Underreported here (i.e America), but I think of some significance. Odd in normal comprehension - perhaps - but December 30 just did not happen in Samoa.
Its sort of like February 29 occuring every four (leap-time) years. But different, because we know that three out of every four years it just
happens.
But the Samoans and nearby islands thought it best to be in harmony with New Zealand and Australia in "time" and voted to alter their time zone. OKAY...we know it is true in our own country as Indiana farmers never change to daylight savings time and stick vigorously to standard time. And the cows are most happy, we understand!
But Samoans sit on the IDL (International Date Line) so changing their
time zone made them lose an entire day. And that makes for a very intentional mini leapish year at the end of 2011.
I just love it. And fortunately for me my birthday was not the 30 December,
and of course I am unaffected if it was, since I do not live in Samoa. But for those it does........is this what Ponce de Leon called the fountain of youth?
I wonder...........Are the Samoans onto something?
R
Friday, December 30, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Why choose an infant?
Do you remember your response to holding an infant in your arms? Whether it be the first time or the hundredth - I think the response is the same. If love and total vulnerability merge into one feeling, it is in that experience. I remember holding my god-daughter first when she was a new born and so many times afterward. Humbling - yes, but something more.
I remember the warmth, the total abandonment of everything around me and the
shared moment of love and mutuality. There is no real way of knowing
that moment unless you have shared that singular experience. Time suspends, and an other worldly inter-communication opens a window that can never close. It is total be-wonderment and it is mutually shared, unspoken from the infant but ever present and totally surrendered from the adult.
Holding that moment close, I begin to open a different window. Why did God
choose a child to be born in common circumstances in a more than humble surrounding to a set of betrothed folks so far from home? If we accept this as the birth of someone separate and not so common, the question still begs the queston - why?
All our ancient myths or sagas require a hero or special person to enter
time from exceptional circumstances. And then that person grows into maturity bearing an inner expectation of some kind of deliverance or act
that moves humanity forward.
So, God birthing a child into the world fills the expectaion of Myth, but also opens the remembered experience of the new born held in our arms and
all that brings to our own personhood and hope.
With that, I begin to visit Christmas anew each year, bringing all the prior year allows me to experience into new relationship with the story that will not let go of me.
R
I remember the warmth, the total abandonment of everything around me and the
shared moment of love and mutuality. There is no real way of knowing
that moment unless you have shared that singular experience. Time suspends, and an other worldly inter-communication opens a window that can never close. It is total be-wonderment and it is mutually shared, unspoken from the infant but ever present and totally surrendered from the adult.
Holding that moment close, I begin to open a different window. Why did God
choose a child to be born in common circumstances in a more than humble surrounding to a set of betrothed folks so far from home? If we accept this as the birth of someone separate and not so common, the question still begs the queston - why?
All our ancient myths or sagas require a hero or special person to enter
time from exceptional circumstances. And then that person grows into maturity bearing an inner expectation of some kind of deliverance or act
that moves humanity forward.
So, God birthing a child into the world fills the expectaion of Myth, but also opens the remembered experience of the new born held in our arms and
all that brings to our own personhood and hope.
With that, I begin to visit Christmas anew each year, bringing all the prior year allows me to experience into new relationship with the story that will not let go of me.
R
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Uncle Bill - the G M P I
The visits to my Dad’s family in Ohio, when I was but a child, were often fraught with
a Chekhovian urgency and quietude. Though I was between six and thirteen during these
yearly visits, everyone seemed ancient of years to me. My “Granny B” wore black and
or navy blue - even in summer - and had played the suffering role of widow since my
Dad was eight years old. Her shoes were like castoffs of retired nun’s shoes.
Who was this Uncle Bill of the title? He was in reincarnation of Ichabod Crane and the
adoring husband of my Dad’s older sister, Rachel. A person of rather small architecture,
with an oversized head, coke bottle glasses which made his eyes seem enormous, wearing a
boys size shirt of sixteen, and with a waist of about twenty four inches, he was not
what one might call a person of commanding presence. He was decidedly an in-law who
did not resemble our core “blood line.”
The annual visit always included one luncheon at Rae and Bill’s home, a mere two and a
half miles from my Granny’s dusty bungalow. The food was hardly what we today would
call kid friendly, if you know what I mean! However, my Uncle’s favorite comfort food was
mashed potatoes. Aunt Rae was not a culinary star by any means and tended to serve rather
bland food and not too much of it. Thrifty she was. Mashed potatoes were made with water
rather that milk, margarine instead of butter, and salt and pepper were left to be
added at table. I don’t recall what was served with these potatoes, but it must have
been far from appetizing and of a specialty that defied remembrance.
This dining opportunity around a small junior dinette suite in an equally small room
was again fraught with that Chekhovian tension. We sensed that the inevitable was about
to occur. Mother had warned us to be on our best behavior, not to laugh, and especially
not to look at her.
My Aunt dabbled in painting, both watercolor and oil. My Uncle permitted her work to
hang anywhere but the living room. He had collected other pieces for display there,
purchased on his annual vacation to Stratford, Ontario. So in this little dining room
hung one of my Mother’s favorite paintings by my Aunt. It was a seascape with calming,
gentle waves breaking on a sandy shore line at sun set. Mother always sat at table
facing that painting and would lose herself in those calm, comforting
waves lapping the shore. There was, of course, another reason for this distraction.
So…….we gathered at our respective places in anticipation of this year’s luncheon repast. Piping hot food made it to the table and as always the mashed potatoes took their usual spot to be served by the man of the house. After everyone was served their rightful portion, we would quietly wait
for the event that so amused us to occur, remembering that our best behavior was expected by our Mother who was already losing herself among
the waves. So our eyes would carefully dart to and from Uncle Bill
sitting at the head of the table. We privately monitored his every move like the best of spies and were totally angelic as we dabbled and ate
our food. My brother and I were well practiced in this endeavor and
we had been officially cautioned not to be an embarrassment
to our parents.
We didn’t have to wait long before our Uncle would pick up his fork and
eye the potatoes so beautifully placed on his plate. His fork surgically entered the potato pile and extracted just the perfect portion of this runny, semi-liquid delicacy. Slowly his fork would rise toward his
pursed lips which resembled Joan Sutherland as she sang one of her perfectly shaped notes, stopping about two inches away. We heard the
slow, deliberative intake of breath and ever so slowly the mashed
potatoes would lift off the fork and flow toward his mouth, seemingly
to remain suspended in time and space before invading the deep recesses
of his gaping maw. Incredible breath control was evinced, both on my
Uncle’s part and on us as we surreptitiously observed.
We dared not exchange glances with each other as we held our breath so
as to not break out into peals of laughter. Mother continued lost in
the painting, Dad was his usual quiet and removed self, his sister
Rae didn’t know that anything was up and my Granny continued to
observe her grandchildren’s demeanor as proper and dutiful. The
inhalations continued until the last speck of toes was consumed in the manner described.
And so it was, another piece of our annual summer visit completed. We
had exercised the expected self control. The long ride home was always punctuated by uncontrollable gales of laughter as we recalled and
breathed in our own imagined mashed potatoes. And of course we all
pledged allegiance to our dear Uncle Bill, the GMPI. For that was what
he began to be called - the GMPI or the great mashed potato inhaler.
R
a Chekhovian urgency and quietude. Though I was between six and thirteen during these
yearly visits, everyone seemed ancient of years to me. My “Granny B” wore black and
or navy blue - even in summer - and had played the suffering role of widow since my
Dad was eight years old. Her shoes were like castoffs of retired nun’s shoes.
Who was this Uncle Bill of the title? He was in reincarnation of Ichabod Crane and the
adoring husband of my Dad’s older sister, Rachel. A person of rather small architecture,
with an oversized head, coke bottle glasses which made his eyes seem enormous, wearing a
boys size shirt of sixteen, and with a waist of about twenty four inches, he was not
what one might call a person of commanding presence. He was decidedly an in-law who
did not resemble our core “blood line.”
The annual visit always included one luncheon at Rae and Bill’s home, a mere two and a
half miles from my Granny’s dusty bungalow. The food was hardly what we today would
call kid friendly, if you know what I mean! However, my Uncle’s favorite comfort food was
mashed potatoes. Aunt Rae was not a culinary star by any means and tended to serve rather
bland food and not too much of it. Thrifty she was. Mashed potatoes were made with water
rather that milk, margarine instead of butter, and salt and pepper were left to be
added at table. I don’t recall what was served with these potatoes, but it must have
been far from appetizing and of a specialty that defied remembrance.
This dining opportunity around a small junior dinette suite in an equally small room
was again fraught with that Chekhovian tension. We sensed that the inevitable was about
to occur. Mother had warned us to be on our best behavior, not to laugh, and especially
not to look at her.
My Aunt dabbled in painting, both watercolor and oil. My Uncle permitted her work to
hang anywhere but the living room. He had collected other pieces for display there,
purchased on his annual vacation to Stratford, Ontario. So in this little dining room
hung one of my Mother’s favorite paintings by my Aunt. It was a seascape with calming,
gentle waves breaking on a sandy shore line at sun set. Mother always sat at table
facing that painting and would lose herself in those calm, comforting
waves lapping the shore. There was, of course, another reason for this distraction.
So…….we gathered at our respective places in anticipation of this year’s luncheon repast. Piping hot food made it to the table and as always the mashed potatoes took their usual spot to be served by the man of the house. After everyone was served their rightful portion, we would quietly wait
for the event that so amused us to occur, remembering that our best behavior was expected by our Mother who was already losing herself among
the waves. So our eyes would carefully dart to and from Uncle Bill
sitting at the head of the table. We privately monitored his every move like the best of spies and were totally angelic as we dabbled and ate
our food. My brother and I were well practiced in this endeavor and
we had been officially cautioned not to be an embarrassment
to our parents.
We didn’t have to wait long before our Uncle would pick up his fork and
eye the potatoes so beautifully placed on his plate. His fork surgically entered the potato pile and extracted just the perfect portion of this runny, semi-liquid delicacy. Slowly his fork would rise toward his
pursed lips which resembled Joan Sutherland as she sang one of her perfectly shaped notes, stopping about two inches away. We heard the
slow, deliberative intake of breath and ever so slowly the mashed
potatoes would lift off the fork and flow toward his mouth, seemingly
to remain suspended in time and space before invading the deep recesses
of his gaping maw. Incredible breath control was evinced, both on my
Uncle’s part and on us as we surreptitiously observed.
We dared not exchange glances with each other as we held our breath so
as to not break out into peals of laughter. Mother continued lost in
the painting, Dad was his usual quiet and removed self, his sister
Rae didn’t know that anything was up and my Granny continued to
observe her grandchildren’s demeanor as proper and dutiful. The
inhalations continued until the last speck of toes was consumed in the manner described.
And so it was, another piece of our annual summer visit completed. We
had exercised the expected self control. The long ride home was always punctuated by uncontrollable gales of laughter as we recalled and
breathed in our own imagined mashed potatoes. And of course we all
pledged allegiance to our dear Uncle Bill, the GMPI. For that was what
he began to be called - the GMPI or the great mashed potato inhaler.
R
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Challenges...............
I have recently learned that the son of a dear friend has been in a terrible
motorcycle accident. All this happened in late July and a long, long recovery
is now in process. The siblings have rallied in support. The wife and children
are actively assisting in this healing process. But like everything, the challenges are huge.
The mother was a dear and long friend of mine. She passed away a few years ago. Sometimes it is a blessing for a mother not to have to see a son so
afflicted. But her gifts to her children as mother and mentor are helping
them cope and actually more than cope, but be present with one another and share all that comes with a long and complicated recovery. There is a special light here.
In the face of such events, one wonders about one's own family and friends if a sudden catastrophe should develop. And then one hopes and therefore must
trust that there will be people to be present with you as work for fullness
again.
I am both sad and hopeful.
R
motorcycle accident. All this happened in late July and a long, long recovery
is now in process. The siblings have rallied in support. The wife and children
are actively assisting in this healing process. But like everything, the challenges are huge.
The mother was a dear and long friend of mine. She passed away a few years ago. Sometimes it is a blessing for a mother not to have to see a son so
afflicted. But her gifts to her children as mother and mentor are helping
them cope and actually more than cope, but be present with one another and share all that comes with a long and complicated recovery. There is a special light here.
In the face of such events, one wonders about one's own family and friends if a sudden catastrophe should develop. And then one hopes and therefore must
trust that there will be people to be present with you as work for fullness
again.
I am both sad and hopeful.
R
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
the tiny and much loved little cedar chest
I was most likely in my seventh year of life. The family lived in small town in New York State, very small town. We were city people. We were different. Our exposure to the wider world was - wider. When we traveled, most often to
various relatives, I collected little stuff from the journey - salt and peppers,
enveloped sugars, matches, stones (really little ones) - you know "little things"
that were only precious to me.
My room (yes - I always had my own room) was the collecting point and no one was allowed to touch or see my "things." We all did this, right? Well, anyway
one day my dear Mother noticed and delivered to me a tiny, little cedar chest.
Oh! At Last! Something to house my special "things" in. And Oh - how wonderful- it smelled! Cedar!
This tiny, little chest measured six by ten by six. Does this make a picture? It
had brass handles on the ends to religiously carry it about and a place for a lock which I never had a lock for. It was my own little ark! I swooned over its aroma and I diligently chose the best of my collected artifacts to place in it.
Of course, in reckoning those things today they were not all that special, but then they were gold to me.
It sat centered on the top of my bureau for all of my childhood and for too
many of the years of my adulthood. It is so hard to let go of these kind of "things."
And so the years passed. The wonderful cedar smell remained as did those
precious items. Then one Christmas arrived. I had nothing to give my dear
God daughter, Angelina, and money was tight. I took a risk and emptied my
beloved chest, wrapped it in ribbons, and presented it to this wonderful little girl with saucer-like brown eyes. My expectation and fear overtook me. And
then, the story of the little chest was revealed and a glow of love and gratitude for a gift so chosen washed from Angelina to me and I felt so
awed and thankful for my choice.
What was so special to me, was a part of me that I gave freely to one so
able to see the depth of the gift, would now enjoin her life and would grow
with her as it had with me. I was wonder-filled and so thankful.
And so the life of the tiny, little cedar chest moves on to give another
the possibility to keep her cherished special "things" until it is time - yet
again - to pass it on to someone else, both special and new.
Merry Christmas!
R
various relatives, I collected little stuff from the journey - salt and peppers,
enveloped sugars, matches, stones (really little ones) - you know "little things"
that were only precious to me.
My room (yes - I always had my own room) was the collecting point and no one was allowed to touch or see my "things." We all did this, right? Well, anyway
one day my dear Mother noticed and delivered to me a tiny, little cedar chest.
Oh! At Last! Something to house my special "things" in. And Oh - how wonderful- it smelled! Cedar!
This tiny, little chest measured six by ten by six. Does this make a picture? It
had brass handles on the ends to religiously carry it about and a place for a lock which I never had a lock for. It was my own little ark! I swooned over its aroma and I diligently chose the best of my collected artifacts to place in it.
Of course, in reckoning those things today they were not all that special, but then they were gold to me.
It sat centered on the top of my bureau for all of my childhood and for too
many of the years of my adulthood. It is so hard to let go of these kind of "things."
And so the years passed. The wonderful cedar smell remained as did those
precious items. Then one Christmas arrived. I had nothing to give my dear
God daughter, Angelina, and money was tight. I took a risk and emptied my
beloved chest, wrapped it in ribbons, and presented it to this wonderful little girl with saucer-like brown eyes. My expectation and fear overtook me. And
then, the story of the little chest was revealed and a glow of love and gratitude for a gift so chosen washed from Angelina to me and I felt so
awed and thankful for my choice.
What was so special to me, was a part of me that I gave freely to one so
able to see the depth of the gift, would now enjoin her life and would grow
with her as it had with me. I was wonder-filled and so thankful.
And so the life of the tiny, little cedar chest moves on to give another
the possibility to keep her cherished special "things" until it is time - yet
again - to pass it on to someone else, both special and new.
Merry Christmas!
R
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Loss and Holiday Misfortunes
Today I heard of an accident to a dearly departed friend's son. I don't yet
know what the prognosis for recovery is, but in brings me to the question
of how at holiday times these things seem to touch us more deeply. I have other friends making their sojourn to a dear Aunt's final days. Another great mentor and beloved relative is passing from this life to the promised life beyond life as we perceive it.
And as is typical of holiday times, I enjoin the memory process of considering those no longer with me who have given so much to me without knowing the preciousness of their gift, and further those who are continuing to gift me with their presence in my life.
I guess this is a thank you to those who touch my life with a carefree loving
way and to whom I have not expressed the gratitude that I hold within. That is the loss I feel this season. It is not so much a misfortune as I know it for the gift it is. The misfortune is not acknowledging it.
Hmmm, this is part of what Advent is about after all. I still have work to do.
R
know what the prognosis for recovery is, but in brings me to the question
of how at holiday times these things seem to touch us more deeply. I have other friends making their sojourn to a dear Aunt's final days. Another great mentor and beloved relative is passing from this life to the promised life beyond life as we perceive it.
And as is typical of holiday times, I enjoin the memory process of considering those no longer with me who have given so much to me without knowing the preciousness of their gift, and further those who are continuing to gift me with their presence in my life.
I guess this is a thank you to those who touch my life with a carefree loving
way and to whom I have not expressed the gratitude that I hold within. That is the loss I feel this season. It is not so much a misfortune as I know it for the gift it is. The misfortune is not acknowledging it.
Hmmm, this is part of what Advent is about after all. I still have work to do.
R
Advent - A time of longing and being a little ticked off!
Just what is it about this season that gets me all riled up and in a self induced
frenzy of a kind? I don't/won't shop. I abhor the commercialization present in
our common life at the malls. I can't buy Christmas gifts. I hardly even feel
guilty about it anymore.
What or where have we erred? This should be a season where we consider those with less and in greater need. Aren't we all just a little too comfortable? How do we shed ourselves of our continuing quest for more abundance, especially when that pursuit excludes others from the access to even basic needs? These are my seasonal questions, indeed they are my continuing questions. And I have to ask myself repeatedly, am I doing anything to address this stuff. I freely can say - not enough, never enough. This is not just a question asked by the faithful, it is a social justice issue, a human issue.
I fail, and again I fail, but in failing I can raise the concern not only to myself but to others and maybe, just maybe - together - we can move our over-comfortable selves into action.
Perhaps then the joy of this season of waiting and expectation will mean
something tangible and Christmas will be more hopeful and Epiphany finally
become a true season of light.
I grapple. I hope. I ponder. I want to deeply celebrate. I need to be more
actively engaging in the change I want to happen.
Join me? Together it might just be really possible.
R
frenzy of a kind? I don't/won't shop. I abhor the commercialization present in
our common life at the malls. I can't buy Christmas gifts. I hardly even feel
guilty about it anymore.
What or where have we erred? This should be a season where we consider those with less and in greater need. Aren't we all just a little too comfortable? How do we shed ourselves of our continuing quest for more abundance, especially when that pursuit excludes others from the access to even basic needs? These are my seasonal questions, indeed they are my continuing questions. And I have to ask myself repeatedly, am I doing anything to address this stuff. I freely can say - not enough, never enough. This is not just a question asked by the faithful, it is a social justice issue, a human issue.
I fail, and again I fail, but in failing I can raise the concern not only to myself but to others and maybe, just maybe - together - we can move our over-comfortable selves into action.
Perhaps then the joy of this season of waiting and expectation will mean
something tangible and Christmas will be more hopeful and Epiphany finally
become a true season of light.
I grapple. I hope. I ponder. I want to deeply celebrate. I need to be more
actively engaging in the change I want to happen.
Join me? Together it might just be really possible.
R
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Stuff -Why does it stay with us?
What is it about past events and ill interpreted events in our lives that stay with us and mess with us for so long? Why is it that it is so hard to set it aside and move on? This obsession strikes me as such a huge impediment in
just getting on with our lives.
Mom just turned 97 - an incredible achievement to anyone younger. She, like
many of us who will not accede to the possibility, is haunted by life's failures,
things not realized in time to effect a positive change, and also by things that
are missed and thus missing that opportunity we all regret
not entering into.
How does one assist the other in finding some meaning in these things? And also how does one find ways of helping to let these things go? We seem impossibly bound to past events that can not be changed that we still feel
unresolved aches and angst about. I want to know how we assist those, bound in this stuff, to release the hold and move on. To one of very advanced years,
the question arises, what do I need to move on to..... It is a tough place.
And it is something we all are in many similar yet different ways part of.
So we listen, try to find humor, and often amazingly find grace and harmony
in just being and loving. This is not easy, but there are so often, isolated
moments that give us all a hope and quiet peace that is sacred and worth
the waiting and a step worthy pace on our mutual walk - forward.
R
just getting on with our lives.
Mom just turned 97 - an incredible achievement to anyone younger. She, like
many of us who will not accede to the possibility, is haunted by life's failures,
things not realized in time to effect a positive change, and also by things that
are missed and thus missing that opportunity we all regret
not entering into.
How does one assist the other in finding some meaning in these things? And also how does one find ways of helping to let these things go? We seem impossibly bound to past events that can not be changed that we still feel
unresolved aches and angst about. I want to know how we assist those, bound in this stuff, to release the hold and move on. To one of very advanced years,
the question arises, what do I need to move on to..... It is a tough place.
And it is something we all are in many similar yet different ways part of.
So we listen, try to find humor, and often amazingly find grace and harmony
in just being and loving. This is not easy, but there are so often, isolated
moments that give us all a hope and quiet peace that is sacred and worth
the waiting and a step worthy pace on our mutual walk - forward.
R
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Mom turns 97 on December 5, 2011
How amazing it is to still have a parent this long! I have had her in my life for 65 years in just 15 days. Actually - it has been longer for her, since she had to carry l'il ol' me for about nine additional months! I have been told I was an easy birth and that I emerged into the world before sunset. I made my Mom miss Christmas as they kept mothers in the hospital much longer than today! Oh, well - I didn't know that at the time.
So just how does a child - now adult - celebrate such a day? What does one need at such an advanced age? I know - just love and a mutual sharing of stories and remembrances with food and beverage as an anchor or maybe a facilitator.
Well, that's the plan and I will endeavor to be "fun" and a little taunting! It is, after all, just something I do in our ongoing relationship. And we will laugh....
Like the season of Advent, I wait in anticipation of this special time. Thus I
will create new memories to tide me over after this joint life evolves into the
promised new life that comes when our earthly life together is at an end.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm....
R
So just how does a child - now adult - celebrate such a day? What does one need at such an advanced age? I know - just love and a mutual sharing of stories and remembrances with food and beverage as an anchor or maybe a facilitator.
Well, that's the plan and I will endeavor to be "fun" and a little taunting! It is, after all, just something I do in our ongoing relationship. And we will laugh....
Like the season of Advent, I wait in anticipation of this special time. Thus I
will create new memories to tide me over after this joint life evolves into the
promised new life that comes when our earthly life together is at an end.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm....
R
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