LARGE HONORS

      When a celebrity recently gave thanks for the “large honor” she had received, I started saying a silent thanks for all kinds of large honors I’ve received. Starting with my surprising presence on this startling planet in a snug house with a beyond-belief wife who, lucky for me, loves me -- what larger honor could I receive? And each morning I manage to wake up to a world of skies and trees and streets and houses and people and parades of endlessly strange present moments. Is this not a large daily honor for me? Also, I spent 45 years teaching teenagers, and I felt, from the start, that it was a high honor to walk into the classroom each morning. Each day, I felt like someone pinned an honorary medal on me and said, “You have been selected to receive the title of ‘Teacher of Teenagers’. Be grateful for this great honor.” I was grateful, always, and still am – grateful now, too, for the honor of being a bald, somewhat creased, but more-daring-and-cheerful-than-ever senior citizen. It is indeed an honor to be 72. I say to all those young 71-year-olds: Stay brave. One day you too might be honored with the shining “72 Years of Lucky Living” medal.  

GENTLE PRESENCE

 

"Last Days of Summer", acrylic,'
by Parastoo Ganjei

Like most of us, I have known some people who inspired me by just their gentle presence – there facility for somehow spreading mellowness around simply by being present. They don’t necessarily “do” anything – don’t speak about gentleness or show off their gentleness or even seem particularly peaceful. They simply, I guess, spread out gentleness the way a soft summer day spreads out warmth. These people carry kindness with then like a light that constantly shines when they are with us. Their understanding seems immeasurable, as if nothing can disturb it, and their compassion comes with a feeling of vastness and serenity. They bring the sweet-temperedness of a soft shift in the weather, sunshine after days of clouds. When they’re with us, their presence alone brings mildness and mercy. 

JOURNAL

Muddy Waters

frigid morning – worked on my poems in the morning – we did our workouts at the Y late morning, then Delycia took me out to lunch in New London at Muddy Waters, a place she discovered recently with a friend - loved the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the place – couches and soft chairs everywhere, and a view out back to the river – food was special, too – fine soup and plentiful sandwiches – back home, reading by the fire in the afternoon – put four pieces into our puzzle – 8 degrees now – sleep well, friends -

JOURNAL

"Getting Home", oil,
by Robin Weiss

fog in the yards and streets this morning – our streetlamp shone like a safety light for travelers – after breakfast we watched and listened to (on YouTube) Elgar’s cello concerto, getting ready for the Eastern CT Symphony Orchestra concert this Saturday – worked on my poetry this morning while Delycia did some errands, then a workout at the gym for both of us, then listened and watched Tchaikovsky’s 2^nd symphony, which will be on the program Saturday night – for dinner, delicious homemade soup (miso and artichoke hearts) by Delycia, then some quiet reading for both of us, War and Peace (me) and Jane Austen’s Persuasion (her) - 

FOG IN THE MORNING

"Fog in the Forest", oil,
by Randall David Tipton

The flog flowed in

and found him breathing deeply.

He did that sometimes,

just filled his lungs

and let the bountiful forces of life

flood through him,

like the fog unfurling

across the back yard just now,

just now when numberless wonders

are unrolling around the world

and he’s feeling something

overflowing through him

as he sits beside her

in the sunroom.

AT 8:42 A.M.

"Sink", oil,
by Nancy Spielman

He heard the humidifier misting

in its sunny way, and then the faucet

in the kitchen flowing freely,

and then some papers she was folding,

and then a voice message on her phone,

and then the furnace,

far off in the cellar,

saying all was warm and safe

and happiness is here.

72 GOING ON 16

I know I’m not really 16, not really a kid with a kid’s muscles and lungs, but I felt like it today as I shoveled snow from our driveway. The seven inches of snow was almost downy, so it sort of sailed off my shovel, making the work much easier than I had anticipated. I felt youthful and frolicsome as I swung the shovel back and forth, sending great sprays of snow into sizeable hills beside the driveway. I remembered all the cautions about senior citizens straining too much with a snow shovel, so I paused often, rested on my shovel, and savored the classic snowy scene around the neighborhood. When I finally finished completely clearing the driveway, I stood silently for a moment, and suddenly I was 16 again, back in Webster Groves, surveying a smoothly shoveled driveway before driving out to pick up my date.

Luckily, I’m actually 72 and had a gorgeous girlfriend waiting inside with a cup of hot tea.   

ONE-DAY BOOKS

THE PEARL, BY JOHN STEINBECK

Delycia and I promised ourselves several weeks ago that we will spend one day each month of 2014 reading a single book from start to finish, even if we have to read from dawn to dark. We thought it might be fun to immerse ourselves in a book for a single day, to saturate ourselves with it and slowly soak it up in an uninterrupted way. Of course, it’s fairly easy for us to do this in these retirement years. We can wake in the morning with no responsibilities other than to turn the pages of the book we’ve chosen for that day. We’re thinking of these special days as sort of one-day reading carnivals, non-stop festivals of sentences, day-long parties with plots and characters.

     Today we had fun with our first one-day book, John Steinbeck’s The Pearl. We read, paused to discuss, read some more, took notes, took some lunch, and let the last few pages linger along to the bittersweet ending. It’s a short book, a good way to start our year-long project. Next up, on February 5, is a surprise book for Delycia. Can’t wait for the party!    

BACKGROUNDS

"Chicago Theater', pastel,
by Karen Margulis

    As I was reading this morning, I stopped for a moment and listened to the background sounds in the house – the humming of the furnace in the cellar, the steady ticking of the pendulum clock, the clicking of keys as Delycia typed on her laptop -- and it started me wondering about other backgrounds in my life, other unnoticed backdrops against which the small dramas of my days are played out. In a way, my life is a little play on a stage as old as light-years and as widespread as the universe, and the backgrounds, whether miniscule or immense, are always strange in the best ways. It surprises me that I almost never notice these backgrounds -- the bright blue sky above me as I walk into the supermarket, the air circulating through Mystic in various ways, the hundreds of homes standing motionless like sets on a stage, and the light of the sunshine, which, even on cloudy days, shines around us like theater lighting. These are just some of the superb settings in the center of which I play out the short-lived show of my life -- settings that would astound me if I ever started noticing them.  

SLIVERS AND SPECKS

"Crescent Moon", oil,
by Elizabeth Fraser

      I saw a sliver of a moon above the house early this morning, just a shaving of silver light in a dark sunrise sky, and it started me thinking about other slivers, other shreds of things I’ve come across. So much of my life, in fact, seems made up of these kinds of small, flake-like things, mere scraps of experience, that often pass unnoticed. Someone passing me on the street, for instance, or a piece of a wind wandering past the house, or a fragment of a few words heard in the supermarket – these are slivers like this morning’s small moon above the house, just slight little experiences that sometimes disappear unseen and unappreciated. Even happiness, I guess, is like this – presented to me mostly in splinters and shards that can sail right past me if I’m not alert. I was lucky to look up this morning to see the silver flake of the moon, and hopefully I’ll be lucky, too, to see the little chips of happiness strewn around me today.    

RISING

"Christmas Morning", oil,
by Heidi Malott

Many things are rising this morning – sunshine among the silent trees, flocks of geese going south, flames in a stone fireplace, and warm feelings in our high-flying family. Delycia and I are at Jamie’s with Amy, Matt, Noah, and Ava for our Christmas celebration, and good spirits are all around the house, and rising. Right now, I’m sitting beside the soaring Christmas tree (11 feet, at least), and this life I’m lucky to be living seems to have shot up higher than ever. I’ve ridden the elevator of good fortune to the top floor. Just now a flame in the fireplace leaped higher than it seemed possible, and I’ve named it Hamilton.

SHEPHERDS ON THE PHONE

  

I’ve always enjoyed the fact that the good news of Christmas was first announced to simple, working-class shepherds, instead of tycoons or celebrities or CEOs. It reminds me, at this time of year, that simplicity and ordinariness are more beautiful than splendor and grandiosity. My wife and I sometimes deal with a wonderful kind of simplicity and ordinariness when we talk on the phone with customer service representatives. It’s not always the case, but occasionally the representatives show us the kind of patience and graciousness you might expect from best friends. They speak with gentleness and kindness, carefully finding answers to our often complicated questions. They’re probably fairly low on the salary scale of their companies, but for us, these courteous phone workers sometimes work little miracles. I guess, in a way, they’re like the simple, ordinary shepherds of the Christmas story, just quietly doing their unnoticed but essential work, and we always try to give them our own kind of “good news” at the end of the conversation. We ask to speak to their superiors in order to say how grateful we are for their attentive service. We tell their superiors that, in a straightforward, unassuming, skillful, and considerate manner, these employees of theirs both answered our questions and warmed our hearts.     

THE LITTLE TOWN INSIDE

"Follow that Star", oil,
Roxanne Steed

These days, “O Little Town of Bethlehem” is a much- loved song, and this morning it made me think about a “little town” I have inside me. In the song, the town is described as being “still” and “silent” as it waited to receive the good news of the birth of Jesus, and I sometimes have to be still and silent as I await the arrival of feelings like hopefulness and confidence. When, as happens occasionally to all of us, my life seems dark like the skies over Bethlehem, I sometimes have to simply sit in stillness, deep inside, hoping that a little light will shine somewhere, like a star over a stable. Not much good news is given in the midst of clamor and uproar, but if I can settle myself into a sort of hushed state of readiness, like little Bethlehem in the song, I often see something utterly fresh enter my life – something like a new birth, something like the beginning, again, of serenity and understanding.    

SEASON OF LIGHT

   

"Streetlight", oil,
by Sharon Schock

      As is fitting in this special season of darkness and light, we sometimes have candles shining around the house after dinner, sending out their soft light as we read or write by the fire. Every so often, I pause and simply admire the radiance of the candles. They don’t take up much space on the tables, but they spread a large and friendly light through the rooms. They make me think of other kinds of helpful light – the light of lamps that allow all of us to see and appreciate each other; the headlights of our cars that escort us to our important destinations; the silent light of stars above our sometimes anxious world; and – best of all – the light of thoughts that continually flash and show us the way we should go. On this evening of the darkest day of the year, as Delycia and I drove home from a performance of “A Christmas Carol” in Hartford, I loved seeing the lights along the way – the comforting lamps in windows of homes, the sparkling Christmas lights in yards, and the shining streetlights that somehow gave a certain splendor to the darkness. I found myself thinking, for some reason, of the great light of the sun – the source of all our light – and the even greater light of vast, never-ending forces like love and gentleness. I seemed to see and feel the light that shines in all places, all hearts, and all times.

LAUGHTER AND HEALING

Dan Potter and the Second Step Players

  Last night, Delycia and I took special delight in a holiday production by The Second Step Players at the Donald Oat Theater in Norwich, CT. As their brochure states, this group “has been writing and performing conscious comedy for social change since 1985, opening minds and healing hearts by increasing positive perceptions of people who have mental illnesses” -- and last night they gave us smiles and laughter and lots of positive perceptions. À la “Saturday Night Live”, they poked fun at the holiday season, and also at the mental illnesses many of them struggle with. I was astonished by the honesty and bravery of the performers as they laughed at their own afflictions. They seemed grateful to be giving the gift of laughter to the audience, and, most importantly, to themselves. If laughter is the best medicine, much healing happened last night, both on the stage and in the audience. (The show plays again tonight and tomorrow night, at 7:30. We strongly recommend it.)

ALL SORTS OF ALLELUIAS

Thursday, December 19, 2013

"White Christmas", oil,
by Delilah Smith

Along with the alleluias that will be sung in churches these next few days, I’ll be singing a special sort of alleluia now and then. I don’t go to church, but I often choose to silently say praises to the “Lord” I have come to believe in – not the distant and bewildering god I knew as a boy, but the infinite Spirit of goodness and concord that controls this universe I live in. I see reasons for alleluias all around me, every day, every moment. The stoplights that flashed this morning so the traffic flowed safely along, the checkout woman at Target who smiled at us so sincerely, the furnace in our cellar that’s now singing and sending up heat for us – all of these are reasons for rejoicing. My god is simple goodness – the goodness I saw today in the girl who said “excuse me” as she passed my in a store aisle, and the goodness I felt when a clerk kindly smiled and showed us the way to the Christmas section. It wasn’t a star-sprinkled or saintly or pious kind of goodness, just the simple and sincere goodness that’s cared for the human race forever. I said several silent alleluias as we shopped today – quiet praises for the generosity of the healthy and bountiful forces that flow through all things at all times, not just at Christmas.      

WRITING LIKE A HOLIDAY

"Holiday Blooms", oil,
by Dana Cooper

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

The artist Paul Klee once said that art should be like a holiday - something to give the artist the opportunity to see things differently and to change her or his point of view – and I have gradually grown to feel the same about writing. Now, in my 72nd year, when I sit with my laptop and start tapping the keys, it’s as if I’ve set out on a holiday escapade, as if restrictions have been rescinded and boundaries broken down. The words seem to lead the way, and I just cheerfully follow along to see what surprises will show up. These days, when I begin writing, it’s like I'm leaving behind rules and strategies and boundaries, and simply wandering in a boundless land. Writing for me has become a sort of free-wheeling adventure, a time to celebrate the unlimited freedom of thought that all of us possess, a time to revel and carouse with phrases and sentences to see what wonders might arise. It’s my daily holiday in retirement, a vacation in the wide-ranging kingdom of words.

SOFTLY FALLING THOUGHTS

"Times Square Snowstorm", oil,
by Kay Crain

  Watching the snowflakes slowly falling this morning made me think of the countless thoughts that come drifting down on all of us in their soft but insistent way. We truly live in the midst of a steady snowfall of thoughts, all as soft as the snow descending among the trees outside our house. True, some of my thoughts – those filled with stress or uneasiness – don’t seem especially soft, but perhaps that’s because I feel like I’m being besieged by the snowfall of thoughts, standing in the center of them, instead of simply observing them from a safe distance. When unsettling thoughts seem to be filling my mind, perhaps I can learn to take a step back and dispassionately survey them as they flutter inside me, simply taking notice of the thoughts instead of being “snowed under” by them. Maybe then, those distressing thoughts may seem as harmless as the snowflakes floating past our windows. Snowflakes soon dissolve and disappear, and so, more easily than we realize, do thoughts.

NEWS TO TELL FROM A MOUNTAIN

"Hunter Mountain Vista", oil,
by Jamie Williams Grossman

During a sparkling holiday concert by the Coast Guard Academy Band last night, the soloist, a gifted young soprano, sang “Go Tell It on the Mountain”, and it made me also want to tell a few things on some mountain. From her mountain, the soloist wanted to say the good news that Jesus was born, but I want to say some other, less celebrated good news. I want to say, for instance, that there’s far more love in the world than wickedness; that the great power and stretched-out arm of sincerity is stronger than deceitfulness; that the greatness and power and glory of life is in kindheartedness, not in acrimony; that the sometimes destructive “wisdom” of the adult world is, thankfully, utter foolishness to children; that the invisible things of life are more wonderful than the visible; that the spirit of love is more uplifting than the spirit of gossip; that, if we open our eyes and hearts, we can know the things that are freely given to us by love; that goodness, not money, makes a person mighty; that the power of kindness can shatter fears and worries; that compassion has done great things for all of us; that cheerfulness always defeats defeatism; and that gentleness was and is and will be, forever.  

Maybe I should find a mountain somewhere and start climbing.

A GREAT LIGHT

 

"Snowy Field", oil,
by Heidi Malott

     Driving with Delycia on country roads this overcast morning, it began to seem like there was a great light almost everywhere, and that it came from the snow-covered fields. The sky was gray, but the widespread fields seemed full of white light, as though something was shining just under the snow. It even seemed to me that the grayness of the sky was actually some sort of softer light sent up from the white snow. Before long, the overcast day seemed like a bright one, a day when old, resting snow did all the shining.  

ROOTS BESIDE A STREAM

 

"New Snow", oil,
by Delilah Smith

    Today I noticed some bare, bitter-looking wintry trees beside the Mystic River near our house, and for some reason, I thought of their roots, and of me. They are lucky trees to be leaning over the river, with their roots sending out shoots into the underlying wetness of the river, soaking up whatever moisture they might need. The river’s nourishment will always be there for them, in healthy weather or drought. The trees, you could say, should be fearless, for the faithful river is taking good care of them. I suppose I, too, should be fearless, at least in a sense, since my “roots” reach out into the endless nourishment of forces like love and friendship and bravery. Like never-ending rivers, these powers are always flowing around and under all of us, ready to send us all the energy we need to take us through hard times. I have constant access, for instance, to the force of comradeship and kindness, which is far greater than the force of alarm and fear. In the frozen winds these days, the trees nearby us have the nourishment of the river to help them stay strong, and I can be brave in the bad days (I hope) with the spiritedness of the good inner qualities that never stop flowing for all of us.    

FINDING YOUR OWN BEST WAY

“Whether or not you find your own way, you're bound to find some way.”

-- from  “The Phantom Tollbooth”

    Delycia and I attended a performance of “The Phantom Tollbooth” at Pine Point School (Stonington, CT) today, and it was clear from the start that the young actors had “found their own way”. I know the school well, so it didn’t surprise me that the dancers and singers showed such suppleness and versatility, each of them fitting into the performance by flowing along in their own best way. In fact, “find your own best way” might be watchwords for the school, since students and teachers have been doing just that for decades – working with each other to find each one’s perfect path of learning. There was uniqueness all over the stage this afternoon as dozens of performers presented us with their singular talents. There was togetherness, of course, as the students blended their skills to make a cohesive show, but what impressed me most was the individuality – the distinctiveness – of each of the boys and girls on stage. Each showed a special kind of youthful stateliness and magnificence as she or he danced and sang. Like thousands of Pine Point students since 1948, the performers today were young people with poise and the courage to create something exceptional with their own inimitable talents.   

SHYNESS AND QUIET DAYS

  Sometimes I think my granddaughter is simply shy, but sometimes I know that what we call shyness is never simple. Perhaps a person we call shy might just be like a silent, peaceful day, one that we love for its serenity. Ava might be a person who’s pleased to share her peacefulness in a hushed, unspoken way – not always throwing her arms around everyone, but simply sharing the sunshine of her life by being with us in her quiet manner. The dawn of a lovely day doesn’t dash up to greet us, but gently presents itself in its settled and lovely way, and so does six-year-old Ava. When Delycia and I arrive for a visit, there she is, standing prim and silent, with a modest but shining smile. She’s shy, perhaps, but shy like sunshine on a mild morning.

"Hudson River Magic", oil,
by Jamie Williams Grossman

     Someone on the radio this morning spoke of “the magic of Christmas”, and it started me thinking of another kind of magic, more concealed and commonplace, the kind I can be grateful for every second of my life. The cells in my body, for instance, are constantly making magic in countless ways. Like diminutive, multifaceted factories, they are continuously engaged in manufacturing extremely complex molecules called proteins, and are steadily waging intricate battles against any “invaders” that might upset my body’s mechanisms. Not only that, my cells are replacing and renewing themselves so fast and efficiently that I become, in a sense, a new person roughly every 7-10 years!

   That’s a personalized, custom-made kind of magic that happens always and endlessly, not just at Christmas -- certainly a reason for a heartfelt alleluia.   

SOARING IN CONNECTICUT

"Seagull", oil on masonite,
by Heidi Malott

Yesterday I did some “soaring” of a surprising kind.

When seagulls soar along the shore, they maintain height without flapping their wings – in other words, without working extra hard – and I soared in somewhat the same way at “Make We Joy”, the winter solstice celebration at Connecticut College’s Harkness Chapel. I was sitting beside Delycia, but I felt like I was flying for most of the hour, just floating along on the cheerful spirits arising from the singing and dancing. Like a seagull, I soared without exerting myself, gliding with no effort on an easygoing breeze of gladness.

Then, in the evening, we saw Handel’s Messiah performed at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Norwich, a building that soars in its own special way. Situated in a small, unexceptional city in New England, this church ascends in a spacious manner, the walls and pillars surging up to the impressive dome, and I did some surging myself as I listened to the performance. In my mind, in a lazy and loose way, I effortlessly rose and spiraled and coasted along on the music.

The seagulls I’ve seen couldn’t have done it any better.       

ALWAYS DANCING

"Black and White Flourish",
charcoal, by Connie Chadwell

 Delycia has been encouraging me to take dancing lessons with her, and I’m leaning toward saying yes, but I’ve decided to also tell her that we’re always dancing already. Just walking around the house, just moving our legs in a free-flowing, unwavering way, is a way of dancing. A person confined to a wheelchair would marvel at the fluid movements of our bodies as we walk from room to room. To a paralyzed person, our effortless walking would be a miraculous, mind-boggling dance. Looking deeper, I could tell her our bodies are always dancing in other innumerable ways. Blood is streaming through us with a smoothness that dancers would envy, and all our cells are doing their innumerable duties with a proper pace and style. Our lungs, too, are lifting and falling with the poise of polished dancers, and of course, our hearts keep a measured beat as they bring us gracefully around the dance floor of each day.

     Yes, Delycia and I are always dancing, like it or not, so why not take some lessons to learn how to take our already classy dancing to a superior level?   

BRAKING PERFECTLY

     Driving home from the gym this morning, I applied the brakes at a stoplight, and, for some reason, it seemed like I did it perfectly. It felt like I couldn’t have braked any better, like I was a first-class user of brakes. I felt like a prizewinner among drivers, a champion of the brake pedal. A few minutes later, I saw a tree limb shake in a wind, and it appeared to shake in a superb way. The shaking somehow had an appearance of refinement and finesse. It seemed like the crème de la crème of branch shakings.  Then, a few blocks down the road, I made a wrong turn, but – you guessed it – the thought came to me that I made that mistake in a flawless manner. I goofed, but in a great and perfect way. It was a blunder, but it seemed to be a beautiful one.

     Turning into our driveway, I wondered: Is perfection

everywhere, if we look carefully enough?

IS THE UNIVERSE TIRED?

     I woke up this morning still feeling tired, but then it occurred to me that the universe surely never feels that way – and I am part of the universe. If I looked out at the ocean waves on a windy day and saw what seemed to be a separate wave that, for a split second, was smaller than the others, would I say the wave was “tired”? If I saw the wind blowing strongly at one end of our yard but only softly where I was standing, would that mean the soft breeze was “worn out”? If I was standing beside a river and noticed that the current moved more slowly near some debris, would I say the water in that part of the river was “weary”? The universe is an immense creation, and every part of it has a job to do at any particular moment – a job that blends in beautifully with the infinite number of other jobs. No action of the universe is “wide awake” or “tired”, “good” or “bad”. It just is. When I awoke this morning, I put a label on the situation, an old habit of mine. I called it “tired” when I should have just called it “not wanting to get out of bed”. Some breezes blow softly, and some people don’t jump out of bed in the morning. It’s not bad or good. It’s just the way the universe works.

WAITING WITH PASSION

          I want to become an expert at waiting. I don’t mean restaurant table-waiting, or the kind of waiting that involves being dissatisfied with the present and impatient for something better in the future. No, I want to wait by simply remaining in readiness. I want to be perfectly content to stay in the present moment, quietly watch what happens next, and attentively take pleasure in the mysteries of life as it unfolds. I want to wait by being good-naturedly ready for whatever the universe has prepared for me, and I want to do it in a wholehearted way. I want to wait with enthusiasm for the next surprise, the next revelation, the next miracle, all of which will be constantly appearing, if I stay observant. I want waiting to become my pastime and my passion. Instead of always doing and dashing, I want to alertly and eagerly wait. If someone asks me what I do, I want to say, “I wait.”

WORDS ARE LIFE

     Delycia and I saw “The Book Thief” this afternoon, and, in the midst of our sighs and silent tears, I think we both saw something very special in this film. I was particularly struck by this phrase, said by one of the characters: “Words are life.” Indeed, I thought, words are life and love and goodness and strength and everything else. Words work wonders every hour, every moment, all across the earth. Words start all friendships and all fights. Without words, there would be neither love affairs nor wars. Words are like diamonds and bombs, like coats to keeps us warm and ropes to whip us with. In a great book, it says that in the beginning was the word, meaning, maybe, that at the start of everything, words wait with their mighty power. In the film, Liesel Meminger understands this, and therefore steals books in order to come into contact with this power. She touches her books like they’re time bombs, which, for those of us who love them, they are.