That Dragon Named Covid

 I have been blessed with an exceptionally strong immune system. Decades of teaching little kids, Grandparenting, for the last 7 years on a hands on basis,have left me virtually unscathed by illness. A slight  inkling of some bug was quickly quelled by my body's alert defense system. I credit this defense system to an experimental procedure I participated in 1981, with my college friend who was suffering from Hodgkin's Disease and needed a lymphocyte infusion from a matching donor. Luckily I was a match and a dialysis machine at Sloan Kettering Hospital separated my gift cells and donated them to Carol while we both prayed that she would be cured. The Universe had other plans for my friend but, henceforth I was gifted with the Superwoman of immune systems for which I am most grateful.

Last year, when the dragon named Covid was relentlessly stalking the area of Long Island where I live, being at an age that was deemed at risk, I carefully avoided contact with the outside world. I drove to my family's home where everyone was obeying the quarantine rules to babysit for my Granddaughter but did not go anywhere from March to December of 2020. My sweet neighbor Kim, went grocery shopping for me, my church job as organist was curtailed and relegated to zoomed recordings of music made at my son's recording studio in his home. I skipped Thanksgiving dinner out of extreme caution because family members I had not been exposed to were coming. 

The first week in December I ventured out once to the grocery store and went to an outdoor market to buy a live Christmas Tree. Apparently the Dragon was watching and preyed on my mistakes. Soon after the hallmarks of Covid showed up. My family keep reassuring me that this could not be as I was the most vigilant of all of us in attempting to protect all of us from harm but after a bleak day of spending 3 hours standing in line freezing outside the local walk in clinic in a snowstorm I got the positive Covid19 diagnosis. I attribute my trusty defense system for saving me from the ravages of the disease that others suffered.

The Dragon's bite has left some scars however. My memory is occasionally foggy and the signs of sciatica flare up leaving me to have to fight against the lingering mental fears of what this maleficent visitation by the Dragon might have sown.

 

Sacrament

It was just an ordinary band aid covering a tiny scratch on my right knee which I incurred while cutting away pricker bushes in the yard. But it was the scenario prompting it's placement by my little granddaughter which transformed it from ordinary to magical and prompted me to wear it for days longer than necessary.

I had arrived at the appointed hour to babysit wearing a tiny drop of dried blood on my knee, insignificant to me but a mortal wound demanding immediate attention from  Lina's eyes. "Grandma you have to let me help you" she insisted. She led me to the bathroom where we had attended to a tiny wound on her toe acquired on her novitiate ride of her new "Frozen" two wheeler and proceeded to recreate the scenario I had used days before. Cream was applied and she gently guided the band aid over the miniscule wound, kneeling to place a kiss on the spot while declaring "I will heal it with my special love Grandma". Off we rode to the park but not without several stops to be sure that the love had not worn off. Upon arrival, I knelt down to remove her Minnie Mouse helmet reminding Lina to lift her head so I wouldn't accidently catch her tender skin in the clasp. She replied "oh, your got my skin before when we put the helmet on but I did not tell you because I didn't want to hurt your feelings".

Do I deserve this mystical baptism of unconditional love washing me sinless from the font of innocent, childformed blessings? I do not know but I do know that I am endlessly grateful for the opportunity to bask in such a sacrament. It is that circle of life which all of us lucky enough to become a grandparent get to glory in. My prayer is to remain mindful in every moment given the two of us to participate in the rite.

Eric

Tomorrow is your Birthday. The birth of a son is an unparalleled gift to his mother and I was especially blessed. You arrived when I was a mere 25 years old, a babe yet myself. I delivered you alone with my one unrestrained hand, a metaphor for our life together which had yet to unroll. The nurses whisked you away telling me that you were contaminated because I had touched you. I never knew exactly why you spent that first night of your life without me by your side while your Dad and I enjoyed a lavish dinner sent in by my OB, a consolation prize for missing your birth.

It was the seventies and saccharin lyrics poured freely through the ether tenderly washing up emotions long dormant or newly discovered. There was something hauntingly real in Helen Reddy's "You And Me Against the World " the lyrics caressing us with "and when one of us is gone, and one of us is left to carry on. Then remembering will have to do, those memories alone will get us through Think about the days of me and you, Of you and me against the world". When you were months old I penned this little ode to you.
                                                       Eric

                    Tiny man, feet tapping in heart's hollows
                     You have filled my life with a new rhythm
                       wildly racing, wonderful.

                    Teeming chambers no longer vacant
                      Speed your sap through ice choked chambers
                          crystals rising, ride the rims creating salty rapids
                             eye's love gifts.

                     Tiny man, your laughter lingering in brain's burrows
                         Bow, chisle, paint my hours with your baby beauties
                            As my life becomes a love lullaby
                                 Just for you.

                      Wombless waif I wonder in the marvel that you have
                            delivered me, birthed me
                                  given me life.

Time has towed us, heart to heart, into this present moment where life's middle and end meet. What an honor to have had such a magnificent traveling companion. I love you Eric. Happy Birthday!

That Inevitable Rowing

Something peculiar began on the day the last digit in my age flipped from 9 to 0. Like a door opening to a vast vault, my journey changed. What had previously stretched forward like a malleable ribbon from day to day was transformed into a shortened matchstick, the inevitable burning out waiting at it's end. In truth, nothing had changed. The book of "me" read the same from cover to cover, memories good bad and transformative inhabited it's pages. Only the eye of the writer had shifted, narrowing into that myoptic lense of geriatric vision which seeks to devour every new opportunity with a cloak of mortality. An uninvited intruder had entered my mind, visiting often in the darkness of lonely nights. A would be thief armed with his trade tools of fear and doubt, ready to steal my confidence and peace of mind. Emily Dickinson named the thief that "awful rowing towards God".

I am startled by the visage that greets me in a passing mirror or window, my mind does not immediately own the face recognition technology to register the image as "me". Last weekend was alumni reunion for Sidney High School where I graduated in the Class of"65. My sweet, lifelong best friend send me messages and photos because I did not attend the 70th Birthday Celebration of my fellow classmates. That "thief" had managed to capture, as hostage, the courage that would have allowed me to drive the 6 hours through the city and mountains of upstate New York alone. There they were, arriving through cyberspace to greet me. Some felt like strangers in the flat 2D of my screen, devoid of the personal cellular recognition that activates when we meet in person, flesh to flesh, still sharing the oars in that common boat.

There were catalysts igniting my present shift. Two years ago in July my adult best friend left to reside in that ethereal place towards which I row. With a shocking suddenness my daughter-in-law's mom left in December. We had shared the daily babysitting for my grandaughter and suddenly I was the lone Grandma filling that space.. With the precision of a double edged sword, my greatest joy,  sharing Lina's days, had become a haunting, ever present reminder that I had inherited my joy through another's loss.

The mantra of living in the moment has become greater than an abstract idea. I feel the teeming life around me in more vivid hues.Days cannot end withour the reflection of the multitude of miracles I've shared through the vision of a 4 year old. A day ending anywhere but on the beach watching the sunset is a wasted day .I choose to row the length of this journey awake. I did not choose to row it alone.

Ezra

It was a cold Thursday morning and the few falling snowflakes held an air of anticipation suitably matching my emotionally charged state of mind. I was awaiting the phone call that would forever change my life title to Grandma. I had driven to school and was awaiting my first period choral rehearsal when my phone rang. An excited Eric informed me that you had crossed that unknown curtain between worlds at 9:08 a.m. now travelling in that cuddly 7lbs. 8 oz. vehicle that would be your transportation while on planet earth. I could not contain myself, telling everyone I saw including my chorus of 25 High School students. The eternity of 1st period ended and I made my way through the snowflakes to the Principal's office to arrange for a sub for Friday. He was an angel of a man who really cared for his "family". Upon hearing the news he spoke words I will never forget, "What are you doing here? This is one of the most special days of your life". Frank, who had just become a grandfather himself, picked up the phone and dialed reservations at the Cross Island Ferry in Port Jefferson making a spot for me on the next ferry to Bridgeport, Conn. "Hurry now and don't miss it" he said kissing me on the cheek. Little did I then know that he was harboring a secret of the immanent closing of the institution for which he cared so much. Two weeks later we were all jobless.

You were a mere 4 hours old when I first held you in my arms. The first phrase of the story we would write together had begun. Only 14 miles of ocean separated us then. I saw you almost every weekend and had resurrected an old nursery at my house. On days that I took the ferry to see you in Stamford we would take long, cold walks with you bundled in the old pram I had saved from your Dad's infancy. There was a bench in the park near the Connecticut River where I told you long stories about the things I loved, the beach, the squirrels and birds and then the piano. I clearly remembered touching your tiny fingers and telling you how magical it felt to touch a field of black and white keys capable of recreating vast waves of human ecstasy and agony that your innocence was yet to experience. Today those tiny fingers have grown to dwarf mine both in stature and in mastery of the great pianistic works that were composed for them. The great wheel which spawns the cosmic harmonies has spun full circle enabling us to share a language which knows no boundaries of age, two souls on fire with a common love clothed in black and ivory.

On that day in the third month of your life when the miles between us grew from 14 to over 1,400 it was that wordless language of music which would continue to write our familial saga. My first grandchild, child of my soul, we can never be far from each other as long as the music plays on. I love you, Ezra. Happy Fifteenth Birthday.

The" Peck, Peck" Tree

I freely admit to being an outdoors woman. I live on my deck as long as weather makes it possible, and sometimes longer, adorn sandals until November and try to never miss a meteor shower or the first snowfall of the season. An eternal childlike wonder calls me towards the beach at sunset. Until recently, I mostly savored these gifts of the earth in a solitary state then Grace gifted me with a granddaughter.

My son and his family lived in a century old house which rested on a huge, treed property bounded by seas of ivy and a plethora of tiny forest creatures and birds. For the past two years, Lina and I have explored this fairylike habitat where everything is a newborn revelation. We charted the comings and goings of Mrs. Squirrel and Mr. Woodpecker, an occasional squeaky mouse and an armada of fireflies.

An ancient soul lies within this little girl. It has not forgotten that all is a mystery waiting to be discovered. I had been given a likeminded companion in my later years, someone who was as excited as I to go outside and look at the full moon on a crispy December night. A partner who loves the sound of crinkling, dry leaves under her feet and the slow, soothing motion of the yard swing's rhythmic accompaniment against a background of the pointillism of nature's autumnal brush.

A gnarled old tree stands in the middle of the massive front yard. It is Mr. Woodpecker's home and bears an odyssey of his lifetime foraging for the small insects who live, in symbiosis, there. Lina, one day on a trek by the tree discovered these many little holes and began to repeat "peck, peck" announcing her discovery of his many victorious foraging's. Lina had owned and named the tree with an eloquence bearing witness to the recognition and subsequent naming of the fox by Guy De Maupassant's Petit Prince. Homage now had to be daily bestowed upon the tree.

 

I hate change with the same passion that I love nature. In late November it became necessary for my son and his little family to move to a larger house nearby. A house with a similar lineage but without the palatial yard where Lina and I had been discovering and naming her world. I will admit that I was grieving it's loss and the change it would have on my daily experiences with Lina. The naissance of a new relationship was encased within that property. As moving day approached we visited all our treasured haunts and creatures. Of course childhood protects little one's from the nostalgia of the adult world but I was experiencing separation anxiety. On moving day Lina and I ventured outside acting as sentries observing the moving process. Our last vigil was by the "Peck, Peck Tree". She showed her teddy bear "Pete" a few choice pecking holes and demanded that I do the same for my Bear "Panda" who has become Pete's companion. My heart was breaking at the impending loss of our palace, her ancient heart opened wide with childhood's miraculous marveling. Together we will find new wonders to cherish and explore.

 

 

The Wheels On The Bus

The Wheels On The Bus

As I sit on my deck midst the aging trees, relishing morning coffee, the familiar roar of the big yellow school bus Dopplers past and its yellow splash coordinates with the first autumnal bursts of color in the woods. A familiar nostalgia sours towards my heart as my cells calibrate the 30 some years which have passed since the birth of my youngest son on this October day. I used to call the bus the"Yellow Dragon", a benign monster who daily carried my little boys into a world of experiences, some good some bad, over which I had no control. Today this drama replicates with a new generation of neighborhood little boys riding above the wheels on the yellow bus.

Without my permission, life fast forwards writing a script unconsciously fashioned, some of it good, some unwanted, exclusively mine.

My fifteen month old granddaughter and I have a ritual we indulge in on my babysitting day. After donning little shoes on little feet we make our way to the aging porch of the Victorian house on the hill where she lives with my youngest son, her Daddy, and her mom.We make homage to the resident Daddy Long Legs and Mr. Buddha in the garden and our ritual can begin. We sit and watch for the miracle of her day, the appearance of the yellow school bus.

If there be a God and he fashions gifts for His charges on earth, surely one of those gifts is the honor of grand mothering. Bearing witness to the everyday minutia which is transformed from the commonplace to the miraculous through the eyes of a little child her warm, soft little legs swing from my lap as the world goes by. We label that world with names like squirrel, cardinal and "fly aways". Daily the list grows as does she. The crowning moment of the celebration arrives with the roar of changing gears as the great yellow bus grinds up the hill in front of our cathedral amongst the trees, She squeals and clenches her fists in a divine delight as the bus passes on its way to the school at the top of the hill. As perfect as sacrament, her degree of astonishment upon the arrival of the great yellow dragon never wanes. Her glee washes my heart anew with love each time too.

And the wheels on the bus continue to go round and round, all through the town.

Moral Compass

Moral Compass?

It is a question which increasingly keeps me awake at night.  What force of nature causes the flipping of the poles of the human moral compass? Do the internal tectonics, eroded by discompassionate acts, gradually slip into dissonance or are some humans born with some magnetic abnormality which cleaves toward blackness rather than the light?

The bright, young alleged Boston Bombers are a case in point. News stories abound with theories about what decay in moral standards allowed two brothers, full of promise to turn to the dark side. When did that frightening egress into evil transpire? A transition powerful enough to spawn righteous beliefs in mass murder.

I have witnessed this erosion of human values and respect. I need look no farther than my own backyard. My neighbor, of at least 20 years, yesterday destroyed what  was left of my fence which separates our property line. I left for several hours and came home to the towering piles of trees that used to live several houses down on our street. A forklift was depositing them over what is left of my fence. It has been a long saga of petty vandalism and an errant tree which I removed at my expense. I have tried to remain true to my own moral compass which, I think, values compassion, kindness and respect for human life. The stone Buddha and Namaste sign in Sanskrit at my front door seem to be no match for the selfishness and moral righteousness of my neighbors. Rational requests for a ceasing of destruction have yielded only angry, demeaning outbursts.

Last week I engaged in a furtive search to find replacement slats for the split rail fence which had been in place since the infancy of my youngest, curiosity seeking son. I had abandoned the hope of promised repair by the people who had damaged it and decided that I could, and would, fix it myself. It was fun.  I had envisioned exactly what I would have to do to transport and install the new slats and how nice it would look even against the disgusting backdrop of trash and brush that had been piled against it. My moral compass even allowed me to believe that it would spur my neighbors to clean up their mess.

Sadly, I let the darkness in and yesterday, as my neighbor and 3 workmen stood laughing at me, I let slip a barrage of most un- Zenlike profanity. Yes I am sorry for giving voice to what should have never entered my mind. Is this an indication that my own moral compass has been swayed from true North? I hope not.

A Seasonal Saga

Today is "Black Friday". The post Thanksgiving celebration has begun. Pagan parades of greedy shoppers trek towards a materialistic mecca, armed with the belief that a sale will buy the indulgence of salvation and a transient high. Or, for those of us bitten by the seasonal spirit of verdant green, it is the day to begin the quest for the perfect Christmas Tree.

Many seasons ago, when my boys were small, we began a tradition of heading eastward towards that one special tree which we knew was waiting for us in the woods of the East End. I think I even composed little extemporaneous songs about a little tree yearning for the perfect family. Well, the perfect family, we weren't.
We were slowly going from poor to destitute and one Christmas, in particular, has become a family legend of sorts.

Over the years the designer trees of the North Fork had risen beyond our lumberjack coffers and miraculously, not wanting to abandon tradition, I had discovered a little Greek woman who lived right on25a in Wading River. She and her husband had a small grove of pine trees which they offered for cutting and sale for a mere pittance. I think they just loved seeing the little families come and select their treasures. There were candy canes and hugs for the kids, exclamations about how they had grown. It was pure Christmas nirvana and it fit my dwindling budget.

As the Christmas of family legend approached the three of us bundled up and headed out towards Wading River where, we trusted, our perfect Christmas Tree had been waiting all year. This was a really lean year. My light blue Chevy Cavalier station wagon was aging, it's stick shift refusing to go into reverse. For weeks I had been driving back and forth from Riverhead to work praying that I would not get into a situation which required backing up because, it just wasn't possible. Much to my chagrin in remembering this tale ,we had even been adopted by a large insurance agency as their Christmas Family. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving and it was snowing lightly. Perfectly festive. I pulled into the Greek lady's crescent driveway and we paid her our $5. It was evident that she too, had fallen on hard times. Her husband had passed away during the spring. The lawn was not mowed and a gutter was hanging mournfully from the garage roof. Even sadder, however was the poor, scraggly collection of trees left in the grove. Charlie Brown's tree was a Tiffany jewel in comparison to these. I heard "Mom, these trees stink" and raised a hushing finger to protect our aging friend. "We have to pick one, I admonished so it's your call. Which one do you want?"

We made the default selection just as it really began to snow. That thick, wet stuff that sticks and builds up fast on the roads. The rust encrusted saw that my father had given me years ago made the cut and panting and freezing we began to drag the tree back towards the station wagon. We tied it to the top of the Chevy and thanked Mrs. M  for the candy canes. "Merry Christmas!" We trolled. And then it struck me like a ton of ice. I couldn't back up!

There was but one solution. Eric, who was 13 and the eldest got behind the wheel with Ethan, his younger 6 year old brother manning the passenger seat. I put the car in neutral and showed Eric which pedals to step on as I took my position in front ,wedged between the garage door and the bumper, ready to push the car into a position where I could steer it onto 25a. Elbow grease ready I yelled "Okay Eric, step on the brake." He queried, always a little obsessive compulsive about doing things the right way "Which pedal is it, Mom" to which his brother answered "It's the long one stupid". The gears slipped, and well, you get the picture. Some piece of Grace saved me from being  forever one with that garage door beneath the one armed crucifix of the hanging gutter. We changed places and the boys righted the position of the car with me at the helm. I wish this saga stopped here and we travelled Westward home, but it didn't.

Once out on the highway it was evident that seasonal had turned to treacherous. The car slipped and slid and suddenly there was a flying swatch of verdant green and a sickening thud. The tree had gotten lose and was scattering traffic in all directions. I stopped the car by the side of the road and while laughter and tears shared the same breath space, stopped traffic and retrieved our tree from its snowy grave in the middle of 25a. "What are we going to do now, Mommy," my little one cried. "We're going to shove it into the car and take her home" I cried. The three of us shoved the poor, spindly, bedraggled tree into the back of the station wagon and, in 3rd gear, it was Westward Ho!

Act III of this saga proceeds as such.  I drive Eric to our church in Mt. Sinai for his JPF meeting and Ethan and I proceed to drag the tree into the house and attempt to make it stand erect. The magnificent mockery of a tree is at least 3 feet too tall for our living room and after sawing , pruning and pulling it erect Ethan offers with great mockery "Mom, this tree REALLY stinks." "Isn't that the truth" I reply and we promptly give our tree a "home" complete with stand, in the front yard where we will later trim it for the birds, and go to the nursery around the corner where I  use plastic to pay for a perfect tree, cut by some lumberjack who knows his trade.

Will I cut my own tree again this year? The season is early and that remains to be seen.

A Shunning In Cyberspace

This week I was "blocked" by one of my Facebook friends. It was not just a casual friend but someone who had shared the daily minutia of my life over a period of years. Someone I truly expected would be there, sharing in that unique female bond of friendship, until one of us perished. I was either too naive or too blind to perceive the truth. I was expendable. With one quick check in a small box I was categorically "dead", non-existent, shunned from the community of friendship we had shared.

In the real world, where I grew up and learned how to maneuver the social mechanisms of civilized life, eye contact, verbal exchanges, hugs, explosions of laughter or tears were the tools of friendship's trade. A letter or perhaps a telephone would make a connection through which some difficult waters could be maneuvered. However, a final breakup, the end of a love affair, the end of a marriage, a dissolution of a friendship, was conveyed face to face, or at least voice to voice. No more. Today cyberspace has enabled the era of the anonymous coward or the cyber buddy. Can't find the right words; borrow someone else's, pre-packaged and ready to be "shared". Emoticons replace real hand holding and wiping of tears in a crisis.

Perhaps I was a Luddite for too long. I was the last person I know to actually get a cellphone and mine is a phone. I don't text.  I joined the community of Facebook initially so that I would have easy access to the blogs my son was writing. For nearly a year I was able to be a part of his daily life because I was reading his story.  Distance prevented daily real time interaction and the blog was a high point in my day. I am not sorry that I now have learned to be a participant in that virtual world populated by actual flesh and blood people.

When the loss of my job, a year ago, eliminated daily contact with the people who populated my world, I was grateful to be only a keyboard away from loneliness. I know some of my former colleagues' children only from their photos however, I still feel connected.

The need for companionship and community is integral to human health. In some cultures, shunning for a transgression of group laws, is the ultimate punishment, worse than death. Jail time, stoning, public humiliation in the stockades were the tools of isolation of past centuries. Today we can simply "block".
Being the recipient of such a modern day tool of humiliation is the equivalent of a crossbow- sprung arrow through the heart. It hurts.

I am fearful that we are becoming a society of anonymous cowards. Shielded from our fellow human beings by the armour of hefty  SUVs on the road and weaponized, with harmful words via our computers and cellphones in the privacy of our homes, we participate in virtual games where intimacy is certainly not the victor.

My connection with the person who spawned my need to write this blog was of a highly spiritual nature. I trust that the purity of that connection still exists somewhere beyond this virtual extinction.

Sylvester

... “Let us try to live again and be happy even though Sylvester, our angel, is no longer with us.”

I have been haunted by this line from William Steig's children's book about a family of donkeys all week. While grieving the loss of their son Sylvester, Mrs. Duncan issues this plea to her husband to try to find normalcy again even though their beloved child is no longer with them. In Steig's story Sylvester has disappeared after finding a magic pebble which will instantly grant his every wish. Fear extends her slippery hand when a lion chases Sylvester and he impulsively, wishes to be a rock. Unfortunately his wish places him in some type of metaphysical limbo, invisible to everyone he loves but ever so near in his parallel universe of rockdom. As is the way with fairy tales, there is a happy ending. If one believes in a God or angel thoughts it is precisely that which prompts Mrs Duncan to set their picnic lunch on the rock which is Sylvester and then draws her eye to the magic pebble. The miraculous transpires when she places the pebble on the rock as Sylvester, in his rock state, wishes to be his real self again. It is a reunion which speaks of that profound love which exists in  families cemented by love.

My son and daughter-in-law are grieving. Their baby daughter Scarlett has disappeared into some metaphysical ether through the process we call death. She is now an Angel Baby. We can feel her all around but cannot see or touch or hold her. The sorrow is palpable. My heart aches for them. My heart aches for me.
We will live and be happy again in time. I'm sure of it. Perhaps Scarlett will seek us out again to be her parents and grandparents. But for now she watches from somewhere so close, yet so far.

 

A Venusian Encounter

Rare cosmic events excite me. Tonight Venus made her historic transit across the face of the sun. An event not to be duplicated again in any of our lifetimes. In pursuit of the Divine Feminine that her transit is purported to usher in, I drove the short distance from my house to Cedar Beach.  One needs a panoramic venue for such events. Not owning a telescope, I concocted a solar viewer from an old Vera Wang shoebox and some aluminum foil. It seemed a fitting manner in which to view the black beauty mark of the Goddess of love moving across the face of the great Ra.

It was cold for June and the sky was playing host to everything from cumulo nimbus to cirrus in the way of clouds. I was not optimistic about my chances of viewing Venus in flight. I was also a bit reserved about sitting on the sand with my improvised shoebox viewer. It is too easy to strike the appearance of an aging crazy woman these days when either Goddess or Crone can prove victorious. I am always amazed that so few people gather on the beach to witness celestial events.

The baggage of my old life has been hanging heavily around both my waking and dream life sucking my energy and self image into dark places. Off to the west, end of the school year events play out without me. Enough!!
I tether the gathering energies of the power of the feminine and vow to release the toxic past. Innocently, I ask for a sign, a recognition from the Divine that my intention has been acknowledged.  Suddenly I feel like I am being watched from behind the reeds at the side of the Nature Center. The Nature Center where my children and I went, long ago, in the evenings to visit "our friends" the horseshoe crabs, mussels and fluke in the dirty water of the holding tank in the midst of those reeds. I surmise that I may be sensing the the etheric presence of "Us" that still lurks there.  The reality of the watcher greets me eye to eye when I turn to look over my shoulder. Five feet away, her elegant body shielded by the reeds, the doe has been keeping vigil. She snorts twice, lifts her tan tail in warning and bolts off through the beach plums and  honeysuckle. Another Goddess in flight.
The thick clouds begin to part and I scramble to use my cardboard observatory, struggling to find the pinpricked circle of light where I hope to have captured the transiting Venus. How many real life experiences have I missed while being in the "box". Taking photographs instead of committing reality to memory; looking for truth on the Internet when it abounds all around me. The Divine nags for my attention and I again, look behind me to behold the most intense double rainbow that that I have ever seen. It is almost neon in its intensity against the backdrop of dark, rain-filled clouds. Yes, I requested a sign but this is a celestial semaphore!
The sun viewing aperture in the clouds has disappeared and I gather my equipment and seek the path that leads through the primroses, honeysuckle and yellow beach cactus flowers back to the parking lot. Connecticut  is still there watching as the sun sets. And then it happens.
Next to my car is the most beautiful telescope manned by a sweet middle aged guy wearing glasses and a sky jacket. He responds to my query about Venus with such enthusiasm and for an hour we talk about the stars. He shows me his celestial app on his smart phone, we talk with his buddy in California who is charting Venus as well. We wait for the clouds to part one last time to get the teardrop view of the sun as it dips into the sound for the night, taking his loving passenger along for the ride. I don't feel alone. We have shared something fleeting and precious that won't happen again for 105 years.         

Moved or Manipulated, or does it matter.

Those experiments at Princeton University which measure the coherence of randomness during public events  capturing  wide public attention must have gone crazy this week.

I don't watch reality TV shows.  As a matter of fact,  I barely watch anything on television anymore.  However, just this week I was captivated by two live performances aired on network TV. Like polar opposites, the yin and the yang , Niki Minaj's Grammy Awards performace and Whitney Houston's funeral service played havoc with my emotional center, reminding me of music's power over the soul.

To clarify, I was horrified by the performance of "Roman Holiday" on such a widely watched network presentation of the "best" in popular music. Nothing short of a "Black Mass" using the stage to deify Minaj's alter ego.  I was frightened. The devil , if he truly exists, had cast his minions for his cause on prime time TV.

Being a performer, casting lots for the adulation of the public eye, is a career path frought with stresses which can tear holes in even the strongest of talents. Last weekend I was discussing Whitney Houston's demise with my former husband who is both a singer and a spiritual man.  I was shocked when he said that these highly emotional, black performers with deep roots in the Gospel Churches are foder for the Devil's lair. In retrospect, I think he is right. What more powerful tool could Satan need than a pricelessly beautiful voice, of God's creation. Ply it's owner with the fuel of fame, tempered by a shakey self image and the elixors of courage, drugs and alcohol, step right in and take over. However, sometimes even the devil  gets thrown a curve ball when the irony of good takes center field. Such was the case at Whitney Houston's funeral.

Her faults forgiven, and her loving nature praised, Whitney's funeral service became an international stage where the power of Christ, working through the community of the church, was aired publicly. The message of her music, if you missed it during her life, was broadcast loud and clear through her death. And the message was to" love one another as I have loved you".  It was a celebration magnified by the power of music. I was taken to a pure time from my own childhood where belief was strong and God was a personal companion. And, for the cynics amongst us, I did not feel manipulated. Something pure and Holy spoke to me this afternoon as a voyeur in that Black Baptist church in Newark. I'm fairly certain I was not the only one.

So devil take the hindmost. At least for today, you have lost.

Hands of God and Chopin

Sometimes a snippet of synchronicity is all you need for salvation.

With time on my hands, I decided to use them in a labor of love. There are pieces of great literature written for the piano that I have never learned to perform to my satisfaction. One of these towering infernos of virtuosity is Frederic Chopin's Fantasie -Impromptu in c# minor. It is a bear of a work which begins with arpeggiated triplets in the left hand dueling for space in time with a quartet of 16th notes in the right hand. So your left hand is tapping three as your right hand plays 4. Now, if you think this is easy, think again especially when Chopin's accelerator pedal is to the metal.

For days, like Schrodingers Cat observing the double slit experiment, I have been waiting for the Zen of the piece to take over. That magical moment when, after the agony of left brain sweat and tears, the right brain victoriously plays the piece and your are, momentarily,Godlike,Queen of the Universe. I marvel at the state of grace Chopin must have lived in when he wrote this. A welcome respite from the agony he inflicted upon himself while in exile from his beloved Poland. Maybe he couldn't own it's beauty. He never published it during his short lifetime.

Once the performer has quelled the savage beast of the first two pages Chopin throws her a bone. The minor key is exchanged for a mystical, romantic fantasy. A melody borrowed many times to snare a theatrical audience towards the catharsis of love viewed and once morphed by Harry Carroll into a pop song of the 40's with the lyrics "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows". It is satisfyingly playable on the first try.

I abandon the piano to load the 100 lbs of clothing I have made myself part with into the car for a farewell trip up the hill to St. Louis de Montfort Catholic Church where they will find new homes via St. Vincent de Paul. During the ascent the sky begins to lighten and far to the west a patch of sun is doing the double slit dance, particle and wave begging for me to observe. Catlike, I turn my neck to the east and there it is, in all of God's glory-- my rainbow.

A little synchronicity and the observer is transformed.

Impermanence: and all sad goodbyes

It is the ultimate risk.  Sometimes a decision, often a swirling force, wheel within a wheel, that sucks the soul irretrievably towards it's vortex. The force has a name, it is called Love and once you have surrendered to that cosmic pull you are tethered  by the heart to the risk called loss.  Despite the ever present possibilities of pain inherent in the act of  loving we all take the risk, for better or worse; hedging our bets that the joy, connection and gifts of loving will outweigh the pain and disillusions of love's loss.   

Impermanence is the life lesson inherent in loving anyone or anything. The special bonds that we form with the creatures of our domestic existence are especially poignant teachers of this lesson. The love for a pet is in everyway as potent as our human love relationships. I am writing this on the day that death ended my 11 year relationship with Paddington Bear, my gray and white cat friend. His life span, as a cat, was a constant reminder that, no matter how much I loved him, I, as a human, would probably outlive him and ultimately, have to grieve his loss from my physical life.

He choose a bad time to leave. He was comfort in the suddenly very long, lonely days resulting from the loss of my teaching job. Like Paddy's sudden death I had no time to prepare for this sudden solitude.The vacuum created by the loss of the daily friendships of my colleagues is painful. Paddington Bear was always there, speech was not his gift, but listening certainly was.

I buried him in the rain this afternoon, under the trees at the corner of the woods where his predecessors in companionship, FB and Preston Nichols lie at rest. Will I take this great risk again? Probably I will. I have yet to master the great teachings of the Zen Masters.

Thank you Paddington Bear, for being one of my teachers.

Wood Wars

It is beginning.  Last week  an absence of electrical power, internet , cable TV and all things virtual in nature, forced the residents of the suburban burg where I have lived for the past 39 years out into the streets. A small gaggle of people, who normally keep very private lives, were drawn together by the unforgiving litter, inconvenience and snarly devastation of Hurricane Irene. Now, Cedar Avenue is not your average suburban idyll. During the past three years we have weathered the likes of 3 SWAT team invasion, complete with full battle regalia and tanks. All spawned by an our neighbor's sadly unconquerable substance abuse problem. But, that is a story in itself to be later told. There were occasional police force visits to quiet the wrath of the elderly woman across the street who suffered from some form of mental illness.She has now passed from this world into more peaceful surroundings. The aged locust tree she left behind however, spawned the beginning of this saga.
Early Sunday morning, about 2 weeks ago, she, the tree, fell with a splintering shuddering tremor that rivaled the earthquake which had struck days earlier. The morbid felling of the tree, and many more like her, forced me, trembling, into the basement of my house where I waited out the remaining 4 hours of thunderous, windy terror huddled next to my washing machine. My own fault for trying to play Superwoman by weathering such a storm alone. I survived, as did the other human and animal residents of the street. Many of our towering, sheltering trees did not.
The comradery of the cleanup was novel and welcome and, sadly short lived. The ever present wailing of chainsaw and generators has given way to an inharmonious and mal-tuned chorus of chain sawing. From dawn to dusk these monsters are dismembering the corpses of the mighty trees furosiously felled by Irene. They are also quickly disbanding the chivalrous comradery amongst the men of this neighborhood. Three of my neighbors have wood burning stoves that they use constantly in winter months to supplement the raging oil bills of the Northeast. My immediate neighbor to the left, has a most voracious wood burning habit. That wonderful smell of woodsmoke is ever present as soon as a chill nips the air.  Consequently, he is forever gathering wood and always has an  impressive pile adorning all corners of his property. The other 2 homes heated by wood, have less impressive and downright puny piles.  All three of these men have fallen prey to the slumping economy and are living on unemployment benefits. This is important only because they are at home, generally all day.  Thus enters the hunting and gathering phase of the saga.

It begins around 7:00 every morning. A distant saw strikes up a crescendoing wail and I hear the truck engines power up. The race is on. Whoever is the first to hunt down the source of the dissonant wail is the victor. He claims and brings home the wood. Age is in the favor of the man with the biggest stash and so he always wins the prize. Now, this was tolerable for a few peaceful days but then the trouble started. Grownmen reduced to the status of 2nd graders pushing to be first in line. No words were exchanged but, as Rich's pile of logs grew to the greed stage, looks were drawnl like swords everytime his log-loaded van dumped another pile in the driveway.

Today the crew came to dismember the giant tree which has lain across my neighbor's fence since the hurricane. The prime gatherer was at bay chasing another saw and my friend, with the puny pile, came down , in the absence of the gatherer,to stake claim on his catch. They sawed her up and I came out to count the rings in the circles of trunk which were placed beside the road. My heart wrenched as I discovered that her rings outnumbered the years I had lived in the shade of her presence. Glenn and I were discussing how we were going to get the heavy wood up the block. Neither of us is young and spry. I went in to change into work atire and when I came outside the workers had loaded the tree into Glenn's van for him. We all smiled, another dose of chivalry had been shared. Suddenly, two vans came screeching to a halt in front of my house and without words spoken, it became apparent that ownership of the wood could easily become a call to arms. A truce ensued and Glenn, who truly needed the wood more ,went home the victor.
Later, playing the part of the peacemaker, I reminded Rich of the huge hoard, that I had protected his latest stash, felled from my woods by the Brookhaven cleanup crew, when they were about to dump it, via bulldozer, into a dump truck to be hauled away as bounty for another hunter.

It is beginning. In New York City a threat of men terrorizing each other on an awful anniversary. Is this the way the world ends? Revenge is child's play run amok.

Times of Wonder

A great storm is approaching. For 2 days, though the sunny August sky and fall- like temperatures belie it, a crackling apprehension, tinged with a sense of wonder, has crouched over this fragile island that I call home. Still miles away, Irene  is crawling up the Atlantic Coastline, catlike, huge spine arched, hisssing and spitting with feline ferocity,waiting to pounce upon her prey.

 It was a flamingly beautiful October in 1954 when Hurricane Hazel paid our little upstate NY hamlet in the foothills of the Catskills a terrifying pre- Halloween visit.  I remember my father boarding up the windows of our little Victorian house where we all cowered for many hours waiting out the great storm.  We played board games, my Mom cooked on our gas stove, my wonderful Grandmother told great tales, my little brother hid under the diningroom table. We survived. When it was over I promptly went to the Sidney Public Library to feed my book addiction. There I discovered "A Time of Wonder" by Robert McClosky.

For the past few days I have been fondly remembering that book. Written in 1953, Mr. McClosky uses the eyes of a small child to recount the approach, arrival and departure of a great Hurricane in Penobscot Bay, Maine. I read and re-read it to my children during and after Hurricane Gloria's attack on Long Island in 1985. It delicately outlines our survival instincts both during and after great storms, both literal and figurative.

I remember Gloria as a wonderful respite from the world where children created their own schoohouse in the woods in the 10 day absence of real school. There amongst the trees, with nature as their guide and imagination as their master, they learned far more than in the constricting walls of Miller Place Primary school.
My late friend John and I combined our resources and cooked on my Hibachi. A great frozen fish, gifted to me by a member of the church choir where I worked, kept us in ice longer than any of our neighbors. On day 8 we roasted it's smelly, melted carcass and fed it to my cats. It was a time of true communion, a time of wonder.

Is this a time of wonder too? Most of my life has been restructured. My teaching contract of the past 10 years was not renewed and I am frantically trying to reframe both my financial stability and my sense of  personhood. This autumn will be a new horizon for me, unframed by the constricts and apprehensions which usually herald a new school year.  My life will follow a new calender. It is both terrifying and exciting.  So like the approach of a great storm.

My Mom

I was supposed to fly to Florida today to visit my Mom. She decided to fly home instead. At 5:35 a.m. her spirit sailed out her body where it had been entombed and navigated home to be with my Dad. For two weeks I have been begging him to come for her.  They were greatly in love for 60 years, in truth, most of my Mom died with my Dad in 2005.  Loves like that are rare and I have faith that he scooped her up from the ethers with Godspeed right away. I am imagining how, enraptured with new love, they are getting reacquainted with on onother, my Dad valiant, tall and handsome with his sleek, thick black hair, my Mom radiant with her post-war pageboyed hair done up in a perfect roll.

I was not her favorite child, my talents didn't lie within her realm of understanding. I wonder if, in her newfound wise vision, she sees me for who I am.  I loved her and her unique talents. She taught herself to paint later in life and her home was filled with memories of the places whe had visited with my Dad. Hawaii, the mountains of the western United States and the lush woods of upstate New York where I was born are all immortalized in oils as well as seascapes and lighthouses.  She was a draftsman for Bendix Aviation and has a patent for th navigational grips on the Black Hawk Helicopters. A replica of that grip sits on the nightstand in the room in which ,until this morning ,she lived out her final years.
 Why it was fated that she died on the very morning I was to go and be with her I will never know but I imagine that her real desire was to be with the love of her life again and she just couldn't wait.

Love is eternal and great loves transcend even the infinite. Goodbye for now.

Dragonfly

Your wings are formed by sacred geometry, a lustrous filigree supporting your flight through space and time.
You appeared to me in a fleeting vision during a meeting of the meditation class I have been attending for several years.  A small, supportive group of mostly middle aged women, all of us seekers of truth, bouyed up in fanciful guided journeys by each other.  It was here, in safety, that you, Dragonfly, first appeared. I had constructed a veil-like fence with the latticework of your wings.  The fence was attempting to keep at bay an all pervading evil misperception which was threatening my very livelihood and peace. Your wings, subtle and sacredly beautiful were not sufficient to keep this evil on the outside.  Ugly fists punched at your Fibbonacci means and soon they crumpled like so many stained glass ornaments. So went the contents of my meditative musings. But, always wishing for belief in the protective constructs of the metaphysical, I still carried you into my waking life in hope of gaining solace, or very real help against the writhings of untruth.

Alas, my protection proved to be too weak and this afternoon very real stinging words and acusations tumbled my sense of self like seismic tremors. I must find armour made of a stronger mail .
Farewell little dragonfly.

Surgical Pencil

I have one valuable piece of china. The signature Haviland Christmas plate from 1973 was a gift from my son's late Grandmother. Until this evening it was a collector's item with a measurable market value. I had forgotten about it.

Feeling lonely on Christmas Day, I retrieved it from the shelf where it had been living, value intact, for the past 15 Christmases or so. Adorned with a few goodies it cheered me up. Snowbound tonight, and again feeling a wave of post holiday isolation,I filled the plate with snacks and sat down in front of my virtual connection with the outside world. Caution! Never wash a Haviland Collectors Edition Plate. I did and now the blackmarker signature on the back is smudged for all eternity, rendering it valuable to me alone. The soft blue background supporting images of brightly brushed wild birds and"Noel 1973" instantly summons a barage of visual memories of that Christmas spent in Sidney with my parents in their aging Victorian house.
Eric was 17months old and we had journeyed through the snow, ferrying our first born, my Mother-in-Law, and 2 beloved cats in our green Plymouth Duster.

Upon arrival, we discovered that the aging septic system in my parent's house had given over to a root too deep for my Dad's ingenious plunging system. Thus, Eric's Grandmother, an inveterate New Yorker, was faced with the daunting task of using a chamber pot instead of the plumbing we all take for granted.  I sent my tea-totaling Dad downtown to buy gin. He returned with 2 quarts.
Although they sometimes cause us pain, we rely upon these memories of Christmas past to unite us in a sense of the community of family.  A few tears shed for the times we cannot recreate are part and parcel of the emotional cement of the holiday season.

My own Mother's cement has cracked. The hand of God, or some deamon equal in power, has hit her delete button. All the memories that create our personhood are wiped clean for her.  I called her in Florida yesterday hoping that she might reconnect somewhere in cyberspace with memories of our Christmases past.
For her, I do not exist anymore. I am a name she does not recognize, a life she lived and forgot. Using an arsenal from my music therapy tool kit, I tried singing to her shattered braincells. Silence and more silence was the answer. And so she has become one of a myriad of my memories.

Next week my brother will put my parents' home on the market. It was gifted to him by my mother before her downfall. But, before any sale can commence, he will hire a professional estate cleaning service to erase the tangible vestiges of my parent's lives together. I am grateful the my memory holds intact, the images of where they lived and loved each other for so many years.

I opted to tell my aged Aunt, who lives a few blocks from where my parents lived, about the sale before she drove by and was shocked by the empty house.  Her last ties of family live in that house. It was a mistake to tell her. Although I was just the messenger, I broke her heart.

In a perfect world where families are not separated by distances so great that air travel is the thread uniting them, my aunt and I would grieve together. Social networking and telephones are the unification tools of today. A real hug and the wiping of tears is reality.