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.