Tuesday, December 10, 2013

It's like looking in a mirror....

                                                                                               B. Watterson
 
 

Monday, October 22, 2012

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Kiss marks and tickle bumps


There are icons throughout the church where I am a parishioner.  One of the women who attends the church wrote much of the iconography that adorns the sanctuary of the church.   I sit in the same spot every Sunday and have noticed for some time that, depending on how the light hits one of the icons near my seat, kiss marks are visible on it.  I have been attending this church for many years and find myself wondering if some of those kisses were from people long gone who, at some time in the past, venerated the icon with a kiss  ~ a show of reverence.  When I think back on all the people who populated, animated  and grew this church community who are now gone, I get a lump in my throat.  One of the men in our parish died recently. Mr. K. was well into his nineties and had been very active in the church for many years. Attending services for him and seeing his children, his widow and the many people who can no longer come to church every Sunday due to age, poor health, punishing work schedules, I was reminded of a very happy memory.  Mr. K., when we were young, drove a Volkswagen Bus.  There was a hill with a great "tickle bump" on the road heading to church and every once in a while after church, Mr. K. would pile some of his kids and other children from the parish into the bus and drive around the block and down the hill so that we could get that great, slightly nauseating feeling of our stomachs dropping out the bottom of the vehicle.  While I looked at him in the coffin, that was the image that kept coming to my mind ~  a bunch of goofy kids, screaming with laughter, feeling about half sick and begging to go again as soon as it was over ~ and Mr. K. obliging us.  Later I wondered if some of the kiss marks were from Mr. K., his wife or his kids.  I hope no one ever washes those icons. 
Everlasting memory, Mr. K.!!


Monday, February 20, 2012

Walks

Trodden Weed ~ Andrew Wyeth

Today was a beautiful Midwest late-winter day ~  temperature in the low 40's, insistent sparkling sunshine, blue skies feathered with wispy, white clouds and a steady but gentle wind ~ enough to keep the hair out of the eyes and kiss the cheeks with pink.  I was walking by the river being led by my faithful canine companion of the last 10 years and drinking in the rich brown-grey color all around  ~ the still naked trees, the ashy, broken leaves on the ground, the wilted,washed out weeds and grass, the rushing water of the St. Joseph river ~ and recalling other walks I have taken in this life.  I've walked into and out of difficulties, up to new challenges, away from love gone cold, towards adventure and with an array of tasks, people, worries, plans. During walks I've held hands down a path, survived terrific embarrassment, enjoyed the soft fingers of rain on my face and not given a darn about what it would do to my hair, shared secrets, had a kiss stolen and said final goodbyes. I've walked to get myself motivated, calm down, figure things out,  pray... And as I walked this afternoon,  I couldn't help thinking that this walk, my companion and the weather were near idyllic. 

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Insomnia

Inspiration

                                                                                             b.watterson



Sophie moved down the street at a sprint - her eyes were closed - she knew this neighborhood like the back of her hand - maybe even better. She could hear the wind, other kids laughing and yelling, birds chirping, leaves rustling in the breeze and the city bus groaning into action after having deposited someone at the street corner. The contrast between the cool spring wind and the soft warm touch of the sun on her face was exhilarating. She ran past the stand of lilac bushes at the end of the block tasting their sweet fragrance.  She took an extra long stride as she turned the corner past the lilacs to avoid the broken patch of sidewalk.  She felt like her heart would burst from the run but she kept on going - past Mr. Smith's yard with the chronic sprinkler,past old Mrs. Murphy's with the "stay off the grass" sign,  past the Conways with the children all too young to leave the yard and too numerous to keep inside on such a day - she could hear them calling to her and she opened her eyes, smiled and waved.  She looked briefly down at her feet and saw the new blue Keds - they really did make her run faster, jump higher, go further. On she went, her pleated, plaid skirt and white blouse flapping around her. One more corner and then the final leg of the run that would end at the Rosewood Elementary School playground.  Sophie loved coming to the playground when school wasn't in session. It seemed like such a daring thing to do and there weren't nearly as many kids vying for a swing.  She got to the swing set and skidded on the pea-gravel under the swings. Situating herself on her favorite swing, she began to pump her rubbery legs to get going as high as she could. In a matter of a minute she felt like she was flying and she leaned back and closed her eyes. The world turned upside down and the broad smile on Sophie's face could have cracked it in two. She stopped working at the swinging and just enjoyed the sensation, the gentle arc she drew in her small corner of the playground - the weightlessness and then the realization that very soon the swing would come to a stop and once again she would be grounded. She held on to the last bit of motion the swing was willing to shell out and then opened her eyes, dismounted and started walking back home - back to siblings, chores, dinner around a table with the people she most wanted to be like and liked by... and her Keds suddenly kicked her into high gear, pounding the pavement as Sophie headed back to real life and all its comforts.

and now for something completely different....

Since I have done nothing to add to this blog in the last several (many) months, I thought I better get crackin and do SOMETHING... so, a small selection of "poetry" from my distant and not so distant past.

He recalled beauty.                                                                                 
It's power and
elaborate
frantic
language.
An ache in the breast
like rust.


Raw winter sky
White void
Pounding the will
Crushing the symphony
of me


She sits, always alone.                                                                                                                                                 Andrew Wyeth
Iron tongued
and dreams of singing delicate music
of whispering her want to her beloved
in light cool moments.


Not much, but something.