After Dark . . .

In today’s photo challenge, the phrase “After Dark” has implications that range from nifty to naughty. What kept running through my mind, however, was part of the chorus from a well-known old hymn . . . “For the darkness shall turn to the dawning . . .” (We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations, H. Ernest Nichols, 1896). Since I didn’t arise at dawn with camera in hand, I pondered other possibilities.

The next part of the hymn verse says, “And the dawning to noonday bright . . .”) I noticed the usual “June gloom” that pervades San Diego County broke up earlier than usual today, promising noonday bright. Noonday bright does not bode well for photographers. Too much glare. Too much color distortion. Too many shadows. Too harsh.

I might have some trouble with this “After Dark” challenge, I thought.

Enter my longtime friend Lynn Hall. (Lynn with two “n’s,” hence always “Lynn Two;” I, of course, am “Lyn One.”) This has been our standing joke for the some 30 years we have known each other.

Lynn is my Earth Mother friend. She gardens with a passion. She meditates with all of creation as she weeds and digs and plants and harvests. She dines with gusto on the fruits and vegetables she grows and readily shares them with others. When I visited her this morning, she offered me fresh strawberries she plucked from her plants as we strolled by. She gave me kale and beets to take home. This generosity is not only part of her character; it is her spirit. It is her way of celebrating her Source and sharing it with others.

As we ambled about the garden, admiring the produce and enjoying the morning sun, unusual for early June, I noticed brilliant splashes of color along one bank. Here her flowers provided panoramic adornment. She told me a story about the multi-hued poppies in one area.

When her brother-in-law Dennis died two years ago, Lynn’s daughter gave poppies to everyone attending the service. Now those seeds have blossomed into a brilliant carpet of yellows, golds and pinks in Lynn’s garden.

“This is Dennis, scattered on the hillside,” she said.

After death, life.

After dark, light.

On my table

When my friend shared a list titled “June Photo Challenge,” it intrigued me. I hopped aboard, and each day already has brought delightful surprises. The process of finding an opportunity to snap a photo that will match a particular topical phrase has provided blessed moments of reflection. A backstory unfolds with each photograph. It doesn’t even matter much if the photos are particularly good ones. The exercise has offered me time to pause and contemplate, time that I might not otherwise have taken for pleasurable pursuits.

Pleasurable, that was, until today.

Today I experienced a bit of dread when I read the Day 3 phrase: “On my table . . .” All I could envision was the public humiliation that would follow once I shared a photograph of my workspace table, which, right now, has piles of books, a journal, two cameras, papers and letters, three framed photographs and a bowl of cat food on it. Amidst all that is my laptop. Ugh!

Then I thought about my dining room table, which sports a 25-year old sculpture called “Circle of Friends”. This had visual possibilities until I remembered that one can find this sculpture in nearly every sidewalk shop in Mexico. I like mine, though, because it connects me with a real circle of spiritual warriors in my life who have similar sculptures in their homes. It also symbolizes the many circles of friends and family who have gathered around my table over the years for food and games and conversation. Additionally, on this particular  morning,  the telltale dust of a few days would never pass the white-glove test, and I can hear my mother’s tsk-tsk-tsk voice in my head.

As has happened each day, however, I found myself serendipitously inspired as I walked into my living room. Why had I had not thought of this particular table before? Made from a kwihi tree, native to the desert-like climate of Aruba, the table has survived numerous moves since my parents bought it in Oranjestad around 1960. My father managed the only resort hotel on Aruba at the time. This table became a major piece of memorabilia from their years on the island. They always said it looked like a couple dancing, if observed from the proper angle.

I’m not sure exactly when it came into my possession, but it has traveled from Aruba to Arizona to South Carolina to several spots in California. It did not come lightly in any sense of the word. It weighs well over 100 pounds because it is, after all, a tree. As I recall, some sibling dispute arose over it, as well. Nonetheless, it has weathered the inevitable complaints of movers who struggled with its bulkiness and weight. It is my living room’s conversation piece.

Today on the table are two books: The View From Diamond Head, Royal Residence to Urban Resort and The Graphic Work of M.C. Escher. My teaching colleague and friend from MidPacific Institute, Allyson, gifted me with the first book upon my departure from my three years on Oahu. It reminds me not only of her generosity and kindness; it helps me recall my view of Leahi (Diamond Head) from my classroom window in Manoa. It brings back memories of my trek to the Honolulu landmark’s summit and my idea that I would make my fortune by opening a booth to sell Tylenol at the trailhead, where weary tourists would pay handsomely for relief from the aches and pains sure to follow their hike.

My choir colleague with the voice of an angel, Lisa, gifted me with the second book after we visited an Escher exhibit in San Diego’s Museum of Art. She was visiting me from her home in Albemarle, North Carolina, on her debut trip to California. We laughed and sang our way through San Diego County from the moment of her first view of the state, eyes agog at seeing palm trees everywhere, to her departure a week later. As it happened, she, an Escher enthusiast, topped off her Balboa Park experience with a tour of his work.

Thank you, whimsical photo challenge, for directing my sight to what’s “on my table”.

Drama fit for a queen

I had written her obituary over and over in my head all morning.  I wanted a fitting tribute to the dignity of her life and to the delight she had brought me. I wanted to heal by means of sharing my grief in words.

Cliché’s came to mind; “curiosity killed the cat,” in particular. Then guilt arose in me like heartburn from yesterday’s spicy guacamole and salsa. I acknowledged to myself it was not mere curiosity that had caused Drama Queen, my sweet, gentle, one-eyed, sable Burmese beauty, to dart outside without my notice. My preoccupation with photographing my backyard birds, a newfound passion in recent months, was also a contributing factor. In a rush to capture just the right shot, I had left the French door opening out to the deck ajar. Although she never before had shown particular interest in leaving the comfort of our recliner or the cushion of our occasional chair, a basic instinct inside her apparently had unleashed. It came suddenly and deliberately, like tide unfurling on the sand.

One day not so long ago, a juvenile house finch lost its way and began pecking at a side window in my meditation room. Drama, as is her custom, basked on the windowsill, soaking up the warmth of late afternoon sun. As the baby bird scampered about, Drama’s ears began to perk. She lifted her body into an alert position. In short, she acted like a cat. I paid little attention, thinking it all rather cute, and went on about my business. Her instinct percolated, however, and it came to a boil yesterday.

I noticed, as I kicked my feet up in the recliner and relaxed to watch some television last evening, my empty lap. The familiar warm body and intense purring was missing. Engrossed in some mindless story, I gave a cursory look about the room and figured she had curled up somewhere else for awhile. She does, after all, have her own bed, pink and soft and fluffy. By the time I realized I had missed most of a program because of drifting in and out of sleep, I looked for her in earnest. The room is not large. She had few places to hide. I had to concede to my innermost self that Drama Queen had left the building.

Drama is a small cat, weighing around eight pounds, if that. She came to me declawed. She has one remaining eye because something filmy and nasty exploded inside her other eye, causing the need for surgical removal. These conditions, and her naiveté with outdoor survival skills, did not bode well. Nor did the fact that a lean, scrappy, hungry-looking coyote has pranced up and down the street in front of my house on several recent days. When I heard frantic screaming signaling a victory kill about an hour later, my stomach turned at the possibilities.

This morning, I sent a note to my friend who had brought Drama Queen to me several years ago, asking for her forgiveness of my neglect. I kept my morning appointments in a daze. One of the appointments involved taking an animal to my veterinarian, who I know all too well because of my menagerie. With dismay, I told the office staff and the doctor that Drama probably would not be coming in again.

Now the story becomes mysterious and miraculous and coincidental and divine.

Half-way through my appointment, John, a staff receptionist, burst into the examination room unannounced. No knock. No, “Excuse me, but . . .” He entered with pure, raw urgency.

“Someone found Drama Queen!” he said. “One of our regular clients called and said, ‘You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I found a one-eyed, declawed, miniature-looking cat at my fence last night. She is sweet and tame and well cared for. She has to have a home somewhere. What should I do?’”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he responded, “but the owner of that cat is right in the other room.” He knew immediately. He had no doubt. Let’s face it; there just is not an abundance of one-eyed, declawed, miniature-looking cats in the neighborhood.

As it happened, Drama had explored her way across the street – the very street that Cassius (Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene 2 “Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look.”) has claimed as his territory – and made her way to the neighbor catty-corner – yup, catty-corner -- from my house. My neighbor took her in, fed her, enjoyed her sweetness, and, in the morning, began making phone calls.

This evening, Drama Queen is stretched out in our recliner. We are listening to dusk’s birdsong. She is purring with an earnestness that makes a sound like chirping. And I? I am grateful.

Call it coincidence, if you will. Call it a series of fortunate events. Or call it sacred.

Old? Not at all

"Doesn't it make you feel old," my friend quipped as she listened to the excitement in my voice while I shared  my newfound interest in feeding, watching and photographing my backyard birds. I say "quipped" because she probably meant her question as a gentle tease, despite her deadpan delivery.  I felt no offense. Her comment does give me pause, however. It gives me pause not to defend, but to reinforce the sheer joy of my discovery.
As the operative word, discovery in itself puts to rest any notion of old. My fervent prayer is is that I might never grow too old to discover and learn.  Indeed, I am blessed, enriched, thrilled to have found this source of education and pleasure. Through a serendipitous series of events (see blog post "Lemon Tree Full of Finches"), I have access to a 3D, panoramic screen, surround sound experience right outside my door every day.
Without this ongoing natural theater, I might not have known a house finch from a goldfinch, or even that there is such a thing as a house finch. I might not have known that the rather plain-sounding name includes birds with vast hues of reds, oranges and yellows on their heads and breasts. I might not have noticed the black-crowned sparrows darting among the dirt and leaves in my yard, or the royal blue scrub jays, who love to bury peanuts. I might not have become so keenly aware of natural camouflage that protects these creatures from predators, nor noticed subtle distinguishing differences in birdsong. In short, I might have missed the opportunity to engage with God's magnificent handiwork.
I'm intrigued and delighted for many other reasons.
First, I grew up as a city girl. Because of my father's chosen career, I lived in hotels my entire life until I left home for boarding school at the age of 15. Surrounded by tall buildings and cement sidewalks, I had only hotel rooftops to provide any kind of distant horizon. Oh, I skipped through fields of dandelions and violets on my walk home from school, and I caught fireflies in friends' backyards, but mostly I roller-skated around the courthouse square and played hopscotch in alleyways. My most memorable lessons in nature came from gathering strange insects, such as praying mantises and walking sticks, for a biology class assignment and digging for fat, juicy earthworms when my father took me fishing at Lake Winola. Now I can make up for the deprivation of grass beneath my feet and trees swaying in the breeze.
In addition, two influential people in my life enjoyed bird-watching. My Aunt Ruth, whose dimpled smile and sparkling eyes made it seem as if she lived in perpetual pleasure, was well known for the hours she spent sitting by her kitchen window watching cardinals at play.  Despite the fact that a shot of Southern Comfort in her iced tea contributed to her bliss, she liked nothing more than feeding her precious red birds. The cardinal became her signature. For this reason, I purchased a glass birdbath with a cardinal etched into it and placed it on my deck as part of my new bird haven. I remember Aunt Ruth every day.
My father, who never had an opportunity to enjoy a back yard during his working years, took to bird-watching in his retirement. When he and my mother purchased their first home in more than 40 years of marriage, they made sure it had a large back yard. Dad, replete with binoculars and bird books, pursued his new hobby with passion. Maybe I come by this genetically.
Finally, I appreciate the gift to my spirit.  My heart quickens when I see the first birds of the day appear. A sense of serenity comes over me as I watch and listen each morning. I smile, and with two cameras at the ready, I eagerly look to see what will unfold.
When my friend asked me her question, I directed her vision toward a huge pepper tree in my back yard. It virtually vibrated with life as finches and sparrows, and perhaps a red-winged blackbird or two, danced through the branches. I would lay odds that she did not feel old.

Tree of promise

  If ever a woman bespoke her name, Orchid McQueen did. She radiated regal beauty. She displayed a gentle tenderness and vulnerability while at the same time exhibiting an aura of confidence and capability. Her strength of character touched everyone who knew her, and her kindness and generosity reached countless individuals who never even met her. In the 1970's, on the cusp of emerging civil rights, she, a black female, played the role of God in a church production. Her bold voice rang from the podium as she spoke passages of Scripture, and her demeanor generated a perfect blend of pride and humility. Even those who may have squirmed at the thought of a black female God respected the none too subtle implications of her role.
   Little wonder, then, that shock waves of grief enveloped the community that knew and loved her when a sudden heart attack claimed her in her prime. She left behind a sweet-tempered, distraught husband and two teen-aged children who, shaken and frightened and angry, tried desperately to grasp onto courage in the face of despair. As a way of paying tribute, as a way of memorializing her spirit for future generations, her congregation planted a beautiful orchid tree in the church courtyard. Its delicate blossoms served as reminders of Orchid's inner  beauty, which touched and inspired others. Its life cycle annually promised new beginnings following periods of barrenness.
   When the church property was sold to make way for redevelopment, a Lowe's hardware store, with its accompanying yards and yards of cement parking lot, took place of the sanctuary that had served hundreds of families for decades. The orchid trees became part of the demolition.
   It was then that I decided to plant orchid trees of my own. They do not disappoint. Every spring the shabby pods and drab branches give way to green leaves and precious pink symbols of hope. They symbolize not only Orchid's life, but the essence of all that is miraculous. The trees stand amidst an entire garden of emerging color. African daisies, pyrancantha, camellias, and other flowers I cannot name because I grew up on city streets herald the promise of spring. Their intricate handiwork convinces me of God. I feel embraced by boundless love and energy and the immortality of my friend.

Gold Rush

First, just one appeared.
I rubbed my still sleepy eyes and looked again.  Indeed, I did see a small bird clinging to the feeder full of thistle hanging from a pole near my deck.  I thought I noticed a pale yellow breast beneath black and white wings. Could it be? I turned my back for just a moment to grab my camera. I looked again. Yes, my eyes had not deceived me.
Then there were three.
Two were distinctly bright yellow. Now I had no doubt. I grinned broadly. The long-awaited goldfinches had come. They had discovered the thistle, just as the experts had sworn they would. Through some magical communication system, word had spread.
Then there were six.
Even though I had learned that attracting backyard birds requires patience ("Lemon Tree Full of Finches" posted 12.30.12), I still had convinced myself that the promised goldfinches would not come. I had hung a cylinder of special food just for them, and nearly a month later, it remained virtually untouched.
Meanwhile, I had been delighted by the antics of house finches, white-crowned sparrows and an occasional scrub jay. Every so often one different bird or another had come by to investigate the buffet I have offered, but as a rookie, I had not yet identified them. Even a rookie, however, can identify a goldfinch, and I had not seen any.
Until today.
Today I learned once again that patience will pay off. Today I was paid in a bonanza of gold. I have struck it rich.
They behaved just as I had been told to expect. Natural acrobats, they sometimes hang upside down. They chatter and sing.  They seem quite neighborly with the house finches, even allowing them to sample the thistle if they so desire. To paraphrase Henry David Thoreau, they dance to the beat of their own drum. They travel in large flocks, which, according to those in the know, will come and go. They tire of one neighborhood and move on to another and then back again. I hope they don't tire of this neighborhood anytime soon.

My Inaugural Day Walk

   As Barack Obama formally began his second term as President of the United States today, time seemed to stop temporarily for the morning's at once solemn and joyous occasion. The nation's leaders set aside ugly politics and petty bickering to share, along with thousands of onlookers crowding the Capitol Mall,  the Obama family's celebratory moment as he took his oath of office. Using the historically significant Bible belonging to civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr., Obama spoke his promise to preserve, protect and defend the U.S. Constitution  as his wife and daughters stood by his side. Later in another proud and historic tradition, Obama and his stunning wife, First Lady Michelle Obama, stepped out of the vehicle in which they rode in the Inaugural Parade and walked along Pennsylvania Avenue on a crisp, bright afternoon in Washington, D.C. I thrilled at watching the nationally televised broadcast of all the pomp and circumstance, grateful and excited and proud to take part in my own way from so far away.
  I continued to savor the significance as I took my own Inaugural Day walk along the sea wall in Carlsbad, California, 12 short miles from where I live. As I strode along the familiar path I often take to exercise my dogs, I made a conscious effort to notice my surroundings.
  I noticed children playing in the sand, couples holding hands and whispering to one another, athletes running and biking, surfers,  occasional musicians, sun worshippers, readers, gazers at waves and an endless horizon. I noticed bees buzzing through purple statice, gulls scavenging for food scraps and pelicans swooping along the shoreline. Here a man sat at a cement bench while he ate a fast-food meal and checked his cell phone. There some technicians from a local electronics company leaned against their truck as they took a cigarette break along the oceanfront. Here a mother pushed her twin babies along the sidewalk in their stroller. There a child on a scooter whizzed through the pedestrian traffic, despite the "no skateboards, roller blades or scooters" signs posted along the way.
  This is the Carlsbad Inauguration Day Parade. This is part of the America over which Obama presides. This is a part of the America our soldiers fight to protect. This is part of the America that allows the  driver of a vehicle freedom to proclaim in signs painted all over the car "USA BECOMING A SOCIETY OF ENTITLED" and "COLLEGE IS BIG BUSINESS WASTE OF MONEY."
  All of it, even in its magnificence, reminds me of the small window through which I see the world. While a child plays in the sand here, another child in a distant land cowers from debris crashing around him after a bomb explodes nearby. While some delight in falling in love, others despair in the bitterness of divorce. While a runner sprints to prepare for a marathon, a wounded soldier learns to walk on a prosthetic leg. While a newborn enters the world, an elder passes into another realm. While someone prays, another blasphemes. While sun shines, snow falls. It is beyond my comprehension.
  And so, in my minute portion of life on this planet, I do solemnly swear to uphold and preserve the life and wellbeing of that which I encounter each day.

Tomorrow comes

  I had experienced the magnificent stage production of "Les Miserables" in three different venues over several years. I had fallen in love with its divine music. I had marveled at the masterful energy of those who collaborated to create the modern score based on Victor Hugo's 1862 novel.  I had recognized the timelessness of Hugo's masterpiece of social injustice, which he set in the backdrop of the bloody and daring French Revolution. I had conversed with a local actress who had been cast in the role of Fantine on Broadway about the emotional demands of performing show after show after show. I had wept at the sheer magnificence of the story's portrayal of abuse, despair, hope, forgiveness and redemption.

 New Year's Day sunset

  Thus I should have been prepared for the new film starring Hugh Jackman as protagonist Jean Valjean. I should have been prepared for the grip upon my heart as the story touched upon the whole of human experience -- family, love, friendship, war, poverty, rage, desperation, fear, joy, faith and hope.
  I was not.
  As the drama unfolded on screen, magnifying the story's passions hundredfold when cameras focused on close-ups of the characters, I lost myself in raw emotion. As Jackman sang "Bring Him Home," I  thought of my son who had just departed from spending time with me at his childhood home and was en route to his adult home on another continent. I thought of the value of abiding friendships as Eddie Redmayne, in the role of Marius, sang "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables."  I thought of the joy of falling in love and wretched pain of love lost as Anne Hathaway, portraying Fantine, sang "I Dreamed a Dream." I thought of today's social issues and friends who fight for justice as the ensemble sang "One Day More." And I thought of my need, our universal need, for the essential truths of forgiveness, faith and hope during the finale, which assures us that "tomorrow comes".
  While the sun sets on this New Year's Day, I feel peace in the finale's promise that "even the darkest nights will end and the sun will rise."  Earlier, this day of traditional reflection and hopeful resolve took a sudden turn. This customary day of new beginnings brought news of drastic endings. A family member had died in the night as the result of a car striking her in a tragic accident. A professional colleague and friend  had passed unexpectedly and quickly from this life  early this morning as his weakened body refused to rally from flu-like symptoms. As the news spread, those of us close to them not only reacted in shock and grief, but turned to one another in support. We know that "love is everlasting" and "to love another person is to see the face of God." We know, in the golden glow of dusk, tomorrow comes with hope and casts away the unknowns and doubts of today.
  Hugo and the lyricists had it right.

Lemon tree full of finches

Five perch on feeder while two wait in lemon tree

  My lemon tree flutters and shimmers with life these days. House finches have discovered the nearby feeder, and they have spread the word. As they dart by the dozens from feeder to tree and back, they squawk and wrestle and chatter with delight. At least, I hope it's delight. Their friendly rivalry for a perch seems harmless enough; meanwhile, they entertain me, a rookie backyard bird watcher.
  This began a few months ago with my uninformed purchase of a wire mesh feeder at a local pet store. I noticed it when I had gone to buy dog food. Thinking about the rural area in which I live and the deck just outside my favorite room, I decided that attracting birds might provide a pleasant pastime. I also purchased random seed, came home, filled the cylinder and hung it on a pole where I could see it easily from my room. No birds. For weeks, no birds.
  When I mentioned this to one of my bird-watching friends, she said I had put the wrong food for the kind of feeder I had. "Buy thistle," she said. "The birds can't get to the seeds you bought. The mesh is too fine. You need thistle." So I bought thistle. No birds. For weeks, no birds.
  "Be patient," my friend said. "They have to find it. Once they find it, they will keep coming."
   How hard is it, I'm thinking. It's the only feeder out there.
  "Try sprinkling some on the ground to see what happens," she said.
  I sprinkled. No birds. For weeks, no birds.
 Then I went to visit another friend for help on an entirely different project. While there, she showed me her backyard, which overlooks a canyon near the coast. She had several different feeders and birdhouses. Birds swooped about and twittered happily. When I asked her secret, she sent me to a nearby store that specializes in attracting backyard birds. A sizable chunk of change later, I came home with some wild bird education, two new feeders and poles on which to hang them.
  Whether coincidental or by design, a few days later birds began to peck at the thistle on the ground where I had placed my original feeder. As if on cue, the next day a few more showed up on the new feeders filled with seed. I had no idea what kinds of birds they were, so I grabbed my camera and started snapping pictures. I e-mailed them to my informed friends, who identified them as white-crowned sparrows and house finches. Soon some mourning doves joined the group.
  Apparently they had "found" the feeders.
 I became a bit giddy about this avian food frenzy. I began to arise at daybreak to see what might be happening each morning. I marveled at the different shades of color in the male finches. I smiled at the sparrows who occasionally hopped up onto the deck. I paid close attention to see if I could discover new visitors.
   Some might accuse me of developing not just a new interest, but an obsession. I have shared multitudes of photos, and I have increased the number of feeders from three to four. I have varied the food so that a diversity of birds might get in on the action. The latest is suet, which should attract wrens and woodpeckers.
   At the advice of my newfound friends at the wild bird store, who are genuinely knowledgeable but also probably have little objection to my wallet, I have added the element of water. I found a lovely glass birdbath with a brilliant cardinal embossed in the bowl.
  The cardinal reminds me of my dear Aunt Ruth, who loved to gaze at her cherished cardinals as they visited her prize-winning garden in Toledo, Ohio. She called them "redbirds" and fed them sunflower seeds from a table in her backyard. She loved to sit by her kitchen window while sipping iced tea and watch their antics. As an adult, I learned that she often spiked her iced tea with Southern Comfort, which explains why she usually had a sweet smile on her face. I'm not likely to see actual cardinals here in Southern California, so I will enjoy this replica to remind me of my familial connections.
  Now I must go to bed. I have an early morning date.

Transcendence

  In a way, it somehow feels wrong to think that God already has begun to create good out of yesterday's chaos in Newtown, Connecticut. It somehow feels insensitive to even entertain the notion that good can emerge from something so horrific, so unspeakably cruel, as the mass shooting of 20 elementary school children and the six heroic adults who gave their lives in an attempt to protect precious young lives. Yet the efforts and expertise of first responders began to reveal the nobler side of humanity immediately, even as we watched and listened in horror as the outrageous evil unfolded.
  If nothing else, the tragedy has drawn us together. In many cases, it has brought us to our knees in prayer. It has caused us to hug our loved ones more often and to say "I love you" and "thank you".  It has turned our hearts to compassion and our minds to seeking solutions. It has leveled our humanity as we watch our leaders brush away their tears and distraught parents cling to one another in shock.
  Thus I unwittingly have given myself permission today to feel hope. It percolated within me as I listened to my church choir rehearsing the "Gloria" cantatas composed by Antonio Vivaldi and John Rutter. As the choir's rich vocal tones swelled and receded with the music's passion, as kettle drums reverberated throughout the sanctuary, as brass and strings echoed and enhanced the joyful sound, music transcended the despair we all feel. It lifted my spirit to a holy place as praise and prayer expressed in words and notes spanning centuries surrounded me.
  As I observed the individual choir members, I began to reflect on my association with them. Some have been my friends and acquaintances for more than 30 years. Some of us reared our children together. Some of us traveled together to Germany, Switzerland and Austria in 1990 to share the experience of a choral concert tour. Some I know only by name. Some I do not know even that. Some of them are unemployed. At least one is experiencing a heartbreaking marital crisis, while another is glowing with the joy and anticipation of her upcoming wedding. One has recently celebrated the anniversary of more than 60 years of marriage. Some are recovering from serious health issues. Some are caring for ailing family members, and some are struggling with issues associated with aging. Their experiences represent a microcosm of human experience everywhere. Still, in this moment, they have embraced the gift of music together. Their voices blend in hauntingly yet soothingly beautiful chants and then reach in vibrant crescendoes of "gloria" and "amen". They invoke a celebration of creation and beauty even in the midst of our national agony.
  Tonight, as I reach for the words to express my thoughts, I listen to a member of The Tenors, a popular and talented quartet,  sing "Bring Him Home" from the musical version of "Les Miserables," a masterpiece of grace and mercy. And now all four members of the group,  joined by female vocalist Natalie Grant, are losing themselves in their rendition of "Amazing Grace." This is creation. This is hope.
  If we can notice moments of grace, soak it up, infuse ourselves with it, hope will prevail. We can co-create. We can heal.

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.