Red Letter Day

The kids missed school to witness 

the farewell flight of Space Shuttle Endeavour. 

I think they'll remember this day...

Glimpses

I lingered for what felt like eons along the banks of the Tennessee River, knowing it would be the last time for a long time. I'd gone down there with clear intent, to cast some rose petals into the slow-moving green waters as a tangible means of "letting go"... Each fistful was a different goodbye brimming with its own emotions: relief, anger, longing. We all have our own private rituals, and for me, it felt good to see those petals disperse and drift downstream. I like to know where things are going.

But then a funny thing happened. I decided to race ahead, cutting corners, to catch a glimpse of those petals floating around the bend, to reassure myself that I can see what's coming. I waited. And waited. And waited. And they never came. Finally, I had to let go of that, too.

Ever since, I've just felt brokenhearted. Looking downstream is easy; all the memories are there, the stories we share, the history we've created and can hold up for inspection. Upstream is upheaval: the unknown, the uncertain. I'd like to feel there's hope, and resolution. Instead, I'm adrift without my lifesaver, my anchor, my compass, my captain. This is loss, this is grief, and I'm sinking in it. Somebody, please, throw me a line.

Gone from My Sight...

Morris Winham Pettit

October 23, 1918 – August 16, 2012

Gone from My Sight

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,

spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts

for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.

I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck

of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, "There, she is gone."

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,

hull and spar as she was when she left my side.

And, she is just as able to bear her load of

living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.

And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone,"

there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices

ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"

And that is dying...

Henry Van Dyke

Folding In

There are chapters in life when it feels right to indulge, to fling yourself wide open to the bright universe, allowing that awesome light to touch every inner surface. Passion and reckless abandon have their place: without those qualities, it seems unlikely that the world would ever advance.

Certain moments, however, require us to invoke some emotional origami, a folding in on oneself — a matter of preserving the soul at the risk of alienating what lies outside. "To thine own self be true..."

The lovely night-blooming moonflower knows how to avoid getting burned, unfurling her glory only after dark: secretive and luminescent, exotic and vulnerable. At the coming of dawn she closes in, hiding, like a demure geisha concealed in the folds of her kimono.

Lately, I've been folding, folding, folding, but I have a long way to go before I complete a thousand cranes...

The True Gentleman

My Grandfather, 93, had a stroke last week which landed him in the hospital and then at the skilled nursing facility in his retirement community. He didn't allow anything of this unfortunate circumstance to deprive him of his gracious spirit, his hopeful outlook, or the twinkle in his eye. Obviously, you can't keep a good man down.

He is adored by everyone who knows him, and described as "sweet," "charming," "devoted," "faithful," and "love in action." But what people say to me most often is, "Your grandfather is a true gentleman." It reminds me of a verse I first heard a few years back, a description which suits him to a tee:

The True Gentleman

The True Gentleman is the man whose conduct proceeds from good will and an acute sense of propriety, and whose self-control is equal to all emergencies; who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty, the obscure man of his obscurity, or any man of his inferiority or deformity; who is himself humbled if necessity compels him to humble another; who does not flatter wealth, cringe before power, or boast of his own possessions or achievements; who speaks with frankness but always with sincerity and sympathy; whose deed follows his word; who thinks of the rights and feelings of others, rather than his own; and who appears well in any company, a man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.

John Walter Wayland

Practice Makes Perplexed

It's obvious, looking at the generous coating of dust on the keys, that I haven't practiced the piano in awhile. But hey, it's supposed to be like a bicycle, right? Jump right back in there and do your thing? Nyet. Nein. Non. Nahin. Playing the piano with any finesse at all requires regular periods of uninterrupted attention, something that's entirely impossible in my current daily repertoire of events.

Still, I thought I could fiddle around a bit, just for fun. My plan was reasonable enough: the day's dealings had already fried my brain by two in the afternoon, so half an hour at the piano seemed like a good way to reset the system. The piece is interesting, but simple: the Barcarolle from Louis Vierne's Sihoutettes d'Enfants (you can hear a tiny snippet here). Normally, I'd read the music, play the left-hand notes, play the right-hand notes, and then put them together in some reasonable semblance of the piece.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the formula: my glasses literally got in the way. With progressive lenses, I have to tilt my head back to read the music, then forward to see the keys. The bottom of the frames cut my plane of vision in half. I lost my place every time. I couldn't put left and right together. I tried not looking down, which made it worse. The whole thing was a disaster. I guess this is an old lady's problem. I guess I'm back to square one. I guess it's time I learn to play by ear...

Bucket List: Walking the Right Path

El Camino de Santiago de Compostela is the most recent addition to my bucket list. The cathedral of Santiago, considered the burial place of Saint James, was one of the great pilgrimage goals of the Middle Ages, with some pilgrims traveling on foot from as far away as Paris. Those who completed the arduous journey where granted full remission of their sins. My goals aren't quite so lofty, and anyway, I'd probably have to circumambulate the entire globe before I'd have a shot at forgiveness (but that's another story all together).

It's not the getting there that's my objective; the journey is its own reward. I'm most interested in what happens along the way: the setbacks, the surprise encounters, the self awareness, the serendipity. But first, since it's 750km from St.-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago, I'd better get a new pair of walking shoes Or two.

photo, Maren Misner

Bucket List: Sky High

For those of you who think I'm just some mild-mannered home-economist-foodie-artsy-scrapbooking sort, I've got news for you: there's a latent Evel Knievel-ish daredevil lurking in the shadows. So there are a few thrill-seeking items on my bucket list, and skydiving is one of them, although it's moved farther down the list now that there are small children in my care.

The Matterhorn is not a prerequisite to my intended leap of faith, although it does make for a magnificent photo. I've seen this giant hunk of rock before, from a few different angles, and I don't think I want to be anywhere in its vicinity when I drift back down to earth. Wide open plains of wheat fields, maybe.

Any ideas for the ultimate skydiving spot? Want to come along? I figured you would jump at the chance...

photo, Office du Tourisme du Valais