SUNS IN DEWDROPS

  I recall seeing, on many summer mornings, the sunlight reflected in small drops of dew in the grass, and, thinking about it on this gray day in winter, it seems as though the sun itself was in those summer dewdrops. When I stand in front of a mirror, I am, in a sense, in the reflection, since it looks exactly like me, and so perhaps it could be said that the sun is, in some way, inside each drop of summer dew. When I walk across a summer lawn, perhaps I walk among millions of sparkling suns. On this winter day, when grayness gives its quiet gifts to us, it’s good to remember being among dewdrops with suns inside them.   

INFINITE POSSIBILITIES

     It sometimes seems awe-inspiring to me how many possibilities exist in my life – how many different thoughts, feelings, and events could maybe happen, even in the next few moments. It’s like I’m a small but essential stream in an endless ocean of possibilities. Who knows what will happen in the next few hours, or even the next few seconds – what current of life will come and carry me along, what thoughts will waft me here and there, what surprises will suddenly show themselves? The verb “to surprise” originally meant “to seize”, and it does sometimes seem like I’m seized, moment by moment, by one startling surprise after another. True, I don’t often think about this startling aspect of life – this tendency of life to be reborn and brand-new each moment – but it’s there, nonetheless. Each second, the shoreless ocean of my life shifts, a little or a lot, and a new and splendid surprise arises. 

TAKING MYSELF LIGHTLY

     I recall hearing someone say that angels can fly because they take themselves lightly, and it always sounds to me like excellent advice. I’m not interested in flying, but I would like to shed some of the seriousness which occasionally weighs me down. I sometimes walk around like I have loads of responsibilities on my shoulders – like I’m some special superman who has serious tasks to perform, tasks that simply must be done by me alone. On those days, I take myself way too seriously. Unlike angels, I’m weighed down by a dreamed-up sense of my own importance. On those days, flying is out; self-absorption and slogging is in.

    On other days, lucky for me, I get loose from this seriousness and see myself for what I am – just a twist and twirl in the everlasting dance of a generous universe. My silly self-importance disappears like a small star in the vastness of dawn. I feel light on those days – light and free and ready to relax with life instead of wrestle with it. 

HEARING THE CALL

In the summer, when I hear birds calling back and forth across the yard, I sometimes make believe they’re calling me. “Hello, Ham,” I hear them saying, “pay attention to what’s happening. Don’t miss this amazing day.” There are other calls that seem to come to me: just now, the call of the flag in front of our house as it waves in the wind and wants me to watch it carefully; the call of the clock in our living room as it ticks and tells me to make the most of all my moments; the call of a clementine on the counter to come and enjoy its juiciness. As a young boy, I was encouraged to listen for the call to the ministry from a God who seemed to reside somewhere in the sky, but since then I’ve found another God. I’ve found the God that lives in all of us, including birds and flags and clocks and clementines, the God that loves to let us know about the beauty of each newborn moment, the God that calls to us to see the sacredness of all things. Those are the calls I'm listening for these days.

MY ANGELS

     For Christians and others, this is the season of angels, but in the last few years I’ve been realizing that angels visit me, and all of us, almost every minute of the day. In the original Greek, the word “angel”, after all, simply meant “messenger”, and what better messengers are there than the thousands of thoughts that land in our lives each day?  As I’m typing these sentences, thoughts are saying what I should  type, as though countless friends are constantly passing by, sharing ideas they’ve brought from somewhere. Of course, someone might say that it’s just my brain that’s making the thoughts, but that answer is far too simplistic. It completely misses the vast mystery of thinking, the fathomless puzzle of why a particular thought occurs to us at a particular moment. I realize more and more that I don’t actually make my thoughts, but that they just sort of descend to me, second by second. I don’t say, “Now I will make this thought.” No, the thoughts – my angels – just suddenly land in my life, say their message, and then move off to make way for the thousands of other thoughts always descending, lucky for me, from who knows where.

THE GREAT GIVER

"Waiting for Santa", oil,
by Roxanne Steed

     There are some colorfully wrapped gifts under our Christmas tree today, but they don’t come close to matching the gifts Delycia and I receive each day – each moment – from “the great Giver”, a name one of my favorite writers gives to the infinitely kind and giving universe. Each moment, the gift of breath is given to our lungs, again and again, perhaps 20,000 brand new breaths each day. Each moment, too, our blood brings the gift of fresh, spotless oxygen to our cells, helped, of course, by the gift given with each pump of  our hard-working hearts, again and again, perhaps 100,000 pumps each day. And then there’s the gift of our thoughts, those always surprising presents that somehow unwrap in our minds in a nonstop way -- maybe 60,000 mint-condition thoughts each day. So I guess each day, each second, is truly Christmas for us as we enjoy this generous universe we’re privileged to be part of.     

THE CITY OF MY LIFE

     Sometimes, sitting in an airplane window seat at night above a brightly lit city, I’ve thought of what almost seems like another shining city -- the city of my own life. Now and then, when I’m able to mentally see my life from a distance, it seems to be lit-up with lights of all kinds. Close up, my days often look blurry and cluttered, but, when I stand way back from them, it looks like there’s serenity and a sort of luster in the minutes and hours. For instance, all the innumerable people who come and go through my life are, in a sense, shining with their own hopes and worries – the shimmering lights of hopefulness as well as the pale blue lights of trouble and sorrow. Also, from a distance, the numerous events in my life seem to be sparkling in countless hues as they pass swiftly along and disappear. Some good, some bad, some just tedious – all the large and small episodes in my days, when I observe them from far off, seem to glisten and shine in their various ways. Somehow they all seem sort of effulgent, much more full of brightness than dullness. I sometimes like to pretend I’m on a mountaintop, looking down at my long life, and then I realize, again, that this life of mine, this grand gift I was given 73 years ago, is indeed a shining city for me, a spectacle of lights like I might see from a night sky over New York.       

AN EVERLASTING LIGHT

"Follow the Star", oil,
by Roxanne Steed

 Whenever I hear the Christmas song about the little town of Bethlehem, I especially notice the phrase “the everlasting light”, and it sometimes starts me thinking about the everlasting lights in my own life. One of these lights would be simple gentleness. What darkness can put out the light of gentleness? What sorrow can kill a person’s gentleness, a person’s ability to be tender toward others? True, in a tragedy it may appear that gentleness has disappeared in the smoke of misfortune, but shortly it always reappears, more durable and undying than before. Gentleness can never be vanquished, because it’s not made of bricks and mortar or bones and muscle or dollars and cents. Gentleness is like light: it looks soft, but it can shine through or around or over any problem. Gentleness is unobtrusive and sometimes unnoticeable, but, like light, it can instantly and easily destroy the deepest darkness. Perhaps what was born in the dark manger many years ago was the inextinguishable light of gentleness. Perhaps that is what I, a non-churchgoer, worship at this special time of year.

PROPER IDENTIFICATION

    I sometimes have to show my driver’s license to prove my identity, and each time, I smile to myself at the ridiculous idea that a laminated card can actually say who I am. Does the card say that the oxygen and hydrogen atoms in my body (which make up most of it) were born with the stars billions of years ago, making me a billion-year-old guy? Does the card say that about 50 million of the cells in my body will be brand new in the next few seconds, turning me into sort of a brand new person? Does the card say that fresh, pristine thoughts somehow spring up inside me by the thousands each day, all of them adding, in mysterious ways, to who I am?  The card shows my name and a photo, but does it show any of the multitudinous feelings that have bubbled up inside me over the years, feelings that would disclose my identity far better than a small plastic card?    

FREE AS A BREEZE

     

"Fresh Breeze", oil,
by Robin Cheers

I sometimes see, with surprising ease, that I am freer, by far, than I ever imagined. Somehow, on those occasions, it becomes clear to me that I am not just a separate, isolated, and time-bound individual, but an essential part of a freely flowing universe. The atoms that make up my mind and body were shaped at the same moment the stars started to shine and the earth to spin, and thus have sailed through thousands of years with freedom, all the way to me. My thoughts, too, have flown to me on the freest wings, sailing into my life in casual, slapdash ways from who knows where, and I can freely flow with those thoughts beyond all boundaries. I confess I usually feel fairly bound up by all kinds of limits, but at certain special times I know I’m as free as a breeze on the loose.   

OUTSIDE AT DAWN

"Morning Star", oil,
by V....Vaughan

So early in the morning it was strange

to see a star still shining just above,

but then again it wasn’t a surprise,

since stars were shining in their lives in all

their moments. Even worry was a star

to show the path to reassurance, and

distress could shine a special, caring light. 

WALKING IN THE GARDEN IN DECEMBER

  "Garden Gate", watercolor,
by Nita Leger Casey

They know the flowers are not dead, but just

transforming under frost. They know that nothing

truly dies but only changes, turns

from loveliness to beauty, smoothly flowing

in the river of undying life. The silver crust

of frost is just a sheet of safety to

protect the garden in its time of change.

They walk and know their lives are streaming

onward with the stars and fish and flowers,

changing as the universe is pleased to change them. 

Today their lives are joined as friends among

the flowers, and years from now they’ll be

among the stars or sweeping through a sea

as waves in this amazing and unending life.

IN BRIGHT DECEMBER SUNLIGHT

"Winter Thaw, Barn Island"
oil, by Roxanne Steed

In bright December sunlight, all he sees

are gifts the world gives him. Every gleam

on every leaf is sparkling with ease

for him and all of us. It’s like a dream

of absolute perfection. Even little sticks

are shining flawlessly this morning. Glee

arises from the shining grass. The mix

of light and cold begins to set him free

to be a miracle himself. He walks

in joy, and listens as the sunlight talks.

A is for ABIDE

"Apple Still Life". oil,
by Nancy Spielman

    The word “abide”, an old-fashioned one, is out of use these days, but when I think of seriously sticking to something and staying put, I think of “abide”. It can mean many things, but for me, “persist” would be a suitable synonym and “continue firmly and obstinately” a perfect definition. For at least half of my life, as I dashed from task to task, job to job, and place to place, abiding hardly ever happened. Staying put took second place to seeking and searching. However, as the years have passed, I’ve learned to let go of restlessness and be more at ease with trouble-free thankfulness. I’ve learned to be happy with where I am and what I have. More and more persistently, I take pride in getting pleasure from almost any moment -- like this one, sitting at our dining room table with the yellow-flowered tablecloth and typing on my laptop. As much as possible, I try to remain, reside, stay put, and stick to what’s happening, right here and right now. I guess I’m becoming obstinate about abiding.  

THE MUSIC IN THE FIRE

"Untitled", oil,
by Julie Ford Oliver

He sat beside the little fire

in the fireplace, and heard a choir

singing in the flames. He heard a song

of joy that made him play along

by tapping on the table by

his side, and soon was feeling spry

and started dancing to the tune

made by the fire. His wife was soon

beside him and they waltzed and crooned

in front of flames that seemed well-tuned.

READING IN DECEMBER

It tried to snow, but only rain came down

when they were reading from a Christmas book.

They felt the season’s cheer, although the town

was soaked with so much grayness that it took

imagination to discover peace

inside the weather. All they did was hold

each other close, and read, and feel a piece

of quiet happiness inside the fold

of their comforting arms. The rain still fell,

but what they read was full of warmth and bright

serenity. They read inside a spell

of joy, and rainy weather seemed a pure delight.

   

ONE GUY'S ALPHABET: A is for ABEYANCE

"Sunset from the Studio", oil,
by Jamie Williams Grossman

      If the word “abeyance” means temporary inactivity, as one dictionary says, then I’m a believer in abeyance. I’d like to hold everything in abeyance about every two hours, at least – just breathing in and out for a few minutes and letting the planet spin where it will without me moving a single muscle. We have a stone wall in our backyard, and it strikes me with almost a sense of envy that the stones are always in abeyance. They simply sit in silence where they have for several hundred years, doing nothing but being good stones. As I’m writing this by the window, I can see the stones outside. They’re not restless, not checking off a list, not flying from one activity to the next. No, I like to think they’re holding eagerness and frenzy in abeyance. The world and my life look quite peaceful when I watch those stones. In fact, I’ve decided to do just that for the next few minutes. I’m holding this writing in abeyance. Back later . . . maybe.    

ABDICATING

"White-crowned Sparrow", acrylic,
by Peter Mathios

    According to one dictionary, to abdicate means to give up being a queen or king, and sometimes I would love to stop trying to be the king of my life. In fact, I wonder if the best way to live is to let life itself be the king instead of little me. Life, in all its vastness and mystery and supremacy, surely knows more about what’s best for me than I do. Me trying to be the king of every second of every day is like one wave trying to preside over the whole ocean, or a single star trying to rule the endless universe. Each moment of my life is fashioned from an immeasurable number of sources and causes, and it seems bizarre to me that I sometimes think I can control all these forces, waving my scepter like some kind of clueless king. I indulge in this silly charade every day, but occasionally I decide to set my make-believe crown aside and let the only real ruler, the everlasting universe -- some call it God, some Allah, some simply Now -- hold sway. Always, its astonishing what this remarkable Queen-King can do.

ABANDON

 

"Morning Ride", oil,
by Mary Maxam

    The word “abandon” often carries a negative connotation, but I occasionally catch myself living with a positive and useful kind of abandon. As a noun, the word can mean living with a lack of inhibition or restraint, and every so often I feel myself sort of sailing loose from my moorings and making a few moments or hours into an impetuous escapade. I’m usually a fairly logical and predictable person, but now and then I like to live like a sailor with good sails, supportive winds, and no schedule. Even a few minutes of living with abandon – perhaps singing old songs as I ride my bike, or mixing mints and grapes with my scrambled eggs, or skipping with my grandchildren – can balance the seriousness of life with some wholesome whimsy and gladness.

DRIVING HOME

Driving home, we saw the sky all gold

and pink. It seemed to want to wrap and fold

us in itself, as if the sky could be
a friend, could love us for eternity.

"Blazing Sky".
acrylic by Kimberly Conrad

WHATEVER

      

"Warm Sun on the Garden Wall",
oil, by Roxanne Steed

Visiting my grandchildren at their house in the countryside today, I started messing around with some small stones on one of the many stone walls on the property – just sort of seeing what structure I could create in a few minutes. I had no design in mind, just the desire to do something spontaneous and set the stones wherever my hands wished them to be. If someone had asked me what I was building, I might have said “whatever my hands wish” – or maybe, like so many young people today, just “whatever”, perhaps with a suitable shrug. However, there would be no spirit of indifference or exasperation in my “whatever”, as there often seems to be when I hear the word spoken. If I said “whatever”, it would be because whatever I build with those small stones would be something special to me. I guess, in a way, I’m a whatever kind of guy. Whatever a day brings, I try to see what it has that can help me. I know that whatever happens a minute from now is the truth for that moment, and whatever thought I have at any moment helps me, somehow, be exactly who I’m supposed to be. It’s a good word for me. I’m more likely to smile than shrug when I say “whatever”.     

LIVING LIKE LEAVES

     As I was watching some leaves skipping in the wind this way and that across the grass this morning, I thought about the back-and-forth skipping my life often does. Time and again, I seem to bounce around from plan to plan, promise to promise, goal to goal – happily giving myself permission to change my mind, double back, rethink things, take a new trail. One fine idea gives way to a finer one. One second I decide to take the trash out, but then, in a flash, I do the dishes instead. At 9:00 I know exactly what I want to do this afternoon, but at 9:01 a

"Autumn Landscape", oil,
by Heidi Malott

more wonderful plan appears. Back and forth, here and there, this and that, one thing and then another. Leaves let themselves loose to the winds, and so, sometimes, do I. Life shifts and skips second by second, and – usually with a smile – so do I. 

WATCHING THE FIRE

He watched the flames surround the logs and flare

and fall back down. He didn’t think, review

his list, or plan ahead. His only care

was watching sparks and smoke fly up the flue,

and then to who knows where? Could pieces of

this fire float out to distant lands? Might planes

pass sparks that came from this small hearth, and love

it like a special sign? Could fears and pains

in far off towns be cured by sparks that flew

to them and shined as brightly as they shined

among the flames?

                   

                  His life now seemed brand new.

The flames were like the thoughts inside his mind.

WHEN HE RETIRED

(A Sonnet)

When he retired, he missed his students’ care

and kindness, all their little gifts of true

respect which always helped him see and share

their goodness. Every day was fresh and new

when students shared his classroom and his love

of books and words. But, in retirement

he had someone who seemed to be above

all things that came before. They turned and went

their way together, sharing happiness

and worry, giving gifts of seasoned joy

and understanding, which they used to bless

each others’ lucky lives. He was a boy

with her, and she was now his steady girl.

He lost his students, but he found a pearl. 

  

QUIET MORNING

It was a quiet morning,

perfectly made for making happiness

in partnership. The trees

seemed to be joyous

in each other’s presence,

bringing their branches

as close as possible,

and the blueness of the sky

seemed happy to hold its light

lightly just above the houses,

as if in friendship, while

she and he shared words

"Morning's Promise",
oil by Roxanne Steed

with kindness across a table.    

AMAZEMENT

He is full of amazement.

It amazes him, for instance,

that he is lucky enough to be alive

on this fine-looking planet,

lucky to look at his wife

raising the blinds on another

amazing morning, lucky to listen

to the furnace filling the house

with warmth. He admires

so much – the way his pencils

seem wonderful for writing,

the feel of his flannel shirt,

the unfurling of a friendly day.

Amazing! he says to himself,

and sips his remarkable coffee.

  

THOUGHTS ON VETERANS DAY

"Grateful Thanks", watercolor,
by Julie Ford Oliver   

I am not a veteran, and, like most of us, I despise war, but this day, when we honor the men and women who served to keep safe our freedoms, is a very special one for me. I am beyond grateful for the liberty I am lucky to enjoy here, and for the faithful protection provided by our armed forces. I wish we didn’t need women and men with weapons watching around the world to safeguard us from attack, but contempt and loathing for our country does exist, and I’m glad we have good soldiers, sailors, and flyers ready to fight for all of us. I’m lucky to live in a land where freedom can be found by anyone, and I give thanks today for that freedom’s defenders.     

PUTTING HER GARDEN TO BED

A sonnet

He cleared his mother’s garden in the fall,

the one he planted in her memory.

It was a special place for him, a small

reminder of her thoughtfulness. At three

o’clock he finally finished. All the piles

of withered blossoms lay in heaps beside

him, but he smiled because her loving smiles

seemed right beside him too. She had supplied

him with the love to last a lifetime, and

the garden was his way of saying thanks.

When spring arrives again, a fresh new land

of flowers will arrive for her. Whole banks

of blossoms will be flourishing in ways

a mother's love is given-- in bouquets.

CHOOSING A PAINTING FOR WINTER

"Morning Grace",
oil
by Roxanne Steed

CHOOSING A PAINTING FOR WINTER

(a sonnet)

The wind was howling and the trees were bent

and almost broken down. The day was fierce

with autumn’s spirit and desire. It sent

a message meaning winter’s chill would pierce

their world soon, but they were snug and warm

with summer in their hearts. They hoped to buy

a painting full of comfort. In a storm

of snow, the painting would be a bright sky

of summer in their home, a sunny day

above their mantel, a scene so full 

of August light that it would chase away

the season’s icy mistiness. To pull

themselves from winter back to summer, all