The Grove...

There's the smell of apple blossoms in the air. The apple trees are full of pink-white flowers. God's creation is glorious! I walked in the sunshine today. The sunlight felt healing against my skin, so much so that I began to create a prayer list in my heart, in an effort to share the Healing.

"God, please watch over the miners trapped by the explosion in the West Virginia coal mine. Please help the bookseller, Celia and her husband, Brian, find a healthier home in which to live. Please help our local merchants, as they struggle through the challenges of our present economy. Please watch over all mail carriers as they deliver the daily post. Please bless all mothers and fathers as they work tirelessly to raise safe, healthy, happy families. Please surround the old, and the infirm, and all those who dwell in chains and darkness with your healing and holy light." I spoke these words aloud as the bees fed on nectar all around me.

My brother bees and I made our way through the grove. It was silent except for the beating of their wings. I thought of all of you, dear readers. Could you feel my love for you as I beamed it out throughout the land? I hope the love made its way to you.

We're all so inter-connected. Messages in bottles make their way across vast oceans of time and space. But, we read those messages. They matter to us. And we respond to those hand-written messages. We care about one another.

The trees remain in bloom.

Whistle-stop

During the summer months, one can walk to the local farmer's market. But, for the other nine months out of the year, one has to ride the Whistle-stop shuttle, as I affectionately refer to the van that transports a dozen passengers at a time, in a large loop. The closest supermarket by Whistle-stop is one hour away. The closest mega-mart, or Chinese restaurant is also a one hour van ride away.

Shopping for food in this manner means discerning need versus want. "Do I really need that extra large box of ding dongs?" I might ask myself. Milk, ice cream, frozen treats don't really fare well on the long ride back home. So, I have adapted by buying simple foods such as rice, dried beans, bread, honey, nuts, fresh fruits and vegetables, and bottled water.

It is a different lifestyle than the one I enjoyed while living on the upper East-side of Manhattan, where dinner was just a take-out away.

But there are good things about the Whistle-stop shuttle. The drivers are on a first name basis with all the passengers. Mike, with the bushy mustache, shares stories of his little doggy Emmet. Carol tells us all the latest Weight-Watchers benefits. Art is every one's loving father. Albert recites his favorite recipes. Beverly tells us about her new house. It's like riding with family!

Passengers board the van and share their stories as well. I listen. Living here in the Foothills, if nothing else, has taught me to listen. Some are stories of joy and celebration. Some are stories of pain and sorrow. Some are stories of redemption.

I look out the window, as I ride the van, and am treated to vistas of trees, and snow-covered Sierra-Nevada mountains. The next time you take public transportation look into the faces of fellow passengers. What do you see in their eyes? What do you hear in their voices?

A living prayer, that's what I see and hear. Perhaps, we---all of us together---are God's prayer?

What do you say, my friend? As for me, "All aboard on the Whistle-stop Express!"

Fellowship...

The phone rang at noon. "Do want want to walk downtown?" It was Mareda, the eighty-four year old woman who lives closest to me. I had adopted her as one of my many grandmothers. "Yes." I answered. "I'll walk with you."

In the thick mist and rain, we journeyed forth. Mareda doesn't like me to hold her arm. She prides herself on being independent. From a very early age, she has had to be strong. Her parents were missionaries. They took her to Burma when she was only two and a half years old. Mareda braved the snakes and spiders, daring to run barefoot in the jungle. At age thirteen, she had to escape with the other children, as the Japanese dropped bombs. As we walked down Main Street, peering through shop windows, Mareda continued speaking of her childhood. I listened, transfixed at her stories of survival.

We saw a collection of miniatures, and entered the store. Mareda held the little clay figure in her hand. She decided to buy it. I smiled, and squeezed her arm, ever so gently. She talked to the shopkeepers. They encouraged her to write.

Tired out, we walked back home. It was three o'clock. Time passes. We remember. We travel the landscape of our memories. The choices we made in the past, and the countless lives over which we had an effect make up a great deal of who and what we are today. Can a series of moments make up a legacy to be left behind?

If so, what is my legacy to others? Have I been kind? Did I love? Was I ever of service? And what of you dear reader? How will you be remembered? Write me a letter, and tell me your story. Peace be with you.

Neighbors...

When I opened my door this morning, there was a bouquet of wild flowers in a vase with a note. It read, "With Love." An anonymous gift. It was an absolutely beautiful way to start the day. I set the vase on the kitchen counter and admired the variety of colors. Wildflowers are weeds, perhaps something to be discarded. But even weeds have value. All flowers in God's garden have purpose.

I live on a bend in the road, surrounded by seniors and people with disabilities. Time passes. Seniors in their eighties living next door have now become seniors in their nineties living next door. From afar, I observe them. Some have families. Some are alone. People with disabilities live here as well. I am one of them. In life, some people are hothouse roses, absolutely perfect. Some people are imported tulips, expensive but always in demand. My neighbors and I are the weeds growing wild. We're not necessarily very popular. But, if you take the time, you can appreciate our unique kind of beauty.

Having assured myself that the bouquet had enough water, I walked outside. Oh, dear reader, I could smell the snow in the air! And the clouds were thick, and literally grey and silver. The wind blowing through my hair reminded me of an Emily Dickinson poem. I, too, have never seen the moor. But, on this glorious day, I could imagine what the moors are like. Have you ever seen the heather growing in the distance?

It's so quiet here, except for the sounds of Nature. The town is small. I often bump into my doctor and his wife walking their white-haired dog. My doctor lives by the bridge in the center of town. I know all the merchants by name. They all know me. Life here is intimate.

Little by little, I will introduce you, dear reader, to the cast of characters that make up this living Thornton Wilder play. I wrapped the sweater around my arms and walked back home, slowly. The flowers were waiting for me on the counter. And I could feel the love.

Hallowed Ground...

The wind blew the freezing rain through the pine trees. It was so cold this afternoon, but I felt compelled to walk, and brave the storm. My home is adjacent to the historic cemetery. From my living room window, one can see the crumbling gravestones. There is an overgrown willow at the entrance that has become my friend. "Hello, Man-Willow, I greet Thee with honor and respect." I said as I walked in.

There is such little traffic here that wind, rain, snow still make sound. Not muted sound amidst the noise of the modern world, but crisp, clear sound. "Perhaps this is what it was like before, when they first arrived?" I said to myself looking at the dates on the markers. They read early eighteen hundreds. Place of birth, Ohio. These prospectors apparently all came from the same region. All of them searching for gold. Sometimes entire families are buried together. Mother, Father, Infant lying in a row.

I grieve for them. I pray for their souls. Are they among the forgotten? Does anyone remember them still?

The ice hitting my face made me feel so alive! I ran all the way back home. My heart was pounding. Hand to my chest, I thought of God, and all of you.

Could you here me shouting at the wind? Could you feel me clutching at the pine needles? Could you see me swimming in the green?

The Elder Women....

My Messengers of Light, throughout life, have been the elder prayerful women. During moments of greatest need, these strong courageous women have simply been put in my path. Long, long ago, they might have been called crones, midwives, medicine women, sages.

These women were brave enough to see past what I looked like on the outside. They saw me through eyes of love. They didn't preach. But, in their actions towards me there was love. I was hungry. On the side of the old highway leading away from the town, an angel stopped her car and handed me a five dollar bill and said, "Go to the sandwich shop up ahead. Buy yourself a turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich with lettuce and tomato, and a large drink. You can't be happy if you're hungry." Then, she drove away. Sometimes these Messengers of Light come into our lives for just a moment.---And yes, I did buy that sandwich. I could taste the love in each bite. I still savor the memory of it.

Sometimes Messengers of Light come into our lives and stay a while. There are burning bushes all around us, if only we have eyes to see.

On that same old highway months later in the spring, I walked, feeling so alone and forgotten. The sun was bright. I looked up into the sky. From a distance I saw her. The sadness in her eyes was palpable. She walked towards me in order to get to the town center. For some inexplicable reason, perhaps moved by the Spirit, I hugged her, a complete stranger. And to my surprise she hugged me back! She cried and cried, and shared her story. She was a wife, mother and grandmother. She lived here in this country by herself, and worked two jobs, and sent all her earnings back home to Mexico. Her husband was extremely ill. His medical expenses exceeded the family's budget. Her daughters were in college. Their tuition had to be paid. Her grand children's grammar school also had to be paid. This woman who was well into her sixties scrubbed pots, washed floors, cleaned houses, seven days a week! My heart broke. But, in that moment there was Grace.

These elder prayerful women walked with me on my journey through the wilderness, and continue to do so.

the little Main Street...

In those first few cold wet months, I hibernated, doing my best to heal old wounds. But, in the darkness wounds can fester. I decided to seek out the Light. I chose to explore this strange new world in which I found myself.

I followed the wooded country lane. It led me, ever so slowly, through twists and turns to an enclave of six or so shops. The whole town was a study in miniature. It looked like a winter scene from one of those glass globes filled with water and silver glitter. This, my new Main Street, reminded me of childhood, and Lincoln Logs. A bell tower, tea shop, used bookstore, bakery, hardware store, bank, and mercantile; this was my home now. Could I, the metropolitan urban man, adjust to a Laura Ingalls Wilder existence?!

God has a sense of humor. It is said that nothing makes God laugh more than our plans. I had always dreamed of being in the spotlight of the world's stage, and now God was asking me to be a background player? Impossible! Who are we when we are stripped of all our illusions? I was about to find out.

The used bookstore drew me in. The smell of old books was comforting, as I came in from the brisk Autumn weather. This is when I first met the Wise Women of the Tribe, as I affectionately came to call them. These elder women, some dressed in multi-layered flowing gypsy clothes, some dressed in iridescent faerie clothes, were busier than any dwarf in a mine. But, these Wise Women were mining books, piles and piles. Silently, lovingly they worked. I walked through the mystical maze-like rooms, searching the hidden, seemingly haunted stacks. There were mothers breast-feeding their children. Men fingering guitars. Artists sketching. Lovers of books reading. Yes, I had found a place of solace, a quiet respite from my journey.

God is compassionate. We are never given more at one time than we can bear. And when it all appears to be beyond our limit, a hug is sent our way.