SOFT AND STRONG

A person could be soft and strong, 

sort of like the sparrows that feed at feeders 

beside windows, their small bodies poised 

in strength and ease. You could sit beside a sorrow, 

and sit straight and resilient, saying to the sorrow 

that you are the supervisor, not it, and you 

take instructions from the sun and the stars, 

not from sorrow. You could get nourishment 

from your sorrow, sitting bravely beside it 

and softly snacking on the wisdom 

that waits inside this feeder 

that something has hung beside your life.    

COMFORTABLE WORDS

    In my reading this morning, I came across the phrase “comfortable words” (see below), and I wondered if I should pay more attention to those kinds of words in the future. The word “comfort” derives from the Latin word for “strength”, suggesting that strong words, those that stand up and speak sincerely and clearly, can also be the most comfortable ones. We say something is comfortable when it’s soothing and restful, and perhaps strong, straightforward, stalwart words, whether written or spoken, can bring some of that kind of comfort to us. After all, sometimes just being in the presence of wholesome strength can cause us to rest in reassurance, knowing that not much can harm us with so much forthright spirit close by. Words that do their work with honesty and force can reassure us, settle us down, and send us toward some faith that this world can be considerably more comfortable than painful.  

“. . .when he spake and cheered his Table Round

  With [. . .] comfortable words.”

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

PRESENCE

"Presence", oil, by Kristin Grevich

     Perhaps all of us know people who seem to shine with what we might call “presence”. These are people who seem thoroughly present, wherever they might be. When you’re with them, they give the gift of being completely with you, entirely in attendance, wholly here right now. In a strange sort of way, the presence of these people can create a sense in us of expansiveness, extensiveness, almost boundlessness, as though when they enter a room the walls seem to dissolve and an uncommon kind of freedom is felt. They are not only present with us, but completely content, satisfied, and pleased to be right where they are, which sometimes makes us feel, for perhaps a few moments, something similar, something satisfying and reassuring and empowering.      

SMILING AT WRINKLES

"The Old Man and the Sea", oil,
by Kay Crain

  It’s strange to me that so many senior citizens seem to hate their skin’s wrinkles, since I feel rather fond of mine. After all, wrinkles in the skin show that a person has survived for scores of years – has made a good fight of it, has stayed strong through decades, has done what needed to be done to enter the eminent empire of old age. Wrinkles mean perseverance, stamina, staying power. In some parts of the world, people with the most wrinkles receive the most reverence, simply because they’ve endured and carried on – and also because others sense that wisdom silently spreads out from these creased and craggy senior citizens. I’m not sure how much wisdom my old furrowed head contains, but I do smile when I see my wrinkles in the mirror. I give a silent shout of thankfulness that life has given me all these ridges and grooves, all these wrinkly badges of honor, all these crumpled emblems of a long and lucky life.   

COMING TO MYSELF

     In the Bible story of the prodigal son, one translation says the wasteful son “came to himself”, as though, in the midst of the confusion and dissipation of his life, he suddenly came face to face with his actual self – with who he truly was. I was thinking of that story this morning, and it reminded me of a conversation I had years ago with a friend who had suffered through a long and enormous sorrow. He said that, to his surprise, his sorrow had actually helped him understand who he was. He was a very successful teacher and devoted family man, and yet he said that only through this recent suffering had he gotten a glimpse of his true nature, and even a small glimpse of the nature of reality itself. He said it seemed like he’d been blind all his life, and now, in the calm after all this sorrow, he could suddenly see. I remember that something in his eyes seemed resplendent when he said that, and he smiled like a man re-made, which astonished me, because I knew the devastating nature of his sorrow. Like the prodigal son, his anguish had somehow shown him how to “come to himself”.

     Strange, that at 72, I’m still searching for my true self. I’m sure it will be something surprising, and perhaps beautiful, when I finally find it. When I do, I’ll think of the reborn Bible son and my suffering but thankful friend.

ON BEING FRESH

"Fresh Breeze", oil,
by Robin Cheers

I was sometimes a sassy boy, causing my mother to scold me for being “fresh”, and now, strangely, at the age of 72, I’m still fresh, and feeling lucky to be so. It seems odd that “fresh” sometimes means shameless and brazen, whereas I always took it to mean simply something new, something spotless and unused and pristine.  As a boy, I guess I sometimes felt that kind of freshness as I lived the capricious and lucky life of my childhood, and I feel it more and more in these whimsical days of my 70’s. I feel fresh thoughts arriving almost always. True, they sometimes seem like the “same old same old” thoughts, but I somehow feel their freshness as they switch on their lights inside me. Each thought is as unsullied as the sunshine I see before me as I’m writing this outside. Each feeling flows from a fresh source, no matter how old and familiar it may seem. Actually, even with my wrinkles and slumped shoulders and squeaky voice, I’m feeling fresher than ever (in an un-sassy way) and finding some fun in it. (I can see mom smiling at the news.) 

GOLD FREELY GIVEN

"Sunlit Leaves", acrylic,
by Jennifer Vranes

     Mowing the lawn this morning, I came upon some golden leaves spread beneath one of our birch trees. It was a surprise, of course, since it’s still not yet midsummer, and, when I was finished mowing, it started me searching for other unnoticed golden surprises. I sat in a lawn chair in the backyard and simply started looking around for gold and its likenesses. Within seconds, I saw the golden stripes on the peace flag that flies from the trellis over one of our gardens, and then the golden zinnias beneath it, and then the clouds of golden daisies beside the house. Soon I seemed encircled by gold -- by lilies and sunflowers and speckled sunlight on grass and even the pale golden sides of our neighbor’s house. And finally, as I was finishing my search, I saw the flash of the wings of four goldfinches fluttering around one of our feeders.

     It was a golden few minutes for me, a gift freely given to an old guy who gives thanks for a golden life.

LOOKING AT LILIES

     Yesterday, as I was looking carefully at some of the pearly, pristine blossoms of Delycia’s asiatic lilies (photo), I felt a blossoming feeling of reassurance inside. In this seemingly self-destructive world, where children are any war’s most numerous victims and where chaos and abhorrence sometimes seem far more prevalent than contentment and comradeship, it’s cheering to stand before the simple loveliness of a single lily blossom. Looking at lilies, really looking at them and seeing their implausible charm, one feels an unfolding of hope inside. Yes, there seems to be dislike and disorder everywhere, but look for lilies, too. Beauty of far greater power than evil is all around us, even in a small garden in a small seaside town.      

SHADOWS AND WORRIES

"Afternoon Shadows", acrylic,
by George Lockwood

      Driving on the interstate this morning, we passed through many shadows of trees across the road, and it started me wishing I could pass through my concerns and worries as smoothly and easily. Truth is, worrisome thoughts have no more solidity than shadows. They are like wispy winds of the mind, having less substance and shape than breezes blowing across lawns. The worries that wander into my life would wander right out again if I saw them for what they are – flimsy and frail cerebral shapes, no stronger than shadows across the interstate.  

SUNRISES INSIDE

"Summer Sunrise", oil,
by L. C. Neill

I’ve changed my mind a million times, and lately I’ve come to see those changes as sort of like sunrises inside me. Each change was not just a change of thought, but more like a switch in minds, as if I replaced one mind with another, as if changing my mind brought a whole new morning of thoughts to my life. And actually, doesn’t each new thought start a fresh flow of other thoughts in our minds? Thoughts can work wonders the way sunrises start new days. A thought is not a material thing we can hold in our hands, but more like light that illuminates, for a moment, not just our minds but our lives. It’s almost like our minds become brand new when a new thought rises like daybreak inside us.

WATCHING THE TRAIN

"From the Train", oil,
by Sharon Schock

            Like a never-ending train, thoughts are ceaselessly streaming through my mind,  and I would like to learn to simply watch the train instead of climbing aboard. What I hope to do, you might say, is stand by the tracks, or perhaps on a hill above the tracks, and simply observe the thoughts as they pass. Like watching a train back in Missouri when I was a boy, watching my train of thoughts could be a fascinating experience. When a defensive, self-protective thought comes by, I might say, “Wow, look at that bizarre thought!” or, when a happy thought passes, “How did that beautiful thought get made?”, or, when an ugly, scary-looking, boxcar kind of thought rumbles by, “That is one hideous thought!” The trick is to just observe the train, but not jump aboard. So often in my life I have recklessly leaped onto a thought, closed the door, and ridden with it as it careened here and there. Fearful thoughts have taken me on many a riotous ride over the years, as have thoughts of envy, anger, defensiveness, and countless others. I simply need to refuse to get on the train. It’s much more fun, and far less hazardous, to merely sit on a hillside and watch with fascination as the endless train of thoughts harmlessly and safely passes by.

ALWAYS GOING SOMEWHERE

"Saturday Race', oil,
by Thaw Malin III

     In my busy teenage years, I recall my mother often saying that I was “always going somewhere”, and, in a weird sort of way, I still am. Actually, I have no choice, since everything in this universe is constantly stirring or shifting or racing. There is no such thing as standing still, no matter what my eyes might seem to tell me. Even when I’m sitting in my laziest way, all my cells are transforming in a swift and unceasing manner. Also, the electrons in the hydrogen atoms that compose a sizeable part of my body are traveling fast enough, physicists say, to circle the earth in 18 seconds, and the planet I’m spending my life on is soaring around the sun at something like 67,000 miles per hour. Plus, even while I’m doing my morning meditation in the steadiest silence and serenity, the solar system I belong to is barreling around the Milky Way at close to 600,000 miles per hour.     

     So yes, mom, in this astonishing life you gave me, I’m still always going somewhere.  

WONDERS

 

"Summer Shadows", oil,
by Takeyce Walter

Browsing through the Bible recently, I was surprised to come upon this phrase in Psalm 106: “the wonders in the land of Ham”. I’m sure I nodded and smiled, since I’m often called Ham, and since the land of my life is definitely full of wonders. Like all of us, I have a fair share of struggles, but they are easily outweighed by the wonders. To me, it’s a wonder that blood brings fresh energy to my body moment by moment, and that my lungs repeatedly lift with new life. As I write this, I’m amazed that I’m partaking in the full-of-wonders process of being part of this universe, a process that started and continues with no help from me. As I sit with my laptop in the shade on this summer day, wonders work their magic all around me – tree limbs turning almost tenderly in a wind, a leaf falling to the grass with gracefulness, a sky carrying clouds no one has ever seen before. Yes, in the land of Ham (Salsich), each second brings a surprise, and each day makes way more wonders than struggles.

SQUIRREL MIGHT

     When I was in elementary school, we sometimes had tugs-of-war at recess, and I recall older kids calling out, “Pull with all your might!” They meant “might” like in human muscles and strong-mindedness, but I’ve been noticing a simpler, more commonplace example of might, right in our backyard. It’s the might, the sheer single-mindedness, of the squirrels that spring up several feet to find a footing on one of the bird feeders. They usually slip and slide and quickly crash down again, but they’re always back at it with stubbornness fairly soon. Back in 4^th grade, we pulled on the rope with all our might, but these squirrels seem to live with all their might. Whether leaping across the lawn, or scrambling for seeds that have fallen from the feeder, or dashing up the sides of trees sometimes to their very summits and then swaying with the wind, the squirrels at 44 Riverbend Drive do their living with a kind of might that might make a sometimes sluggish senior citizen envious.  

GRAND AND NOBLE MYSTIC

OUR BACKYARD CHURCH

"Neighbor's Garden", oil,
by Diane Mannion

 Delycia and I will be worshipping today in our beautiful backyard church. The door is our back door, which opens into a sanctuary of blessed sights and sounds. There are no stained-glass windows, but the sunlight on the leaves and limbs of the trees lends a consecrated look to our special place of worship. The floor is just the good grass of springtime, and the pews are the lawn chairs that let us relax while we worship. Of course, we can also worship by wandering through Delycia’s hallowed flower gardens, or simply by standing still and listening to the choirs of birds and feeling the flow of the always ceremonious breezes. We worship no god who stays up in the sky, no deity who decrees that some will suffer in hell. In our flowery backyard church, we choose to honor the sacredness that’s all good and in everything – in shaking leaves, in tulips turning in a puff of wind, even in the old stones that set the gardens apart. Our minister is sometimes a squirrel, sometimes -- like today -- simply a blue sky.
  

SIXTY DAWNS

    

"Just After Dawn", oil,
by Pam Holnback

 It would be wonderful to awaken one morning to a world that’s totally new – completely full of freshness, loaded with bloom and novelty, big with brand new blessings – but what’s even more wonderful is to realize that this unblemished new world is, in fact, with me every moment. I actually can’t escape newness. Strange as it sounds, oldness is really nowhere because newness is always everywhere. All I’m ever presented with is the pristine and spotless present moment, a moment never before known by me or by anyone. It may sometimes seem similar to my past moments – and this is what can make oldness seem so real – but, truth is, each moment is a groundbreaking, cutting edge creation, coming to me the way dawn does each morning. In each minute I have sixty seconds, sixty dawns, sixty new sensations, sixty chances to celebrate something novel and new-fangled. 

LIKING WITHOUT KNOWING

 “It was not absolutely necessary to know her in order to like her.”

     -- Charlotte Bronte, in “Shirley”

     We often say that we need to “get to know” someone in order to really like them, but reading Charlotte Bronte’s sentence (below) this morning started me thinking in a different direction. Isn’t it possible to see a smiling face and instantly like the person? We certainly wouldn’t love the person immediately, but we can surely like the look of friendliness, and therefore sincerely like the person, if only in a kind of superficial and casual way. Similarly, I can see people who look lighthearted and uplifted, and I can quickly like them without wondering if I should first get to know them. After all, I like sunsets without knowing anything scientific about them, and I like the look of morning light on flowers, despite knowing next to nothing about the nature of light or flowers. I guess I’m talking about a sort of instantaneous liking, like suddenly seeing sheets of stars across the sky and simply feeling lucky to be seeing them, and liking both the feeling and the stars.

DANCING AT SOUTH STATION

"Swan Lake Rehearsal", oil,
by Robin Cheers

     After seeing a wonderful performance by The Boston Ballet this afternoon, I saw another dance presentation outside South Station. As Delycia and I sat outside on a bench in a soft but steady breeze waiting for our train, I saw a piece of paper tumbling across the sidewalk with what seemed like simple gracefulness, and some limbs above us were smoothly swaying and bending. Delycia had some shopping bags, and they shook in the breeze in seemingly stylish ways, and soon I noticed a woman walking in a lively style, working with the breeze with straightforward smoothness and ease, moving her arms with a sort of everyday finesse. And just before we boarded the train, a guy walked past us in a slow saunter, arms swinging and head tossing in the breeze in fine fashion. He was definitely a dancer – less practiced and seasoned, perhaps, than the ballet dancers earlier in the afternoon, but somehow just as pleasing.

HUNTING GOODNESS

"Out of the Draw", acrylic,
by George Lockwood

      Some friends of mine are occasional bow hunters, and I guess I’m a sort of hunter, too. My friends hunt mostly deer, whereas I hunt, in my sporadic and somewhat casual way, mostly goodness. My friends probably stalk their prey in a silent and serious way, and I sometimes do the same – quietly watching for signs of goodness, sneaking up on it, hoping to see it clearly in all its ordinariness and splendor. I know there’s a significant overpopulation of deer, making them easy to spot during hunting season, but surely goodness teems and overflows far more than deer, enabling me, if I’m sincerely stalking it, to catch sight of it everywhere. This world of ours is a goodness hunter’s paradise. There’s goodness in every face I see, every smile, every glance between friends, every hand offering help. There’s goodness, somehow or other, in every house, every car, every store, down every street. I sometimes set out on a lighthearted and lucky hunt, knowing I’ll see success within a few minutes, maybe just across the street where birds are bringing sticks to a new nest. That’s goodness, and it’s given to all of us to hunt and be happy with, no bows or arrows needed.     

SEEING THE LIGHT

"Puddles", oil on board
by Don Gray

    I’ve often heard people say they “see the light”, meaning the sense of something has become clear to them, and I was thinking, this morning, that a sometimes secret light shines in even the most commonplace parts of our lives. For instance, I can sometimes “see the light” in even the cloudiest and wettest days, meaning their appropriateness, their flawlessness, suddenly becomes clear to me. I can even sometimes see the sort of everyday special light in puddles on the pavement, a light that makes them seem strangely fascinating in a puddley sort of way. This afternoon I saw the light in some sentences in a novel I was re-reading, sentences that seemed shadowy on the first reading but that lit up like lamps the second time around. Also, Delycia and I live in a simple house on an everyday kind of street, but there’s a good and great light all through our lives that I’m sometimes lucky to see.     

AN ODD FACT

“The wiser you are, the more worries you have; the more you know, the more it hurts.”

     -- Ecclesiastes 1:18, Good News Translation

     It’s an odd fact that more knowledge often leads to more uncertainty. Sometimes, the more we know, the more we stumble and fall short, as if all the thousands of facts we’ve learned are lying upon us like heavy loads. Knowledge is a necessity, of course, but it can also be a burden that bends us down and drives us around in silly circles. I’m a fairly well-educated guy, but there are times when I wish I had an empty mind rather than one filled with countless facts flying witlessly here and there. There are times when stillness is what I need inside instead of limitless pieces of information parading and shouting. Quietness of mind can open helpful doors for me, whereas knowing thousands of facts can sometimes shut thousands of doors.   

CAPTURING THE PRESENT

  Since the word “accept” derives from the Latin word for “capture”,  I’ve sometimes thought that I should actually try to capture the present moment instead of simply accepting it. Centuries ago, when you said you wanted to accept something, you might have meant that you wanted to literally capture it – to seize it, snatch it, grab it up, and take it away with you. I wonder if I could live that way, sort of like a cat sitting beside the hole of a mouse – in this case, the present moment – ready to pounce and take the moment prisoner. And it would have to be any moment, not just one that makes me happy. A cat captures any mouse, and perhaps I could set my sight on capturing any and every present moment. Perhaps I could sit beside the hole of the present and prepare to apprehend, arrest, and take prisoner any moment that makes its appearance, be it emaciated or majestic, sinister or inspiring. I could be an alert but also good-natured cat – a soft, sweet-hearted feline who simply wants to savor and digest every single moment. I could quietly and efficiently  capture each moment and consume it with a catlike kind of delight.

DEATH AND A BALL GAME

"Pena at the Plate", oil,
by V....Vaughan

    After attending a memorial service yesterday for a dear friend, it seemed fitting that Delycia and I attended a Pawtucket Red Sox baseball game today. First of all, my friend was a faithful Boston Red Sox fan, and I felt his presence beside us as we braved the chilly weather to cheer on the Triple A Sox. Also, the stands were full of families, full of moms and dads and daughters and sons of all ages, all seeming to feel the youthful spirit of a Sunday afternoon ball game. There was newness and freshness all around us, from the healthful faces of toddlers to the sparkling eyes of grandparents glad to be with their families. There was an abundance of life at the game, a rising up of its brightness and sparkle, a spilling over of its spirit – and it made me think of my friend. His physical presence is gone from us, but somehow that seems to have allowed the spirit of his kindness and courage to be bigger and braver than ever. It’s as if death has done us the favor of releasing more life than ever. I felt it at the baseball stadium today, as if my friend’s full life was overflowing around me, along with the lives of the families finding joyfulness at a Sunday afternoon game.   

GOOD CONFUSION

"Mist on the Lawn of Olana"
watercolor, by Gretchen Kelly

 I’ve come to see, as my 70-some years have passed, that confusion can be good for me – that I can get more gifts from it than problems. Perhaps that shouldn’t be  surprising, since the word “confuse” derives from the Latin word for “mingle together”, and aren’t all things in this world mingled together, in some way or other, and isn’t mingling usually a constructive activity? By growing in a confused way, all mingled together, grass blades sometimes make fine-looking lawns, and the stars in the sky show the beautiful confusion of togetherness and endlessness. Cars on roads mingle in a seemingly confused manner, and yet the ostensible chaos of the traffic – what we might call the resourceful confusion of it – usually produces a steady and smooth movement of vehicles. My days, too, so often seem composed of apparently haphazard things and thoughts, and yet from that confusion has come, and still comes, the blessings given by this good life. It’s a similar confusion, I guess, to that of oceans that bring beauty out of swirling waves and organisms, or of fields of wildflowers that show splendor in the midst of seeming disarray. It’s a lucky kind of confusion, and I’m lucky to usually be feeling it.