

February 15, 2015

The birds enjoyed the feeder in the storm.

They chirped and ate and flew away and back

again. The seeds will keep them strong and warm

the way our friendship does. Love has a knack

for knowing when we need some strength. It seems

to come in sacks like seeds, and all we do

is help ourselves, and soon the mighty streams

of tenderness flow through us like the new

and welcome swirls of snow against the birds,

who shake them off by chirping friendly words.  

MORE TO COME

Valentine’s Day, 2015

"Snow Storm", acrylic,
by John K. Harrell

There’s more to come. More snow will softly cling

to Mystic and its snowy, sparkling streets

and homes. We know that blizzard winds will sing

their songs against our windows, and that sheets

of snow will fold our houses up like friends

in hugs. We may lose power, but the power

of patience is always here and always sends

us what we need to blossom like a flower

even when the lights are out. This storm

will see how kindness always keeps us warm. 

  

NO BIG DEAL

(thinking of a friend facing a second heart procedure)

The doctor said,

“Hey, I saved

your life once,

so let’s do it again.”

My friend said

it was no big deal,

but then he said

wait, yes, big deal,

it just doesn’t seem like it.

The doctor

was casual, carefree,

so my friend thought

maybe he should be too.

He said all things being equal –   

blockages and breakthroughs,

clouds and sunshine,

unease and curiosity–

who knows, he said,

a hospital

might be a place

where newness

would surprise him,

where wisdom would wait

with a reward,

all cool and calm,

no big deal.

“I’M DOING THE BEST I CAN”

(overheard in New Haven, CT, 2/7/15)

"Light in the Dark", oil.
by Zach Thurmond

She is doing

the best she can.

She carries her worries

as carefully as possible,

and prepares a paradise

for her family each day,

at least as well

as she can,

a quiet home

and wholesome meals

and help with homework.

She is doing

what her dad

taught her to do,

loving with fullness

and truthfulness.

Her ex-husband

hates her, and

heaven sometimes seems

as distant

as the dark sky,

but little things,

like the lovely lamp

by her bed,

help her haul

the load

of her fears.

ON A FROZEN DAY

"Winter Warmth", oil,
by Brenda Ferguson

On the table

an amaryllis flower

found a way

to work a miracle,

and the furnace

in the cellar

was working

its customary miracle

of making comfort

for a fortunate couple

who were quietly loving

being in their 70’s

in their sunroom

on a frozen day

with a flower

for a friend.  

ONE DAY IN MYSTIC

  

We all had our hands on our hips

and the sun was spreading out

its arms above us.

All over our world

walking was replacing sitting,

and speaking was becoming singing.

Someone was coming to a house

and sunlight was landing on him at the door.

Someone else was carrying his cares

as easily as books carry spotless ideas.

We heard the lives of the world

whistling and skipping.

We typed on our laptops

and words stepped across the screens,

praising and shouting.

THE GOOD NEW DAYS

 

"Snow", oil on panel,
by Rene Pleinair

            I’ve often heard people speak of “the good old days”, as though something wonderful was almost always happening back then, but this morning, when I noticed the sunlight spread so smoothly across the snow, I started thinking about this good new day, and all the good new days that lie ahead.  There’s so much that I miss in each new moment,  and sometimes it’s because I’m lost somewhere back in the old days, dreaming of the supposed simplicity of life back when things were – or at least seemed –  simpler and more straightforward.   What’s strange about this is that there is nothing simpler or more straightforward than the winter sunshine that gave a glossy look to the crusted snow-cover this morning. Nor could there have been anything lovelier in the old days than the flames in our fireplace just now,  shaking and swaying and sending warmth our way on this frosty but sunlit day. Like all days, this is a good new day. I’m trying lately to let the good old days lie where they are, far off in my memories, and prepare myself to respect and treasure the good new miracles made right before my eyes, moment by moment. 

SITTING STILL

When he sits still,

he can sometimes see

the cars of his thoughts

slowly slowing down

until they are driving

coolly and casually

along the quiet streets

of his mind.

Little by little

he can see once more

that his mind

is a vast village

with thoughts going

and coming in quietness.

Always interesting

and always harmless,

his thoughts pass by

with a beep and a wave

and then drive off

down the road.  

SURPRISES

"Snow in the Bronx", oil,
by Kay Crain

(about Jimmy H., age 86, after a sudden snowfall)

The snow surprised him

just like so much

surprises him.

He always looks like

something strange is being born

before his very eyes.

Just ice in a glass

makes him

stop and stare,

and a single leaf

fluttering by the window

works magic on him.

He says he broke boredom

into pieces

about 80 years ago.

He says he likes yes

way better than no,

and never stops

being stunned

by how flames wave

in the fireplace.