Merry May Day

The fair maid who, the first of May
Goes to the fields at break of day
And washes in dew from the hawthorn tree
Will ever after handsome be.
-- Mother Goose

It is May Day, Beltane, when the world is suspended between the vernal equinox and the summer solstice. On this day, our ancestors celebrated the triumph of the light over the darkness and gloried in the fertility of the land.

Bonfires and Maypoles may be hard to come by these days, but there's plenty of ancient magic in the air. They say that washing in the dew at dawn today brings beauty, jumping over a flame makes a wish come true, and that faeries can be seen at twilight.

It's a bit late for me to worry about my looks, but I do have a wish or two to attend to. And you can bet I'll be keeping an eye out for faeries.

Round Robins: Captions

Have you ever saved a memory without meaning to ... without knowing, at the time, that it would be with you always?

The last time I saw my mother, these tulips were in her room, a gift from my brother and sister-in-law. The bouquet was of humble origin, an impulse purchase from the grocery store on the way to the hospital. In the way of all things removed from their roots, the blooms were dying slowly, inevitably. But on this day they were magnificent.

Everyone who came by--doctors, nurses, guests--remarked on the beauty of these flowers, and Mom acknowledged the compliments with pride. She was, in life, an avid gardener. Irises were her favorites, but she loved anything green and growing.

I had my camera with me, and I offered to take a picture. We scoped out a bare wall, the only one away from the equipment and tubing where the light was adequate. I fiddled with the settings and tried not to shake the camera while she watched and waited. I lay next to her in the narrow bed to show her the results in the view screen, and she was so pleased with the pictures we'd made.

Mom is gone now. I have so many memories of her, of our lives together. Each one is a snapshot, a frozen moment in time. This is one of the last.

In the fall, I believe I will plant pink tulips. I will whisper: Mom, do you see? And then I will wait, and I will remember. And I will hope for spring.

More Photos: Round Robins Photo Shoot
Quote: "Forever is composed of nows." ~ Emily Dickinson

Signs of life!

Look what's going on in my front yard today. The snow is in retreat, and fresh green things are arching their backs, heaving up the deep brown mulch, and reaching for the sun. Hallelujah, at last, Hallelujah!

P.S., can anyone tell me how to get a cropped photo to display in the full size allowed on Blogger? I had to sign up for Flickr hosting for this, and it still isn't sized right. So much to learn, so little time.

Over the rainbow, way up high

This week's Monday Photo Shoot assignment from Karen at Outpost Mavarin is Something Relaxing. So here we are above the clouds, where it's always sunny, clear blue, and pure white for as far as the eye can see. Whenever I'm stressed out, I close my eyes and soar back up here for a few seconds.

This was taken yesterday, Sunday, on my way back from visiting my mom in the hospital. (She's much better now and came home today.) This view made the worry and airport hassles melt away. I could live up there, free at last.

Ghost of snow

The earth exhales
breathing white
into the sky

How softly it fills me
Her quiet breath
The ghost of snow










copyright 2008

Twelfth Night

Tonight is the twelfth and last night of Christmas, one of the most important of the Winter Solstice. It is the eve of Epiphany, which celebrates the arrival in Bethlehem of the three wise men, following the star of a greater king.

In Bavaria and Austria from New Years through January 6, Star Singers dress as the magi and go caroling door to door, bearing before them the staff of that mysterious star. On this evening, householders in Germany and Poland chalk C+M+B and the date over their doorways and ask for the protection of Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar.

I love the three kings legend. It fires the imagination for me like no other part of Christmas. I hear in it the oneness of man and the universe, the quest of the seeker, and the leap of faith. May this night bring you amazing joy.

Here comes the sun

In case you missed it: The winter solstice happened yesterday, or the day before, depending on where you live. From this point forward, the darkness fails and light prevails. Every day gets a little longer than the one before. And about freakin' time, too.

A lot of the best stuff we associate with Christmas is, of course, usurped from older, solstice traditions -- candles and evergreens, birth and hope. There's a really nice site that explores the origins of the winter holidays, if you're curious. It's called Candlegrove. It's a fun place to poke around.

All Saints Day

I am not a Catholic, but I like the idea of saints.

My first real awareness of them came shortly after we moved to this area. Catholic neighbors trying to sell their houses bury little statues of Saint Joseph in their yards, facing away from the house. When the house is sold, they dig him up and take him with them to the new home. They swear he gets the job done.

It would be nice to think that some kindly spirit or other was out there to talk to, and maybe to lend a hand. Somebody who was once one of us, and who understands that life on earth ain't easy. (Yes, yes, I know. Jesus. But as the incarnation of Yahweh, he was never exactly one of the boys, was he.)

I wouldn't mind having a pleasant, holy-ish spirit friend; a minor deity of sorts, one who wouldn't afflict me with boils or plagues or anything.

A quick Internet search brought me to Catholic Online - Saints & Angels, where I discovered there are hundreds and hundreds of 'em. Wow. Who knew? There is even a list of Popular Saints, presumably the "cool kids' table" of the spirit world. I imagine they're pretty busy. And I doubt they'd be caught dead consorting with a backslid Presbyterian.

No, what I need is a small, thoughtful saint who might welcome a little attention. One with some extra time on his or her hands. Back to the Internet for a search on "obscure saints":

Topping the results list is Michael Kelly's Page of Misery: Saints, which is funny as hell but not to be clicked upon if you are easily offended. (Consider yourself warned. Do not email me.)

An entry or two down in Google is the delightful, quirky Saints in Paper Maché. The artist is Canadian Kate Hodgson. Of her collection she says, "Holy folk, who excelled in life or overcame great obstacles are heroes. I think they deserve a little more shelf space in our everyday lives." I can agree with that.

Among her subjects is Saint Zita, reputed to be a kind and generous soul who, refreshingly enough, was not too horribly abused in life and did not end up being tortured to death. She's a patron saint of homemakers, among other things. Hm. Zita might do. I'll let you know.

*Update, November 2: Indeterminacy says, "I wonder why a patron saint of the Internet hasn't been named yet, but I'm sure it will be done soon." which made me wonder, too. Well, the wait is over. Looks like the Vatican assigned the job to Saint Isidore of Seville. Now there's a useful saint.

Things that go bump in the night

"I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks, I do I do I do believe in spooks... " -- The Cowardly Lion

I have never seen a ghost. But I suspect they have seen me.

Tales of the unexplained are common in my side of the family. Between the lot of us, we've had covers and pillows tugged away in the night; we've seen orbs, and we've had lights that turn themselves on; objects have appeared in unexpected places or have moved without any visible cause. We've caught dark figures at the edge of sight, and one of us even had a horrifying encounter with a shadow man. At times, urgent rapping and banging sounds emanate from inside closed cabinets and from certain empty rooms. The events span decades, and have occurred in a number of houses in several states. The common denominator seems to be us: my mother, sister, brother and myself. And my kids have had a few odd experiences of their own. It would seem that we attract this kind of thing.

For the most part, I remain a fascinated observer of the paranormal field. Experiences come to me, but I don't go looking for them. It is tantalizing to think of an alternate reality just beyond our senses, but deliberately stepping into that reality feels like a bad idea.

So. Sometimes I think I'd like to see a ghost. Other times I remember to be careful what I wish for.

A hobby is born

Behold my first effort in bead craft. It's river jasper, and the pendant is a real carob leaf plated with copper. OK, it's not the crown jewels, but it's a beginning.

The bead shop is in an old house, and the windows are filled with colorful and exotic things. The rooms are bursting with every kind of stone, glass, wooden and bone bead, along with everything needed to turn them into wearable whatevers. Cards above the bins tell the lore of each stone in hand-done calligraphy. (This is trouble, as I am a complete sucker for a story.) Interspersed with the beads are intriguing, New-Age-y items like singing bowls and crystals.

My first time in the shop was a week ago, a rare day off that was all mine to spend. I sorted and sifted the goodies for a half hour or so, striking up an acquaintance with Doug, the owner. Doug is about 60, I'd say, with laugh lines, twinkly eyes and sparse grey hair. He sits under a sign put up by his wife: "Doug is hard of hearing. Feel free to yell at him. I do it all the time." I like her already.

Before long, Doug had me seated in a sunny room stringing a bowlful of beads and wondering why I never tried this before. The process is strangely relaxing. There is the beauty of the material, the smoothness of the beads and wire. The work falls quickly into a rhythm, hypnotic and calming. Doug says that ancient words for beading were synonymous with meditation. All I know is that it was the best morning I've had in years. And when it was done, I wore something that spoke to me of that fine, clear autumn day.

Next time: jade. I love jade.

Talisman

The Round Robin Challenge theme this time is "talisman" -- a suggestion of my own that seemed like a good idea at the time, but that proved to be more difficult than anticipated.

Not that my life isn't full of emotionally laden, strange, and "lucky" objects, but most of them show no outward sign of their power, nothing that could be captured in a photograph. Except maybe this.

My grandfather was a Mason, a member of the Scottish Rite. It was never discussed in the family, and I never heard him mention a thing about it, but he always wore a plain gold ring inscribed only with a triangle enclosing a single, mysterious symbol. He would never explain to me what it was. That ring was a source of burning curiosity throughout my childhood, and it probably contributed mightily to my lifelong love for mysteries, secrets, and hidden meanings.

Given all that, imagine my delight when presented with this exotic and beautiful little pin.

I was about to travel alone for the first time, setting off on an adventure far from home and family. My grandmother took me aside and pinned it to the lapel of my coat. She said that it would protect me, because any Mason who saw it would keep watch over me and see that I came to no harm. I don't know if that was true, but it was heady stuff to think that I walked among an invisible, secret brotherhood who would have my back if I needed them.

I don't wear the pin anymore because I think it's really meant only for Masons themselves, and I wouldn't want to offend. But holding it still brings back that sense of magical protection that saw me through my first flight from the nest.


*The other Robins have talismans too. Click here to see them all.

Buonanotte, Luciano

A brilliant light has gone out of the world with the death of Luciano Pavaroti. It seems fitting to light a candle in his memory, and to say a heartfelt thank you for the gift of his amazing voice. His life lifted all of us closer to heaven.

September song

The pool across the street closed yesterday, and the morning is strangely still. Gone is the early morning murmur and rhythmic swish of the lap swimmers. Today there will be no splashing, no radios, no little-kid laughter. No Marco. No Polo. The deck furniture is stored away. A small, forgotten beach ball drifts aimlessly around the empty concrete, occasionally pressing its nose against the chain link fence.

The cricket chorus has taken center stage, their relentless trill underscored by the patter of hickory nut shells hitting the driveway, courtesy of the squirrel section. Chipmunks chirp along, keeping time, and a chilly wind riffs in the oak leaves.

Even now, the trees are beginning to turn. Just at the edges, near the tops, the first tentative colors bloom: reds for now, with gold to follow. Now is the hush before the glory, and the sigh before the dying. Bittersweet, my loves, bittersweet.

Scat. No, seriously.

This is Oscar. He lives in Rhode Island. If you ever see him, run like hell.

According to MSNBC, Oscar can predict imminent death among patients in the hospice he patrols. He is an aloof cat, "not friendly to people". When he does deign to sit with someone, the honoree will most likely be dead within four hours. The staff consider Oscar so reliable that they call patients' families right away, once he's chosen them, so the soon-to-be-bereaved can come and say their goodbyes.

So here's my question: Does this cute little furball sense that death is near, or does he drag it in and drop in your lap, like a grim little present? If you know cats, you know it could go either way.

Farewell, Lady Bird

“My heart found its home long ago in the beauty, mystery, order and disorder of the flowering earth.” -- Lady Bird Johnson

The world lost a real lady this week with the passing of Lady Bird Johnson. She was an effective voice in environmental causes, a beloved wife and mother, and by all accounts a perennially kind and gracious soul.

As first lady, she chose highway beautification as her pet project. At the time, with so many dire and desperate issues at hand, that seemed frivolous and silly.

Today we still have the same dire and desperate issues. Nothing she could have done would have changed that. But across the nation, vast Persian carpets of wildflowers bloom, and the heart lifts and sings at the sight. Turns out, Lady Bird was right:

“Some may wonder why I chose wildflowers when there are hunger and unemployment and the big bomb in the world. Well, I, for one, think we will survive, and I hope that along the way we can keep alive our experience with the flowering earth. For the bounty of nature is also one of the deep needs of man.”

* Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center
* Lady Bird Johnson: Final Tribute

Feeling meemish

Carly has tagged me with a new meme: Name five to ten songs that affected your life.

I hadn't ever thought about it before, and I had to take a few days to think about it, but there are in fact a number of them. (More than ten, actually.)Here are the ones that spring to mind:

Irish Lullaby. This is the first song I remember hearing. My grandmother used to sit on the edge of my bed and sing it to me when I was very small. It made me feel safe and warm. Her mother probably sang it to her, and I sang to my babies when they came along. I hope they will remember it, too.

The Girl That I Marry, by Irving Berlin. I recall Robert Goulet crooning this one on TV, and my mother and I singing along, all misty-eyed and mellow: "The girl that I marry will have to be ... as soft and as pink as a nursery. A doll I can carry, the girl that I marry must be." The message stuck with me, that this was how women should be. It did not serve me well.

Cherish, by The Association. It was the quintessential love song of my adolescence, the slow dance number of any special event. First loves, raging hormones ... you get the picture.

Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog, Old Time Rock and Roll, and Sweet Home Alabama. There are few black moods these songs cannot lift. I keep 'em on hand the way some people keep Prozac.

Proud Mary. When I first saw Tina Turner blast this one out, it broke the spell of the whole woman-as-soft-pink-doll thing. I wanted to be a Tina, and if men didn't like it, well, tough.

Michael Jackson songs. The beat is perfect for me for aerobics. I lost a lot of weight to A Smooth Criminal, Thriller, etc.

Imagine, by John Lennon. Before this song, I had never looked at the world this way. Once I had, I could never go back.

Harry Potter Theme. The first time I surfed to the movie website, and those haunting, music box notes filled the house, my husband and sons were drawn to it like moths to flame. That led to interest in the movie, which led to the books, which led to my husband becoming a reader. Which is something I had always wanted to share with him, and has become a new bond between us.

Unwritten, by Natasha Bedingfield:

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

This one gives me hope. At this point in life, there is a lot more time behind me than there is ahead. And yet, today is where the future begins. And the possibilities are still endless.

P.S. Want to play? Name five to ten songs that made a difference in your life. Pass the meme along to five other people, with a link back to your own post and this one as the original. I don't think I actually have five people who like being tagged, so I'll just leave this as an open invitation. If you post, leave me a link in comments, OK?

Views from the road less traveled

There are broad, straight, paved highways in life that lead to a given destination, and they are fine things when you're in a hurry and know where you have to be and when.

And then there are hidden ways that lead not to what is, but to what might be.


This week's Round Robin topic celebrates The Road Less Traveled. For me, that means going into the woods, back to a green and quiet place where magic and mystery still live.














Be sure to stop by and see the other Robins' photos -- and next time join us, won't you?

Thanks to all who played this time!
Vicki

'Like water over bells'

Heading home from work today, I heard this remarkable clip on National Public Radio introducing a Swiss instrument called a Hang (pronounced "hung"). It's a kind of cross between a steel drum and a bell. The sound is haunting; it is at once tribal and unearthly, a hollow, vibrating breath from elsewhere.

I don't know about you, but discovering new experiences like this are what keeps me going. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

P.S. This is yet another good reason to support your National Public Radio.

Saving Scalzi

Oh Lord.

Over at Whatever they're passing the collection plate to send John Scalzi on a field trip to The Creation Museum.

He's demanding $250 total, via Paypal, by June 15 or the deal is off. (Proceeds go to Americans United for Separation of Church and State.)

Hey, that's worth a few bucks to me. I mean, it's Scalzi. In The Creation Museum. It's already funny.

Pennies from Heaven

It is said that those who have crossed over sometimes make their presence known to the living by dropping coins in odd places. Strange as it sounds, I think there may be something to it.

Shortly after my favorite aunt passed away in 2001, pennies began to appear around me. I'd leave my desk, and when I'd return, I'd find one right there in front of the keyboard, or on my chair or nearby on the floor. They're always pennies, and they're always dated 2002.

The penny in the photo appeared last night. I walked from my desk to the closet, got some paper, closed the closet door and sat back down here. When I glanced that way again, there was the penny, on the carpet in front of the closet door. I'm sure I would have noticed it, had it been there before.

I've tried to pass this off as coincidence, or just heightened awareness of perfectly ordinary stray change, but ... why is it always only one coin, always a penny, and always dated 2002? On the other hand, why aren't they dated 2001, or maybe 2004 for when my dad died?

For a while, the coins seemed to follow me. When last I visited my brother's home in another state, where my father's ashes are kept in a place of honor by the front door, 2002 pennies began appearing on their doorstep. Oddest of all, when my sister in law and I went out for lunch, she opened her sandwich to add some mustard and there, embedded in the pickle slice, was -- you guessed it -- a penny. That one was dated 2000, but still. What are the odds? (According to the manager of the restauarant, the odds are zero. I'm sure she thought we put it there to get a free lunch.)

It's been about a year since the last penny popped up. Now, with my thoughts lingering so often among the dead, they seem to be reappearing.

I hesitate to post this, as it is both wierd and personal. I guess I'm hoping someone else has had this experience, or can explain it away for me. Any takers?