GETTING OUT OF PRISON

      I got to thinking today about how refreshing it is to free oneself from the prison of resentment. I’m not sure why, but I was remembering an incident from many years ago when, having felt injured by someone’s remarks and having enclosed myself in bitter resentment for awhile, I was suddenly able to free myself from it. I’m not sure why or how, but I unexpectedly broke down the walls of my own anger and, in my heart, completely forgave the person. I remember it so well, the feeling of unqualified freedom that came over me. I was released from the prison of my own resentment. I was free to accept and even be at ease with the remarks that had so hurt me. I saw the remarks as if from a great distance, and they seemed as harmless as birds flying far away.  

     And now it has me wondering: Could I perhaps forgive other so-called harmful things, even things like serious illness, or tragedy? If these happen, could I forgive them, in a sense, and thus rise up out of the prison of anger and bitterness? Would this help me to see illness and tragedy as simply events in my life, events with which I can be comfortable instead of angry, events that could release me into the wisdom of acceptance instead of imprisoning me in the foolishness of acrimony?   

SITTING ON THE PATIO IN EARLY SPRING

He sat outside in sunshine and a breeze

that seemed to blow from far-off southern shores.

He felt the kind of feeling that can ease

you into peace and through the open doors

of paradise. Some birds began a song

that said serenity was here and now,

and he believed it. His life felt strong

but also soft. He said a quiet “Wow!”

THIS GRATUITOUS LIFE

On a golden day like this, a day given to me free-of-charge, I wonder if I will ever be grateful enough for this seemingly gratuitous gift of life. What did I do to earn or deserve a day like this? How did I come to merit so many hours of daffodils and smiles and sunshine and white clouds like ships sailing above? The gifts this day gave me seemed almost indiscriminate, and surely excessive, as if some silent power placed rewards all around me for no obvious reason. I’m a little bewildered by it, as I have been on most of the days of my life.

BEING ABLE

"First Day of Spring",
watercolor,
Kay Smith

     I’m lucky I’m able to do so much. Truly, it’s an out-and-out miracle that I am able to bring in a new breath each moment, able to see so many daffodils standing in the sunshine this morning, 

able to tap out these words on a keyboard. Just now I am chewing and swallowing animal crackers, a quietly miraculous process that I’m somehow able to do. And able-ness is all around me here in Mystic. It’s in the trees so able to stand tall and sway stylishly year after year, in the birds able to effortlessly fly to wherever food can be found, in the sunshine somehow able to bring itself back to us each morning, and in my old but wise and clever hands that are able to easily carry cookies to my mouth again and again.

GLORY

"Barn at Dawn", oil,
by Heidi Malott

     Today we had a glorious spring morning in Mystic, and it made me actually feel a little glorious myself. Honestly, I felt something like splendor inside me, almost as magnificent as the sunshine spreading around the town. I’m in no way a celebrity, but I felt somehow famous this morning, the way the fresh wind is famous, the way the shining forsythias on our bushes are famous. There’s a distinction in being alive on a morning like today’s. There’s majesty in making an omelet, and greatness in going to the grocery store. Some of us praise the Lord, and I praise the proud, impressive mornings in this regal world of ours.

AN EVER-PRESENT POWER

     It sometimes surprises me that I can’t seem to ever find myself far from the presence of goodness. It’s always close by, like an ever-present power, like a gracious and supportive spirit. No matter how bad things seem to get, goodness is always nearby -- perhaps in the smile of someone at the grocery store, perhaps in a wave from a walker passing the house, perhaps simply in the quiet look of clouds coming across the trees. It seems omnipresent, this transcendent, universal force that stays beside us through the worst adversities. When sorrow closes in, goodness gets its light ready. When hatred breeds its short-lived bedlam, goodness, somewhere close by, prepares its gentle but far superior powers.

BIG-HEARTEDNESS

   I recall hearing it said that certain people had “big hearts”, meaning, I think, that they were overflowing with kindness and seemed to be able to share other people’s concerns and sorrows. It sometimes seems to me, though, that all of us actually have big hearts – infinitely big hearts -- except that we usually don’t realize it. It occasionally becomes clear to me that we all contain space enough inside us, in our inner spirit, to hold boundless amounts of kindness or sorrow. After all, our inner spirit –  our “other” heart, you might say – knows no boundaries, is not restricted by bones and flesh, but widens out as far as needed to hold whatever gloom or gladness life might send us.   It’s as if we have an endless sea inside us upon which all the ships of fear or joy,  happiness or disaster,  can comfortably ride.  Unfortunately, most of us -- including me -- usually see our inner lives as fairly small and constrained, able to hold only so much distress, and thus not able to be open to too much of other people’s pain. Every so often, however, I get a glimpse of the universal big-heartedness we all share –   the openness, the boundlessness, of our inner spirit. That’s when I know I can welcome, on my best days, the joys of life as well as the sorrows , including the sorrows of others. There’s room inside – inside all of us – for whatever feelings might flow our way.

CHARMING CLUELESSNESS

     When I was a boy, “search me” -- meaning “I have no clue” -- was a response I sometimes used when questioned about something, and I was thinking this morning that I could make it my personal slogan, since I honestly have few definite answers on almost any issue. I have occasionally enjoyed pretending I know the right answers, but the truth is, I could forage in my mind forever and still not be sure I’ve got the truth. All I usually find, in fact, is a formidable wilderness of answers, like wispy flakes moving by the millions through my mind. For me, life at 73 is almost always fun, and sometimes fantastic, but that doesn’t mean I have answers. Actually, I’ve pretty much given up trying to find answers, and instead, I guess I’m savoring the surprisingly charming world of my cluelessness. The sky above is immense and unsearchable and beautiful, and so, I now see, is the universe of answers. Instead of searching, I’m just appreciating.

EVERYDAY SHRINES

"Shrine in the Mist"
watercolor
by Shanti Marie

    If a shrine is a special spot set aside for attention and respect, a place somehow blessed and worthy of admiration, then it seems to me there are shrines wherever I go. Even at our favorite supermarket, I could pause just about anywhere to silently praise the orderliness of the shelves, the courteous attentiveness of the store’s workers, and especially – I must admit –the pleasing display of my favorite frozen yogurt flavors. I could simply pause, as I would at a shrine, and say to myself, with a smile, “It’s good for me to be here”. Just driving in the car also takes me past countless special places, as worthy of wonder and esteem as shrines in churches. I could pull to the roadside and stop just about anywhere to pay my respects – to a stand of springtime trees, to the surprising beauty of an old, beat-up bridge, to a group of workers waiting at the bus stop. These are not “holy” things in the religious sense; they are special and deserving of appreciation simply because they are there, standing in their uniqueness in the here and now. They are some of our everyday and everywhere shrines. If I had a hat on, I could take it off and bow to give the gift of honest respect.    

JUST SITTING

"Ethereal Brook,
watercolor by Gretchen Kelly

 We sometimes sit in the sunroom in a silent sort of way, just enjoying the pleasures of staying still for a few moments, and often it starts me thinking about other things that are sitting still. Stones, for instance, trillions of them across the earth, are sitting close to where they’ve been sitting for possibly eons, staying put just as we do in our sunroom, silent and steady. It’s as if stones see more good sense in waiting around than in rushing around. If they were alive, I’d say stones are wise enough to find peace precisely where they are. Delycia and I are not stones, but we do sometimes sit like them in the sunroom. It’s a good way to wait around for a feeling of appreciation and restfulness to come our way, and usually, within a few minutes, it does.  

     

NEVER BY MYSELF

"Solstice Sky", oil
by Carol Keene

      I sometimes like to think I’m doing something “by myself”, when the truth is that it’s an impossibility. I am  never truly by myself, never a totally solitary, separate person. I am an indivisible piece of a thoroughly unified universe, and as such I am inseparably linked with countless other persons and things. In a sense, thousands of “friends” are with me every second. All the people I’ve ever known, for instance, are still with me, since their influence, no matter how slight, is still inside me somewhere, still assisting me in making decisions. Also, the air around me is with me, joined to me, at all times, continuously flowing into my lungs in a helpful way. And some sort of sunlight is constantly with me, even on overcast days, lighting my way, lending a helping hand. The list of my “assistants” goes on and on: the cells in my body that work ceaselessly to support my endeavors; the blood that brings newness so I know what to do next; the heart that’s always right there with me, pumping with perfection like a partner. I might sometimes pretend that I’m “by myself”, but the truth is that untold “friends” are ever with me, making living a  rather cordial collaboration.                                 

THE FURIOUS SERENITY OF SPARROWS

"Rise and Shine"
watercolor
by Linda McCoy

     It’s fun to see so many sparrows swirling around our feeders these days, and doing it with a kind of furious serenity. They seem zestfully unruffled as they flutter and quiver and peck out some seeds and soar off again. There’s a sort of peaceful fury in their motions, a tumultuous calmness that always amazes me as I watch. They move their heads in jerky ways, but even this twitchy way of turning seems to be done in an unflustered manner, sort of the way leaves can shake in a storm with grace and smoothness. What I love most is the way a group of them can suddenly soar off to nearby bushes in what seems like a perfect flight pattern. They fly off quickly but beautifully, flashing away in what always looks like elegant orderliness. In my sometimes busy and bustling days, I’d love to see the shipshape neatness I see in the frantic dancing around the feeders. It wouldn’t be bad to live with the disciplined liveliness of sparrows.  

WATCHING THE SHOW

 I want to work on watching things more carefully – being a better watcher, you might say, and mostly, I want to watch the workings of my own life. It is, after all, a stirring show, this life I’m lucky to be living. Where it came from, who knows, but just now, at 73, it’s still performing with a fair amount of confidence and style on the stage set up for it by the universe. More and more, I want to seat myself in the audience and just watch this strange and occasionally startling show called “The Life of Ham”. For a few minutes, now and then, I want to watch the countless thoughts that dance through my mind, swirling their skirts and singing with finesse their hopeful or forlorn songs. I want to watch the flow of feelings inside me, the way joy sometimes joins with sadness and becomes wisdom, and the way all the feelings seem to flow out of a secret place and then slowly but surely disappear again. I want to watch my silly worries stomping around like they own the stage, and my fears falling over each other as they try to steal the show. It is, indeed, a daring and amusing performance, this life of mine, well worth the price of admission, which is just my willingness to sit still, lighten up, and watch in wonderment. 

NEW MOMENT, NEW FACE?

         Every so often, it becomes clear to me that each moment is a brand new one, never before seen or experienced in the whole history of the universe. Try as I may, I can’t imagine anything in any present moment that’s not completely crisp and unused. Moments may seem to contain odds and ends from the past, but those odds and ends are all experienced in the fresh and new moment called Now. If I say, staring at the mirror, that my face is surely not new, the statement itself is said in the clean and pristine present. The statement is about “oldness”, but the statement, as well as the thought behind it and the moment itself, shines with sheer newness. I can label my face, with all its furrows and grooves, as “old”, but since it’s staring back at me in a totally new and unspoiled moment, it must somehow share in that unblemished newness. As strange as it may sound, if the moment is new, must not the face also be new?

         I wonder . . . Could thinking this way – thinking about the absolute inescapability of newness – actually transform the appearance of a face? Could my well-wrinkled face, seen always with a spirit of newness, slowly seem somewhat newer, day by day?

A DAY ABOUT CLOUDS

    Early this morning, I decided to make this day a day about clouds. The sky was streaked with clouds as we drove to the gym, so I suppose that might have been why I chose to work hard today to see what’s special about clouds. Mostly, I decided to simply try to see the clouds more clearly, to consider them carefully, to maybe sit outside and just stare at these surprising shapes in the sky. After all, they’re always inconstant and capricious, slowly shifting and adjusting as they pass across us, restyling their colors in subtle ways, so perhaps I should pause occasionally to make a serious study of them. Perhaps I should sometimes stop doing, doing, doing, and simply sit and let the stately loveliness of clouds thoroughly impress me for a minute or two on this day that will, for me, be all about clouds.  

INSTASPONTANEITY

    I’m fairly sure there’s no such word as instaspontaneity” so I’m going to invent it, because it’s what I see all around me. At any given moment, a great multitude of things are happening instantly and concurrently, sort of like limitless lightning streaks flashing each second. At this particular moment, as I type beside a window, there are trees twisting in the wind, squirrels scooting across the grass, sparrows shaking at the feeders, hearts of wrens and humans holding steady, clouds cruising easily, countless lives being lived with steadiness across the universe – and all of this is instantaneous and synchronized, like an on-the–spot, systematized dance. What’s strange is that none of us can avoid being part of this dance. It’s what life is. Despite being usually unaware of it, I live a totally synchronized, “instaspontaenous” life, flowing ceaselessly and swiftly with all things, from sparrows to spinning planets, in a sudden and well-balanced way.

“THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY’RE DOING”

      I am not a regular churchgoer, nor do I consider myself strictly a Christian, but during these days leading up to the celebration of Easter I am always struck by what Jesus said in forgiving his enemies. He said he forgave them because “they don’t know what they are doing”, and when I read those words, I usually say to myself, “Yup, and neither do I.” I do hundreds of things each day, from walking around the house and yard to setting words into sentences on this computer screen, and, honestly, I usually haven’t a clue as to exactly what I’m doing. Life, to me, becomes more of a mystery with each passing day, and I often feel fairly befuddled by what’s happening. When I walk, for instance, what exactly are my muscles and bones and brain doing that enables me to move so efficiently? We use the word “walking” to conveniently label the activity, but that doesn’t begin to describe the inconceivable complexity of it. And when I write, do I honestly have any clear idea what I’m doing? I like to pretend that I do, but in truth, the words seem to settle themselves across the screen in their own strange ways, with little help from me. The sentences sometimes seem clear, but I’m not at all sure how it happens. Actually, I guess something similar could be said about most of my life. I often feel like I’m living in the midst of a vast and generous (though not always happy) mystery, something like an endless rising of rainbows, or a continuous string of surprising sunsets. I could pause in amazement almost every moment of every day. Do I know what I’m doing, any more than the enemies of Jesus did? Usually not a bit. I just try to keep up with the spectacular show, and hope I’m no one’s enemy.

RACING SLOWLY, AND WITH PATIENCE

        Like most of us, I still do a fair share of racing around in these retirement days, but I guess I’m racing around more slowly and patiently, more willing, you might say, to good naturedly let the race run itself and just take pleasure in participating in it. On a given day, I’m going here and there and back and forth, checking off my list of to-do’s and to-get’s, but now I’m running a gentler, more warmhearted race. You might say I’m slowly racing from task to task, and with more composure, perhaps the way sparrows seem to collect their seeds at the feeder with both quickness and coolness. I’ve noticed that the wind sometimes blows on our street that way, too – rushing among the houses, yes, but in a somehow stress-free way, doing its to-do’s with both enthusiasm and restfulness. As a senior, I’m seeing the benefits in that kind of racing around. With my white beard and bald head, I’m breaking new records for getting things done with a cozy and easy kind of speed.

AFTER THE LONG WINTER (A Sonnet)

The grass began to slowly show itself.

It seemed a little shy at first, but soon

received assistance from the helpful Elf

of March, and presently the lawn was strewn

with cheerful cloths of green. They watched and were

amazed. They saw her flower sprouts arise

and push the snow away. They heard a blur

of bird songs in the bushes and - surprise –

a wind of spring blew in from somewhere warm.

It seemed so strange – but then, they knew the truth,

that all of life is just as strange. A storm

of odd delights is what life is, a youth-

ful, loving mystery. They smiled and welcomed spring

and grass and warmth and every gentle thing.   

 

DANCING WITH SNOW

The little flakes fell down like cheerful kids

just out of school. We watched and smiled to see

their festive dance. It seemed as though the lids

of spring had been popped off and snow was free

to swing like eager dancers as it fell.

The piles of snow had almost gone, and March

was helping us to say a glad farewell

to winter. The year was marching through the arch

of triumph into spring, and these waltzing flakes

of snow were celebrating, so we stood

and danced together with the snow. It takes

some luck to get to 74, and could

old age be any better than to sway

with snowflakes on an early springtime day?

(Note: Delycia and I feel lucky and proud to be old, and therefore we gladly use the phrase “old age”.)

ON DARK DAYS

A Sonnet

They sometimes sit in what they call the sunroom

with its walls of windows, just to talk

and watch the sparrows chase the darkening gloom

of clouds and rain. It’s like the birds just knock

upon the feeder’s door and seeds come out

to them, and soon the darkness somehow turns

a little lighter and she almost shouts

with simple happiness. He always learns

a little more about her love of life, the way

she smiles and sometimes laughs to see those birds

beside the windows. Life, for her, is a ballet

of revelations, and when she talks, her words

work wonders on a rainy day. Their sunroom’s bright

when she and birds assemble with their light.  

A WATERED GARDEN

"Sunflower Garden", oil,
by Nancy Medina

As I look forward to seeing Delycia watering her flowers this spring and summer, it makes sense to think of my own life as a lucky and well-watered garden. After all, whether I notice it or not, things are continuously growing in my life – fresh thoughts, feelings I’ve never felt before, new cells arising inside me, youthful-feeling breath for my lungs. Each present moment, in fact, provides a brand-new start for me, like a young shoot bursting through the soil in springtime. Even on my dullest days, the flowers of promise and opportunity are popping into bloom all around me. The garden of this good world is fertile and fruitful. I just need to open my eyes and see it.   

HAM’S CASTLE

"Blarney Castle, Ireland",
oil by Hall Groat II

     Sometimes I think I need to get a larger outlook on life, since I don’t seem to have room enough to receive all the gifts I get each day. Perhaps I need to see my life as a vast castle that can easily hold the endless gifts I’m given each day, gifts like the sunlight that’s always somehow with us, the eyesight that allows me to look at the light shining on melting snow, the wind that whips up new weather second by second, and the full-of-life thoughts that arise inside me by the tens of thousands each day. Perhaps my life should be called “Ham’s Castle”, a palace with no walls and no doors, a mansion that widens whenever it needs to and welcomes the crowds of gifts that constantly surround it, clamoring for entrance.  

UNBELIEVABLE LUCK

    Sometimes my good luck seems unbelievable. I’m neither wealthy nor well-known nor uncommonly gifted, but good fortune seems to follow me everywhere. I often, for instance, can’t believe the simple fact that I’m alive on an astonishing planet in an implausibly beautiful universe – that somehow this person called “Ham’ has been given hundreds of millions of minutes of this thing called life. The whole mystery of my life seems totally improbable, as if a magician somewhere in the everlasting cosmos made some swirls with her wand and, presto, here’s Hamilton Salsich. And my incredible good fortune continues to follow me in a round-the-clock way – my heart somehow holding its rhythm 100,000 times each day, my blood reliably rolling through my body hour after hour, my lungs lifting and falling in a steadfast and distinguished way. All this, to me, seems so far-fetched – so deserving of awe – that it almost requires a down-on-my-knees, lost-for-words reverence.  

GLORIES AND VICTORIES

      

"Pretty in Pink", oil,
by Kay Wyne

     In one sense, I haven’t experienced much glory in my life, and the victories I’ve had have been of the unexceptional, unnoticed kind, but in another way, there’s almost always victory and glory all around me. Some small birds, as I write, are victoriously wresting seeds from the feeders beside the windows, and the sunshine is gaining steady success over the monstrous snow mounds in our yard, sending freed-up streams of water everywhere. There’s victory, too, in the tulips standing before me on the table, straight up and distinguished in a vase, as if saying to winter, “We blossoms are the bosses now.” And glory? How about the splendor made by the sunlight on the snow today, or the magnificence of the smooth blue sky, or the way each moment is replaced by a superbly new one? There’s even a kind of glory and grandeur in the simple fact that Delycia and I are sitting here together, peacefully and silently flowing along with the effortless stream of life.

DRIVING TO THE Y BEFORE DAWN

 There were headlights

letting themselves in

from the on-ramp,

and lights looking

like neighborly signals

as they passed us,

and lights in homes

that seemed like

signs of happiness,

even if the residents

were wishing they

were still asleep,

still in the land

where dreams of lights

can be delightful

and make sleeping

just as helpful

for good health

as treadmills and barbells

while working out

under lights

that never seem

to especially like us

at six a.m.

THE FIRE HAD NO POWER

        I no longer use the word “God”, since its meaning has become so  fuzzy over the centuries, but there surely is a non-material force (or Force) in the universe that has allowed gentleness and serenity to overcome fear and affliction, again and again down through history. Occasionally I think about the Bible story of the men who survived being thrown into a fiery furnace, and I start to wonder: What future fires, what pain and grief, may await me, and will I be able to survive, and even, as the boys in the story did, somehow flourish inside the flames of my suffering? Will I be able to face future troubles with poise and inner stillness, not by pretending the troubles don’t exist, but by understanding that there’s a warm and loving force in the universe that’s far stronger than any suffering I might experience?  I think of the Bible story as an allegory, in which the fiery furnace stands for any situation that seems to surround us with hopelessness.  Somehow the men in the story were able to feel fully the power of unison and peace that pervades the universe, from the farthest star to the smallest cell in our bodies, and somehow that power easily erased the disharmony of their situation.  The fire in their lives had no power when put up against the non-material power of peacefulness, and I hope that will be true of the various physical and emotional fires that will surely flare up in my life in years to come.

TAPS, FLICKS, FLIPS, POPS, WHISKS, AND SHAKES

"Bathroom Sink", oil,
by Elizabeth Fraser

This morning, with a short tap on the thermostat the flow of warm air from the furnace started. Then a flick of a switch sent light into the bathroom, and a twist of a faucet started water shooting into the sink. Later, a quick click opened the teapot, and a push on a button soon brought the water to a boil. I quickly flipped my eggs, the toast popped up, and breakfast was whisked off to the sunroom, where two friends clicked with each other while birds swished and shook around the feeder.    

SWIFT TO HEAR

"I'm Listening", oil,
by Kay Wyne

          I recall my father encouraging me to - as he put it - “be swift to hear and slow to speak”, and sometimes, at 73, I still see little progress in myself in these areas. I’m still fairly slow to settle down and truly listen to someone – slow to show people that I sincerely care about what they are saying. I act like I’m listening, true, but often my mind makes excursions in all kinds of directions rather than actually staying with what is being said to me. My dad would be disappointed to know that I’m definitely swift to speak, but not so often willing to wait patiently, stay silent, and actually listen to what someone is saying.  I love his idea of being “swift to hear”. I want to be able to suddenly stop everything in order to truly hear what a person is saying. I want to be brisk in bringing my attention when someone is speaking to me. These days, I like to live in a laid-back way, but when I’m listening to someone, I want to be swift with my kindness and care.

DOES A BREEZE EVER HAVE A PROBLEM?

"Marsh Breeze", oil,
by Laurel Daniel

     Sometimes, when some problem seems to be standing in my way, it helps me if breezes are blowing outside. Then, I either sit by a window and watch the breezes swaying the trees, or, better still, I walk outside, and soon a question comes to me: Does a breeze ever have a problem? A breeze blows freely and flexibly, flowing easily past trees and homes and cars and hills. If a breeze bumps up against an obstacle – what I might call a “problem” – it simply slides around or over or under it and continues on its easy way. You might say whatever situation a breeze faces is tailor-made for it, because it will always bypass it with style and effortlessness, and soon press on with its graceful cruise across the land. I guess the ease and smoothness of breezes brings home their best lessons to me. “Just loosen up, Ham”, they seem to say. “Be like a breeze. Go around, over, or under, and the problems will suddenly become opportunities for elegance and artistry. Just loosen up.”