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?