My dangerous blog

I am often tempted in this space to wallow in the small difficulties and personal battles that I imagine plague us all in our walk through this life. I covet other blog authors' and photographers' abilities to show beauty in their lives and their worlds.

I need a summer day, with nothing on the calendar, no wind, no agenda. You know the kind of day where the earth grows life into you from the soles of your feet, and the sun shines life onto your skin in waves of glorious warmth. And then, when the sun has set, the sharpness of stars against the black sky remind you that the universe is vast, and the guitars play softly around a fire as voices rise here and then there in snippets of song, young children sleeping on their parents while the older children laugh or argue together.

Someday everything is gonna' sound like a rhapsody,
When I paint my masterpiece.
--Bob Dylan

The smell of things

When I was young, I would often (without a choice) accompany my grandparents to what we always called an "old folks home" after church. Grandma and Grandpa would bring a guitar and an autoharp and play hymns--by request if they came from the audience. Sometimes my mom would play along on a badly tuned piano, if she was feeling confident that day, which was rare. Always, we were expected to sing along. I dreaded every trip.

The people scared me in their various states of dependence. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes, slobber, wordless cries of dementia, the smells of bodily waste and Lysol all crowd my memories of those trips. Before we reached the gathering of people, there was always the stale smell of cafeteria food; bland and fibery. As I write this, it occurs to me that these trips are quite likely to have been a major contributor to my distaste for hymns.

Last week I went to visit my grandfather at his new home, an independent living division of a local retirement community. As I drove in--on my scooter as usual--the smell of "old folks home" food entrenched itself in my nostrils until I was well past the primary care facility. I found Grandpa's new place (Grandma died--I can't even remember when; 2001 or 2002. Grandpa is remarried now) and went to the sitting room in the back where he was eating a roll and watching the ducks on the pond. He greeted me with the slightly confused laughter that has marked my last few conversations with him. We talked for an hour or so and I headed on my way.

On my way back through the complex I couldn't help but feel sad about the toll age has taken on him, and how close he is to sitting in the seats of those to whom he used to sing so many years ago. Time marches on, and age erodes our faculties as surely as the sea wears away the land. Sadly, but almost predictably, no amount of time I see him in his last years will ease the pain of the years we can't live again; the years that we cannot hold more closely.

Such is this life.

Be well.

The Hunter

As I bumped along on my scooter through a dark Victorian neighborhood here in town, with only dim lights behind drawn shades to mark the houses, I breathed in the bite of a crisp spring night. With the smell of freshly cut grass strong in my nose I looked to the yawning westward sky as I wound my way home through the town that has become so familiar to me over my lifetime. Far above the brick street I traveled, above the lights of Main Street, above civilization itself, strode the Hunter, Orion.

Not surprisingly Orion was the first constellation I learned to identify as a child, and is one of only a few I still recognize. The perceived alignment of the stars of Orion's belt are a thing not often seen in the tumultuous heavens. There is something comforting and orderly about that string of cosmic pearls. It's easy to see why the ancients wove stories around this elegant, giant feature in the spring and summer skies. Welcome to the seasonal skies, my old friend; your presence is welcome.

Be well.

My Sword of Damocles

Without looking it up, here's how I remember the Greek story of the Sword of Damocles.

Damocles said to his king one day, "What makes you more fit to rule than I?" The king offered Damocles the seat of power for a time, and Damocles accepted. Sitting on the fine throne, surrounded by the finest foods, wines, women, music et al, he basked in the glory. But not long had he basked, when he looked above him and saw a razor sharp sword suspended by a single horse's hair. He leapt from the throne and accused the king of putting him in mortal danger. Such is the seat of power: a hair's breadth from disaster.

My Sword of Damocles is what the world sees when they see me. (This is NOT a request for input, please! :)) If I knew where my world saw a need for personal improvement, I could do it. But to see it, would also surely include heartbreaking revelations, and less-than-stellar traits that may not be changeable, and therefore difficult to accept. And so, I strive only to be true in my address to the world, hoping that those I love will love me back more often than not.

Be well.

Holy Week-what I think

The commemoration of a new idea about all people living together under the banner of God's unconditional love.

We've spent 2000 years whittling down, whenever possible, the number of recipients of that unconditional love.

What a shame.

All are welcome.