Monday, December 28, 2009

Light

The sky grew dark and ominous as the sun sank towards the horizon. A stiff, arctic wind slammed the clouds into each other until the blackened sky threatened to dip into the earth and release a mixture of rain, sleet and snow on holiday travelers. Trees swayed in the distance and the cold of unlit fireplaces and unwelcome change descended into my soul. Christmas was officially over and family members were left farther behind with each passing mile.

And then the sunset appeared within dark and foreboding clouds, rimmed with fire, hanging heavy in the sky. Suddenly embers of red and orange scorched the grey until gradually, the clouds grew salmon and turned pink and lit the sky in cotton candy puffs. Soft pastels gave way to strips of baby boy blue upon which ribbons of melted gold streaked across the changing sky. Finally, darkness descended but I had been reminded that it was a forever Season of Light.

Hundreds of small lights twinkled on the solid white and unadorned Christmas tree at my father’s house. More lights netted shrubs, formed wreaths, reindeer and snowmen, and hung as icicles on houses. Yet, the real light was reflected in the glow of my father’s face when he sat at the head of the holiday dinner table surrounded by his children, spouses, and grandchildren. It was found in the sparkling eyes of the young awaiting Santa. It was felt in the warm embraces of family and friends. And it was renewed by looking up towards the heavens instead of looking down.

May 2010 bring all of us renewed hope, love, peace and joy. And if we grow weary and strength grows dim, let us look for the light with the open eyes of our hearts and allow it to guide our ways.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

More

In this supersize, upsize, upscale world in which we are immersed, holiday gift buying has morphed into quests for the biggest and best. And yet during this Season, I have already experienced that the best gifts come from the biggest hearts and in the shape of cobalt blue irises and time.

The rotund earthen planter was hand crafted and stood about 12 inches tall. A cool beige background formed the backdrop for a variety of flowing irises atop forest green stems and leaves. Soft, irregular scalloped curves formed the rim and I recalled in an instant the shopping trip with my mother where I first saw it, wanted it, and watched her carry it out the door. In fairness, she did ask if I planned on purchasing the extraordinary planter. But I declined so she became the owner.

My mother and I have an established tradition of annual visits in the heat of the summer with at least one day devoted to shopping favorite antique stores. I don’t know when this tradition began but I know that summer is not complete without the trip and our time together. Time is a chameleon with extraordinary power. He changes all things and heals people. He can stand still or fly. Time is counted in the tick of a family’s heirloom grandfather clock, displayed as digital numerals, or measured in grains of sand falling through the hourglass. But for all of Time’s miraculous powers and measurements, I never knew He had shape and could be wrapped for Christmas until I uncovered it under festive wrapping and shiny bows and spotted the vibrant cobalt blue irises gracing the beige surface.

As I stared again at the coveted planter, I knew I would always remember the time with my mother each summer; days filled with old traditions and new experiences and endless conversation. I would remember a selfless gift. I would remember a mother’s love.

I think of all the worry being spent on purchasing the latest gadget or spending the right amount of money and then again, I look at the planter. The simple shape and earthen texture grounds me in my knowledge that more is better and bigger when it comes in the shape of giving more time; sharing more love; and making more memories.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Marshmallows

Earlier this week, I found myself staring into a bonfire roasting marshmallows. I don’t know when fancy metal skewers came along with two prongs perfectly formed for roasts and long enough to keep one out of harm's way. When I was a little girl, I would search the woods for a short stick. My father would take his pocketknife and whittle the end until the fine point would pierce not just one marshmallow but five or six. My marshmallows were never lightly toasted to a golden tan but blackened and charred and my beet red face almost singed from sticking my head too close to the fire. Even then, I would not be called patient.

I thought after 30 – 40 years without roasting marshmallows, I was ready for perfection. Standing patiently, I watched the sparks fly into the night sky and danced the metal skewer in and out of the flames. In the one second that I looked up to see a shower of sparks mingle with a falling star, my marshmallows burst into flames. I blew hard and again held the black, charred objects of my youth.

Someone stood ready with graham crackers and a chocolate bar to help me recall the gooey goodness of s’mores. I didn’t remember how to make them but after my first bite, I remembered the taste. I remembered childhood campfires and sing-a-longs. I remembered canoe rides and a young girl’s first kiss. Girl Scout badges, swimming lessons, rock and leaf collections swirled in my mind. The exuberance of youth, mixed with family love and security, warmed my heart along with the fire.

This Holiday Season may we open our eyes to the wonder of the moment and roast marshmallows until they burst into flames.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

The Big Tree

Last night I co-hosted a small holiday dinner party with a friend. Both of us abhor planning and schedules and commitments away from work and during the process, we mixed up the date, farmed out invitation distribution and food coordination, and delayed all responsibility until the big day.

My friend stopped on the way over and picked up cleaning supplies that I couldn’t locate. Then in southern girl style, we watched the SEC football championship while cleaning, cooking, and ironing. One hour before we expected our guests, we decided to purchase a Christmas tree. Some twenty-two minutes later, the tree was on top of the car, and we rushed home so I could take a shower. Of course, there was no time to decorate a 12 foot tree. It was the biggest, fattest, tallest tree to ever grace my home. In fact, it was the first tree in many years to usher in the Season.

Over the course of the next four hours, we lived and laughed under the branches of the big tree. Without adornment, it stood watch over our festivities. I never once thought that it should be decorated. In fact, I never once thought about anything that night that should be different. I enjoyed the evening with friends, who ventured out to share a common love, brought together by common interests and common bonds. I enjoyed the present time without thinking back about picking up a tree earlier so it could twinkle in the background or cleaning days ahead of time so we could relax that afternoon. Last night was as it was supposed to be with the right people coming together at the right time gazing in wonder at the big tree.

This morning when I got up, I confess that I did move the tree into a different corner. Beyond that, I sit in wonder in its presence. Only here for a small window of time, I almost hear it whispering, “Live in the day, have peace in this blessed moment, and remember why I am here.”

Kneeling down to pour water into the tree stand, I think that I just might not decorate it. Even the most beautiful angels, stars, and birds would change the tree. I close my eyes and inhaling the strong evergreen scent, I think of family and friends. I don’t need to plan on what my house and my tree should look like tomorrow. In this day and in this heart, I have all that I need without adding shiny adornment to the plain and simple truths of the Season.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Norman Rockwell

Norman Rockwell has always attended my family’s Thanksgiving dinner. With a look of disdain on his wrinkled old face, he was the uninvited guest watching us. I watched back. Over the years he saw a family without two parents at the table, siblings who spent the holiday elsewhere, and on occasion, a family divided at two or even three tables. There was even a time when the sacrilege of turkey slices appeared instead of an entire turkey, golden brown and baked to perfection.

I once went to Stockbridge, Massachusetts, the home of Norman Rockwell, and gazed at each of his Life magazine photo covers in the museum. They represented his image of America and families at their best. I went to his home and wondered what transpired at his holiday table. I don’t recall any Life photos of his Thanksgiving gatherings with family and friends. Maybe he was too busy appearing at my table criticizing my family for not meeting his expectations.

And, he surely would have been disappointed with me this year. I spent Thanksgiving with the friends who are my family while my blood family, whom I deeply missed, scattered around different tables sharing their joy with each other. Yet, they were with me. My grandmother was in the dressing made with the exact same recipe and served with pride. The turkey was bought for me because I love dark meat, just like my father. I remembered my sister when we held hands to give thanks; a tradition she started some years ago. My friend thought of her loved ones when she shared her family’s tradition and asked us to go around the table and mention something for which we gave thanks. And my other friend, who also brought his sister to the feast, was excited about the opened cans of cranberry sauce, chilled, sliced and placed in a spot of honor, just like at his favorite holiday meals, next to the turkey.

Fresh cranberries simply don’t matter to some of us. I love the cans too. And it was this year that I finally realized that Norman Rockwell probably wouldn’t have cans of cranberry sauce in his photos. He would draw real cranberries, glazed and heated with sugar and oranges until someone thought they were wonderful. Yet, that someone wasn’t me. I was a can girl.

So this year, I saw Norman at the table. Oh yes, he was a distant cousin, the black sheep of the Rockwell family clan but he was our guest. Norman was dazed and confused by my friend hitting him with that can of cranberry sauce when all the love exploded, but he was welcome at our table. And what Norman saw was what I saw – a gathering of friends and family who chose to come together for a holiday meal, celebrated with memories and love.

Holidays are what we make them, what we remember, and how much of ourselves we share. All of my holidays, and this holiday, are worthy of putting on a magazine cover. Maybe it is a collage on the cover of Psychology Today but I’m proud that it’s my family and friends with extra room to spare for Cousin Norman.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Thankfulness

This time of year, it’s easy to slip on a cloak of thankfulness and wrap it tightly around our shoulders warding off cold from others. For a while, we forget their empty faces as the temperatures dip lower and the hint of snow and holiday excitement lingers in the air. Dinners, parties, football, hockey, shopping, catching up and slowing down consume the days, and calendars are full before the first turkey is placed on the platter.

We recite the list, which is honest and true, and are thankful for good health, families and friends, hot food and cold drinks. We are thankful for jobs, clothing and shelter. We are thankful for having so much when in reality, we need so little.

As the days pass, we head to homeless shelters and drop money in buckets outside grocery stores. We adopt angels, buy toys and pick up an extra coat to give to the poor. We do make a difference in the lives of others in meaningful ways, but some people remain who may not know the joy of thankfulness. These are the emotionally needy who have hearts of ice and may not be found where we first look. These with the broken spirits and minds may walk by our side each day.

And so this Holiday Season may we find the strength to share our cloaks of thankfulness and wrap love and provisions around the needy - whether living in shelters or at the office or in the house next door.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Time

Time is fleeting like the first winter snowfall landing softly on the cold, hard ground blanketing the world in white. Under a clear sky and fading moon, tree branches hang heavy coated in ice and time stands still before the first footprints mar the pristine wilderness.

Time can be seen in the growth spurt of children over a summer’s vacation spent playing kickball or Simon Says. Time rushes by for the bride anticipating her walk down the aisle or can drag for the uninspired mired in a daily grind of monotony. It can be put to good use or wasted. It is a most precious gift. It has healing qualities and can change everything while changing nothing.

We all have the same amount of time in the day. Some sleep through much of it while others work through most of it. Yet, we live in the space of these seconds that tick into minutes and into hours. And as the hours become days which grow into years, we suddenly have accumulated enough of it to fill a lifetime.

Only then do we appreciate and learn the complex essence of time -it’s full and rich when measured in love, laughter, family and friends.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Open Happiness

Even as a small child, I wandered the woods. Searching throughout the seasons for my place in the world and expecting to find it written amidst the dogwood leaves. Scuffing dead branches and twigs on the trail and creating paths where none ventured, I sought refuge among the peace of the trees. Changing weather was a constant friend. If it stormed, I would be among the first to run outside to feel the wind whipping through my hair and stomp in fresh puddles until the splatter and rain commingled and drenched my body. When the leaves fell, my sister and I would rake them into big piles and then jump with abandon scattering our day’s work as fall’s pungent aroma permeated our skin. Winter’s first snow found us sledding down a neighbor’s hill, carving ice angels and building snow men with carrot noses and stick arms.

It was a simple time. My only concern was timing the hot chocolate so I could place a steaming mug in the mailbox to provide warmth to the mailman. In the heat of summer, I had to be in proximity of the front yard so when I heard the musical tones signaling the ice cream truck, I would run, pony tails flying and dimes in hand, to trade my allowance for an ice cream sandwich.

I thought of these images when I read the words Open Happiness next to the coca-cola bottle printed on the cocktail napkin. How nice to have a can of coke to take a sip and recapture youth. Or pour its dark color in a glass and find my past in clear bubbles. Its liquid refreshment quenching the thirst of those who yearn for the adult versions of happiness – the intangibles such as joy, peace and contentment.

I retreat to the woods to find happiness and experience the changing seasons but sometimes can’t feel the breeze’s soft embrace because I am running away from people encroaching in my space instead of running to a beautiful place. I let them into my life so I run to let them go. The soft ice angels of my childhood have morphed into hard cold ice that drips through the veins and in the reptilian eyes of those who disbelieve that mailbox warmth and ice cream trucks belong in the present as much as the past.

I seem to go more often to the woods to escape these toxic people consuming me with their manipulations. But, I still take change for a simple treat in the summer. I put my boots on tight in the winter and marvel at the first snow falling on the lake and bright red cardinal perched majestically on a pure white frosty branch. I raise my face to the heavens when it rains and feel the wetness sting my cheeks and run down my hair. I reach out my hand to catch the first falling leaf of autumn. I am free to experience the wonders of the wild and let my heart travel with childlike wonder in the ancient directions intended before my time.

Maybe the coke people have it right. Happiness is simple. Open it up. It doesn’t really matter if the woods are my retreat or my journey. It doesn’t matter why I go, who I leave behind or what I take. It just matters that the same legs that took me to the ice cream truck are still forging a path. It simply matters that I go and open my heart when I arrive.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Pebble

Against the steel grey backdrop of sky, it’s raining leaves. The wind buffets the trees sending blazes of vibrant reds, deep oranges and brilliant yellow colors dancing at my feet on the wooded path. A few trees, rising tall above the spring-fed creek, hold tight to summer’s last vestiges of lime green and emerald, and I stand protected within this living canvas.

I retreated to a safe place where the only dangers are seen in the startled gaze of a deer or heard in the rattle of a snake. It’s a place where I know the shapes of poison oak, ivy and sumac lurking in the shadows. It’s a place where I know the depth of the caves and the height of the ridge. I know where the river’s currents will pull you under and where its peace will help you rise above.

I retreated from a concrete land where unseen dangers swept between the skyscrapers and swirled around me. I could feel their cold fingers clawing at my throat. In the abyss, they waited for me to fail and to fall. Evil lived in sight of the sun, mocked my steps and taunted my emotions.

And so, I came to stand amidst fall’s foliage. I stand until I root in the earth like the towering trees. I look until I find my space and in my vision; a small stone. It washed onto the creek bank after years of torrential rains and powerful currents tossed it against other rocks and boulders. After journeys from unknown places and pummeled and smoothed by time, it rests at my feet.

As I leave, it rains again. Mixed with the leaves are heaven’s tears showering grace and mercy. I hold fast to my pebble as the city’s skyline comes into view.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Water

I am the mist that permeates the air and softly dampens life. I am the sparkling dew that drenches the forest in the early morning hours. For a shining moment, I am the briefest of rain showers quenching the parched earth and emerging in beautiful colors through the sun and rainbow. As threatening weather descends, I am the sudden storm cell moving quickly and lashing out against nature’s elements sending damaging, flooding rains onto already soaked spaces.

I am the salt water tides rhythmically creating and eroding banks. I bring life in still pools and then take it suddenly leaving surprised victims gasping for air. I am peace and violence. I am unique and commonplace.

I am the lazy, slow river lumbering leisurely downstream carving paths into banks of cool clay creating resting spaces where none exist. Once renewed, I forge ahead in torrents spilling into tree lines and cascading over rocks until the noise deafens and I plunge over the cliff in glorious streams of energy. My power crushes all who slip in my way and my pulverizing force hits the cove below stirring the underwater scene.

And yet, I want to be the small droplet of water falling onto a smooth lake creating ripples and making a difference as I am absorbed.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Dreams

Dreams begin as vague ideas that emerge in the breath of the air floating ethereally until they catch the wind and form fingers reaching across space to caress your cheek like a lover. Then, they tug at your heart and catch in your throat. Dreams crystallize as tears streaming from eyes too long focused on sights present to see shapes of future possibilities. They forge paths and give energy to once tired footsteps. Slowly, they gain presence and stand beside you, lie with you and become your heartbeat.

And when dreams come true, it can happen in an instant. One simple moment as time stands still and then soars on newly formed wings lifting everyone along in a blur of excitement and joy. It becomes a tangible gift and the struggle to arrive in this place is quickly forgotten but those who travelled with us are not.

And only then do the other dreams placed in our hearts from the beginning become most evident. Dreams that are found in the joy of sharing with friends and family and experienced in the celebration of collective happiness. Dreams echoed in laughter and felt in warm embraces. Love, life and health – these are the real dreams we’ve had all along. How lucky we are to open their gifts and fly.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Forward Movement

On most days, we live confronted by a myriad of roads. Roads marked by opportunities and intersections of decisions. Our journey takes us down slow lanes where we leisurely enjoy the view or places us in heavy congestion where we can’t breathe for the pollution and are eager to race home and wash away the day’s grime. Sometimes we ride merrily in the HOV lane with others who offer company on our trip. We choose where to go, what to take and whom to bring with us.

And then there are other days when the roads become one and the view ahead looks the same as the view behind. Choices become narrowed into a single tight dirt lane without signage. Crinkled coffee stained maps are blown out the window, fancy GPS systems don’t work and we shift into other gears. And yet with years of baggage and cherished keepsakes loaded in the trunk, we get up and get by and ultimately move on. Not because we’re brave or brilliantly make the right decision. Not because we perfected a new method of weighing pros and cons and evaluating possible outcomes. We simply move forward because we can’t turn around. We move on because that is the only choice.

And even when on this crumbling single lane hanging to the side of a mountain cliff, there is still room in the car for others. We’re guided by hope and together search for lost dreams on life’s remarkable journey regardless of the road and the destination.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Standing Still

In the early morning hours, dew blankets the grass and drenches the forest with crystal balls. Fall is emerging in this sparkling wonderland and I gaze into its mysteries to find myself. A dense fog hangs heavy above the river, merges with the clouds and threads ribbons of wetness into the trees. A towering ridge of rock and woods shelters life on the earth floor below and carries the secrets of all who stand in the shadow into deeply hidden dark caves.

In times of need, some people run to safe places and safe people to find the chicken soup comfort of the ill. Others choose to escape and retreat into themselves burying pain and confusion as surely as placing feelings on steel shovels and scooping holes into the heart. A few rush headlong into a whirlwind of activities in efforts to lose time.

I combine tactics and run into these waiting arms of the woods. Nature comes alive and sings her songs to my soul. And even though there are family and friends who have never stood in this place with me, they are here. Some traveled the same path in years past and I look at the dirt and feel their footprints under mine. Others are with me in the wind caressing my damp skin with love. I touch the cold stone of the massive boulder and know their strength. I watch leaves rain on the air and hear their voices in the colorful shower. Massive oaks and sycamores protect me as I rest, fragile and small as a wild violet, under their powerful branches.

I stand in the presence of beauty and love. I stand long enough to gather strength for necessary footsteps into the trails of my life. I simply stand still long enough.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Listening

We think ventures into the woods are on our own accord; but in reality, we are propelled deeper down forest paths moving in sync with the rhythms of the earth urging everyone to listen to the call of the wild. Our awakening senses hear the animals rustling dry leaves and the melodious music of birds. We hear the force of a mountain stream splashing over rocks and tumbling onward into undiscovered places. The wind ripples the small lake and washes it ashore in waves mirroring distant ocean tides.

At first blinded by nature’s splendor, we stumble forward until out of breath, we stop. In that moment, we become connected in this place - connected to who we are, who we long to be and who we always were. And we realize that more than what we see and hear the echoes of what is left behind is no longer with us. We become attuned to what is not heard. The noise of people is vanquished -traffic racing ahead, sirens blasting in the distance. We don’t hear the sounds of stress in rapid heartbeats and panicked breathing.

In the deep stillness of the woods, we feel the harmony of nature carving its existence from the strengths of the past and adapting to each day. We are brought here to listen first to ourselves. Our voices lost among the noise of others and in the obstacles of the day. Our thoughts shattered by remnants of the past. We are brought to this place so our hearts can again beat in time with the ancient patterns of the earth. So we can build upon the past, dream anew and move forward with abandonment to our own undiscovered places.

Rested, with eyes and spirit again open, our lives are illuminated against the dark cover of the green canopy like the last summer flowers radiantly blooming and casting beauty beyond the shadows.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Fairy Tales at the Symphony

The room darkened as strains of music slowly drifted into corners of empty silence. Rich velvet reds blurred with white marble and gleaming wood as the symphony players, sitting under highly polished chrome fixtures holding their highly polished instruments, became the only view. The crowd shuffled in their seats and an occasional cough echoed throughout the large hall. Applause greeted the conductor as he strode onto his platform and with a sweeping gesture, he waved his magic wand and music from the ages sprang to life.

For a few moments, I sat mesmerized. Then I noticed a couple sitting in the choir seats overlooking the musicians. They appeared to breathe as one and occupy the same chair. Their happy glow left their dewy skin and landed on everyone around them. Soon the music formed a backdrop for the story I wove about their love. But, was it real? And what do any of us know about anyone? Even walking 1000 miles in the shoes of another doesn’t allow entry into private thoughts or let us know why the heart beats to certain arrangements.

I recalled another couple, sitting near these same seats, with two teenagers attending the symphony last Fall. The mother was dressed in glitter and the sparkles cast the only light on her skin. Her husband sat one seat over and the teenagers, hunched down in two other seats, sat even further down the row. She held her head high during the performance but nearing intermission; she appeared to rest heavily from the weight of many burdens. Yet, after the intermission, they sat together, four in a row, looking like the perfect family. Did they make up after an argument or did they simply take advantage of more comfortable space for a short while?

I wondered who was the happiest. Which couple had the real love that would last a lifetime? Did it belong to the ones sitting so closely together or did it belong to the ones sitting apart? Are outward signs of love evidence of deep love? Will it last longer than the love that remains hidden unveiled only to the intended? And then I wondered why I was wondering about others. I returned my attention to the beautiful music knowing that it was enough that I was happy and could see love in everyone.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

The Real Piano Lesson

Lately, it feels like I’ve spent so much time worrying about the future and remembering the past that I have forgotten how to live in the present. The events and the beauty of each day rush beyond me and leave me behind on a path on which I have no footprints.

And so I sit to take stock and create change. I sit on a hard piano bench staring at my old nemesis. As a small child, I carved my name in the wood grain but that did not make me a musician. Taking lessons for more years than my sister made me no better and no amount of lessons would make either of us better than my gifted and talented mother. I hear the cadence of their melodies and close my eyes.

The sun is streaming through the windows and I feel the warmth penetrating deep into my heart and hands. A slight morning breeze has been gently pushing aside the clouds exposing a brilliant blue sky. The branches rustle outside as a startled bird flies out of the still blooming pink crepe myrtle. Neighbors are talking and the sound of children’s laughter punctuates their murmured conversations. From the kitchen, water gurgles in the copper fountain breaking the silence in the otherwise still house. I feel the heartbeat in my throat pulsating in time to harmonies now coursing through my blood.

Opening my eyes, I stretch my fingers onto the dusty ivory keys. For a moment, I stop to feel the smooth texture and lightly brush a chord. I don’t worry about not playing as well as my sister or mother, and I don’t worry about not being asked to play in some future Christmas Cantata of a church I don’t even attend. For the first time in over two years, I simply play and what I hear is the music of my life - the simple joy of living - resounding from each note.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Family Reunion

Family reunions are as much a part of the South as fried food, football and faith. Food holds court and the head of the table is filled with a wide variety of fried chicken while the end is heavy laden with rich desserts made with creamy whole milk and real butter. Somewhere in the middle, variations of long cooked green beans, cheesy potato casseroles and sweet corn, all made with bacon grease or fat back, reign and compete for unspoken prizes as women gather sharing recipes and trade secrets.

Our family doesn’t hail from the cotillion south of party dresses and country clubs. We don’t gather on verandas sipping tea while holes are counted on the golf course. Our family hails from lands of rugged country where rocks jut forward defying crops to grow and where springs are hidden to the outsiders. It’s a land where the humidity sticks to you like old family names unchanged over countless decades. It’s a place where stories involve hunting and fishing holes. And we belong to a time where I can still feel the rush of the cold creek on hot summer days and smell the freshly cut hay.

I journey in among a clan of city cousins now accustomed to concrete pavements and skyscrapers. With calendars filled with appointments, obligations and stress, we arrive tired and looking to find what we can hardly remember against the backdrop of barns and pastures. The clan of country cousins arrives tired from hard outdoor living without regard to schedules that go beyond the seasons to plant and harvest.

Old family photographs line the tables and are thumb tacked to the walls of the old church attended by families past but ever present. We may come from different parts but we look alike -blue eyes that hold the promise of easier days and curly hair of blond or brown. Standing for obligatory pictures and posing again in an attempt to create more flattering ones, we tell tales that span the afternoon and generations past. Over the years, the stories have grown taller and our waists thicker but still we come back. We come back because we find that what we are looking for is in each other and our own connection to the past and the future is woven with the same DNA threads.

Country cousins and city cousins– we’re all the same. We fill the room with love and laughter. We share stories of birth and death and discuss both the hard and the good times. Our smiles are broad, the hugs are solid and teachers of the past still whisper in the air the southern mantra “God, Country, and Family.”

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Best Friends

The apartment is still and quiet except for the explosion of color assaulting my senses. Vibrant reds and purples leap from pictures covering each square inch of pumpkin wall. In this small loft, the sound of chaos pulsates off the kitchen counter long covered with remnants of forgotten meals. Clothes litter the floor and ceramic roosters stare down at the scene from green apple perches and stand as sentinels against any who dare attempt to organize the disarray.

Her personality fills any leftover space and permeates her home with kindness and generosity. His personality, even during this time of recovery, remains thoughtful and caring. The sound of their breathing rises and falls meeting each new challenge and mixes in the air to form best friends.

If fair weather friends exist for some, then for me, these are the friends of typhoons, hurricanes and yet unnamed disasters. We have weathered job trials, divorce and trauma. At times we have suffered indignities, loss and each other. Both have been a constant in my life when I could not see the sun setting at night – when I could only feel the descending darkness. Their laughter has been steady when I fell out of kayaks and slipped down mountain trails.

In this place, where the three of us reunite for a short weekend, the time feels long and expands back into the decades. Among the bedlam, there is room for shared memories and love. There is room for hopeful futures and dreams. There is room for more baggage than can fit in a suitcase and more security than can be seen. Miles separate us but the distance between friends is measured in heartbeats and bound by the notion that the human spirit may journey alone but finds completeness with others.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Peaceful Storm

The wind shifts and blows tendrils of grey clouds into each other until the sky morphs into one mass of billowing shades of light steel and black. Trees frenetically sway and leaves swirl and spin in rhythmic dances into the waiting arms of the ground below. I hear dead twigs rustling and snapping as sudden wind gusts shower acorns the color of faded olives onto the wooded path.

I stand in the shelter of forest canopy awaiting the storm. Lightning cracks in the distance and thunder’s loud rumble begins chasing away the week’s worries. The wind sends sprinkles of rain into the woods and I feel like a desert survivor receiving the first drops of life saving water. Curtained by an umbrella of foliage, I feel the sound shift from the voices of my problems to the sound of rain falling heavy, deafening even the smallest of thoughts. Plants and trees absorb the water as it races through leaves forming pools at the edges of exposed tree roots. The creek rises and rushes into the waiting yellow river it feeds.

All week, I sought and fought to find the elusive refuge of peace. Today, I search in the home of my heart looking among sturdy trunks and fallen giants. Leaving the wood’s protection, I step into the deluge of rain, open and exposed, and the storm drenches my soul washing away remaining vestiges of weariness and stress.

I stand prisoner feeling the storm’s absorbing and consuming power. And, what I find is that no matter how hard or long I search to capture the essence of peace - peace must first capture me.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Bear

When my stepfather prepared to vacation in the wilds of Alaska and possibly encounter bear, he packed a big gun. When I prepared to hike the backwoods of Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks, I packed a bear bell, bear spray and knife. We both encountered bears that summer and much like our preparation, our reactions were quite different.

My stepfather tells of the day he was fishing in the clear, cold Alaskan river famed for icy beauty and the salmon that apparently leap willingly to their death at the hands of fly fishing tourists. Standing in the swirling waters, wearing hip waders and all things Orvis, the men fished and swapped stories. Suddenly, breaking the calm of day, the bear crashed through the pristine woods. Within moments, the party of some twenty men vanished, save two. In one fluid motion, my stepfather grabbed his weapon and as he was moving into position to save his friend, the bear caught his eye. In an instant, the river stilled, the glint of steel came from blue eyes instead of cold barrel and the bear ran back into the pine woods as my stepfather calmly held his ground and his gun.

Many miles and cultures later in Montana, my friend and I traveled up a lonely, steep cliff. Nearing the top, my companion decided to sit out the remainder of the hike. I took the bear bell in one hand, the bear spray in the other, loosened the pocket containing the knife and headed on to my destination. At the top of the 6400 foot summit, the path opened onto a meadow blooming in a profusion of wildflowers. I was alone and the only sound was the wind whistling through the crevices of stone and rustling stray branches. Limber mountain grass swayed in natures’ dance and the sun assaulted my soul. Stepping forward to round the curve, I headed into my reward – a panoramic view of the valley below. I imagined the quilt of green and the sun’s reflection off the cool lake. I could sense the vastness of the horizon and the insignificance of my presence.

The growl was low. I stopped. Was it the wind? Paranoia? Hunger pains? I stepped forward. The growl was menacing and not imagined. My heart raced but no faster than my feet flying in retreat. I rang that bell and ran back down the path. For hundreds of feet down the mountain, I only heard the rings of the bell, my frantic heart beat and what were surely the sounds of my exploding lungs.

I thought of these different encounters as my stepfather again prepared for a return to Alaska with big gun in tow. A trip to the firing range and I held my first gun. My eyes automatically squeezed shut as the gun kicked back in my hands. I smelled gun powder and could almost hear the paper target flying in the air as bullets sprayed. Sweat ran down my face and escaped from my palms. I imagined bear.

Would I shoot - could I shoot? I simply didn’t want to run away. Bears emerge in colors beyond brown and in name beyond grizzly or black. For now, gaining confidence is my big gun and as I become more comfortable holding its power, I hope to at least stand my ground.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Mountain Pool

Summer thunderstorms washed out large portions of the creek bank, uprooted massive sycamores and hurled red clay debris balls downstream. Exposed roots hid behind tangled grapevines and fallen limbs, and boulders plummeted from generations of rest. The spring fed creek was mountain cold and even though the path altered, it still fed the lazy Buffalo River in the distance.

Trees still green and alive lay over the old farm road, as if to say they were simply tired of the onslaught. The damage was devastating, the destruction overwhelming and the erosion to the bank under the house perched above was a slow start to catastrophe. This was a land where more life teemed in the creek and river than people above.

Yet, like a rainbow after a storm, the mountain pool emerged. It was clear to the yellow sand below, and a shaft of light danced off crushed brown rock penetrating emerald depths and spotlighting baby trout. Downed sycamores arched protective branches above and the pool mirrored the encircled forest. Standing in its midst, the frigid water penetrated my skin beyond bone and into my soul. I was the first to stand beneath the bluff in its icy depths and swim with the fish. As I surveyed the damage visible from all angles, I felt the baby trout nibble my legs. Turning my attention into the creek, I stood transfixed as fish swam all around me.

I imagined this place reflecting autumn colors and could picture leaves, golden and red, floating downstream. I could feel the harsh winter wind whipping around the curve of the bluff sending stray branches hurrying down the road, and I could see the spring pink honeysuckle give way to the summer sweet peas, wild violets, black eyed susans and Queen Anne ’s lace.

If peace had a color, it would be the color of this creek as the light moved and shadows emerged revealing more secrets. It was green and blue and brown and yellow. It was murky and clear. It was still and flowing, it was life and death, and it was controlled power and chaos. A leaf, foreshadowing the seasons ahead, landed on the water by my hand. It was then I realized that peace does have color and I was standing among its cadence. Peace was the green leaves, white bark and brown earth. Peace shimmered in sun rays filtering living particles of movement. Peace reflected off the red tin roof above. This house might fall into the creek one day, but it would not be this day. Bending over, I put my face onto the water and stared into the eyes of the fish below.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Family Trees

This weekend, I traveled home to a place where the distance to arrive was measured not in miles but in memories. While my birth certificate does not say I was born in Appalachia, the welcoming embrace of the Great Smoky Mountains takes me back to a past not forgotten. In these mountains, I lived and lost; my family grew together and apart, and we are drawn back compelled by forces of love and nature to revisit this land and each other.

The sun peaks through the ancient forest’s lace work and shines down on an abundance of green leaves, moss and lichen. Summer rains have fed the myriad creeks and rivers until they violently churn against themselves spraying the river ferns and slamming white caps into boulders with a rising crescendo of sound and energy. I hear the soft breeze rustling through the leaves in the canopy while birds call to each other in harmony. A rock falls in the distance crashing against the banks before splashing into the river. The music of the woods is nature’s symphony.

My father, who has joined me for this latest trip, places his guiding arm around me for the photographer’s picture. I feel the comfort of the mountains as strong and sure as his hand. The click of the camera has captured a man and woman, a father and daughter, a daddy and little girl. We have changed with the mountains over the years. Time has worn its path down trails and streams and etched lines down our faces. But for an instant, we are the same as yesterday and today, and hold firm against tomorrow. Mountain and family, as connected as leaves on a tree, remain one.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Pralines

The oppressive heat of the city weighed me down like the burdens of a preacher trying to save 10,000 lost souls. Rank odors filled each pore until I was cocooned in an invisible and putrid dumpster without escape. July in the French Quarter was acid hot and even the sky burned clouds of amber and black as if the city itself couldn’t contain the waves of embers and lazily offered them to the sky for relief.

We entered the cooking school and felt the cool air conditioning on sweat laden skin and smelled the same aromas that both slave and free man experienced over the generations. Sausage and seasonings assaulted the senses and invited the travelers to rest. The school was housed in an ancient building that time had not completely changed and we awaited the tastes that only come from using real butter, cream, milk and lard.

The chef, slipping into the dialect of the past, prepared her gumbo and Creole. I envisioned spirits rising with the dead encircling us with voodoo embraces until we were drugged and lifeless. Suddenly, the sweet smell of caramelizing sugar, pecans, butter and vanilla awoke my senses. The chef listened to the pot declaring the mixture ready and began rapidly spooning the praline mixture onto shiny aluminum foil. We were transfixed with anticipation watching the gooey mixture transform into pralines.

We were served. We took a collective bite. It was a moment when writers were without words, musicians couldn’t play tunes and artists stared at blank canvases. In that moment, time stood as still as the air. Troubles melted with the praline on my tongue and the heat of New Orleans magically slipped away with the haints.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

New Friend

Life is lived in the space of a moment. Moments captured in the early light flickering on the morning’s waning frost or marked as soft as the skin on an infant or in the wonder of a new mother whose first child tightly grasps her finger. Moments frozen in time and forever undimmed by age or memory. In these moments, marriage proposals are accepted and secret first kisses are shared.
Moments are also marked in a series of cataclysmic events punctuated by car accidents, job losses, illness or divorce. In the brevity of time, children are born, people die and life propels its inhabitants forward into the vast unknown or backwards into abysses of regret.
Yet, we are not just shaped by defining moments – we define moments by embracing the fleeting seconds that are not seen by the eye but felt in the heart. The seemingly inconsequential times that take up the bulk of a day with regularity and normalcy. Moments that have space and place as solid yet as fleeting as a stray autumn leaf floating on the breath of the wind - mundane and trivialized by some but felt by others. These are the moments in which life is lived.
A few days ago, I had lunch with someone, and as we ate, we discovered similar experiences, common pasts and shared opportunities. How did she go from acquaintance to new friend? Was it over shared burgers or the exchange of email and traded favors?
I believe it happened in that space of time, crossing the room, conquering fear. It happened when I took control of the moment and reached out to another person. I spoke as time and heart raced ahead on the swiftest of feet yet as conscious thought froze.
When unchartered territories confront us and destinies are shaped in ways unimagined, these are the moments we define. I am fortunate to have crossed paths with this acquaintance and seized the moment to invite her as friend.