New Blog

While it has been my greatest joy to have walked with you on this particular path where there was an outward focus, for the new year, I invite you to walk with me on a different journey, where we explore the inner space within each of us. The address for the new blog is: http://asceticway.blogspot.com ----------I invite you all to check it out, newly just begun. And, if interested, do sign up to Follow, or just continue to check in to the new blog from time to time. ------Heart speaks to Heart.

New Life...

My dearest reader, it has been an honor and a privilege to have walked with you during this past year. We have both cried and laughed together. We discovered the story of a town. We discovered the stories we had in common, as well as the stories that made us unique.

Walking with you on this journey inspired me to love, more fully, consciously, authentically.

From my heart, I thank you.

But, there comes a time, when every Artist must step away from the canvas. One last long look at the painting, and the following words can be spoken with confidence, "It is finished. What I have set out to do, I have done."

This blog ends today, in its present form. If you would like to receive a free quarterly news-letter kindly leave your email address.

Though this blog ends in its present incarnation, the Journey itself is everlasting.

I am a collector of stories. Each human being has their own precious personal legend to share. May I be granted the grace and the wisdom to remain Present to all that are placed in my path, as we seek and discover the Sacred in the every day.

Blessings to you all, today and always.

Pax, Shalom, Namaste.

Happy New Year!

with love,

your little brother

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.