zensights

Sign of the Times

2008-11-21T05:08:00.000-08:00

Find a penny pick it up
And then all day you’ll have good luck.
Ancient Proverb

Walking is not only good exercise, it can be lucrative. Other than running around after my three year old granddaughter, walking is my major form of exercise. I have a two-mile course through my neighborhood, and my walking adventures afford me good muscle tone, a calmness for thinking clearly, and a full piggy bank.

I am not particularly superstitious, but it is hard for me not to pick up abandoned currency. Whenever I see a round glint on the pavement, I can’t help but bend down to check it out. So far, I have collected about $12.97 in the three years I have been actively seeking good health. To be honest, ten dollars of my treasure came when I found a frayed $10 bill flapping in the gutter of a vacant house. The rest of my stash, however, is made up of lackluster nickels, quarters, dimes, and pennies.

At first, the occasional lost coin didn’t seem extraordinary, but then I realized every time I walked, I netted at least a penny, and sometimes much more. Sadly, as the financial climate in America started to deteriorate, so did the number of lost coins and errant $10 bills. I have gone on a month’s worth of walks now and have found only one penny. It was so blackened with tarnish, I thought it had actually been lost much earlier and only recently been unearthed during our hurricane season.

The drought of lost money started me wondering. Could these hard economic times be the reason? As the bear market snarls and snaps at us, are we clinging to the tiniest piece of change in our pockets? Maybe this is not such a bad thing.

My grandmother Irene lived through the Depression, and her “waste not, want not” attitude carried her successfully into the 90s. She reused Mason jars and bread bags. She saved foil and rubber bands, and she squeezed every penny from her paycheck so the church got her tithe and her savings account grew. She knew exactly how many pennies she had in her purse, and I can’t imagine her letting even one of them slip through her fingers to lie in a gutter somewhere.

She was exceedingly thrifty. When her husband died, she sold their house, paid off what was left of the mortgage, put her money in savings, and then took a job as the house mother at the ATO Fraternity of Drake University. For many years she was paid to live there rent free as long as she provided good council to the young men in the frat house. When she was quite old, she even made a quilt from the abandoned ties left by her fraternity sons. Imagine the brilliance of such a crazy quilt! It is one of my most prized possessions. My grandmother never let things go to waste.

But her thriftiness did not mean she loved money or she would do anything to keep it. She simply respected money and knew if a person took care of the finances—that you bought things when you actually had the money to do so—then there would be money later when you needed it. As a result of her sound fiscal policies, she could be generous.

I almost cried at my 35th birthday party when she sent me a $5 bill in my birthday card. Aside from the fact she couldn’t let go of my childhood, she was never going to let me go without the little things. She even left enough money when she died to give each of her 6 grandchildren $250 apiece. What a treasure she was!

Sub-prime loan defaults, credit card debt skyrocketing, and bail-outs would surely have had my grandmother in a tizzy, especially after what she went through to survive the Depression. She would never have let a $10 bill get away from her and into the streets. Instead, she would have stretched that money into a pantry full of canned summer produce. Her pennies mounted up until she could buy what she wanted. And what she didn’t spend, she saved for a rainy day, which is what we have now.

I hate to think we Americans were once so blasé about our fortunes that our bulging pockets couldn’t contain all our coins. Our opulent mentality—one where people feel an indefinite flow of cash is always to be had—is probably what has now gotten us into trouble. Maybe if we had been a little less loose-fisted with our small monies, we might have more big money to show for it now.

I also hate to think we need hard times to provide us with an appreciation of the little things—things as lowly as pennies. Maybe the lessons which I learned from my grandmother will now be taught by economic turmoil, when all we should have done was respect the small change. It eventually makes a fortune. We should not take our money for granted nor should we let it fall from our pockets for others to pick up as they exercise.

The Wonders of Beaches

2008-07-21T14:41:00.000-07:00

Every time I go to Vilano Beach, near St. Augustine, Florida, for my summer vacation, I am amazed by the things I get to see. Magnificent sunrises, powerful storms, and all manner of wild life. This year held many new things for me to see.

First, I got to see the porpoise. We were enjoying the swells of Hurricane Bertha. Perfectly formed waves rolled in for three days when we realized that the porpoise seemed to enjoy the waves as much as all the surfers. We observed from our deck vantage point a pod of porpoise one afternoon which frolicked along side of the surfers and swimmers. The porpoise often cleared the water as they surfed down the face of the waves next to their human counterparts--one little porpoise, maybe a juvenile, coming completely out of the water and turning a complete flip. Amazing!

Next, I saw evidence of sea turtles. We were graced by sea turtles coming up on the beach at night and attempting to lay their eggs. Their tracks were visible in the early morning light on two separate occasions. No nests were actually made on our beach, since the turtle tracks turned and went back to the sea before any nest was dug in the sand. Something had scared them back, we can only suppose. The turtle patrol told us that they had found nests farther down the beach, so hopefully, many little turtles will spill out of their confines in the 45 to 75 days that it takes for them to incubate.

I also got to see many sharks--the most impressive was what a fisherman friend of mine called a Spinning Shark. This shark was many yards out from shore, and it jumped high out of the water and spun around violently three times, almost as if it were a marlin caught by a deep sea fishing boat. No boats were anywhere so, this dance was spontaneous and not caused by man. Awesome!

I also saw many kinds of birds. There were crows, gulls, sandpipers, and my favorite, the pelicans. I loved how they would glide down the face of the waves with one wingtip nearly touching the crest of the waves as they coasted on the updrafts of the winds. Theirs was a graceful motion that played itself out time and time again as our vacation slipped by. I could watch the pelicans all day and did as I fished the surf for whiting and pompano.

I am home now. My fish are cleaned and frozen in the freezer, and even though I am already missing the sea breezes and salty air, I know that this wonderful place with many things to observe awaits my return next summer. My memories will keep me warm when the winter winds blow. All I have to do is defrost some fillets, make a great dinner, and relive all my summer observations with each bite I take. I love the wonders of beaches.

The Lesson of the Bunny

2008-06-23T08:13:00.000-07:00

The beauty of the morning scenery was making my exercise walk bearable—even wonderful. The health trail was near the campus of Epworth-by-the-Sea on St. Simons Island, Georgia, where I was part of the faculty of the 2008 Southeastern Writers Conference. The path winded its way through lush foliage and sun-streaked air. I was entertained by mockingbirds and blue jays and a hidden sprinkler system that came on when one least expected it. But, the very best part was the bunny.

On my first morning walk, the little, dark brown entity darted across my path, startling me until I realized I was not in danger. I watched as the underbrush enclosed the little fellow and trembled as he skittered away. I felt blessed, actually, to have witnessed such a rare thing, and as I hurried along on my walk, I was uplifted.

The next morning, before I even entered the health trail, I saw a brown smudge near the edge of the road, which I thought was a clump of Spanish moss. As I got closer, I realized that there were two large ears sticking out of the mass, and I snapped my camera capturing the bunny in his statue like pose. The flash sent him rushing into the forest, but again I felt wonderful for having been able to see such a thing.

By the third morning, I was certain that I would not be so lucky as to get a third look at the bunny, but I was wrong. I was about halfway through my course when I saw a slight movement in the foliage to my left. Looking over, I saw a little brown rabbit blending almost perfectly into the sunlight and shadow of the plants. I took many pictures, and he didn’t budge. Even when the sprinkler sprayed over us, we both stared at the other waiting for the other to move. I was the one to move first. I had to go to my next class, and he had more foraging to do, I suppose.

I was buoyed up by my encounters with the rabbit(s). I was grateful to be allowed to witness something so precious in a time when little blessings go unappreciated in my life all the time. The lesson of the bunny is—I must slow my life down and see what hops across my field of vision. It might just be a something that will raise my spirits and make my day and my life all the better.

Moment Extraodinaire

2008-05-22T12:35:00.000-07:00

When I opened my hotel window, an audible sigh escaped my lips. Right before me towered a castle-like structure gleaming in the golden rays of an autumn sunset. I was overwhelmed! The Palais des Papes (Palace of the Popes)—the seat of the Roman Catholic Church built in Avignon, France, between 1334 and 1352—filled my sensibilities, and I stood awed.

In September of 2007, my choir, The Lakewood Presbyterian Chancel Choir of Jacksonville, Florida, sang its way across France. We had started in Nice and moved up to Paris through nine performances in 11 days. The highlight of our trip was to be a performance at Notre Dame de Paris; but along the way, we had so many other memorable events, that it was hard to pin one down as the best. Certainly this moment extraordinaire became one of my special memories.

I came to that moment by retiring early one evening, right after a wonderful three-course dinner with all forty members of our choir. We had enjoyed quiche, baked chicken with sauce, and crème brûlée, but I was absolutely exhausted and beginning to feel the stresses of our whirlwind singing tour of France.

I made my excuses and proceeded to my room alone after encouraging my teenaged roommate, Mary Ashley, to go on with the others. I needed to get some extra rest. When I got back to our room, I started preparing my clothes for the next day’s performance, but soon realized that the room was a little bit stuffy. Since I was having trouble figuring out the Celsius thermostat in the room, I simply opened the window just to get a little fresh air. That is when magic happened.

As the cool air swirled into the room, the Palais des Papes almost filled my window’s perimeter. The planet Venus rose over it like a jewel, and as it began to recede into the shadows of nightfall, I pulled the desk chair up to the window so that I could sit there and watch this special miracle unfold.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the clear masculine voice of a tenor began to rise to my consciousness. This person was singing Ave Maria from somewhere in the direction of the Palais. Dim lights illuminated the stain-glass windows from the interior of the fortress, so I assumed that the voice was emanating from within the walls of the sanctuary. His voice came through pure, clear, and hauntingly beautiful. I almost wept.

The disembodied singer soon began another song that went to the tune of Away in the Manger. As he sang in French, I closed my eyes and imagined some young French priest or monk singing in the dimly lit Salle de la Grande Audience of the Palais which my window happened to face. I tried to imagine what life would have been like in the 1300’s when the Palais was new. I even imagined what it would have been like to be a medieval peasant woman stopping to rest along the way home after a hard day in the fields and getting caught up in the beauty of vespers coming from the awe-inspiring edifice. This imaginary woman would certainly have been as mystified by this scene as my modern self was.

A round of applause brought me out of my ancient reverie. I adjusted my perceptions and realized that I must be hearing a recital of some sort. Again, I closed my eyes, and I imagined a young man performing for a congregation of the faithful as another song rose to my window. Perhaps the tenor was a young music student running through his repertoire for a critical audience. It didn’t matter, though. The sound and the feeling that the invisible performance created in me was magnificent!

The recital lasted quite a while. Song after beautiful song floated up to me, and I let my weariness melt away as I meditated on this marvelous experience. Very soon, after the “recital” was finished and the final round of applause echoed away into the night, my roommate, Mary Ashley, came bounding into the room.

“Man, did you hear that guy singing?” she asked, excitement flushing her cheeks. I didn’t even move from my vantage point at the window, trying to let this memory set forever in my heart.

“Oh, yes. Wasn’t his voice beautiful?” I answered. “Don’t you suppose he was a priest in the Palais next door?”

“Oh, no,” she said as she started to remove her shoes and settle in for the night. “He was a street performer right outside the hotel.”

My mouth must have fallen open, and I looked at Mary Ashley with what I am sure was a dumbstruck stare. My mystical flight of fancy took a decidedly secular detour. The lofty music I had been so sure was a tribute to God by some cleric was just a sidewalk sideshow put on for the tourists. How deflated I felt inside!

But then, I began to laugh, much to Mary Ashley’s confusion. “What’s so funny?”

I told her about my evening and when I had finished, she chuckled as well.

“I guess, nothing is what it appears to be,” she told me with a philosophical air. And I had to agree.

I have often been accused of seeing the world through rose colored glasses, and this incident is a case study in my gullibility. Since I was predisposed to see ancient French history come to life as I listened to the singing, it certainly set itself in my mind that way; that is until I was presented with the real image of what I had experienced.

Later as I lay in bed in the dark giving it some thought, I had to ask myself, “Was the singer any less wonderful because he was a street performer?”

No.

“And was my window’s view any less spectacular because I had misjudged the participants in and around it?”

Not at all.

Maybe I should just leave the moment alone. It was a joy to me regardless of its source and regardless of my mental tampering. Sure, I need to be careful in making assumptions until I have all the facts, but at the very least, I was able to enjoy a wonderful concert in the historic district of Avignon, France, and my dreams were a refreshingly different as I closed my eyes to sleep.

Atonement and the French

2008-01-23T09:40:00.000-08:00

Last night, as a group of my friends and I were at the movie theatre watching Atonement, a minor character in the film said of the French, “They hate us.” My friend sitting next to me said rather loudly, “They still hate Americans.”

Not only was I was horribly saddened by her comment, I was also surprised that she didn't realize that the characters were indeed British. Even so, had we been at home or at a restaurant where my comments would not have disturbed movie patrons, I might have challenged her on her thoughtless words. I have just recently returned from a wonderful time in France, and if the French hate Americans, then you couldn’t prove it by me.

My church choir made a trip from the south of France to the north of it last September, and at no time did I or anyone in our group ever feel the least bit unwelcomed. Of course, I did bother to speak my broken high school French at ever possible moment. Granted, everything took a bit longer because I was groping for words and tenses, but every French person with whom I interacted was polite and friendly and patient.

One moving incident occurred when we were boarding the bus to perform at the Cimetière Amèrician at Normandy Beach. A Frenchman came up to one of the older men in our party and asked in English if we were a group of veterans. Richard said no but that a few in our company might have served in the military. That is when the man said very reverently, “Please tell them thank you for me.”

When Richard told us of this man as we made our way through the breath-taking French countryside—the one that had once been ravaged by war—I could feel tears filling my eyes. Our concert was all the more emotional with this encounter in our minds. Contrary to popular belief, not all French have forgotten our friendship or American sacrifice, and perpetuating the notion that they hate Americans is the wrong thing to do in this day and time.

Hemingway's Key West

2007-11-26T13:16:00.000-08:00

I am not sure exactly what mystique continues to surround Ernest Hemingway--for me at least; but whenever I am in Key West, I will find myself drawn to Hemingway haunts--the docks near Turtle Kraals, The Pelican Poop, above which was his first apartment in Key West, Captain Tony's which is the first Sloppy Joe's Tavern, and St. Mary, Star of the Sea, Catholic Church where Ernest was a member. But the most meaningful place for me is Hemingway's House which has been lovingly preserved. Here is where I spend a morning basking in the wonderful, sunny air that permeates the compound. I suppose part of the magic is that Hemingway lived such a "writer-ish" life--writing everyday, a seven pencil day being a good one even if it only made one perfect sentence. Oh, that I could write such sentences!

Ernest was very disciplined in developing and nurturing his craft, and, like the writer that I try to be, he suffered his fair share of rejection. This was especially true when he lived in poverty in Paris as he waited for his stories to find publishing homes. He seemed to have found an audience in France and Germany long before he made it in the States.

For me, Ernest's appeal, beyond his writing ability, is found in all the interesting things that he did so that he might have things about which to write. He was an ambulance driver in the First World War. He lived for about 5 years in Paris with Hadley, his first wife, and John "Bumby," his infant son. Ernest was the great fisherman when he lived in Key West and in Cuba, and he was quite the hunter when he traveled to Africa. Add to that the tales of his drinking, his rubbing elbows with the famous people of the day, his tempestuous relationships with women, and his eventual tragic suicide, and you have a rare, larger-than-life character whose life was every bit as interesting as his books.

Still, while I was surrounded by the lush green palms and tropical plants of the Hemingway House on the corner of Whitehead and Olivia, I felt a quiet, thoughtful presence--maybe just my imagination running wild--as I could almost see Ernest's form moving among the cats that sauntered aimlessly about the verdant grounds. I could almost see Ernest climbing to his writer's studio above the garage where he takes a seat at his typewriter and begins a masterpiece.

This year I enjoyed my fifth visit to the Hemingway House Museum in Key West, Florida, and for the fifth time, I felt transported to a different time and reality, one where the word is valued and revered, and writers are the celebrities of the day. And I always love being in this hallowed place, so that I might walk in the footsteps of one of the great American writers--Ernest Hemingway.

End of an Era

2007-05-05T14:50:00.000-07:00

I have been teaching for over 35 years, and at the end of this month I will close the doors to my classroom for the last time. I am turning in my grade book and chalk, and I am setting out to do all the things that I have wanted to do for a very long time. I want to go to the beach more often and play with my granddaughter whenever I feel like it. I want to sleep past 5 AM, and I want to be free to stay up late and finish that novel I have been reading. I am really excited to have time to write.

But I am also sad. I will miss students like Makeya who hangs on my every word, or Suada who came from Albania at a young age and has a better command of English than many of her American counterparts. I will miss Alex who asks the wise questions and Jeffrey who makes jokes that are really insightfully funny.

Since I have never been able to enjoy that fruits of my labor--students blossoming and becoming all that they can be long after they have been in my care--I can only sense that my life has been a force. By my count I have had more than 6000 human beings crossing the threshold of my classrooms during my career, and I would put money on it that I have had some positive impact. I know it when a 40 year old man tells me in the grocery store that I was the highlight of his senior year. I know it when a co-ed comes home and says that if it hadn't been for my class, she would not have made it through freshman English.

Still I worry about the sad state in which education often seems to find itself--filled with political agendas, bureaucratic paper trails, and, most sadly, violence. How can education ever regain the elevated status it used to have in this country?

First, I would suggest that teachers remember their mission--gentle, persistent guidance of their students. Don't let anyone dissuade you from that mission--not administrators or dysfunctional parents. Then, parents, you must realize that you are far more influential than any teacher in school; that your children learn from parental example far more quickly than the example of any school board employee. Set a good example for your children! Finally, I would remind students that ultimately, you are in charge of your education; that no one really makes it happen unless you let it. You can blame all your problems on the schools, but actually, it is your own responsibility to "get it." Work harder than you want, and I guarantee you will reap great rewards for that effort.

I have hope for the future, but until education becomes the most important focus of teachers, parents and students, I am not sure we will ever get anything more than what we have ever gotten before.

Canterbury Evensong

2007-01-21T12:10:00.000-08:00

There are many things that can be said of me, but "courageous" and "brave" would not be the words that come to mind immediately. It's not that I couldn't or wouldn't rise to the occasion when it is called for. It is just that I seek safety and security and rarely venture beyond my scope of influence. That is why spring of 1997 was so extraordinary for me. For the first time in my life had I ever left the country. For the first time in my life had I braved a subway ride alone. For the first time in my life, I rode a train through a foreign country all by myself, and for the first time in my life did I make a personal pilgrimage along the path trod by millions of others.

For most of my adult life, I have been a teacher of English. I have immersed myself in the works of the masters of the language and quite literally, I have made the language my life and passion. When the opportunity to go to England was within my budget and grasp, I leapt at the chance to go. I took my son who was a senior in high school and together we were awakened to the joys of world travel.

My most exciting experience while in England will live in my heart as one of the most profound in my life--up there with graduating, marrying, giving birth. With the gentle encouragement of my friend Jean Cosby, a teacher and fellow traveler, I made a pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral all by myself.

Canterbury was not on our tour for some strange reason. So, while all the others went on the tour of Windsor Castle, I went back to the hotel, spoke with the ever-so-helpful desk clerk and found out that I had just enough time to catch the 2:30 p.m. train at Victoria Station. There I purchased a round trip ticket for 13 pounds, 20 pence and quickly took my seat on the train indicated by my ticket.

By this time, I was shaking with high energy. I could hardly believe that I was actually where I was. Almost 1500 years after the first brick was laid, I was headed for the sacred shrThomasf Tomas a Becket!

Only once on the trip did I have a sinking spell. When the conductor was calling out the names of the cities where we were to travel he said "West Canterbury" instead of "Canterbury." I had the scary feeling that I might have taken the wrong train. When that realization came to me, I had to just have faith. If I weren't on the right train, then I would just go to the end of the line and come back. I had a round trip ticket so I was in no danger of getting stranded.

It took a few hours, but finally, I was deposited at the West Canterbury station from where I could see the spires of the Cathedral. I winded my way through the narrow and tourist-filled city streets. It was magnificent. The little shops that lined the way were quaint and open. I purchased a ba-nah-na (as I was now saying) so that I could keep my strength up. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and I didn't want to collapse at some critical moment as my grandmother might have with her "vapors." After a brief stop at an ancient hospital (the name for an inn, much like what the Tabard Inn would have been), I moved on to the church.

The cathedral was breath-taking and again, I was quaking inside at the very thought that I was actually there. The building itself was tremendously large and the rustic sandstone-colored walls were delicately beautiful. As I entered the hushed silence of the sanctuary, I could see the worn impressions in the stone steps where millions of feet had traveled, where my feet traveled now.

The cool, dark space within was very holy. Light was filtered through ancient stained glass. Statuary saints stood along pillars, their hand folded in frozen prayer. Off in the distance, I could just make out the beginnings of an organ piece that grew louder as I went deeper into the nave of the building. Behind the high altar was a room in which I would later be seated as I experienced Evensong.

When the doors to the chancel were opened to the public, I hurried in and took a cushioned seat as pipe organ music filled the air around me. I could hardly stand it. When the choir came solemnly into the chamber and took their places, I was fighting back an ocean of tears. When they sung their first melodious chord, the dam broke, and I wept.

I was shaking the whole time as song after psalm were sung. A call and response; a prayer and a hymn. Voices echoed in heavenly splendor, and once again, I was amazed that I was actually here where million of other Christian souls had prayed and worshiped. Since long before Geoffrey Chaucer's pilgrims came, the faithful had been coming. I felt their presence and I was awed.

I didn't want the Evensong to end. I didn't want to return to the mundane world waiting for me just outside the walls of the building; but I realized that I would be buoyed up by this experience for many years to come, and that made my return to the secular bearable. As I sang a final hymn and my small voice got to mingle with the angelic sounds made by the choir, my heart was filled with joy and wonder. It was indeed glorious.

I was able to make it back to the train and London before 10:00 pm, and I made it back to the hotel before the curfew. I had done it. I had braved the tube--alone. I had traveled across a foreign countryside--alone. I had achieved a lifelong goal all by myself, all in a day's passing. As I prayed that night and gave thanks for my inspiring experience, I imagined my words mingled with all the prayers made by faithful pilgrims throughout the ages and I slept with a sense of tremendous belonging.

An Older Mary’s Memory

2006-12-16T05:01:00.000-08:00

In the same year that my mother died, the same year that both of my grown children had moved out and gone on with their own lives, I greeted the Christmas holiday with a considerable dread. As always the commercialism of the season was distressing, but this particular year rang with a deep hollowness that made me quite sad. The flurry of activities that surrounded my life that year became chores. Holiday parties were to be avoided, if at all possible. Shopping was no longer fun and had become a tedious parade of traffic snarls and long lines at the checkout counters. Even the cheerful tones of “Merry Christmas!” simply reminded me that I was hardly in a merry mood.

When my choir director called me one night after Thanksgiving and asked if I’d be in a Christmas pageant, I was hardly thrilled. I was even more distressed when I learned that I was being offered the part of an “older Mary” who would be reminiscing about the birth of her child Jesus. In my most secret heart I still see myself as a young woman, but for some reason I consented to playing the role. It wasn’t long before I was kicking myself for having said yes. I had lines to rehearse, practices to attend, and a few unfamiliar hymns to learn. I also had to wade through the antics of about forty mischievous second through sixth-grade actors. And all this at the end of a grueling day of teaching teenagers at a nearby high school.

As each day brought me closer to the performance, the more nervous I became. It wasn’t that I couldn’t play my part. I had been in choral performances before, but this time, my heart and soul just weren’t in it. Even though I tried to “get into the part,” I just ended up going through the motions because I had made a commitment.

As each rehearsal passed, I felt somewhat like I was in the center of a great storm.. The kids were running all over the place or creating havoc with the microphones. They tapped them, knocked them over, and sang silly songs into them. Costumes kept drooping over shoulders, and haloes kept slipping over eyes. Shepherds often hit each other with their crooks and the props for the gold, frankincense, and myrrh often clanked noisily to the ground. Nobody knew the lines. Everyone missed cues.

So, when the day of the performance came, I went through my work day with an honest apprehension. I had a feeling something akin to going to the dentist. “At least by this time tomorrow, it will be all over,” I kept telling myself. Finally, the appointed hour came. Dressed in my first century costume, my long gray hair peeking out from under my blue veil, I took a deep breath and walked out into the sanctuary for The Annual Christmas Pageant.

That was when something truly miraculous happened. Suddenly, everything came together. The children knew their stuff. No one dropped anything, not even a line. The tinsel-winged seraphs, the humble shepherds, and the Techni-colored wise men enacted the older Mary’s memories with precision and care. And as our narrative unfolded, I kept seeing flashes of past pageants my children had enacted. There was even an ancient “sugar plum” moment that descended upon me from my distant past. I could clearly remember my mother’s beaming face out in the audience. Surely, she was there smiling at me that night as well.

As those lovely visions came to me, I realized that life is good and it will go on, much as it has always done. That for years to come, children and parents will be enacting and watching the age-old Christmas story that provides meaning for the faithful and hope for those who have doubts.

It was in those moments that my Christmas started to happen. For the first time all season, the twinkling lights began to touch my eyes. Christmas carols finally reached my ears, and the cold empty feeling that described my holiday melted with a joyous crescendo as we all belted out “Joy to the World.” I truly felt the joy of the season at last.

2006-10-21T05:46:00.000-07:00

Cats

I have owned many animals in my life. Dogs, cats, bunnies, birds, and fish. I have had pedigrees with papers and hoity-toity breeds living under my roof, but my very favorite kind of animal has to be the back-alley, bruising tom cat that moves into my life with his rough and burley posturing and eventual sweet ways.

The first such animal to adopt me was Ralph, a tortoise-shell, long hair who was as skinny as a twig when he began to forage through our garbage every night. My husband and I fastened the lid to the garbage can tighter, but Ralph was not stupid so he simply pushed the whole thing over. The lid would then pop off and the contents would explode across the yard where he could feast.

We thought of a variety of ways to scare Ralph off. We hollered at him and chased him with a broom, and still he came back night after night. Finally, my husband made a fortunate mistake. He put a bowl of tuna out for the old guy and Ralph became ours for the rest of his life.

Before we knew it he was sleeping in our bed. He did his part to keep the mouse population outside our house at bay, and we did ours by taking him to the vet, getting him his shots and having him neutered (He may have resented this part, but one would never be able to tell it). Ralph grew fat and seemed to adore us. He quickly discovered the pleasures of lap-sitting, and every winter night he was curled in my lap, purring with what I took as contentment.

This relationship lasted many happy years until Ralph succumbed to a urinary malady. For months after, my husband and I swore that never again would we let a cat happen to us, because we never wanted to go through this kind of a sorrow again. We were good to our word for a long time. Human babies came into our lives--a daughter and a son-- and during that phase, we were rather preoccupied to worry about “animals.” Besides, our daughter had shown signs of allergies, so we kept all animals out of our house until Bosco came a callin’.

Bosco, a gray tabby bruiser, took up residence under our deck when our daughter was about 11 and our son was 8. There the cat terrorized all animal life in the neighborhood. We chased and shooed and hollered at him . We even did a stomping sort of dance on the deck to get him to leave, but he stayed and stayed. Finally, my husband admitted to me that he had fed the cat a little tuna accidentally. Then my daughter admitted the same crime and then my son confessed. No wonder the beast wouldn’t leave.

Before I knew it, Bosco had moved into my house, into my bed, and into my heart. When I took him to the vet to get him his shots, the vet confirmed that Bosco was not young. Even I could see that his neck was thick, his ears were tattered, and that he walked with a surly gait telling me he’d been around the block a time or two. Still he possessed the most charming personality that had me laughing and loving him as much as any pet I have ever had.

He had this habit of patting me on the shoulder, leg or face--which ever part was nearest--when he wanted my attention. Then he’d gaze deeply into my eyes with his topaz-cold ones and meow as if trying to speak. It seemed as if a human soul were in his body, and he followed me around the house and yard much as a dog might. I was his person, for sure, and although he was too big to sit comfortably in my lap, he spent winter evenings right next to me on the sofa.

Nine years passed with Bosco filling our lives with his presence. He used to crack us up when he would lie on his back on the deck in the sun, paws in the air and chin pointed up. And there was no newspaper that could be read that he wasn’t right there on it to help me. He tapped me on the head when I’d open the refrigerator on which he watched me cook in the kitchen, and he’s rub up against my legs as I prepared his cat crunchies. When he began having trouble getting up on my bed at night, I knew he was not well and the vet confirmed my fears. Bosco was dying and we had to “put him down.”

After I buried my friend in the shade of the magnolia tree he loved so much, I swore that I’d never allow myself to get so attached to an animal again. Never would I let myself weep uncontrollably over a “dumb” animal! Never would I open myself up to this kind of hurt again!

Then came Humphrey--an orange tabby kitten my daughter rescued from the pound while she was in college--a miniature tough-guy, cat who instantly stole my heart and moved into my life. Although he is no Ralph or Bosco, I can see he has potential. He savagely attacks the vicious weeds and marigolds that grow in my back yard and tries to catch the occasional fly that gets trapped in the kitchen. And as I watch him bounce through the living room chasing shadows and his own tail sometimes, I realize that cats will be a permanent part of my existence. That they fill a void in my life that needs a warm, fuzzy, solid, purring entity in it. Therefore. I keep my cupboard filled with Cat Chow and my windowsill with catnip growing in a pot. I never know what little feline presence may drop into my life and want to stay.

2006-06-30T06:28:00.000-07:00

Unsung Heroes

I have always had a deep and abiding affection for the Navy, being a Jacksonville girl and all. Maybe that is because my father was a sailor during the Second World War and during the Korean Conflict. Maybe it was because I loved watching those handsome midshipmen on the television during the Army/Navy game that my father watched annually. Probably it is because the Naval Air Station has been almost directly across the St. Johns River from all the houses I have lived in. For many years I have watched all manner of aircraft float laboriously in and out of that airfield. My childhood bedroom window lay directly under the summer flight pattern, and I was often awakened by terrifying, landing lights. I was terrified by these massive, groaning weapons of war; but I was comforted in that I knew they were there to protect my family and me.

I came to recognize the hurricane hunters, which were bravely scouting out those demon storms so that we civilians could weather them safely. I came to recognize the radar planes with their massive disks on their backs that probably were monitoring enemy submarines. Jets streaked loudly by and almost too fast to perceive. And then, there were the P-3s whose graceful "touch and g0" exercises that circled our games and lives.

During the Cold War, we nearby residents knew (although we never articulated the fact) that we were all living at ground zero should there ever be a nuclear attack by the Russians or other enemy. We would be gone in a blink of an eye should it ever come to a nuclear holocaust, but who actually wanted to survive that? It was hardly a question we wanted to contemplate as we went to our classes, our football games, our churches and our drive-in movies. Thankfully, such nightmares have faded as the years have gone by. My children have never been part of the "duck and cover" drill or the evacuation exercises that would have carried elementary children to Hastings, Florida, for safe keeping until the all-clear was sounded.

As an adolescent, I somehow sensed the presence of myriad handsome American service men dutifully assembled just across the river--thousands of them--good, bad, kind, extraordinary--all of them sons, some husbands and fathers. In some cosmic way their combined energy had been communicated to me and probably to all the young women who lived near them. They were and still are America's finest. I would all but swoon at the notion of a man in uniform--a dark blue, bell bottomed "cracker jack" uniform. Perhaps, that was why so many mothers warned their daughters to watch out for sailors. We just might have sailed away with them if given half a chance.

Of course, times have changed. I recall a poster I that had in college. It was of a 1920s female dressed in a navy uniform, and the caption read, "I wish I were a man so that I could join the Navy." Little did this flapper know that women would someday be sailors themselves, living lives of adventure on the sea and in the air‑‑flying monstrous aircraft in the skies just above my head.

On spring days when the windows are opened, I can often hear the droning of the aircraft engines some miles away across the water. It is then that I am reminded of the sacrifices made. I am reminded of two pilots--one male, one female--who lost their lives in my immediate vicinity when their aircrafts crashed. I am reminded of all the human lives dedicated to my protection and that of my country. I guess that's when my imagination can just make out the sound of a great chorus singing the words of the "Navy Hymn" in the wind that stirs about me:

O Trinity of love and power
All Travelers guard in danger's hour.
From rock and tempest, fire and foe
Protect them whereso e're they go
Thus evermore shall rise to Thee
Glad praise from air and land and sea.

###

The Importance of Mantle Clocks

2006-06-09T09:45:00.000-07:00

Not all my houses have had mantles. The first house I ever lived in was a ticky-tacky subdivision model that resembled all 300 other houses on a hill in Illinois. In this little efficiency home, there was no fireplace; therefore, no mantle. A gleaming furnace hummed away all winter with no need of a messy old fireplace.

The next house I lived in belonged to my grandparents, and it was old and creaky even then. It had a large fireplace in the living room. It was put there by a Mr. Brown when he constructed the house at the turn of the century, back when fires were needed to augment whatever heating contraption was used to keep the family from freezing to death during the winters.

I loved this fireplace, even when it wasn't in use. It was a gaping, sooty hole that mystified me; a place where Santa came and occasional raccoons tried to enter the house and upset the harmony of the family. My grandmother put a gigantic, potted fern in its hollow during the summer months which served as a jungle for my dolls. My grandfather fired it up regularly during the winter time so that we could "cut the chill" and drink our bedtime cocoa next to it.
Over this fireplace was a massive mantle which held a variety of things over the years. Candle sticks, photographs, awards and trophies, but the most memorable thing about this mantle was the beautiful, hand-carved mahogany clock which rang every hour on the hour.

I remember that when I first moved into the "old house," as we called it, I was awakened many times during the night as the mantle clock sang its little song, then tolled off the hour. Even as a child in a far distant bedroom, I wondered how any rational person could sleep through all that racket. It took me several nights of wakefulness, to finally make it through all the music.

Once I remember awakening in the middle of the night, not at all sure of what was bothering me. It wasn't until the next day that I realized that the clock had wound down because my grandmother was in the hospital and not home to wind the trusted old clock. Somehow, I was aware, subconsciously at least, that the hour had not been struck and it was so unsettling to my sensibilities that I awoke from a sound sleep.

When my family made the big move to Florida and there was no need for a fireplace, we sold the old mantle clock at a garage sale and it was years before I thought of it again. It came back to me when my husband and I found and bought a home with a fireplace and mantle. My in-laws gave us a lovely, mantle clock for our first Christmas we were in the house. It wasn't the mantle clock of my youth. This clock was a complicated mechanism that whirred and spun before your eyes under the protection of a dainty, glass bell jar. Even so this mantle clock sang a classical piece, something by Tchaikovsky, I think, every hour on the hour. Every hour on the hour of those first few days of ownership, I awoke remembering the comfort I had known at an earlier time in my life.

It still amazes me how important this new clock has become. I thought it was broken when actually the battery had just run down. I recall how heartsick I was until I figured out the problem and rectified it. Now, I keep a pack of fresh batteries in the house just in case there is a "rundown," or I might find myself sitting bolt upright in bed in the middle of the night trying to figure out what is not right.

2006-05-31T17:38:00.000-07:00

Grandmother's Window

I can remember being four or five years old and standing before the massive picture window at my grandmother's house as the morning sun streamed in. The sill began where my chin ended, and I often rested my head and elbows on it so I could gaze long moments at the multitude of colors created by the array of knick-knacks set out on the shelves Papa, my grandfather, had erected there. Red, carnival glass goblets cast their fiery passion across the room. Blue Venetian glass slippers dazzled like Cinderella shoes. Topaz yellow, blown-glass canaries perched quietly near pale green, glass salt cellars. Baby blue, cut glass match holders caught the sunlight like prisms, and cast little rainbows all about the room when the sun came in at the right angle. All the while the creeping vines of house plants wove their way about the twinkling treasures that mesmerized my young eyes.

Breakfast was always a cheery time at my grandparents' Texas house. Not only because we children were on vacation, but also because there were fresh-picked blackberries to put on the cereal during those summer months when we came to visit. Here we would break our fast in a dining room with the marvelous window that sparkled like a carnival at night. Here we would laugh out loud with Papa over the funnies from the newspaper that he would read to us. Here we would bask in the love that Grandmama demonstrated with lavish hugs and praise, as lavish as the rich colors of her wonderful window.

No chest of treasure could have been more precious than these pieces of glass my grandmother had collected throughout her life and displayed in the window of my childhood memory. When the sorrowful time came for my widowed grandmother to sell her home and move to a nursing home, she asked for us grandchildren to go through her earthly possessions and take what we wanted. These beautiful knick-knacks were the only things of hers I wanted to keep.

The carnival glass candle holder rests in my morning window sill which occasionally catches the light, but never as spectacularly as the window in my grandmother's house. The yellow canary sits on a shelf in my yellow bathroom, chirping a silent song in the Florida humidity. The blue, Venetian glass slipper stands on my mantle, and the light blue glass match holder holds an array of local fossils on my desk. The salt cellars sit on my counter top near my spice rack.

I don't know what it is that makes me cling to these old things. I find that the older I get the more important childhood memories become. I guess that is why so many people hang on to their "junque." Each item has importance in some distant time and place that we return to when the going gets rough--a time and place where we were safe and responsibility-free. Suddenly, the red color of a goblet reminds us of a simpler time. Suddenly, the Cinderella slippers of our youth return to us the magic that once existed for us. Grandparents live again when we see glass canaries, and laughter fills our heart when we read the morning funny papers in the morning sunshine. We cling to these seemingly valueless pieces of stuff because just-picked blackberries are possible again in our minds, at least. That is why we clutter our lives with so much seemingly worthless stuff--so that we can remember the parts of life that make it so valuable.

Dandelions

2006-05-21T11:38:00.000-07:00

There is no denying that Americans are involved in a multimillion dollar campaign toward the annihilation of weeds--crabgrass, dollar weeds, nut grass and deer grass. My personal favorite is the ever popular dandelion. I cannot deny that a yard filled with the tiny, yellow blossoms fills me with some kind of unearthly delight.

I came around the corner on a walk one June evening and what should I behold but a vacant house’s yard teeming with dandelion blossoms. Happily they bobbed in the evening breeze and caught the sunset’s glow quite magically. It took my breath away, the way it would have done me as a child. If I hadn’t been in my early fifties, I might have run laughing into the midst of the flowers and gathered them up in a childlike bouquet. If I hadn’t been busy with thoughts of sinus woes and hay fever bouts, I’d have breathed in the musty odor of the happy pedals and moved into a distant memory place. I’d be dressed in corduroy overalls and running amok through joyous fields finding flowers to take home and place in empty mayonnaise jars that my mother kept stored in a pantry for my bug menageries and hand picked gifts.

Oh, the garlands that could be made from these precious weeds? I have made countless, saffron-colored crowns, necklaces and bracelets to enhance my little girl’s appearance. Of course, I was careful not to taste the bitter, milky sap that could coat the fingers, unlike the sweet taste of honeysuckle blossoms we would often purposely taste each June. And sometimes I had to intersperse clover blossoms in between when the dandelion season was drawing to a close.

I was also any number of fairy queens in my imaginary heyday. Once I was Guinevere holding forth over all the court with a wave of my weed-draped hand. Another time I was Pocahontas, flower covered and ready for my “brave” to carry me off into the sunset. My bicycle steed was often strewn with blankets of yellow, a poor imitation of the black-eyed Susan blanket Belmont Stakes winners receive. We rode many miles together.

The best part, though, was the wishing--remember? When the time was right, the blossoms turned to fuzzy, gray seed balls. I would snatch the stem of the flower up to the lips and blow with heavy breath, all the while wondering where the little germ of life would be carried on the wind—maybe even going as far as little girl dreams could travel.
“Make a wish,” I had been told by someone older than I, and I wished. I wished with all my heart. I wished for a real pony and a baby sister and all the ice cream I could stand to eat whenever I wanted, even if it meant spoiling my appetite. I wished for other things I can’t really remember, but I feel very certain that with the exception of the pony and a baby brother before I got that sister, my wishes have, for the most part, come true.

Of course, the actual reality of that seed journey was the germination of many more weeds in neighbors’ yards. I can just imagine the really foul words from homeowners when their pristine lawns would produce scraggily offspring. As a child I had no idea this is what my desire for good fortune could do. Only as a teenager and a biology student did I come to understand.

Even so, I try to remember form “whence cometh the weed” as I pluck unwanted pesky plants from my lawn and spray like the rest of my neighbors. Each handful of weed makes me try to imagine a little girl somewhere, yellow garlands in her hair making a good future for herself. Then I try not to mind the weeds.

2006-05-09T15:57:00.000-07:00

Morning

For many years it has been my custom to awaken long before I have to go to work, so that I can sit in the morning quiet and come to terms with the day. In the winter I sit snuggled on my sofa and drink my coffee in the dark, meditating on what has and what will happen to me at my job. In the spring, the summer, and the fall, when the weather and mosquitoes permit, I sit with my coffee at an old wooden picnic table on my backyard deck and watch the world come to life.

Mornings have always held certain magic for me. The majesty of the sunrise is truly a wonder to behold. When there are no clouds, the sky slowly changes from black to dark purple to lavender to pink and then to daylight. When there are large banks of clouds, all the color shifts are accompanied by rays of light piercing the fluff and heralding the day. When there is an overcast sky, the changes are merely from black to gray to white.

Day after day, with no prompting from us humans, the morning comes. Day after day you can find me up before the sun, watching and preparing for its arrival.

One summer morning was particularly magnificent. I sat at the picnic table and sipped my coffee, carefully coming to consciousness. My three cats were near, stretching and yawning after a long night of mousing. Bosco, the biggest, washed his face and whiskers. Jones, the white one, stood out against the fading night. I could barely make out Kitty, my tortoiseshell cat.

The morning stars overhead were still very bright, because I could still make them out without my glasses on. I could see the constellation, Orion, as he stood proudly over the tree shadows that surrounded me, their lacy silhouettes against the brightening sky.

Then, out of the huge dark shadow that was my neighbor's tree, a large mass of darkness suddenly erupted from the shadow's edge. Slowly the mass unfolded into the shape of a great bird with a considerable wingspan. As my cats and I sat there in awed silence, we watched as the shape grew larger and larger, coming closer and closer.

I don't know if it were real or if I had imagined it. The hour was, after all, quite early. I could have been dreaming, I suppose; but I could have sworn that as the creature passed just a few feet over my head, I felt the turbulence of its wings upon my upturned face. I could tell that I was being carefully observed and analyzed. And when the flying animal had made sure that I was neither food nor anything with which he’d care to tangle, his shadow was absorbed into the darkness on the opposite side of my yard. It was glorious.

I'm not sure what the significance of this event was. Were I a Native American I might have ascribed a meaning to the shadow; it was an omen or a portent for the future. My modern day self thought this "sign" to be a good one. After all, it had lifted my spirits. I had witnessed something rare and beautiful.

Later, as I stood at the counter in my kitchen pouring cat crunchies into three bowls, the sound of a hoot owl calling came gently to me from far in the distance. It was going to be a good day.

from Zen Fishing and Other Southern Pleasures (Ocean Publishing, 2005)

Zensights

2006-05-09T02:44:00.000-07:00

The more I write, the more I realize that there many other good writers out there in the wide world. I have had to come to this conclusion even as I have learned the hard publishing lessons of rejection. I have also learned that there are also countless good writers in the past--writers who have and continue to bring the world to tears with their creation of words. Is it any surprise that I have often wanted to throw my hands into the air and toss my pen in the trash? How can I possibly compete with all these wonderful wordsmiths?

During these difficult writing moments, I realize that the point behind all of my writing is not money-making or big publishing contracts, since there are so many others who are going to "beat me to it," so to speak. The point behind all of my efforts then is something far more transcendent--it is the contemplative nature of my writing process that helps me process my world. I have come to see that writing about my world and my experience is an inward journey of discovery and insight.

So, why should anyone else but me want to read my thoughts? The only answer is that reading my words or about my discoveries may reveal to a reader the very answers that someone may need at this point in his or her journey through life. It might just be that I can solve a perplexing problem that had not yet occurred to the reader. I might actually provoke thought on a given subject, or I might have the keys to a kingdom yet unimagined. I might even provide the very piece of peace a frantic person needs.

These "zensights" of mine may not be as profound as those of a Zen Buddhist monk. They are nonetheless meaningful exercises in existence, and that should benefit anyone who chooses to read what I have discovered about the world in which we all move and breathe.