December Morning...

December begins with festivity. Main Street is decorated with tiny bright multi-colored lights. The shops are decorated in pine and garland. The large tree in the center of town has been topped with a silver star. Yesterday, I went shopping for holiday cards, and there was a chorus of carolers. It was a scene right out of Dickens.

The merchants were beaming with holiday cheer. People meandered, despite the winter cold, gazing through shop windows specially decorated in holiday themes. Gold reindeer, miniature trains, frosted glass, and fur wrapped porcelain dolls. The smell of roasted chestnuts was in the air.

What is it about this time of year that brings out the very best in our human nature, and would that it could last year round!

The sun is shining today, though all remain huddled against the bitter wind. December also represents year's end. We are living through difficult economic times. Some shops are closed, never to be re-opened. Boarded up stalls sober those who pass by.

Even in our little town, foreclosed houses dot the landscape. Public services have been cut, even further. Pantries empty, people go hungry. The homeless live in makeshift camps in the deep woods.

Who are these homeless? Please, place all caricatures of rail-riding hobos out of your mind. The face of homelessness has now become that of families. Entire families in tent cities, eating soup from cans, washing tin plates by creek water. This too brings to mind images of the Victorian era. A great and ever growing impenetrable chasm between the poor, and the diminished wealthy.

Dear reader, for this entire year, I painted the portrait of an enchanted town. In so many ways we were safe, protected from the plagues of big city strife. But, at wonder's end, we have become one with the rest of the country. The mists of enchantment that surround our evergreen hills have thinned.

Time has finally made its way through our protective veil. If quaint little towns, such as this, should disappear throughout the land, we would lose something precious, treasures from our shared and distant past.

Modernity for all its advances and technology is no more beautiful, idyllic, or content with itself than the sepia-toned images in our nation's lost and forgotten photographs.

Perhaps, this is one of the reasons God chose this as my place of exile. Perhaps, I was meant to search through steam-trunks in web-covered attics for the specific purpose of finding old postcards of grinning faces, neighbor helping neighbor, a kinder, gentler age. Perhaps, I was meant to remind us all of our humanity. If we were once compassionate, we can be so once again. If we were once able to be present to one another, we can be present yet again.

If we were once content with simpler pleasures, then perhaps we can learn to be so again.

The bell tower tolls. The echoing sound from the center of town can be heard even from where I sit, so far removed at the edge of the historic cemetery.

There was a time, when during great suffering and hardship, we all came together as a nation, when the generous and loving spirit of Main Street, U.S.A. was not the anomaly but the norm.

In this season of lights, I wish you all happy holidays, and a brighter and better New Year!

Pax, Shalom, Namaste.

Thanks-Giving

November, in all its sweetness, has arrived, gently guiding us to our better nature, in which sharing and giving of ourselves lights the way over the river, and through the woods, to that heartfelt place called Community.

At the market, my nurse and I surprised each other by the pumpkins, then again, by the apples, then again by the bread. We embraced each time, as if for the first time, big bear-hugs, with adoration and joy.

During this holiday season, we celebrate the abundance of the harvest, sitting and praying together for a communal meal.

We are not alone, for no one is ever less alone than one who is alone with God. In this month, we begin to honor and celebrate our inter-connectedness. The holiday season lasts well into the New Year. Themes of family, and fellowship glow in significance.

Life on Main Street is alive with hope-filled anticipation and excitement. Shop windows are decorated in festive ribbons, and autumnal wreaths.

Merchants come out to the paved sidewalk and greet customers, and those passing by, with laughter, and appreciation. And, yes, with warm embraces, and tightly-held hugs!

So, dear reader, I, as town crier, do beseech thee, to open purse, and give freely, generously of coin. Support our local merchants who sacrifice so much of themselves year round for the life of our town.

And, for all of you who live far and away, a request kindly to remember cherished ones.

At table, now, you my most bosom companion and kindred spirit, are with me, even as I sip my chamomile tea, and bite into the freshly baked pumpkin bread.

With all my love!

Your little brother.

In Which the Librarian Led the Way

The nearest local library is an hour bus ride away. I can't always make the long trek, so my local librarian and I have developed a correspondence. For example, I might write, "Dear Nancy Drew, I need you on the case again. I am searching for a rare or hard to find book. Please help."

She in turn, and her first name really is Nancy, might respond, "Am doing my best to keep up with your eclectic taste in books. The search continues!"

"Dear Nancy, I have no doubt, super sleuth will strike again."

"Dear Secret Squirrel, your books have arrived via the Library of Congress. How will I recognize you when you come in? I'll be dressed as a super hero."

My dearest reader, you should be aware that the title of Super Hero comes with a pair of green tights and a cape! When was the last time your local librarian took so much trouble to help you? Our local library may be small, but our library staff truly cares. Krystal, the other front desk clerk, was nominated best local librarian! She often breaks out in spontaneous song and dance numbers in homage to Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland movies. Yes, my local librarians make me smile, and laugh with joy, but more importantly, they inspire all of us to be heroes in our daily lives.

"Reading is the key." Nancy reminds me, glistening in Jerusalem jewelry. She is a grand mother. When I was young, grandmothers wore shawls and walked with canes. Nancy is the new breed of grandmother, young, fit, full of verve and vigour. She owns a cape and Wonder Woman tights, and she is not afraid to use them, not if they will help her in her quest to help the citizens of our town find the books they seek.

I live in a faraway land of colorful characters, but basically they are good at heart. They seem to genuinely relish the idea of being of service to one another. Always, after making the long trip to the library, I hike thirty minutes to our market. In our quaint community, merchants know all the town folk by first name. The market clerks provide the most excellent customer service. I enjoy looking at the rows of fresh produce. But, mostly, as time is paced slowly here, customers and staff alike meander, visiting with one another, yes, and we do speak of "cabbages and kings, and ceiling wax, and things." Quite literally.

Hugs all around, I board the Whistle-Stop express and head for home.

God has a way of making crooked paths straight. We are led out of our desert places, into lands of promise. It may take us a while, in our all too human endeavor, but eventually, if we remain open and loving, we find a way.

We cannot repay what we have never stolen. But, in time, character shows through in our actions towards one another. Truth is made manifest. The exiled find a place of solace. And, all is good with the world. Amen.

Autumn

The leaves have changed color, and are falling, gently. Time passes. Seasons change. Green becomes yellow. Gold becomes orange. Colors fade away, slowly. But, nature is merciful. We are given time to remember each subtle hue.

Life on Main Street is all a stir as the Apple Hill season is under way. Tourists come from miles away for all things apple; pies, crisps, doughnuts, caramel covered, chocolate covered. Apple delight!

The Local farmers benefit greatly from the tourist dollars. Main Street merchants smile as they work tirelessly, selflessly on behalf of the life of a town.

Ode to farmers! Ode to merchants! Ode to Main Street U. S. A.! Our country is blessed with many such little, out of the way towns. They exist. They matter. They contribute to the greater good.

Big cities are beautiful and necessary, bastions of culture and industry.

What does the diminutive Main Street offer the world? Perhaps a glimpse into our collective past, reminders of what and who we were, once upon a time?

I sit underneath the wooden shingle of a tea shop, sipping egg drop soup. People in their best attire fill their baskets. Laughter on the pavement competes with roaring engines in the street. I feel like calling out to the drivers in their fuel efficient cars. "Pause a while. Visit with us in quiet fellowship." David Foster Wallace defined compassion as the choices we make as adults. Let us strive for a compassionate life, with kindness, and empathy. As I place myself in your shoes, I am less likely to judge you, or to wish to convert you to my ego-centric way of thinking. In your shoes, I understand your human effort, and your ineffable worth as a physical and spiritual being.

My soup is getting cold. I finish it, to the last drop. I savor the sweetness at the bottom of the porcelain bowl.

Dearest reader, I celebrate you, and all that you are, and all that you have the potential to be. Yet, even as I celebrate you, I celebrate me. We each working together, in our own way, compliment the other, until the line that divides us dissolves, autumn into winter, then into spring.

A Love Letter...

When the mailman falls asleep in the late sunny afternoon, does he dream, I wonder, of letters gone astray, or of packages yet to arrive?

"I dream of fish!" He exclaimed. "I like to eat them!"

Duly chastened for disturbing his well deserved rest, I continue on my way towards Main Street. The Mercantile draws me in. I enter through the looking-glass, back through time. The darkened wood of the floor boards are original to the 1869 structure. The mercantile as it is now has been family run and operated since 1916. Mother and her adult children greet customers at the door with blessings of joy.

Fenton glass, naturally scented candles, newspapers from around the country, magazines, stuffed animals, and dolls, miniature figurines, art supplies, jewelry, stationery, even homemade popcorn, and old-fashioned candy fill the store. One can spend hours just browsing, or is it that time passes slowly within the mercantile? I purchase scented tea-lights, ordered special just for me. I thank Mother, son, and daughter, bid them farewell, and take my leave.

"Wait!" The mother calls out. "Try these." She offers me a package of hard caramels, made with real cream and sugar. "The challenge is to allow them to melt. Resist the temptation to bite down. Enjoy!" She smiles as she waves.

Caramel in my mouth, I continue walking down Main Street. I peer through windows. The sun continues to shine brightly. The Wise Women from the used bookstore come out and surround me in a circle. They sing the birthday song, as Carolyn (the Wise Woman with darkened hair) sways her hips, and flails her perfumed locks, bathing me in lavender scent. "We have a gift for you!" They chant in unison as if a choir. I open my gifts, a card, a book. I thank them profusely. They remembered my birthday, and I keep walking as if in dream-state, amazed.

Judy, from the flower stall calls out next. "I have a gift for you too!" She tenderly wraps a green bamboo shoot, and a bud vase, and places them in a brown bag. "Are you going straight home?" She asks. "Yes." I answer in a whisper. "Good. Don't over water. And, not to worry if you do. We always carry fresh bamboo."

Dazzled by light, and love, I float the rest of the way home. My birthday was on October 4th, the feast day of a young man from Assisi who left comfort and society to more closely follow God. Recently, I heard a lecture given by Rabbi Mark Golub on the subject of Moses and the burning bush. The Rabbi stated that there are burning bushes all around us, every day. We have only to remain open, and follow the light. How many of us could be like that man from Assisi, or like Moses, having once experienced the personal, forever changed, moving forward towards God, never looking back?

I arrived in this small town, in the cold, in the rain, no possessions other than a black knapsack. Saying "Yes" to God, we never know where that "Yes" will lead. Leaving everything we know, or thought we knew, to make our way toward a burning bush, we go through fire and water, becoming strangers in a strange land. Encounters with burning bushes in the world change us. But, if we remain open, and loving, the change need not be for harm, but for our ultimate good. We remain loving, and love returns to us a hundredfold.

Caramels, candles, cards, and books, and life-giving green; providential gifts, which we are encouraged to accept in humility and gratitude.

Thank you, dear reader, for continuing to walk with me on this journey to places unknown. The soul is an uncharted landscape, perhaps best navigated through heart and hope, but never alone. We are One.

Sonatina...

I

The sun is bright, and hot, today as I walk. The leaves on some of the trees have only just begun to change color. A lazy breeze blows ever so slightly.

A mother and daughter, new to the area, stop by the bench on which I sit, and make polite conversation. The daughter is mesmerized by the intricate pattern of a pine cone. Having asked for directions, the mother takes her child by hand and begins the walk down the lane. I wave good-bye and wish them well. They moved from the big city with cement sidewalks and mass transportation to life here in the foothills---dirt roads and a Whistle-stop Express that does not run at week's end. As I watch mother and daughter struggle through the blistering heat, a prayer for their well-being makes itself heard in my head. Mother and daughter fade into the distance; light of the sun in my eyes.

II

Bottled water refreshes me. I drink, then continue my walk. I take advantage of available pockets of shade, as I make my own way down the lane to Main Street. The antique-fare dealers pack up their treasures of forgotten memories, and found lives. Having no money, I navigate the honeycomb of activity and seek out the calm at the top of the hill. It looks over the entire town. Trees as far as the eye can see, dappled with the occasional small house amidst the vast green. Six cars pass by in a row. Too much traffic for me. Increased sense of purpose lengthens my stride. Further up the hill, towards quiet, I glide. I've often imagined returning home to the big city. But, Thomas Wolfe had the definitive last word on that. And, he was right.

III

Canopy of branches creates hallowed space; a sacred hallway through arches of trees. I follow as I am led. Further up, further up, I am Called. The sound of rustling leaves on the ground, background accompaniment, as I travel the woven tapestry of dream-scape. I spy with my eye an acorn by my sandaled-foot. Holding the acorn, turning it round in my hand, I realize I have found a true treasure. Priceless, though it was free. Acorn in my shirt pocket, I continue up the hill, to see what I shall see.

IV

To my left, wild oleander towers overhead. Its white blossoms wilt, but manage to hold on, and remain. "Beware the poison oak!" A neighbor calls out, through open windows. Form just barely discernible through yellow lace. Once again, I stop to drink water, then make my way home, over hill, and through the woods. With full force, I cast the acorn afar into the field of wheat and grass. Perhaps, it will take root, and grow into a mighty warrior. I roar as I run!

Atonement...

There was once a weed growing in the wild. I decided it needed to be moved into a container, so that it could properly adorn the outside of the tool shed I was living in at the time. But, by changing its natural state, imposing my will on it, I ended up killing the wildflower, instead of allowing it to bloom where and how it was planted. I killed a living thing that had been thriving.

Pride made me do it, as I felt I knew best how to fix that plant. I wasn't able to accept it as it was, growing as it had been called and chosen to grow. It was perfectly content as a weed, but I insisted on making it something else, something more, not for its own benefit, but only so I could brag. "Look, everyone! Look, what I accomplished! I fixed that weed!" I played God, and only proved myself to be a false gardener. In God's garden, all flowers belong, just as they are, each its own unique creation.

So, how shall I atone for my sin? Am I deserving of an easy fast? I destroyed one of God's works of art. A flower in the wild it may have been, but did I help it grow stronger? Did I raise it up when it was weak? Did I nurture it? Did I help it to heal where it had been bruised? Did I love it? Was my love authentic?

A false gardener is the worst kind of hypocrite, claiming ownership for something not one's own. It is God's garden! And the best gardeners recognize this truth.

So, how shall I atone for my sin? No, amount of fasting, on my part, will bring the flower I killed, out of pride, back to its former glory, back to life.

God had asked that I work as a gardener, and I failed. I am sorry. But, though the lesson was painful, I did learn. Now, I wish to do better.

So, how shall I atone? A gardener was I chosen to be, and a gardener I shall remain. But, I have learned the best human gardeners know how to stay out of the way. I tried to re-plant something I only saw as a weed, and I failed. Knowing better, I shall attempt in my actions to do better.

Now, I plant seeds of love. I embrace all in my path, as God made them. No longer do I desire to make wildflowers out of weeds. The compassionate heart is the new watering can. The world as it is; the new green earth. And, ever so gently, empathy has become the new farmer's almanac. Amen.

Memorial...

"Mijn Platte Land, Mijn Vlaanderland!"

Even in the Woodland, we remember innocence lost. In the historic cemetery, outside my living room window, I walk. Tulips, like silent sentinels, watch over graves of those long gone. On that September 11, images of unimaginable horror and death pummeled us over the air waves. Shock gave way to raw emotion. Even in the forest, the very trees joined in the communal primal scream! It seemed a Hell of fire and blood engulfed us in darkness.

But even in the darkness, there was Light. There were acts of angelic heroism, neighborly love, and random acts of mercy and kindness. Strangers helping strangers. Entire communities coming together to pray. or merely to be present to one another. On the Island of Newfoundland, in a moment in time, when time itself seemed to be at its biblical end, the ancient bond of a shared humanity prevailed, citizens of Newfoundland embraced all those stranded in planes, not as Canadians helping those from the U.S. and other nations, but as brothers and sisters embracing family!

In the face of pure Evil, and devastating uncertainty, Mercy and Unity prevailed.

As I write these words, I stumble and falter. Uncontrollable tears fall on the page. But, these tears are not to be wiped away as some sort of encumbrance. These tears are my gentle rain. Yes, we must always remember! Our lives are intertwined, inter-connected. Your pain is my pain. Your joy is my joy. In honoring the lives and sacrifice of others, we honor all life and sacrifice.

The weeping willow by the cemetery gate is old, so old in fact, that it makes me feel young again. Life is pure gift. I run out of the cemetery for the sheer exhilaration of running. The sprint home forces intake of breath. My chest expands as my lungs send the message to my brain to take in more air. I run! I remember those who died, needlessly, tragically, painfully. I run! I will never forget.

We must always remember. We must, and we will. As we honor life, as we help those in need, as we treat each other with the dignity and respect with which we ourselves wish to be treated, we remember.

I am home now. The sun is shining. The sky is a baby-blue. The trees are green. There is a soft breeze. We are Home. We are One. And, we are at our collective best, when we are Love.

Pax, Shalom, Namaste.

Pine Scent...

In the early hours of the morning, it rained lightly, just enough to leave the Earth feeling refreshed and cleansed. In the trees, there are bluebirds, and finches caring for their young, protectively, as the red hawks ride the currents in the sky.

Today's walk is that of solitude and peace. The gentle sounds of Nature are healing in note. Life is gift. I walk quietly, gently placing my sandal covered feet, one in front of the other. I see neighbors from the lane, strolling with the use of walker or cane. I nod my head, and smile.

The hill urges me upward. From the top, I see a panoramic vista, tree-covered hills, and green as far as the sun. I stand in stillness, watching. Breathing in. Breathing out. The feral cats roll in the grass. I continue walking.

Sometimes, I feel as if I can almost smell the Sea. People say it is the Delta Breeze that brings in the smell of the open water. I breathe in, and remember wild, untamed waves.

One of my neighbors is waving at me from across the way. I start back down the hill toward her. She is in her nineties. Recently, she was in hospital. Her son, anguished, did all he could to save her. The best doctors, the best medical care. No expense was spared. He even moved her to a convalescent home. But, she was miserable, as she missed her friends on the lane. Reluctantly, her son moved her back. Surrounded by familiar people and landscape, she is once again thriving. So, when she waved at me, I made my way as quickly as I could to her side. She sat in the shade on her walker's built in seat. I sat in the sunlight, on the grass, looking up into her eyes as she spoke of her childhood Chicago, and her beloved husband who died after the war.

Her voice was that of one, who preparing for a long voyage, stops long enough to impart last minute wisdom. I listened, transfixed.

"Would you like to go to Chicago?" I asked. "Oh, no. I can't travel." She said.

"We could go by train. And you could show me Chicago." I said. "Now, that's a city!" She said cheerfully. "Would you like to go back, just for a visit. I would go with you." I repeated, sincerely.

She touched the upper part of my hand, tentatively, timidly, lovingly.

"Would you like to go to Chicago?" She asked. "Only with you." I said.

We sat listening to birds calling out to one another. My neighbor's breathing became labored. "Should we return home?" I asked, knowing she relied on her oxygen tank to ease the struggle in her lungs. We walked down the lane to her door. "Look!" She pointed to a poster of the Windy City skyline. "My eldest son has a matching photograph hanging by his door in his fancy downtown Chicago apartment."

"So, when you both look at it, you are connected." I said. "Yea, something like that, kid." She patted my head, and ruffled my hair. "Go get a haircut!" She laughed. We both said good-bye, as I continued walking.

In all fairness, dear reader, my hair has grown quite long and grey. And, I do need a haircut. I walked into the Old Wood forest, and smiled.

The Loving Family

In the post, I received an invitation. It was a beautiful card from my friend who lives in the far away land of the Eastern shore. My friend is a wife, mother, and cosmopolitan woman, urbane, witty, upwardly mobile, and fashionably accomplished. Knowing how I cherish news from the greater world, my good friend sends me notes, and letters, and photos.

The correspondence I receive from her is something I treasure, and look forward to each day. Through her written words, and photographs, she makes me feel included as part of her family. I admire her so very much. She has three children, and loves them all equally. But, on this day, Saturday, her son celebrated his Bar Mitzvah. She has every right to be extra proud of him today. On this day, her little thirteen year old boy became a man, in the eyes of God and community.

In essence, her little boy, now a man, has accepted the mantle, honor and responsibility of adulthood. In front of extended family and friends, her son said, "Yes, God."

I remember when I celebrated my Confirmation. I, too, was asked to stand before my community, my tribe, and claim my Rite of Passage into adulthood. I, too, was asked to say, "Yes", to God.

It is an adult question that requires an adult response. My friend's son, possessed the wisdom and maturity to stand, and rise to the occasion. Yes, my friend has every right to be proud of her son, and all that he was able to accomplish.

For my part, I am proud of my friend, and the job she did as mother.

My friend lives in a big city. While I live in a tiny rural town. We are city mouse, and country mouse. We live different lives. But, what keeps us connected?

All people are different from each other. Our differences set us apart in unique and wondrous ways. Despite these outward differences, that which we have in common is infinitely more powerful, infinitely more beautiful.

Each of us, whether city mouse, or country mouse, rich or poor, healthy or physically challenged, is called upon at some specific moment or another, to stand, rise, and proclaim before God and community, "Yes!"

Among other things, we share a bond of love and faith. It is this bond that unites us, making us a vast human family.

Pax, Shalom, Namaste.

Butterflies are free...

In the blistering heat, the inside of the post office is cool and refreshing. Lark and David, behind the counter, help all of us who have gathered in the quiet. Long-haired Lark, the elven queen, offers to search for packages. David, much like his scriptural namesake, strong and ruddy-faced, lifts heavy parcels. We, the customers, complain not, as we wait. Time passes slowly in the shaded interior. Antique stamp displays intrigue us as Lark and David dance their well coordinated ballet---and yes, it is beautiful.

Customers inside the small brick building smile at one another. We speak to each other of the weather and ceiling wax, and of cabbages and kings. There is always such a sense of deep abiding love, and childhood wonder inside our post office. The desire to hug one another is strong, as we purchase envelopes and postage. "It's good to see you!" David calls out. "Take care and be well." Lark blesses us as we leave.

Today, the sun is especially bright, but the soft breeze is comforting.

All is right with the world. Poppy colored butterflies flit by. The Wise Women of the used book store gaze upon me from afar, and sing out in siren-song. "Come. We have a book on hold for you. It is a special book, about a porcelain rabbit that goes on a solitary but miraculous journey!" I purchase the book, and several others. I can't resist. Reading in bed by the light of candle and moon is one of my most favorite pleasures. I continue on my walk, brown-paper wrapped parcel under my arm.

In the woods near my home, a little old man feeds the wild cats. I see this man throughout the seasons, Winter, Spring, Summer, and even now as we humbly approach the Fall. He stands watch over his cats as they eat. "His little children." I think to myself. Perhaps it is not being loved, rather the ability to love someone, or something else, that truly makes us feel human.

There is a picnic table, protected from the elements, where seniors gather in the afternoon. They share tea-cakes and laughter. They reminisce joyfully, as they toss back the last of the summer wine.

I wave as I walk by. God is good. Oh, dearest reader! How blessed we are to love, and be so loved in return.

The Summer Wind...

Little Dorrit approached me as I came home yesterday, the day's post in my hand. It was early evening and Little Dorrit was adamant that we should go for a walk. She is transitioning through the stages of Alzheimer's. She has little or no short term memory. She has recently lost access to her long term memory. She is unable to care properly for her personal hygiene, or laundry, or cooking. Despite this, Little Dorrit and I remain loving neighbors. She is one of the seniors who lives nearby. Little Dorrit and I get along quite well thus far. It makes her giggle when I do my happy dance, and make up words to songs. Her lack of short term memory becomes a blessing, as she soon forgets my lack of dance ability, or that I am tone deaf. As far as Little Dorrit is concerned, I am a really big star, newly arrived from touring the Orpheum Circuit. At least, that's how I feel when I am with her.

So, when she tugged on my arm, and wouldn't let go. I agreed to go for a walk. She and I walk down the lane and back, then we sit on a bench if there is shade. Her memory loss means that each walk is experienced anew! Every tree is a first tree. Every bird, cloud, patch of sky, or wild flower has been newly created just for us.

I was feeling sad last night, so when Little Dorrit found me, it was like being touched by an angel. As we sat on our bench, I decided to make up a song. "I'll sing the first verse, then you sing the second." I prompted. Little Dorrit said, "I don't know any songs." I smiled and said, "That's okay. We'll make it up. I'll start. Make your pappy happy!" Then, I waited holding my breath. I wasn't at all sure what would happen.

Little Dorrit sang out, smiling, "And you had better make it snappy! So, he won't feel so crappy! Then, he won't get the strappy!" I clapped, and clapped. Little Dorrit and I roared with laughter. "That was absolutely wonderful!" I exclaimed joyfully. "Let's make up a song." I said. "I don't know any songs!" Little Dorrit answered. "That's okay. We'll make it up. I'll start, then point to you, and you can make up the next line. Okay. I'll start. Make your pappy happy!" I pointed to Little Dorrit.

She sang out, "You'd better make it snappy. So, he won't feel so crappy. And he won't get the strappy!"

I added, "Make your pappy happy, with Poppenfeld!" Little Dorrit and I roared with delight. For one hour and a half, we sat on that bench and sang that song as if newly written each time. Then, tired out from singing, we stared at the trees growing on the rock face in front of us. A bluebird landed by our feet and pushed his beak repeatedly into the ground. "He must be looking for something good to eat to feed his babies in the nest. I think he lives in that rock somewhere." Little Dorrit observed out loud. I agreed with her. And, I agreed each time she came to the same conclusion.

The repetition of her statements became a comforting prayer, as if God were using her as His instrument to deliver His message of being present in the eternal Now. It is as if God were reminding me of the unique beauty of each ineffable moment.

I looked into Little Dorrit's eyes, and I said, "I'll miss you." She looked at me with child-like wonder and said, "Where are you going?" I smiled again. "If ever I move." Then, wisdom spoke! Little Dorrit turned to me, leaning in and said, "You're here. This is where you live right now! You're not going to find any place better than this place is right now. You have neighbors that you know and care about. This is where you live. This is your home." Flabbergasted, I stared into Little Dorrit's eyes. Then, just as suddenly Wisdom faded somewhere deep inside. But, it had made itself heard, and felt. We sat on the bench as the summer wind blew, ever so gently.

We sat in silence as the sun began its descent. Gold became dark orange, which in turn became lavender blue.

"Let's go home." I said to Little Dorrit. "Okay!" She smiled.

"Are angels self-aware?" I wondered to myself, as Little Dorrit spread her wings, and we skipped all the way back home.

Love in The Afternoon...

It is so hot today the squirrels are sprawled out across the branches, and cannot be bothered to look up as I walk by. Ray, the mail man, humorously told me he left something special by my door. It is a running joke between us. I keep telling him my wish is to receive a package. "What would be in it?" Ray asked one day. "It is a mythical package. It would be the one package that solves everything, and opens all doors." I answered. "I'll keep my eye out for that package for you." Ray promised. We both laughed. "Did you ever see Willy Wonka and the Chocolate factory?" I asked. "Now that you mention it, you remind me of that kid. What was his name?" Ray asked. "His name was Charlie." I answered. "A Golden ticket!" Ray exclaimed. "That's what you're waiting for!" We both kept laughing as he continued on his route. "It's too hot to go for a walk today! Go inside. I left you that package!" Ray called out. I chased after his mail truck. He smiled mischievously.

Ray was correct to advise me against a walk today. It is over one hundred degrees. I stood under the shade of a tree. The squirrels eyed me, as if to say, "We approve. Stay close to us. We are wise enough to know the way."

My neighbor and her daughter-in-law strolled by in matching sunglasses and parasols. I waved excitedly, hopping up and down. The squirrels did not approve of the hopping.

The Whistle-Stop express pulled up. It was Mike, of the bushy moustache! We both were filled with such glee to see each other. "I must tell you a story!" He called out from the driver's seat. "What?" I asked. "I built a special canoe with three seats for my dogs." He said. "You have three dogs? That's wonderful." I cheered.

"Wait. I haven't told you the best part." Mike continued speaking in his best storyteller's voice. "We went up to the lake, the dogs and I. They love the water. I can't keep them out. They jumped off the canoe, making it tip over. We all four fell into the lake!" Mike and I grinned open-mouthed. "There were a few men fishing by the shore. They laughed at us. Then, the men clapped, and yelled for us to do it again. But, my dogs and I didn't care. We were happy, and were enjoying the day."

Mike drove the Whistle-Stop express away. He promised to mail a photo of his dogs. "Be good!" His voice in the distance, beckoned.

Oh, dear reader, I feel so blessed to have you as part of my family, and to be able to share stories of love, laughter, and light.

I walked a bit, and sat on a stone bench. One lone squirrel called out, "Never go against the current of the river! Do not fight against the sun! Hot day, seek shade!" "That squirrel must be a Zen master." I thought to myself. But, I listened to his sage advice and came back in, to write this letter to you, my most bosom companion.

Friedrich von Schiller once wrote, "Our own heart, and not others' opinions of us, forms our true honor."

As I post this note to you, I feel only gratitude.

The Call To Bloom...

In the old miners park, where they would pan for gold, there is a cave called Priest's Cave. The miners had no house of worship, living along the creek bed in makeshift tents. I sat in the brown silent hollowed-out stone. It is a small cave, barely enough room for three people. But, it does provide shade from heat, and shelter from rain, and perhaps just as importantly, a sense of privacy. I imagined the miners' need for spiritual nourishment. It must have been an overwhelming need indeed to inspire them to seek out a holy man in a tiny cave.

It is summer here in the wilderness. Triple digit heat. Oppressive heat. In hot desert places, water is life. And, the thirst for water becomes all consuming. In this park, there are many signs that read, "Beware of mountain lions." On the long walk home through the woods, I feared lions on the prowl. I suppose it takes great courage to have the single-minded devotion to seek out our heart's desire, no matter the obstacle.

I saw my sixty-something family doctor walking bare-chested, in boxer shorts and Birkenstock sandals, his long-haired greyhound on a leash leading the way. My doctor's wife, a strong looking Viking woman, walked by their side. I passed their house in the historic district. It is difficult not to feel familial affection for all the residents of the town. It is such an intimate setting. We bump into each other at market, on Main Street, in medical offices. News travels quickly in small communities. We know who is ill at any given moment. We know who to pray for. We know who to celebrate. Neighbor to neighbor, the word is spread.

When someone dies here, the loss is keenly felt because we know one another, or of one another. Such and such just became a grandfather. The lady in the bonnet won first prize for her jam. "Oh, that one, he is destined for greatness!" On corners, in tea shops, at fruit and vegetable stands, people talk. Men and women stop to greet each other. People actually smile, and bow their heads, as they say, "Good day to you." Men tip hats. Women walk with confidence. There is a sense of comfort and safety.

Long, long ago, Charlie Rosenthal was the first Rabbi I ever met. He had a red Afro, and a thick red beard. He was kind, and quick to joke. I remember he invited me to join his youth group to attend a lecture being given by Elie Wiesel. The auditorium was packed with people of all races, and cultures. Mr. Wiesel spoke of healing, forgiveness, redemption, peace, and hope. We in the audience were deeply moved by the wise soft-spoken man. Years earlier, as a child of thirteen, I heard Pope John Paul ll speak at Madison Square Garden in New York. It was that same feeling. Immediately, in the moment after hearing both these men speak, I dared believe in a land where peace, and hope prevailed. But, throughout my life in the boogie-down ghettos, I never found that mystical land. That is to say, not until now.

Though I remain a sojourner, God has led me, however briefly, however long, to a desert respite. When we choose the road less traveled, we never know where that road will lead us. When I met my doctor on the road, he stopped to speak to me in earnest. He suggested that God may be preparing me for movement. "It is not about staying, or going. It is about growing!" A loving nurse once told me as she took a blood sample. So, the movement that my doctor was alluding to may be a physical move, or simply spiritual growth. But, for however long I remain planted here, I bloom.

How can one help but bloom, among the flowers of the wild?

The Love We Share...

Albert, one of the bus drivers of the Whistle Stop Express, gave me the change to board, as I did not have any coins today. I was so overjoyed at his loving generosity that I failed to realize the van was headed in the opposite direction I needed to go. So, Albert paused and calmly told me not to worry. He called the next Whistle Stop van due to arrive and asked them to wait for me, explaining that I had paid my fare. "Here, show this to the next driver." Albert gave me his handwritten note. I thanked him, and made a mental note to ask him for his recipe for egg salad sandwiches, and zucchini bread. The drivers of the Whistle Stop are all so kind and patient, and giving of themselves.

Main Street was bright with sunshine, and a cool breeze kept it comfortable. Having been placed on a strict diet due to health reasons, I have not had a hot dog to eat in months. But, today, I made up my mind to indulge myself. Joan and Judy, who own the tiny food stall, greeted me. "What would you like?" Judy asked. Joan and Judy work hard, six days a week, in the grueling summer heat, and icy winter cold. In their spare time, they feed the homeless, though they are too humble to admit this. But, I have seen them. Strong, tough, hard as rock on the outside, but tender-hearted on the inside. I could not make up my mind what to order. Joan waited patiently by the grill. "Okay, I would like a...hot dog!" I exclaimed. "Wonderful. And, what would you like on that?" Judy asked. "Mustard, ketchup, relish, guacamole, and sour cream!" I practically leaped in the air, I was so excited. Then, I added, "I would like a soda pop, in a glass, filled with ice." Judy told me to find somewhere to sit. "I'll bring it out to you when it's ready." She said.

There were many tourists in our town today. I was delighted to see them of course. The merchants work selflessly on behalf of others. Main Street merchants are deserving of our support. As Main Street goes, so goes the nation.

But, I wanted to eat in a quiet place. I found a nook just by the creek that runs through the center of town. Slender willows, and smooth river rocks surrounded me. I almost fell asleep to the gentle rustling of the leaves, and the sound of the rushing water. "I found you!" Judy smiled. She placed the deep fried hot dog piled high with condiments, guacamole and sour cream. She even remembered how much I enjoy drinking soda pop through a straw. "Here is a straw for you, and some napkins. Enjoy your little hiding place." She said. "No," I corrected her. "It's my healing place." I smiled too.

I enjoyed the meal immensely. Yes, I could taste the love that Joan and Judy put in to the preparation of it, in each bite I took. I thanked them as I walked by their stall. " I loved it!" I said with glee.

Thus fortified with childhood comfort food, I continued my walk down Main Street. I smiled at all the people that walked by. They smiled back. It was a perfectly loving way to begin the week.

My goal was the used book store. One of the Wise Women who owns and runs it had sent me a note last Friday. "I have a gift for you. Come." The note read.

As always, the used book store was packed with books and people. I waited until the faerie-clad Old Wise Woman had a free moment. "You told me to come and see you." I said. "Yes! this is a miniature book from my own private collection. It is for you." She said, and handed me the palm-sized treasure, knowing how much I love miniature books. It was a book on Man and Symbols of the Soul and Psyche. "Thank you, I love it!" I said. And, I meant it, having just finished The Ring of The Nibelung by Wagner. I needed to be reminded of the light once again. Wagner taught me that the object of our desire, whether it be hot dogs or rings of gold, if allowed to become all-consuming addictions can lead to our ultimate self-destruction. We must recognize when it is time to let go, and then have the strength to do it. In releasing the object of desire, we release ourselves from its power over us.

Another Wise Woman, the long dark haired one, began her belly dance, wiggling her hips, waving her arms in the air, stomping the floor with her right foot with such power and force that none of us in the shop could resist her non-verbal command to rise up and dance. We were the belly dancers, men and women, dancing in celebration of life! We ended the belly dance in a communal hug. The long dark haired Wise Woman sang out in gypsy tones, "Huggapalooza! It's a huggapalooza!" And, yes, it was.

The laughter and joy carried out into the street. Oh, dear reader, God is love!

At Portia's Request...

On Main Street, right next to a gallery of paintings of light, there is a kind-hearted woman who owns a small doll orphanage. There are dolls from floor to ceiling. Little boy and girl dolls in varied dress. Each doll is unique. Their eyes stare out at you with such emotion, almost as if saying, "Please, choose me." I looked at the dolls for a long time before the right one found me. He has a full head of hair, and a knowing look, but no smile. "Does he know a secret?" I wondered. "Perhaps he is sad because he is alone?" I thought to myself.

The orphanage is well-maintained. I could see that the dolls are loved, and treated with care, but the little fellow who called out to me was in need of family. I decided to adopt him. I told the shopkeeper that he would need new clothes, as he was wearing hand-me-downs. I purchased blue shorts, a white short sleeved shirt, and a striped school tie. On the adoption certificate I wrote his name, Paolo Alessandro. His father had been an Italian diplomat stationed in Shanghai. His mother had been a Chinese national. But, due to tragic events, Paolo was left utterly alone, that is until the apron attired shopkeeper saved him. "Promise me you will love him." She said. "I promise." I answered. "He is vanilla scented to help you bond with him."

I thanked her, and walked out of the doll orphanage, holding Paolo Alessandro close to me. He was slightly smaller than the other boy dolls. His clothes were two sizes too large. Perhaps that was the reason my heart went out to him. "He is so small." I thought. "He needs extra large doses of love to help him grow."

A letter came in the post today, from a beloved friend on the East Coast. In the letter, my friend asked me to consider signing a petition to create a September 11th National Holiday. Just the thought of that day is enough to make me cry. Is there anyone in our beloved country, perhaps even the world, who does not remember where they were on that day?! I wrote my friend back, and asked her to read a beautifully written book titled, The Day The World Came To Town by Jim Defede. It is the story of the kindness of strangers during hellish circumstances. In a time of fear, and hate, the citizens of Gander, Newfoundland responded with ineffable love to stranded Americans at the airport.

"The quality of Mercy is not strained." Shakespeare wrote. Meaning, we should be generous with mercy, allowing it to flow from ourselves freely. But, this is easy to say, or do during times of comfort and ease. Can we as fallible human beings rise to the call for Mercy during times of strife, and overwhelming suffering? Perhaps, it does indeed take a very special kind of Human Being to give and give and not count the cost?

How much physical strength does it take to forgive? How strong does one actually have to be to let go of past hurts. To what extent must Time pass before we can remember past pain without the sting?

I'm not sure I have any answers to these questions. I simply held the vanilla-scented doll in my arms, and breathed in, as I walked up the hill, headed for home.

The Visitor...

Yesterday, late afternoon, there was a knock on my door. I had just walked home from voting, and had changed into sweatpants. But, the knock on the door was different than any knock I had heard before. It got my attention. I opened the door.

There he was, the same man I had met on the road to the cobbler's shop just last week. He had come to see me. I asked him to wait a moment outside while I changed into proper outerwear. I met him in the communal outdoor area. He and I sat facing each other on picnic tables. He told me he had just had another surgery last week. That made a total of three surgeries in a twelve month period. He had had a stroke, then internal bleeding, and most recently a hernia. I sat there facing him. He told me he was seventy years old. "Seventy?" I asked incredulously. In his tank top tee-shirt, shorts, bronzed muscular arms and legs, he looked to be no older than forty-seven. "Many other men might not have survived one of your health issues and surgeries, let alone three." I said. "You are very blessed. Many people have been praying for you this past year." I added. "How do you know?" He asked as if testing me. "Your house of worship has a bulletin. I've seen your name in it under special intentions. And, I do believe in the palpable power of prayer. I call it, P.O. P. for short." I smiled.

"P.O.P.?" He smiled too. As he sat there sharing his journey with me, I wondered what had possessed him to make the long walk from his home to mine, especially since he was still in the process of recovering from his hernia surgery. "Is it safe for you to walk?" I asked. "My wife is worried about it. But, my doctor said it is okay to go for short walks. This is my outing, my visit to you." He said. Half his body was still partially paralyzed from the stroke. His arm was in a cast of some sort, to keep his hand and fingers from curling inward. His speech was slurred. He spoke slowly, deliberately.

Had God inspired this man to seek me out? If so, why? Who am I? Dearest reader, you should know that I am the town fool, an object of scorn and ridicule. But, this man, who sat opposite me, is a man of importance, wealth, power, prestige, and position. As I sat there listening, I thought of a little boy who lives far away. He lives with autism. His mother writes to me about his journey in life. That little boy quickly became one of my heroes. He told his mother that sometimes he hates living with autism. She held him as he cried. Maybe, that's what life is about, taking turns comforting one another? That little boy taught me a very grown-up lesson in empathy. So, maybe that was what this man sitting opposite me was seeking, shared empathy?

Rabbi Harold S. Kushner is spiritually correct when he writes that sometimes bad things happen to good people. It is how we choose to respond to the changed circumstances in our bodies and in our lives that can help us move forward into the light, or keep us stuck in pain-filled darkness.

Of course, we mourn the loss of who we once were. And the mourning process is often re-visited throughout our changed lives. There may be things we simply will no longer be able to do. But, then there are things we can do.

This seventy year old man was a champion wind-surfer just three years ago. He lamented the loss of his wind-surfing days. I told him that he was still a champion, just a different kind of champion.

I walked him half-way back to his house high on the hill. Even post-stroke, he was still in better physical shape than I. He had barely worked up a sweat, while I was doubled over, out of breath!

A big dog came up to my neighbor. The dog smiled and nuzzled him. "Do you know this dog?" I asked, amazed at their bond. 'No, we're just good friends. We meet every so often by the side of the road."

God is love.

Sunshine on Main Street

The Farmer's Market was alive with flowers, produce, live fiddle music, and people. Love was in the air, as neighbors hugged one another, all smiles and laughter. Everything was beautiful this June morning, as I walked over the cross bridge to the town center. The merchants were just opening their shops. "Hello!" They greeted me as I passed. "Are you on your way to the market?" They asked. "Yes, I had better hurry, but I'll come back on the way home. I promise." Skipping was easier than walking. Singing came more naturally than talking. Love was indeed in the air, and this morning's Main Street became a stage-theater musical.

By the time I arrived at the market, the farmers had their white canopies up to protect them from the summer heat. Grand Pa was in his seat as usual sharing stories. Grand Pa is every one's grand father, beloved by all. Adults, from near and far, eagerly listen by his feet. Grand Pa sells trees and plants that he grows in his home nursery. Mama Carol and Papa Glenn, in the next door stall, sell vegetable-plants, and flowers. Yes, Carol is loving mother, and Glenn is doting father to all men, women, and children. In fact, the entire Farmer's Market feels like holiday homecoming, every Saturday morning!

After a half hour's visit, I hugged the hard working farmers tightly. "Good-bye!" I waved. "Good-bye, little one!" They waved back.

True to my promise, I made my way back by way of Main Street. Merchants came out to greet me, as I walked by. "Don't forget to eat something!" They smiled. "What should I eat?" I asked, suddenly realizing that I was hungry. "Go see Joan and Judy! They will fix you something good."

I listened to their suggestion. Joan and Judy had been watching and listening as I walked up the sidewalk. By the time, I arrived at their food stall, they were ready for me with a big plate of shredded beef roast on a bed of cool crisp lettuce and fresh sour cream. As I sat by the fountain, listening to the cascading water, Judy brought me an old-fashioned soda in a glass of crushed ice. I could taste the love in each bite of the food they had prepared, so much so, I asked for seconds!

Newly fortified, I sought the used bookstore for a brief respite from the midday sun. The stacks of books provided shade and inspiration. All the lovely books called out, "Read me!" The Wise Women of the bookstore asked me for books on tea. "Yes, I have many such books. I shall bring some in next time I visit." I answered.

Now, it was time to climb the gently sloping hill home. Two tourists were lost as I crossed the street. I offered directions. They stared at me for a moment, perplexed. I understood their confusion, so I explained, "This is a village. We're all related, and we help each other."

"Do you live here?" The husband and wife asked. I smiled, and replied, "Yes."

The creek giggled with glee, ever so slightly, as I walked over the cross bridge. Destination; home.

Love, ever flowing

Perhaps, it was the grey stillness in the air. Perhaps, it was the constant chronic nerve pain I live with, for which there is no cure or efficacious treatment. Perhaps, it was the feeling of being so different from the rest of the world. But, my heart ached all morning as I asked God to speak to me.

"I am listening." I begged.

Thirty minutes ago, this very evening, Veronica, a neighbor knocked on my door, gently. I had just prepared what was to be my dinner of soda crackers, honey and water. I heard the soft knock. I opened the door, and my sweet elderly neighbor handed me a basket and quickly turned away. All I could see was her shawl swaying in the dusk. Once inside, I opened the basket. It was filled with fried chicken, potatoes, fresh Cole slaw, warm bread. It was exactly the comfort food meal I had dreamed of this Memorial Day weekend. I devoured it. The gift meant all the more in the knowledge of Veronica's limited finances. She lives alone with her cat. They eat their meals together, and for dessert they share spoonfuls of whipped cream.

I cried unabashedly, unreservedly. Then, I felt drawn to the door once again. Someone had left a card on the door frame. I looked at the envelope. My name was handwritten on it. Inside was a card with a prayer for my physical health. A husband and wife who recently moved into the neighborhood signed it, "With Love."

I stood there humbled. I had barely spoken three words to that couple. We were strangers, in every way. How had they known I was not well? I certainly had never mentioned it to them. But, there was the card in my hand, and the nourishing food in my belly.

Oh, my dearest reader, sweet friend, I cried. I had to send this letter to you. I had to write you this very instant and share this story because no one else would believe such a tale. Two hugs from God in the space of thirty minutes?! How could such a series of events be real? But, it is all too true. Of course, I feel unworthy. But, if God can love one such as me, then all the more reason why God should love you who are in the world making a difference.

Knowing you are out there, reading my letters, knowing you care, I love you too. There is violence, chaos, and depth of despair in the outside world. But, here on this page, there is the peace, hope, and infinity of the faith-filled bond between us. Thank you.

Language of Love...

The phone rang. I had just settled down on the chaise lounge, tea in hand, for a visit with my beloved Agatha Christie. But, the phone kept ringing. "The Mirror Crack'd can wait. It might be important." I said aloud.

It was my neighbor, Mareda. "Come over, right away! I have something to tell you." She said excitedly. "I've retired for the evening. I'm in my pyjamas." I said. "It doesn't matter. I'm not really dressed up either. Throw something on and come over!" She said.

As quickly as I could, I dressed in jeans and a sweater. The mug of tea with honey came with me, as I knocked on Mareda's door. I sat in the parlour, not knowing what to expect.

Mareda was animated, her eyes brilliant with light. "I have something to tell you. But, I have to begin by telling you about the past." She was preparing me for a long story. I settled in to the oak chair, and sipped my tea.

"My father was married before he met my mother. His first marriage was not a healthy one. He and his first wife divorced. There was a child, a boy. He was my brother. But due to the war, we were separated. After the war ended, and I returned to the States from Burma, my parents were missionaries, I searched for my brother for years. But, I wasn't able to find him, at least not until the early nineteen-sixties. I found him in the foothills. We met briefly. He had married, and there was a two year old son. I held my nephew in my arms, and fell in love with his cherubic face. Once again, circumstances conspired to separate me from my half-brother. But, I just couldn't erase the image of my darling nephew from my mind. I searched for that child from nineteen-sixty-seven on. But, though I tried my hardest, exhausting all legal avenues, never again was I able to find any trace of my brother or his son. In the end, I resigned myself to the loss."

Mareda cradled her toy poodle in her lap as she continued. "On Saturday, I was sitting in my house of worship, trying to get comfortable, and hoping my hearing aids would allow me to hear the lecturer. I have trouble hearing. Well, a woman I hardly know sat next to me. Her name was Joy. She said the most amazing thing. She told me that she lived next door to a young couple with the same last name as mine. What a coincidence! I asked Joy if she knew their first name. Joy said that she didn't know about the wife, but that the young man was named Norman."

At this point, I could sense Mareda was about to share a God moment. I felt goosebumps. There was a window open in the parlour. It had been lightly raining all day. A gentle breeze perfumed the air in the room. I breathed in, and felt refreshed. I was ready to listen.

"Norman is the name of my nephew!" Mareda said gleefully, tears running down her face. "I asked Joy if she would give the young couple my address and phone number, not knowing what would happen. Well, exactly one hour ago, Norman called me on the phone. He asked me my name and to explain how I thought I knew him. I did better than that. I told him I did, for a fact, know him. I told him his full name, and all the names of his immediate family. I told him his father was my half-brother. And, most importantly, I told him how I had held him in my arms when he was just a baby of two. I explained how I had meticulously searched for him since nineteen-sixty-seven. This young man of forty-two years began crying hysterically. I cried hysterically. It is a miracle!"

Dear reader, I could no longer contain myself. I too was crying hysterically! Even now, as I write this letter to you, I cry at the glory and love that unite us all.

Mareda calmed herself, and continued, "The young man kept saying that he couldn't believe he had a family. Apparently, he too had been separated from his father for decades, and had thought himself alone in the world. I assured him he did have a family. He was no longer alone. He was so excited he promised to visit me tomorrow afternoon. Now, he and I will have each other."

I thanked Mareda for sharing her miracle with me. The language of God moments is worth sharing. It is a language that connects us all, and reminds us that what we have in common is infinitely more powerful than any perceived differences.

In Loss, We Pray...

This week, one of our local merchants was the victim of theft. It was alarming and unusual news. Several of us on Main Street dropped in to check on her. Our merchants work hard on our behalf. Their efforts help to create and sustain community. So, when one of our merchants feels pain, we all feel pain.

As I looked in through the shop door, the owner was visibly crestfallen. I told her we would all pray on her behalf. The words fell so effortlessly off my tongue, but was I being fair? As I looked into the merchant's tear stained eyes, I remembered my visit to the hospital this week. Dear kind reader, you may have wondered why my letter to you was so long in coming. Monday, I traded the silent green of the wilderness for the concrete, steel, and noise of the big city. A car service took me on the three hour drive. There are no trains or buses where I live to make the long trip to the nearest specialty hospital.

And, yes, I required specialists. The hospital visit was a challenge. Revisiting the chaos and violence of city life, having to bear bad news regarding the health of my body, it all became too much. There was a moment where I too gave in to the pain. I mourned the loss of the person I used to be, and I mourned the loss of the life I used to lead. In that moment of weakness, I despaired of ever finding light. Like that merchant on Main Street, I bowed my head in utter surrender. But, there is mercy in weakness. As I raised my head, and opened my eyes, I saw light, all around me, in my doctor's smile, and in the warm loving faces of the wheel chair bound, as well as in the serenity of the gurney-ridden along the walls of the emergency room. Despite the fact that all the patients had been brought by crisis to the same emergency room I found myself in, there was light emanating from within each and every person.

We all close our eyes, heads bowed, in those moments of loss. Perhaps, it is precisely in the sweet surrender that we become strong once again. Only, it is strength of a different kind.

After the loss, of whatever it may be, loss of money, livelihood, health, we begin anew. As much as we are affected by the journey, we also add to it. We bring ourselves to the journey as we are, and remaining open, we become one with the light.

Lupine and Poppies...

Today, while my laundry was in the dryer, I volunteered to walk with a senior struggling with Alzheimer's. I had to look in the dictionary to find how to spell it. Alzheimer's. I resisted looking up the word, almost as fervently as perhaps many of us resist our friends or relatives who live with this disease. Those who dedicate their lives to working with Alzheimer's patients are gifted and selfless indeed. I do not possess the gift or the training to work with this special population. I am merely a well meaning amateur at best.

Alice, my neighbor remembers less and less. But, upon seeing me, she asked me to take her for a walk. There was such sadness in her plea. Of course, I said, "Yes." Dearest reader, you would have done the same. You would not be reading these words if it weren't for your caring and loving nature.

Alice pointed to the hill across the road, and thus began our walk. Sky, flowers, plants, trees, colors became meaningless words to be replaced by the sheer joy of the moment. And that is how long, in terms of memory, our walk lasted, moment by moment. Shards of present tense.

We searched for squirrels and blue birds. We did not find any. But, we heard chirping in the pine trees. The sky was a deep grey haze. "No white clouds!" Alice said. I nodded my head in agreement. "No, white clouds." I answered.

Lupine and poppies are said to always grow side by side in the wild. Folklore, or fact, I do not know. But, always, where ever Alice and I walked, the blue lupine grew alongside the turmeric yellow of poppy. Maybe, that is the way it is supposed to work out for all of us? We may be different in shape, size, ability. But, we are meant to compliment one another as we grow in God's garden. Was this my lesson of the day? Is this what I was meant to learn and apply?

What do you say, my good and faithful friend? Do the flowers in the wild speak in prophetic messages of love?

Alice and I circled the hill and made our way back in time for the beeping of the dryer. I folded my clothes as Alice watched. "They're white!" Alice exclaimed.

"They are white." I answered cheerfully.

A Cobbler's Gift...

My one pair of sandals needed to be re-soled. I wear my sandals almost every day, except in harshest winter. So, having the sandals repaired, I decided, was a necessity. Off I went! The cobbler's shop is built into the rock of a hill. There was a thin plume of white smoke rising from the chimney. Inside, the cobbler was hard at work amidst piles of shoes. The piles were so high they seemed to engulf the humble cobbler. But, he was in there. I couldn't see him, but I could hear him. Eventually, my eyes were able to discern his form from that of the shoes. "Hello. Would it be possible to repair my sandals?" I asked. "Yes." He said. "Come back next Wednesday." And, that was all he said. He immediately went back to work.

I stepped outside and felt the cold. It had just snowed last night, in May! The snow had melted by early morning. But, the cold remained. When I awoke at daybreak, I heard God's Voice. He promised he would send a visitor today. I believed that Voice. I believed a visitor would indeed come, though I knew not when or in what form. Outside the cobbler's, a man from my house of worship greeted me. This was not just any man. He was a well-to-do, well-respected, well-established pillar of the community.

I remember the day this man and I had first met. For some reason, people confide in me. Perhaps, they feel safe in speaking to a stranger? He told me about his son who had died under tragic circumstances. I listened to him outside the post office as he shared his father's grief. I had lost my father, in a very real sense. So, at that moment, I assumed God had brought this man and I together. Perhaps, he and I would be family, I thought at the time. But, that was not to be. Mutual misunderstandings, feelings of anger and pride got in the way. This man and I never spoke in the same way again for almost nine years.

Dearest reader, you can imagine my surprise then, when outside a cobbler's shop, this man and I should meet again! We'll call this man, Adronicus. I've always admired the sound and strength of that name. Adronicus surprised me all the more when he told me he had had a debilitating stroke. He had been in the hospital, and was now in physical therapy. His arm and hand no longer had the same mobility. I stood there ashamed! God used this moment as a spiritual lesson. I had held on to anger at this man. Yes, I confess this to you. I was at fault. A very wise old woman once told me that when we hold on to anger, it is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die from it. My anger only hurt me. Adronicus had forgotten any past misunderstandings long ago. And, for the last two years, he had been living in the painful aftermath of his stroke. My anger had kept me from being a true friend. Adronicus forgave me. In fact, he said, "I had never been angry at you. How could anyone not like you? I can't imagine such a thing because you are so gentle." He said this to me?! I asked him to forgive me once again. I forgave him for past perceived hurts.

He and I walked to his home together arm in arm. I thought nothing of holding his arm. I felt only love for Adronicus. It felt natural to hold his arm, after all, he was recovering from a severe stroke. But, Adronicus didn't really need my support. He was in better physical shape than I! Adronicus was strong and muscular, and had already walked two miles! Perhaps, he was humoring me by allowing me to support his arm? He was allowing me the gift of feeling useful. There may have been a few people who snickered at the sight of two adult men walking arm in arm. But, I felt no shame in my public display of affection. If God had come to visit you, no matter the guise, would you not have offered your arm? And, more importantly, after receiving the gift of Mercy and Love, would you not have allowed God to escort you safely home?

Mother's Day...

Who is Mrs. C? And why am I writing about her today, of all days? Dear reader, you may recall that I had written about Mrs. C before. She and I first met on the old highway. We were both alone, and found ourselves on the same path. We shared stories of our journey with each other.

Mrs. C, though in her sixties, worked three jobs, and sent all her earnings to her family in her country of origin. She picked apples in a commercial orchard. She cleaned houses. And she worked in a restaurant, back of house, cleaning ovens, scrubbing floors, washing dishes, prepping food, clearing tables. Seven days a week she worked to pay for her husband's health care, and for the education of her two daughters. Mrs. C also paid an attendant to care for her two elderly parents. Mrs. C slept on a couch, in a small corner of an apartment. She ate scraps from the restaurant. At each of her jobs, she was paid less than minimum wage, no health benefits, no worker's compensation, no security. Mrs. C had lived and worked this way for ten years. She never complained about her sacrifice. "My family depends on my efforts." She confided in me. "I am the only one who can be here to work, to help."

I looked into her brown eyes and told her she was a saint. "A saint! No, not me. Don't even say such things! I am not holy." Mrs. C cried as she spoke. She often cried, as she sat next to me on the bench. "A saint is not some mythical creature with wings and a halo!" I exclaimed. "A saint is a real live human being, who perspires, bleeds, and feels physical hunger and thirst! A saint is someone who makes supreme sacrifices for others, enduring patiently, never counting the cost. You, Mrs. C are a true saint!" I was vehement.

With deep, gut-wrenching sobs, she cried. We walked together for ten years. But, in the end, I had to remind Mrs. C that life was not all about suffering. "God loves you! He wants you to be happy. What good is all this money you are sending your family if you arrive home in a box! In all this world, there is only one you. And, your family needs you more than they will ever need little pieces of green paper." Mrs. C looked down, "Money is necessary in this world." She said the words sadly, softly.

I told her how in my childhood, my family had been so poor we were only able to afford one or two plantains to share among six people. "It is better to eat boiled plantains in an atmosphere of love, than to eat meat in misery!" I pressed the point. "Mrs. C, I love you and I will miss you more than you will ever know. You have been my only family here in the wilderness. You see good in me even when no one else does. If you leave, I may be all alone. But, I would rather be alone than see you constantly in pain. Yes! I see the pain in your eyes. I hear the loneliness in your voice. It is time for you to go back home to your family who loves you. You, who are so loving to others, deserve to be showered by your family's affection. Please, Mrs. C, I am begging you, leave this place, leave this life of suffering, and go back home to your loving family."

"But, what will we do for money?" She asked. "I have faith that the God who has watched over you all these years, will continue to provide for you no matter the circumstances or location." I answered. With raised eyebrows, she said, "But, you are asking me to make a great leap of faith. It is quite a risk."

Arm in arm, we sat there on the bench. "Yes, it is a risk. But, your human life is worth more than any money you could earn here. Your human life has value! God wants you to be happy, of this I have faith. God doesn't want you suffering like a mule. The sacrifice that you have made for your family is admirable, but now maybe it is your turn to be cared for by your family." I spoke these words, and prayed.

Mrs. C bought her bus ticket. She remains with me in these letters that I write.

Mrs. C is a mother. What is a mother? A mother, I have learned, is a special kind of human being. A mother is someone who will sacrifice all for the good of her family. A mother is someone who loves, and loves, and keeps on loving.

A mother, all mothers, are deserving of our love and gratitude. Thank you all for raising us, and helping us grow strong. Happy Mother's Day!

Pax, Shalom, Namaste

The news is bleak. Violence, anger, attempted acts of cruelty seem all too pervasive. So what to do? We can't shut the world out, so what do we do?

Today, I was not able to achieve world peace, but I was able to help unload groceries. Today, I was not able to save the coast from oil spills, but I was able to take my neighbors' trash to the nearby dump. Today, I was not able to stop crime in the big cities, but, I was able to wave at members of my town's local government body as they rode their bicycles by me on the hiking trail during the lunch hour. The sight of them riding bikes in helmets and ties made me smile. And, when I smiled, it made them smile too. Such civility!

The world news disturbed me so that I walked as quickly as I could on the trail. I walked past the four turkeys roaming wild. I speed-walked through the open forest, trying my best to push thoughts of the outside world away, but the poppies spoke. They said, "Hello, kind stranger. Please pause a while. Admire us in all our yellow-orange beauty!" What else could I do but obey? Poppies are not to be ignored. They remember things. They sing songs of childhood, songs of joy. Poppies sing of peace. Only humans dare speak of war. We have much to learn from the flowers of the forest.

Today, I could not run for public office, but I was able to converse with the person next to me on the bus. The person sitting next to me was not a stranger. Her name is Miranda, our very own octogenarian painter and writer. She has won many awards for her art. Miranda spoke to me of her years in Mexico, where she and her late husband made their living making jewelry for tourists. She spoke to me of her active lifestyle in the tennis club, and hiking club. She spoke to me of the hardship of having to choose between food and prescription medicine.

Today, I was not able to move to the miniature tower in the lake country that so captures my imagination. But, I was able to come home to my little apartment to heat up stewed beans and rice.

Today, I was not able to become an adopted member of the Walton's family. But, I was able to write this letter to you, dear reader. Can you ever know how much I love you?

Today, I saw my doctor and his wife strolling down Main Street, arm in arm. My doctor kissed Beatrice, his wife, with such gentle affection. I stood there as he told me how proud he is of his son. "He works for George Lucas!" My doctor's eyes beamed as he mentioned the name of the cinema tycoon. I smiled, and felt the warmth in my doctor's heart.

This is my peace piece. In our community, small things matter. Civility prevails. Fathers love their sons. Neighbors hug one another. And, the Sacred is to be found in the every day.

bluebirds...

Today's sunshine is all the more glorious given that for two days this area was pummeled and pelted with severe winter-like hailstorms. The hail took many of us by surprise. I was outside, headed home, when the pebble-sized hail began its assault. A little bluebird lay on its back on the ground. My heart broke. I wanted to reach down and touch the exposed belly, and bring that bird back to life. Had it been overcome by the storm? Life is such a precious gift.

How do we as human beings respond to the unexpected? Do we welcome change? Do we fear it? Are we overcome when bad things happen? Does part of us die when assaulted by seemingly insurmountable circumstances?

Today is a beautiful day. The sun is shining. People are walking about. Edith and I bumped into each other. She is one of my neighbors, though we had not seen each other in months. Both of us are transplanted East-Coasters. This feisty eighty year old raged against the dying of the light. I walked with her to the bench. We sat. She ate her milky-way bar and vented. I wanted to kiss her on the cheek and speak of heaven. Instead, I listened. After all, who am I that I should dare speak of lofty matters? Maybe it is enough to remain silent, but present?

Storms come and go.

Edith told me about a trip she was going to take next week to the coast. She said she wanted to see it one last time before her operation. "What do you mean?" I asked. "I am going blind." She said. Her response humbled me. She asked if she should even bother making the trip. 'Oh, yes," I answered, "make the trip. You deserve a vacation, and the coast is beautiful." We both sat on the bench and watched the people walk by. I thought of the time in my life when I had lived on the coast, and the hours I had spent sitting by the ocean. I never imagined those water-rich days would ever come to an end. I had been so spoiled at the time. Maturity is the most priceless of gems.

I looked into Edith's eyes. I didn't see a time-worn face. I saw only beauty. Edith was a little child on her way home. Maybe, she and I had met after school? Perhaps we bought bubble gum, and exchanged stories of our father?

Ironically, Edith had not always thought of me as friend. But, maybe when we remain true to our path, it is possible for people to find their way back to us, as we continue the journey together through all of life's storms. And, if we endure patiently, we might even enjoy a milky-way bar on a park bench, in the sunshine, at rainbow's end.

Zen-rendipity...

This past weekend, I walked the grounds of the library. Four small boulders embedded in the wild grass made up the rock garden. On one of the boulders, a plaque dedicated to the sister city of Warabi, Japan. The plaque was signed, "From people to people."

Even in this, our healing place, where we find ourselves at One with God, there can still be moments of struggle. At the market, a specific chain of events led the man behind the register, and his friends, to ridicule me. I remained silent but polite. I gave him money for the bread and tomatoes. I looked at his friends, and did my best to project a common humanity. This only made them laugh harder. I walked away towards the sunshine, and the breeze. But, I did feel anger. I wanted to vent that anger, and imagined acting out, perhaps even roaring where the wild things are! Temptation is not necessarily our true friend. As I seethed, I happened to see one of my neighbors! "Hello, Beatrice!" I smiled, and she smiled back. That was all it took. I chose to focus on Beatrice. She spoke of the changes in her circumstances. In her eighties, she has seen events in history unfold before her eyes. She spoke of her health issues. I was so grateful to her, I could have hugged her! Beatrice saved me from falling into a venomous pit. God was using this wonderful human being to remove me from myself, and to show me what really matters. Sadly, there will always be those who perhaps due to ignorance, or frustration, may give in to their own temptation to hurt others. It is easy to be cruel. This is true. It takes great courage and strength to love, and embrace the perceived other.

Beatrice and I boarded the whistle-stop express, and to my utter delight, two other neighbors were seated inside! Norton, and Blythe liked to ride together. Blythe's memory was fading. Years, places, names no longer held any sway over Blythe. She was transitioning. Her son avoided her. Perhaps, compassion was not his forte? Before Norton, Blythe would sit by her window for hours, lost in emptiness. But, now, Norton came to Blythe's door each morning, and the two of them would embark on a daily adventure of people watching. All four of us, Beatrice, Norton, Blythe and I laughed, and talked in sing-song rhythm. We felt happiness in one another!

I thought of that rock garden earlier in the day. "People to people", read the plaque, amidst the long, green grass, moss, and lichen on the stone.

Our Enchanted April...

The sun is shining brightly today! Rise and shine and sing out with joy! "Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh,what a wonderful feeling!" It was the perfect day to go to market. I rode the whistle-stop, focused on my shopping list. But, I couldn't help but admire the bright blue of the sky. Even the trees were smiling. Love was definitely in the air. I greeted every man and woman and child I met at the market. "You deserve a compliment today!" I said to the woman in front of me in the cheese aisle. She turned around and said,"I do?" "Yes, you deserve a compliment today because you are a beautiful person," I said. "And so are you. And the circle of love goes round. The world may be full of chaos, but this is how we can make the world a better place by celebrating and supporting one another," she said.

I thought about her words. She was spiritually correct, I decided. So, I greeted the next stranger I met, and the next, and the next. To my delight, each person responded with a smile, and humor, and wonderment. It was a tub of love in our very own Enchanted April.

As I shopped for brown bread, I thought of the Farmers' Market, scheduled to open in the summer. There is a man who the community refers to as world's best grand pa. He sits in his chair and the people come to him. They bring him slabs of chocolate cake, and cool soft drinks. Yes, they buy his trees, fruits and flowers. But, mostly they come to sit by him, and to listen to his stories. They too confide in him, sharing tears, and laughter. I often watch these tender scenes between grand pa and his adopted adult children, and am inspired by his example.

When we plant seeds of love, we never know exactly when or where the seeds will take root. But, eventually, they grow and blossom in the most amazing and awe-inspiring ways.

I want to plant seeds of love. Just as, I am sure, you do too, dear reader.

I finished buying beans, and fruit and decided to wait for my ride outside in the sun. The whistle-stop was running slightly behind schedule. And, this too was a blessing. How often during our busy day, do we have the opportunity for conscious waiting, calisthenics of our patience-muscle? I sat on a curb and meditated by a sapling. I admired this young tree's strength and courage. Imagine having the audacity to grow! The world is full of chaos. Bad things do happen, and are happening all around us. But, there can also be love. We can be change agents, by simply daring to dip our little toes into that refreshing tub of love.

Wonder-Land...

Rain! And the weather changes yet again. From hot to very cold. But, I love this weather, after all, it was the rain that first brought me to the foothills. Before my arrival here, I wandered through desert lands, praying all the while for rain. My time in the desert taught me that water is life. So, when I arrived here ten years ago, it was as if I had stepped into a Tolkien sanctuary. My body drank in the rain. I felt cleansed.

Today, as I walked in from the market, cold and wet, one of my adopted grandmothers opened the door of her home and called out to me. "Come here! I have something to tell you." From the sense of urgency in Mareda's voice, I knew that she had something important to share. I walked into the satin covered living room. Amidst the potted plants, and framed photographs of childhood scenes from Burma, Mareda spoke of her dream from last night. "I woke up at three a.m. and drew this picture." Mareda held out the drawing in her hand. It was detailed, and beautifully illustrated. She told me God had spoken to her in the dream, and had instructed her to draw the image. Mareda explained the meaning behind the symbols she had drawn. Lily, Cross, shepherd's staff, ferns, and grapes on the vine flowed from one to the other on the paper I held before me.

I looked at my little adopted neighbor. Is it so hard to imagine, as people grow older, they grow closer to God and the Light? This wizened grandmother that sat next to me had been deeply affected by her dream vision. I listened attentively, respectfully.

The wind and the water beat fiercely against my window, as I write this letter. Dear reader, you who are so full of love, would you not have listened too had you been called to witness the words of the Old? Knowing the love that flows so freely from your heart, could my heart love any less? Beloved reader, I followed your example as one lost would follow floating diamonds in the night.

We witness one another, and we celebrate this vast wonder land.

Sunday...

And the weather changes. From cool to hot. The four seasons allow those in the foothills to have a sense of Time passing. There is a stillness in the pre-summer, still springtime heat, and a quiet calm. Times passes, sometimes moving forward, sometimes lapsing back to the past. A day becomes a yesteryear, a moment becomes a lifetime. Sepia-toned memories become etched in air. Walking becomes an exercise in mindful prayer. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Across the road lie the remains of the original hospital, built in the 1950's. Now, the long rectangular footprint is overgrown in oleander and holly, and an occasional bouquet of jasmine. The oleander and holly grow wild, of course. But, I often wonder about the jasmine. "How did it come to get here? Who planted it?" But the ruins enjoy their secrets. Their silence only inspiring more questions. "How many lives were saved in that forgotten hospital, before it closed? How many died? Are their souls at peace?" I wonder as I wander, up the curved road.

The quiet is such a joy. I savor it. The Quiet is my friend. It comforts me. It heals me. In its loving embrace, I feel safe. The quiet led me slowly to the mercantile downtown. I purchased paper, with which to write, and lemon-lavender tea-light candles. The merchants greeted me with warm, heartfelt embraces. "Follow your Art!" They cried out as I walked back into the Sepia-Gold. "Follow your Art", echoing through all our souls. Can you hear their voices calling out after us, dear reader?

One of the drivers for the Whistle-stop helped a passenger with parcels. Neighbors leaned against posts in fellowship with one another. They smiled and laughed. I imagined them exchanging recipes. Dogs led their owners. Cats played on lawns, amongst the daisies. I looked for cows jumping over rainbows and a Cheshire-moon.

Now, I sit in the parlor, enveloped by the scent of lemon-lavender candles flickering in the late afternoon shade. And I write this Sunday epistle, dedicated to you, with love.

Each Step, A Prayer...

Recently, I had discovered a new hiking trail. Last Friday, I had planned to explore it. But, I didn't follow through. I felt so disappointed with myself, as if I had lost out on a present. But, today, I was determined to explore that hiking trail because I felt there was something in the trail that I was meant to discover. A hidden Truth meant for me.

I rode the Whistle-Stop Express for the one hour bus ride to the library. I crossed the old highway to get to the entrance of the trail. It was a perfectly beautiful day to begin my walk. It is early enough in the spring that a cool breeze was blowing just enough to refresh but not hinder. The winding path led me through an open forest of over-grown trees, lichen and moss, fields of orange poppies, deep ravines, brooks and ponds. Bird-song was in the air, along with the occasional crows of a rooster, and the gobble-gobble of wild turkey. Deer stared at me as I walked past, as if to say, "Have you come through the looking-glass if only for a visit? Have you fallen down the rabbit-hole just to say hello?" I smiled at the deer. They looked at me with knowing glances. I walked for two hours. I turned my brain off. Each step was a prayer. "God please help the earthquake victims in China. Please help those struggling to rebuild homes in Haiti. Please help all travelers stranded across Europe due to volcano ash. Please help all those in need, all who suffer, all who yearn to heal." These were the only thoughts I allowed myself, as I stepped deeper and deeper into the thick pine scent. Oh dear reader! How I thought of you walking with me in spirit, if not in body.

I rested by abandoned railroad tracks. I sat down and drank water. Have you ever gone on a journey that only just begins at the very moment you thought it had come to an end? Maybe, that's the lesson for today? Maybe, that was my hidden Truth? The journey doesn't end. We continue. We go on. We evolve, and are transformed.

A curious squirrel approached the bench I was sitting on. Obviously, it was his bench, not mine. As I had no food to share with him. I thanked him for the use of the bench, and continued on. Amen.

The Evening Post...

"Let's call him Burrito?" I had written to Christine, my faraway friend regarding her new baby donkey. Today was a day for writing heartfelt letters to friends near, and not so near (but just as loved). I read Christine's note which she sent in reply. "Burrito would be a perfectly lovely name," she answered. Her letter made me feel so connected to a sense of loving family, the human family. We're all part of an ever-expanding circle of Light.

My friend's letter, though brief, was powerful. It was filled with images of farms, gardens of pumpkins and sunflowers, and big red barns. She wrote of her Amish neighbors and the country-side. Her note was a warm embrace. It made me feel less alone. But, of course, no one is ever less alone than one who is alone with God. Perhaps, when we get a bit too lonely, God sends us just the right hug. And then, we feel euphoric. It seems, it takes so little on the part of God to inspire in us such a depth of emotion.

Filled with the love from my friend's note, I rushed outside to post my letters before our mail-carrier came to pick up the last of the day's out-going mail. I greeted the few neighbors that I saw. "Hello!" I exclaimed, smiling as I waved. They smiled politely. Mareda, one of the prayerful elder women, stopped to make conversation. "Have you been on vacation?" She asked. "No, not at all." I responded. "I haven't seen you. It's been almost a week!" She said.

Rachel, another of my prayerful elder women neighbors also met me on the road by the mail box. "I have a gift for you." She said. "A gift for me?" I asked. Rachel is a person who lives on meager means, yet she is one of the richest people I know. She gives so generously of herself. "Do you like Edgar Allen Poe?" She asked. "I love Edgar Allen Poe!" I answered. Rachel handed me a palm-sized hardcover book with gilded edges. "You're giving this to me?!" I asked, looking at the treasure in my hand. "Yes." She answered simply, softly, affectionately. I am a self-confessed biblio-maniac, and I only just adore small-sized books! So much so, in fact, I have a special shelf in my bookcase dedicated to old small books.

Who am I that I should be so loved by God that He would send me these hugs, on the days when I need them most? But, maybe that is the Glory of God, that each of us is so loved, in such a deeply personal and intimate way?

I waved to the mail-carrier as he drove to the next hill. I am looking forward to tomorrow's post. What will it bring!

April Showers...

It has been raining for three days. There was a note in this morning's post from Nancy, one of the Wise Women who owns the used bookstore. Two books that I had ordered arrived, and were waiting for me. It was just as well, as I felt the need to walk. Cloaked in rain-gear, I stepped out into the wooded green.

Raindrops soon turned into hail. I stretched out my arms and felt the ice. Have you ever listened to the hail storming around you? It's so prayerful and calming. The hail forces you to breathe, and surrender. I thought about the two books I had ordered. One book is an English translation of Wagner's Ring Cycle. The second book is a diary of a young Israeli man who gave his life defending his country. Two heroes---one, mythic, the other, flesh and blood. What does it take to be a hero? In the times of testing, that all of us face in our human lives, would we have the courage to do right in the face of an injustice? Could I be brave like that?

Long, long ago, when I was just a young boy, there was a moment when I was not brave. I was in a summer camp. Uri, was a counselor on an exchange program from Israel. He was kind, soft-spoken, quirky. He and I were alike. I thought of him as my friend. The older boys at the camp were cruel and calculating. Dee, the ring leader, decided he and the other guys in his gang would corner Uri and assault him. I knew of their sadistic plan. I could have warned Uri. But, I was afraid. "If I warn Uri, the guys will beat me up." I justified my cowardice to myself. True to their word, they cornered Uri, and jumped on his back. They took turns punching and kicking him. I watched in horror. But, I did nothing! I allowed this evil to occur. I did nothing. Minutes passed that felt like hours. An alarm was raised. Guards were called. The savages were pulled of Uri. He was bruised, and bloodied. But, he stood tall, as all of us were marched out of the room. I felt so ashamed. I was guilty because I had remained silent just to protect myself. I was no better than that mob of bullies. As I walked past Uri, the Spirit moved me to kiss him on his freckled cheek. In that moment, I had publicly branded myself. Adolescent boys can be criminal in their violence towards one another. In that kiss, I had forever branded myself in their eyes as "sissy", "freak", "traitor". But, I obeyed the prompting of the Spirit, albeit, too late. Uri, looked at me with love in his eyes. He looked at me with love?! I stood there in disbelief. He still thought of me as his friend even though it was utterly clear that I had betrayed him? I searched his eyes. I saw only sincerity. He did not back away from me, nor did he strike me. He only ever looked at me with compassion.

Uri left a few days after the incident. We never heard from him again, except for one post card. He sent it to us from the Art Institute of Chicago where he had gone to study color theory. It read simply, "Hi, guys! Love, Uri." There was no return address. No last name. There was no way of contacting him. The post card was pinned on the bulletin board. I wanted so much to take it down and keep it. But, I was still too afraid. Cowardice can turn us all into ugly monsters.

I often dream that one day I travel to Israel and find Uri, or he finds me. We embrace the way that fathers and sons embrace after a period of long absence. He introduces me to his wife, and children. Then, I turn to him, and say what I have always wanted to say, "I am sorry. Forgive me."

In those moments where we are face to face with social injustice, can we be brave enough to do the right thing? I pray that I have become a better human being who would do the right thing the next time called to the test.

I picked up my books. The Wise Women were clothed in faerie-dress. They huffed and puffed and blew air from their mouths pretending they were Wind, and Storm. They gave me their love, and sent me off with my books packed, and a blessing. The creek roared, water rushing over rocks. I found my way back home.

Tea....

The clouds are thick today. All is grey. I love days like this. It's like living in an 1800's English Novel. It feels so good to be alive. These grey rainy days remind me of when I first arrived here. I was soaked, in search of warmth and respite. The tea shop on Main Street caught my eye. On the outside, it was painted to look like a gingerbread house. Inside, all the walls were painted in the darkest of hues. Tiny spotlights in the ceiling beamed their light on to the myriad-colored chintz teapots. It created a dream-like effect! I had stepped into Wonderland. The proprietress asked if I wanted tea for one. I said, "Yes, please." I may have even bowed. She rang a bell. Tinkle, tinkle.

A gate slowly opened, and I was escorted into an in indoor replica of a village garden. The ceiling at the back of the shop was all midnight blue, with shiny golden stars. Scones, cakes, tomato and cucumber sandwiches, Devonshire cream were brought out, along with truffles and champagne. And, of course, pots and pots of hot tea. Oh! It was ever so delightful.

For three years, I was a frequent guest at the tea shop. It was a beautiful living dream. Alas, as all of us know too well, dreams end. We are awakened, and we must rise. We remain consoled because we retain the memory of the dream. And, we retain the lesson. Like any good fable, dreams have morals and truths to teach us.

As for tea itself, well, tea is comforting. The aroma, and the sensation bring one home to God, so to speak. "In this cup of tea, I, who was once lost, now am found."

What saith thou, gentle reader? Would you like a cup of tea?