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?