October clouds

Clouds have inspired poets and song lyricists for generations. I have no desire to compete.
Let Joni Mitchell, looking at clouds from "Both Sides Now," speak for our loss of childhood innocence. Allow William Wordsworth (whose poetry I idolize) to wander lonely as a cloud until he notices the beautiful brightness of daffodils, which dance and wave and beckon him into gratitude and appreciation. Leave it to visionary Percy Bysshe Shelley to explore endless possibilities of clouds as they make their way though various landscapes.  Watch Walt Whitman, while addressing the immortality of stars, contrast them with "ravening clouds, the burial clouds in black masses spreading," clouds that threaten but ultimately cannot devour the luster and radiance of stars. Remember to make room for the Rolling Stones to kick everyone off of their clouds as they rock on about life's frustrations. Hey, you! Get off!
No, I cannot compete nor compare. October skies, however, invite me into sweet reverie of my own.
As giant balloons of cumulus clouds billow across the heavens, forming a rabbit here and a turtle there, I remember the first time I learned to imagine shapes in the sky. As a child living in the Midwest, I had gone with my parents to visit some friends of theirs. The family had a son a few years older than I who had the undoubtedly unwelcome task of entertaining a little kid while the adults chatted and reminisced. Long before the days when parents would balk at sending their young daughter anywhere alone with an older boy, even if a longtime friend, they shuffled us off into the back yard of the Illinois home to find something to do. We lay on our backs in the thick, sweet grass, and he began to show me what he saw . . . a dog, a sword, a snowman. Soon I could recognize shapes, too. This kept us spellbound for what seemed like hours, or at least long enough to allow the parents to finish a pitcher of chilled martinis. To this day, I delight in the poodle shaping up in the sky and then reforming into a teddy bear and then into a Santa hat. Truth be told, I sometimes, now in adult years, see hints of  X-rated arrangements that make me laugh, should anyone read my thoughts.
Fast forward some childhood years to my first airplane trip. My father told me I would be soaring above all the clouds, giving me a whole new perspective, all sunshine despite the dark and gray world below. He said it would look like a marshmallow carpet of sweet goodness. I think he intended this to excite me and comfort me. Because I had a death grip on the arms of my airplane seat, I apparently blocked the blood flow to my imagination. I didn't care about an endless summer of brilliance. I could not comprehend any kind of heavenly platform that looked as if I could jump into it.  All I wanted to do was plant my feet safely on the ground, even under a dark, gray sky.
 Now, this evening, as the setting sun paints clouds and sky with a brilliant palette of colors, my heart skips a beat and then fills with a sense of awe. Such glory cannot be captured completely even in the most detailed paintings or the most precise photographs. This is a sight, an experience, that one must ingest firsthand. With each breathtaking moment, the moveable feast imprints itself on my soul and becomes part of my spirit. I will invite it to create the truest sentence I know.

Gentle purple explosion

As a child, summer began the day I rode a bus home on the last day of a school year. At the end of this day’s ride, I would step off and walk into summer vacation.

Every other day of the school year consisted of routine. Walk from school a few blocks to the bus stop. Wait on the corner, always a bit nervous because creepy hood Whitney Miles stood in front of his house on the opposite corner, smirking at me as he did every day, hair slicked back in a greasy ducktail (D.A., as we called it, a far less polite term than “tail”), a pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his white t-shirt. Looking back, Whitney probably was harmless and more than likely lonely. We didn’t have many greasers at Smith Elementary School in Oakwood, Ohio, a suburb of Dayton. He simply did not fit in. Neither did I, but that’s another whole story.

When summer began, I knew I would spend more time outdoors, away from the cement and noise of downtown. I would trade the lonely hotel room where I lived because of my father’s occupation for a country club swimming pool or, even better, a week at my grandparents’ house in Toledo, where I eagerly mowed the lawn, ran through the sprinklers on days that water rationing would allow, and sat on the porch swing chatting quietly with my sweet grandmother.

Summer meant I would spend hours playing Clue with my friend Craig Campbell, always accusing him of cheating (because he did). He won every time. I never could prove that the true perpetrator of murder was Professor Plum, who committed the deadly deed with the candlestick in the conservatory. After we tired of Clue, which we enjoyed while our parents played bridge and drank martinis, we ventured into Craig’s backyard and experienced the magic of lightning bugs. We laughed with delight as they flicked their way through the dusky night sky, and we captured as many as we could. Not realizing at our young age that we were being inhumane, we put them in a glass jar with holes in the cap, even adding grass so they would have food. They never lived until morning.

Even earlier in my childhood, summer meant paddling a canoe on Lake Winola, near Scranton, Pennsylvania. It meant riding a bit recklessly in Nancy Smith’s motorboat, frolicking over the wakes of other boats, laughing with glee as we rode high on a crest and then smacked back down on the other side. Summer meant digging up earthworms to save for bait when we fished off the boat dock later in the day. It meant stuffing my mouth with freshly picked blueberries while hiking in the Poconos, and it meant running around with sparklers on the Fourth of July.

Now, many years later, peeking into my twilight years, the first brilliant lavender blossoms of jacaranda trees signal the beginning of summer. They create a symphony of purple beginning in late May and lasting well into July. During my 20-year tenure at a local high school, one I loved and one that made my life feel tethered and tedious at the same time, huge jacarandas in the school quad began to blossom just before graduation. Tedium transformed into delight. The jacarandas changed day by day, eventually laying a soft violet carpet to cover the remnants of each day’s lunch and wads of gum. They made me realize my students and I had survived another year. They meant we would celebrate the culmination of hard work, laughter, tears and sneers. They meant I could take a much-needed break from grading papers, and students could take a break from writing them. They gave hope of a new beginning for everyone. They signaled a bright tomorrow. 

As a gift from God, I live in an area of Southern California where I see jacarandas at every turn. The median on a street I travel every day has blocks of them, each in various stages of bloom. The one in my backyard is teasing me with just a few blossoms. The one in my neighbor’s yard is a delightful palette of greens and lavenders. The ones at the local high school, right on cue, have bloomed completely. Of course they have. Graduation time is here.

I love this annual gentle purple explosion. I love the sense of ongoing creation. I love nature’s artistry. I love the coming of summer. I love jacarandas.

RIP Miss Lindey

 “You should meet Martha Lindey,” someone suggested at church one Sunday nearly 30 years ago. “She’s about to retire as the journalism teacher at Vista High School. Maybe you could do your student teaching with her.” Thus began my career with an unforgettable mentor.

 Thanks to circumstance, opportunity, and, although not recognizing it at the time, God’s intervention and direction, I had left 15 years as a reporter and editor to pursue a teaching credential. Under the loving guidance of Miss Lindey, I learned how to manage a classroom of teen-agers ready to test the mettle of a student teacher, how to raise the standards of the Panther Print, our school newspaper, to earn an award as one of the top 10 in San Diego County, how to survive school politics, how to thicken my skin against occasional barbs of maliciousness, and most of all, how to love and appreciate literature as never before.

 While I pored over our anthology of American literature looking for stories that would educate and appeal to young minds, Martha enlightened me about various selections as she recalled the details of each one in the library of her mind. She described harsh landscapes and closed minds of the early 20^th-century Midwest as seen by the perspective of Willa Cather. She delighted in the creative revenge of the downtrodden as evidenced by Edgar Allen Poe. She swooned over the magical poetry of Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman. She laughed with delight at the subtle humorous understatement of Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird, while at the same time demonstrating in her own life the inherent value of all humankind that this American classic embraces.

 At that time, our curriculum included an entire semester of grammar instruction. (I apologize now to my former students who had to suffer through it; district requirements tied our hands.) Martha helped me remember the difference between a participle and a gerund. She found ways to make a vocabulary lesson seem like a rollicking good time. She knew how to demonstrate the functions of each part of speech. She, as I, demanded that students make their writing sparkle by using active instead of passive voice, or at least learn to distinguish the few occasions when passive voice might better serve the purpose.

 On Martha’s 60^th birthday, her students and I made her “Queen for a Day.” As a humble person who did not enjoy attention directed at herself, Martha nonetheless sat in front of the classroom with a red velvet cape and a rhinestone tiara while all of us blessed our beloved Miss Lindey with well wishes and tales of special memories. She blew out the candles on her cake, and graciously accepted the love showered upon her.

 When Martha, as she relayed it to me, marched into the principal’s office and said, “She’s a natural; you have to hire her,” apparently he believed her. I see it as a grand example of hyperbole, but I deeply appreciate her support in launching my teaching career.

 Throughout the years, I kept in touch with Martha as part of the same church family, the family that introduced us in the first place. With her engaging grin and her dignified manner, she never failed to offer encouragement or to ask about my children and grandchildren. For a woman of letters, Martha focused on only a few words in her lifetime. Give. Love. Laugh. Share. Appreciate. Forgive. And, to all who knew her, White Rabbit! White Rabbit! White Rabbit!

 I am among the many who will miss this extraordinary woman, but also am the many blessed by her remarkable spirit. One of the works she particularly cherished, a poem by William Cullen Bryant, comes to mind now that her life in this realm has come to an end. “Thanatopsis,” a meditation on death, provided Bryant a way of coping with the passing of many of his young classmates who succumbed to the ravages of 19^th-century tuberculosis and plague. Nature soothed him; nature explained to him the endless mysterious cycle of life; nature comforted and caressed him.

 I look now through the trees into the setting sun and watch the full glorious moon appear on the opposite horizon. Rest in peace, Martha. 

Golden bliss

No matter what season, when the sun begins to settle into dusk, my surroundings beg for my attention. It's that golden time of day, when everything in the path of early evening light glows in sweet splendor. Something about it feels magical and serene.
God seems to create this time of day as a special blessing.  Every object in the filtered sunlight softens. The last rays of sunshine glitter through the trees like multi-faceted jewels. It's reassurance that the day has been a gilt-edged gift. If I've bumped against some sharp corners throughout the day, at dusk I see gentleness. If I've had the joy of day already rich in the pleasures of love and connection, at dusk I rest in the comfort of this treasure.
As twilight gives way to night shadows, a crescent moon forms in the sky on this particular evening. My friend says she wants to climb into it and rock herself to sleep amidst the stars. I, on the other hand, hear the voice of The Glass Menagerie's Amanda, who lures her eccentric daughter Laura onto the fire escape of their St. Louis tenement and tells her to make a wish on the "little silver slipper of a moon."
I have yet to make my wish for tonight. Anything I may want already has been granted in dusk's idyllic moments, and dusk will come again.

Ebb and flow

 As is my custom on a Sunday evening, I walked along a favorite stretch of beach in Carlsbad, California, breathing in the sea air, listening to the sound of the Ancient Mother and marveling at the sunset.

 I noticed lovers kissing, families gathering up their colorful towels,  huge umbrellas and traditional beach toys after a day in the sun and surf, athletes running, elders strolling and women chatting. People walked a variety of dogs -- here a stately white standard poodle, there a chestnut teacup chihuahua, then a regal golden retriever, a frisky Yorkie, a pair of adorable Maltese, a yapping terrier and an abundance of lovable mutts.
  I smiled to myself as I recalled a wonderfully giddy phone call earlier in the day from one of my dearest friends, who told me he finally had proposed to his lovely (and patient) girlfriend of several years. I celebrated their joy long distance as they described the event, which took place along the Makapu'u Lighthouse trail on Oahu, a hike we had all made together a few months ago.
 I watched as the nearly full moon climbed in the sky at the same time as the sun began its descent, becoming a molten glow on the horizon as it passed through clouds. It reminded me of the time I stood at Kilauea Crater on the Big Island a few years ago. Sweet moonrise and dazzling sunset, combined with the powerful flow of lava, enraptured me. My soul thrilled to God's displays in nature.
 Thus, on this evening, I savored what felt like perfect summer with signs of life and love surrounding me everywhere. And it was. At that moment and in that place, it was.
 Nonetheless, a dark stain of grief crept into the scene as I remembered the mourning of my friends the same afternoon as they lay to rest their youngest child. My mind replayed the father's words as he choked on his tears: "It doesn't get any worse than this. It isn't right. A father isn't supposed to bury his son." My arms still felt the mother's embrace as she clung to her friends, knowing that we, as mothers, too, had some small sense of her devastating heartache. I listened as she questioned God and herself.
 I thought about a former student who, while planning her wedding, waits anxiously for her fiance to come home from a war zone in Afghanistan. While children here romp in the sunlight, children there cringe at the sounds of gunfire. While men and women here roast marshmallows over a fire pit at dusk, men and women there forage for scraps of food.
 I was reminded again that the ebb and flow of the ocean is the ebb and flow of life. I was reminded of the limitations of our experience and our vision. I was reminded at how little we can control. I was reminded of a sense of the divine mystery in all of life. I was reminded to express gratitude for being part of it.

Generations of women

With Mother's Day on the horizon, a pastor friend of mine from Aiea, Hawaii, asked me if I would write a poem for his congregation. He wanted something he could hand out to all the women in his church that Sunday. He nudged me out of my comfort zone with the thought of poetry, but I agreed to give it a try.
To be perfectly frank, thoughts of not uncommon mother-daughter conflicts came to mind first. This, I thought, is not necessarily the stuff of which Mother's Day poems are made, at least not for my intended audience.
I decided to keep thinking.
As I pondered, I glanced at some lilacs and sweet peas on my kitchen table, which inspired this poem, focusing not just on mothers, but on matriarchal influence through generations.

"Generations of Mothers"

As I inhale the sweet scents of purple
From the simple glass jar on my kitchen table
A makeshift vase full of lavender lilacs and violet sweet peas
Grown and tended lovingly in my friend's garden
I close my eyes only to find myself in my grandmother's kitchen
When breezes scented with lilacs and sweet peas lifted me

Into an Eden of childhood delight
And today I breathe in my grandmother once again --
Her apples pies, always created with enough extra crust
To allow me to fashion tarts, cutting holes into the tops with her sewing thimble,

Her specialty pork roast with cinnamon pears,
Pears blushing in scarlet after their soaking bath in a bowl of red-hots
Her horehound candies highlighted in a crystal dish

Set right in the center of a handmade doily on her end table
Sweet grandmother
Who taught me to play canasta, counting every card
Who watched me scamper through sprinklers on sweltering summer days
Who sat with me on the front-porch swing and shared stories
Who loved me because her only daughter had borne me
Who scrimped and saved to sew my mother's prom dress
Who protected my mother from Pop's periodic binges
Who whispered, "This, too, shall pass"
And turned often to the pages of her well worn Bible

And sang to herself, "Jesus loves me, this I know . . ."
Precious grandmother
Ended her journey after she finished washing windows
Then lay down to rest
Forever
Leaving a legacy of maternal gifts for her only daughter
Her only granddaughter
Her only great-granddaughter
And her only great-great granddaughter

Each co-creating with God the story of her own garden

My Phoebe

I have a new visitor, a winter muse, outside my kitchen window.
The lizards, who prefer basking in the sun and skittering along the patio and backyard walkway, have gone for the winter. (See 9/22/09 post)
In their stead, a Black Phoebe has arrived. It has come for several days in a row.
I relied on the knowledge of my dear friend, Gloria, an avid birder, for identification. When I noticed this new creature hopping around outside, I tried to take its picture. Apparently skittish by nature, or at least wary of humans, she flew away as soon as she heard the door open. When she returned a few minutes later, I jotted down the best description of her that I could -- small, mostly black, white belly and striped wings --and sent it off to Gloria. She responded within less than an hour, making her best guess based on the information I sent her. She also included a link to some photographs, which confirmed her answer to my query.
The bird has aroused my curiosity. I know she has a purpose here, an Advent angel of sorts. I'll keep watching.

Loving October

I am in love with October.
Finally a hint of fall has arrived in Vista, California. This morning's brisk air, last night's few raindrops, today's warm sun and the promise of gold-rimmed clouds at sunset tonight bring me a sense of peace unmatched at any other time of year. Winds blow more gustily this month, so the chimes outside my kitchen window dance more heartily as if they, too, celebrate October. Tonight's full moon will beckon to my sense of romance and mystery, as it always does.
If I decide to take a morning drive up the mountain this month, the smell of Julian apples will scent the breeze, and leaves beginning to turn color will provide a muted version of the vivid splash that East Coast residents enjoy.
This month is a cosmic present from God, a reminder to harvest all that the Earth provides and store it up. For me, since I'm not a farm girl who literally will harvest fruits of the earth, I will fill up on fruits of the spirit. I will draw on this spiritual storehouse during the emotional maelstrom that the holiday season often can become.

Nest of lizards

I'm not quite sure if lizards "nest," but if they do, a family of them has chosen to do so right beside my kitchen door. I notice them regularly as they scamper about, sometimes on the brick path to the backyard, sometimes along the short retaining wall at the foot of my bank.
Right now, as the morning sun begins to break through the fog in its first torch-like efforts toward what promises to be a blistering day, one glances this way as if it knows I am writing about it. It -- I don't know how to determine the gender of lizards, and I'm not much interesting in finding out -- has started doing push-ups, as they often do. This amuses me at the same time that it prompts a whisper of guilt, for it is I who should be doing a fitness regimen.
On a recent day, I noticed a mother and baby -- at least that is how I want to think of the pair, one larger and one smaller -- doing their push-ups in tandem. They provided one of my moments of joy for the day as I observed them. Was it a generational lesson in lizard behavior? Was the baby just doing what comes naturally? Was mother showing a "See what my child can do!" attitude? Were they dancing together to some internal lizard rhythm?
I have begun to regard them as my writing muses. In my imagination, I have thought that a muse would sit on my shoulder and whisper encouragement, wisdom and a stellar command of vocabulary in my ear. For now, however, my inspiration apparently has come in the form of a family of four-legged reptiles.
So be it.

Making music

In the first of my lifetime careers, I made my living by writing. I still make part of my living by writing. Sometimes I allow myself to think I have some talent.
Then I get humble when I recognize real genius, which I experienced today with Handel's Messiah.
Handel composed his choral masterpiece in less than a month. For centuries, musicians and singers around the world have performed it. Today a friend and I participated in a Messiah "sing-along," an annual event in North San Diego County, as it is in many communities around the country. Whenever I have the opportunity to sing it, I do, admittedly relying extensively on the strength of more fully trained altos to create the essence.
As the program began with the first tenor assurance of "Comfort Ye," I felt a sense of peace come over me. It lasted throughout the celebratory "Hallelujah Chorus," which swept me into its joyful Scriptural promise. My friend with whom I shared the experience does not believe the Scriptures. Her spiritual life revolves around pagan beliefs and love of Mother Earth. Still, as a musician herself, she appreciates the music for the sheer emotional magnitude of it and for the fact that it calls to pleasant memory the times she has sung it with her sisters and their late mother.
Hallelujah for this day! Hallelujah for this talent!

Simplify!

While on this Thoreau jag, I need to apply his advice -- "Simplify! Simplify!". Having had a yesterday that spun out, I did not allow myself to fit in my commitment to write every day. I realize that an examination of priorities is in order. I could have skipped my Facebook check-in. I could have skipped a game of Spider Solitaire. I could have cut five minutes off my nap. I could have completely avoided participating in job politics.

I did not run out of time; I mismanaged it.

The God-moment of the spinout day came as I drove home from work. On the freeway heading east on a bright California winter afternoon, I noticed the nearly full moon. To borrow a line from Stephen Crane's Red Badge of Courage, the moon looked "pasted in the sky like a wafer."
Dimmed in the daylight, it provided a promise of brilliance once darkness came. Hope. Promise. Beauty. Simplicity.