"The day will come when, after harnessing the ether, the winds, the tides, and gravitation, we shall harness for God the energies of love. And on that day, for the second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire."
Pierre Tielhard de Chardin (early 20th century mystic and scientist)
Although I have not actively practiced science in 8 or 9 years, I am still a scientist at heart. It is impossible for me to look at a situation and not try to "figure it out", to employ logic and scientific method in an often vain attempt to get to the truth of the matter. Most of the time, there is no one truth, but I dig on, in a sometimes endearing, but mostly irritating, manner.
How I love today's quote by de Chardin. The ultimate science orgasm- discovering the etiology of love. The folks at the Nobel office would have a heck of a time deciding which category to place this discovery.
If love were a harnassable energy, here a few things I would do, off the top of my head:
-plug it into the gym where my 5th grade daughter, LB, is having her science fair today.
-Air drop it over all public events, including the Boston marathon.
-Incorporate it into the HVAC systems of all government buildings. Wait, no, that would require harnessing the energy of intelligence.
-send it by radio waves into all cars stuck in rush hour traffic.
-put it in cigarettes. Bad guys wouldn't know what to do with themselves ( Edward G. Robinson inspired that one, seeee?)
-incorporate it into the building materials for all middle schools.
-use it as a subliminal message in the elevator of the hotel hosting the next Annual Dictator's Convention. Kim Jong Un and Omar Al-Bashir might become besties and pinkie swear to shower their oppressed people with food and hope. Real food, not fake. That Omar can be quite the kidder.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Convent Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Hard to believe Easter week is here as I gaze out the arched convent windows at the winter scene still being played among the shivering crocuses and daffodils.
The slushy, snowy remnants of what I pray is winter's last gasp are melting rapidly under the early spring sun, leaving rivulets of water and muddy earth behind.
The meteorologists say this is a good thing, as the snow will slowly seep into the ground, a perfect antidote for the drought our area has been experiencing over the last few months.
Carryll Houselander (I've been on a real Houselander bender these past few months) writes of water as selfless and poor, the most perfect example of a small, blue thing.
"Water is of all things the most selfless, yet without it nothing has life. It irrigates the earth, it gives the spring its tender greenness, it is the life of the flowers and their loveliness, it quenches thirst, it purifies all that it touches. It is the perfection of poverty, it has nothing of its own, it has no shape or color or taste or radiance; yet it gives unceasingly to all living things and all beauty is perceived in it. In it we see the blue sky and the green leaves and the passing clouds; in it we look with naked eyes upon the moon and the stars and the sun."
Perhaps the soul does not reside in the brain or the heart, but in water; after all, water comprises 65% of the human body.
Perfect excuse not to exercise- wouldn't want to sweat any of my soul away.
The slushy, snowy remnants of what I pray is winter's last gasp are melting rapidly under the early spring sun, leaving rivulets of water and muddy earth behind.
The meteorologists say this is a good thing, as the snow will slowly seep into the ground, a perfect antidote for the drought our area has been experiencing over the last few months.
Carryll Houselander (I've been on a real Houselander bender these past few months) writes of water as selfless and poor, the most perfect example of a small, blue thing.
"Water is of all things the most selfless, yet without it nothing has life. It irrigates the earth, it gives the spring its tender greenness, it is the life of the flowers and their loveliness, it quenches thirst, it purifies all that it touches. It is the perfection of poverty, it has nothing of its own, it has no shape or color or taste or radiance; yet it gives unceasingly to all living things and all beauty is perceived in it. In it we see the blue sky and the green leaves and the passing clouds; in it we look with naked eyes upon the moon and the stars and the sun."
Perhaps the soul does not reside in the brain or the heart, but in water; after all, water comprises 65% of the human body.
Perfect excuse not to exercise- wouldn't want to sweat any of my soul away.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Convent Tuesday, February 5, 2013
It's an uncertain day here at the convent; neither cold nor warm, not quite rainy, nor is it snowing. There's no anticipation in the air, no expectation at all. Just a nagging sense of disquiet, as if I've forgotten to take my vitamins.
I went outside in search of a small blue thing, something to remind me of the soft, still voice that I was having trouble hearing above the quiet of winter.
Almost immediately, a tree whispered to me. I stood under it and listened for a bit.
I discovered some directionally-challenged moss growing on the southwest side of a brick.
I passed a wheelbarrow having a smoke behind one of the outbuildings. It tipped its hat as I went by.
I sat for a bit with an order of crocuses napping among the trees, their wimple clad heads gently nodding.
I think it was their snoring that finally drove me back inside.
I went outside in search of a small blue thing, something to remind me of the soft, still voice that I was having trouble hearing above the quiet of winter.
Almost immediately, a tree whispered to me. I stood under it and listened for a bit.
I discovered some directionally-challenged moss growing on the southwest side of a brick.
I passed a wheelbarrow having a smoke behind one of the outbuildings. It tipped its hat as I went by.
I sat for a bit with an order of crocuses napping among the trees, their wimple clad heads gently nodding.
I think it was their snoring that finally drove me back inside.
| Whose are the little beds," I asked, "Which in the valleys lie?" Some shook their heads, and others smiled, And no one made reply. "Perhaps they did not hear," I said; "I will inquire again. Whose are the beds, the tiny beds So thick upon the plain?" "'T is daisy in the shortest; A little farther on, Nearest the door to wake the first, Little leontodon. "'T is iris, sir, and aster, Anemone and bell, Batschia in the blanket red, And chubby daffodil." Meanwhile at many cradles Her busy foot she plied, Humming the quaintest lullaby That ever rocked a child. "Hush! Epigea wakens! -- The crocus stirs her lids, Rhodora's cheek is crimson, -- She's dreaming of the woods." Then, turning from them, reverent, "Their bed-time 't is," she said; "The bumble-bees will wake them When April woods are red." Emily Dickinson |
Monday, February 4, 2013
Super Bowl Hangover
Today I am not feeling at all well. Yesterday was the Super Bowl and my hometown football team YOOUURRRR BALLLTTTIMOORE RAVENNNSSS! was the underdog going against the San Francisco 49ers.
To make it even more exciting, the coaches of the opposing teams are brothers, Jim and John Harbaugh.
Hands down, the Ravens have the cuter Harbaugh.
It was an incredible game. The Ravens played fantastically well, racking up 28 points to the SF 49er's 6 by the third quarter. Then, the lights went out. That is not a euphemism, the lights actually went out. Guess the New Orleans Superdome forgot to pay their electric bill.
For 35 agonizing minutes we watched as the Ravens mojo slipped away. I could barely choke down my 6th cocktail.
When power was finally restored, the game had changed and everyone could feel it. Now the 49er's had the crowd, and they used this energy to score a heart attack inducing 17 points in four minutes of play.
But YOURRR BALTTIMOOORRRE RAAAAVEEENNS! held on and squeaked out a 34-31 win under the bright lights.
The game ran late and none of us were in bed until after midnight. This morning I woke up with an ache in my head, cotton in my mouth, and a shit eating grin on my face.
Edgar Allen Poe must be smiling down from heaven.
In case you haven't yet finished your coffee, here's a little poem Poe wrote about the team:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered-not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never-nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite-respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there-is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!
THE END
To make it even more exciting, the coaches of the opposing teams are brothers, Jim and John Harbaugh.
 |
| Picture credit: statsgeektees.com |
Hands down, the Ravens have the cuter Harbaugh.
It was an incredible game. The Ravens played fantastically well, racking up 28 points to the SF 49er's 6 by the third quarter. Then, the lights went out. That is not a euphemism, the lights actually went out. Guess the New Orleans Superdome forgot to pay their electric bill.
 |
| Picture credit: ESPN.com |
When power was finally restored, the game had changed and everyone could feel it. Now the 49er's had the crowd, and they used this energy to score a heart attack inducing 17 points in four minutes of play.
But YOURRR BALTTIMOOORRRE RAAAAVEEENNS! held on and squeaked out a 34-31 win under the bright lights.
The game ran late and none of us were in bed until after midnight. This morning I woke up with an ache in my head, cotton in my mouth, and a shit eating grin on my face.
Edgar Allen Poe must be smiling down from heaven.
In case you haven't yet finished your coffee, here's a little poem Poe wrote about the team:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered-not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never-nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite-respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there-is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!
THE END
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Happy Buddhist New Year!
Happy New Year to all my friends who practice Mahayana Buddhism, one of the two basic schools of Budhism.
Ok, I'll come clean. I have exactly 0 friends who practice Mahayana Buddhism. Any Buddhist bloggers out there living within a 100 mile radius of Maryland, USA who want to invite me over for tonight's celebration, I can be ready at the drop of a hat. I'll bring booze, any amount, depending on your level of enlightenment.
Mahayanan Buddhists believe individuals have no intrinsic value, and that they only exist in relation to others. Fantastic concept- it greatly supercedes the Christian notion of treating others as if they were your sisters or brothers. For Buddhists, other people actually ARE you, in a sense.
Don't just do unto others as you would have them do unto you, do well unto others because they make you you.
The Mahayan New Year always falls on the first full moon in January, which happens to be tonight.
Different cultures celebrate in different ways, but almost all include visits to temples to light candles, prayers to Lord Buddha, and of course, fireworks.
Apparently, in Tibet there's a highly competitive yak butter sculpting competition. Don't want to be late for that one.
Children may also wash the feet of their parents. Give me six more days of this tradition and I'll be Buddhist for life. Er, lives.
Any of my blogger friends ever celebrate this holiday? Would love to hear more about it!
 |
| That's me, third boat from the left. Picture credit: http://newlotus.buddhistdoor.com/en/news/d/24143 |
Ok, I'll come clean. I have exactly 0 friends who practice Mahayana Buddhism. Any Buddhist bloggers out there living within a 100 mile radius of Maryland, USA who want to invite me over for tonight's celebration, I can be ready at the drop of a hat. I'll bring booze, any amount, depending on your level of enlightenment.
Mahayanan Buddhists believe individuals have no intrinsic value, and that they only exist in relation to others. Fantastic concept- it greatly supercedes the Christian notion of treating others as if they were your sisters or brothers. For Buddhists, other people actually ARE you, in a sense.
Don't just do unto others as you would have them do unto you, do well unto others because they make you you.
Different cultures celebrate in different ways, but almost all include visits to temples to light candles, prayers to Lord Buddha, and of course, fireworks.
Apparently, in Tibet there's a highly competitive yak butter sculpting competition. Don't want to be late for that one.
Children may also wash the feet of their parents. Give me six more days of this tradition and I'll be Buddhist for life. Er, lives.
Any of my blogger friends ever celebrate this holiday? Would love to hear more about it!
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Robins in Winter
Today LB and I spent a half hour staring out the window at a flock of robins that had taken over our front yard.
Not much talking, just an occasional comment or two about a fat bird here, a cocky bird there.
Best half hour of my day so far.
Here's a poem for Saturday from Jessica Powers. I like that she finds heaven within instead of without. I'm not much of a "Paradise in the sky with streets of gold" kinda gal.
I was reminded of the poem while I was attempting to do a few Sun Salutations this morning. As my body creaked through the poses I tried to imagine the "shining overflowing" from deep within. Still couldn't reach my toes, but at least I got through without taking my back out again.
Now that you have that pleasant image in your heads...
The saints and mystics
had a name
for that deep
inwardness of flame,
the height or depth
or ground or goal
Which is God's dwelling
in the soul.
Not capax Dei*
do you say;
nor
scintilla animae
nor synderis-
all are fair-
but heaven,
because God is there.
All day and when
you wake at night
think of that place
of living light,
yours and within you
and aglow
where only God
and you can go.
None can assail you
in that place
save your own evil,
routing grace.
Not even angels
see or hear
nor the dark spirits
prowling near.
But there are days
when watching eyes
could guess that you
hold Paradise.
Sometimes the shining
overflows
and everyone
around you knows.
*capax Dei- capacity for God
scintilla animae- spark of the soul
synderis- disposition to do good
_crop.jpg) |
| This is not the Robin to whom I refer |
Not much talking, just an occasional comment or two about a fat bird here, a cocky bird there.
Best half hour of my day so far.
Here's a poem for Saturday from Jessica Powers. I like that she finds heaven within instead of without. I'm not much of a "Paradise in the sky with streets of gold" kinda gal.
I was reminded of the poem while I was attempting to do a few Sun Salutations this morning. As my body creaked through the poses I tried to imagine the "shining overflowing" from deep within. Still couldn't reach my toes, but at least I got through without taking my back out again.
Now that you have that pleasant image in your heads...
The saints and mystics
had a name
for that deep
inwardness of flame,
the height or depth
or ground or goal
Which is God's dwelling
in the soul.
Not capax Dei*
do you say;
nor
scintilla animae
nor synderis-
all are fair-
but heaven,
because God is there.
All day and when
you wake at night
think of that place
of living light,
yours and within you
and aglow
where only God
and you can go.
None can assail you
in that place
save your own evil,
routing grace.
Not even angels
see or hear
nor the dark spirits
prowling near.
But there are days
when watching eyes
could guess that you
hold Paradise.
Sometimes the shining
overflows
and everyone
around you knows.
*capax Dei- capacity for God
scintilla animae- spark of the soul
synderis- disposition to do good
Friday, January 25, 2013
Greyhounds on a Grey Day
Today I found a small blue thing at the dog park. Surprising, I know, considering a usual trip to the dog park results in the bagging of many small brown things.
This morning dawned grey and cold, a repeat of the last few days around here. Typical for a normal Maryland January but atypical of the southern temps we've experienced for the last two years. That global warming is a tricky minx; just when you think you have a handle on her, she blows some arctic air up your knickers and reminds you what a cold bitch she can be.
This weather has completely erased any willpower I possess. The most strenuous exercise I've performed in the last few days involved cutting copious amounts of shortening into flour to make biscuits. My stomach is in heaven; Linus and my thighs are in hell.
We have a huge yard so Linus was able to run around a bit, but he is used to at least four 3-5 mile hikes a week (translating to 10-15 off leash miles for him), and my refusal to leave the couch took him aback, to say the least.
Today a small spark of my former exercising self was lit within me, and I rose from my crumb filled bed. After heaving my legs into my largest pair of sweatpants (using two hands per leg), I threw a piano case around my shoulders for protection from the elements, and sailed forth to the dog park.
I know, I know a dog park means exercise for Linus, not me. But the fact that I put the chicken leg down and walked out of my house in sneakers instead of slippers was a huge step forward.
Needless to say, Linus was happier than a vampire at a blood drive.
He ran and barked and sniffed and humped, repeating this cycle over and over in a frenzy of joy.
And then...the girls arrived. A man entered the enclosed area leading not one, not two, not three, but FOUR of the most beautiful greyhounds I had ever seen.
The look on Linus's face was priceless. You know the music that plays every time Lauren Bacall or Rita Hayworth or Jessica Rabbit walks into a room? Linus had an endless loop of this playing in his tiny, tiny head.
Linus approached the ladies, tail raised, butt available. Such a gentleman. One by one, the girls gracefully bent their heads, and in a manner I can only describe as delicate, sniffed the noxious fumes emanating from his hindquarters. Linus gratefully reciprocated, ecstatically shoving his nose wherever they allowed him to shove it. He was quite boorish, really. I guess the girls like it somewhat rough.
He really got them going, at one point joining in with other dogs to chase the greyhounds around the large enclosure.
This is the bit where my small blue thing moment happened. As the dogs began to run, all of the adults in the park turned to watch. One greyhound in motion is a thing of beauty. Four greyhounds in motion stunned us into silence. With feet skimming the ground and bodies lunging forward, the dogs moved in silent rhythm, their syncopated movements perfectly timed.
The humans watched in awe. The other dogs, barking, fell quickly behind. The Ladies flew on, in single minded pursuit of an invisible rabbit, unaware of their unimaginable speed and unspeakable beauty as they completed their turn around the yard.
In those moments these animals defined Purpose, as they effortlessly acheived exactly what they were born to do.
What a lovely thing, to unquestionably possess the explanation of your existence.
I turned in a circle, half expecting to see a jet stream tracing the path they had run, but of course nothing trailed behind, save a few exhausted mutts and a dog named Linus.
Both Linus and I left the park happy and satiated, Linus with the scents of the Ladies filling his seriously compromised brain, and I with the unexpected pleasure of seeing Purpose fulfilled.
There are small, blue things everywhere. You just have to stand still long enough to see them.
This morning dawned grey and cold, a repeat of the last few days around here. Typical for a normal Maryland January but atypical of the southern temps we've experienced for the last two years. That global warming is a tricky minx; just when you think you have a handle on her, she blows some arctic air up your knickers and reminds you what a cold bitch she can be.
This weather has completely erased any willpower I possess. The most strenuous exercise I've performed in the last few days involved cutting copious amounts of shortening into flour to make biscuits. My stomach is in heaven; Linus and my thighs are in hell.
We have a huge yard so Linus was able to run around a bit, but he is used to at least four 3-5 mile hikes a week (translating to 10-15 off leash miles for him), and my refusal to leave the couch took him aback, to say the least.
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| Day One- Gazing out the window, Linus silently begs me to put down the fork. |
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| Day Two- hope fading, Linus attempts a push up in a desperate attempt at exercise |
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| Day Three- With his final bit of strength, Linus throws an ear across my keyboard, hoping to gain my attention. I surf onward, accidentally spilling tea on his head. |
I know, I know a dog park means exercise for Linus, not me. But the fact that I put the chicken leg down and walked out of my house in sneakers instead of slippers was a huge step forward.
Needless to say, Linus was happier than a vampire at a blood drive.
He ran and barked and sniffed and humped, repeating this cycle over and over in a frenzy of joy.
And then...the girls arrived. A man entered the enclosed area leading not one, not two, not three, but FOUR of the most beautiful greyhounds I had ever seen.
The look on Linus's face was priceless. You know the music that plays every time Lauren Bacall or Rita Hayworth or Jessica Rabbit walks into a room? Linus had an endless loop of this playing in his tiny, tiny head.
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| To you these dogs may look like four legged crossing guards. To Linus? Sports Illustrated, swimsuit edition. |
He really got them going, at one point joining in with other dogs to chase the greyhounds around the large enclosure.
This is the bit where my small blue thing moment happened. As the dogs began to run, all of the adults in the park turned to watch. One greyhound in motion is a thing of beauty. Four greyhounds in motion stunned us into silence. With feet skimming the ground and bodies lunging forward, the dogs moved in silent rhythm, their syncopated movements perfectly timed.
The humans watched in awe. The other dogs, barking, fell quickly behind. The Ladies flew on, in single minded pursuit of an invisible rabbit, unaware of their unimaginable speed and unspeakable beauty as they completed their turn around the yard.
In those moments these animals defined Purpose, as they effortlessly acheived exactly what they were born to do.
What a lovely thing, to unquestionably possess the explanation of your existence.
I turned in a circle, half expecting to see a jet stream tracing the path they had run, but of course nothing trailed behind, save a few exhausted mutts and a dog named Linus.
Both Linus and I left the park happy and satiated, Linus with the scents of the Ladies filling his seriously compromised brain, and I with the unexpected pleasure of seeing Purpose fulfilled.
There are small, blue things everywhere. You just have to stand still long enough to see them.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Generations
"Snow falls... At first a few separate flakes float down slowly, one by one; then more, faster and faster, filling our eyes with dazzling, dancing whiteness. The movement is more mysterious because it is silent: dancing, wild dancing with no sound, like voiceless singing. If it made even the tiny tap of hail it would seem to fall into our world, but the silence is absolute; it is we who are walking in another world, a world in which we are ghosts. The falling flakes touch our face with unimaginable lightness and melt on the faint warmth of our blood, at once elusive and intimate."
Caryll Houselander
I went to the funeral of a childhood friend's mother today. My friend, Greg, and I were part of a very tight knit group of kids who were thick as thieves all through high school and college. Most of us still see each other, although not as consistently as we used to in our twenties and thirties.
Kids, jobs, lives lived. You know.
As teens and young adults we had many occasions to chat with each other's parents as we stopped by the house in the beginning of the evening and stumbled back in at night's end. Except for the occasional drunken and/or idiotic mishap, all of the parents seemed happy to entertain our group as we tumbled in and out like puppies from one house or another.
And as much as our own parents drove us crazy, our friend's parents delighted us in equal measure.
As we grew up and got places of our own, we saw less and less of each other's parents, but they certainly stayed with us in our minds and hearts. In fact, it was easy to catch real glimpses of them in our own behaviors as we grew older and older...and older.
Don't ever say you are not going to turn out like your mother and father. That's a bet you are sure to lose, my friend.
Greg's mom and dad, Marie and Al, were always welcoming when we were young. No matter how many times we ate them out of house and home, drank their good beer, or broke a lamp, their door stayed open.
For the most part. There were a few times a window had to be jimmied. I'm sure these were just misunderstandings.
Over the years I have run into Marie and Al around our small town, at kid's ball games, or at various parties and functions. Each time I saw them I felt sentimentally overjoyed, a feeling that I hope was reciprocated.
Marie was a small woman, quick in movement, warm and friendly. Her character was not forceful, but more like the snowflakes described above, full of quiet and light.
A few years ago, cancer came to live with Marie. She thought she had successfully driven this wholly uninvited stranger away, but recently it crept back to stay.
And so, uncharacteristically, Marie decided to think of herself. In her very private and calm manner, she told her family she was ceasing treatment. At the age of 75, after a life spent living for others, Marie focused on herself. The last few weeks of her life, in what one would imagine to be a situation in which one has no control, Marie turned the tables and called the shots.
She went home to her little house and surrounded herself with family. She waited for her parish priest to visit and administer last rites, repeating the words as they were spoken. And a few hours after these final prayers were performed, Marie quietly, and lightly, breathed her last.
Today we laid her ashes to rest. The earthly reward for her generous heart was plain to see, as so many people attended the funeral it had to be moved from the chapel to the church. I was glad for the family to have visual proof of the character of this wife, mother, and grandmother. I was glad to have known Marie and grateful for the chance to have been a part of her life, and a friend to her family.
Just as the falling snowflakes described above, Marie's great grace touched my face with unimaginable lightness, and melted on the faint warmth of my blood.
She is a part of me now, and a part of us all.
Caryll Houselander
I went to the funeral of a childhood friend's mother today. My friend, Greg, and I were part of a very tight knit group of kids who were thick as thieves all through high school and college. Most of us still see each other, although not as consistently as we used to in our twenties and thirties.
Kids, jobs, lives lived. You know.
As teens and young adults we had many occasions to chat with each other's parents as we stopped by the house in the beginning of the evening and stumbled back in at night's end. Except for the occasional drunken and/or idiotic mishap, all of the parents seemed happy to entertain our group as we tumbled in and out like puppies from one house or another.
And as much as our own parents drove us crazy, our friend's parents delighted us in equal measure.
As we grew up and got places of our own, we saw less and less of each other's parents, but they certainly stayed with us in our minds and hearts. In fact, it was easy to catch real glimpses of them in our own behaviors as we grew older and older...and older.
Don't ever say you are not going to turn out like your mother and father. That's a bet you are sure to lose, my friend.
Greg's mom and dad, Marie and Al, were always welcoming when we were young. No matter how many times we ate them out of house and home, drank their good beer, or broke a lamp, their door stayed open.
For the most part. There were a few times a window had to be jimmied. I'm sure these were just misunderstandings.
Over the years I have run into Marie and Al around our small town, at kid's ball games, or at various parties and functions. Each time I saw them I felt sentimentally overjoyed, a feeling that I hope was reciprocated.
Marie was a small woman, quick in movement, warm and friendly. Her character was not forceful, but more like the snowflakes described above, full of quiet and light.
A few years ago, cancer came to live with Marie. She thought she had successfully driven this wholly uninvited stranger away, but recently it crept back to stay.
And so, uncharacteristically, Marie decided to think of herself. In her very private and calm manner, she told her family she was ceasing treatment. At the age of 75, after a life spent living for others, Marie focused on herself. The last few weeks of her life, in what one would imagine to be a situation in which one has no control, Marie turned the tables and called the shots.
She went home to her little house and surrounded herself with family. She waited for her parish priest to visit and administer last rites, repeating the words as they were spoken. And a few hours after these final prayers were performed, Marie quietly, and lightly, breathed her last.
Today we laid her ashes to rest. The earthly reward for her generous heart was plain to see, as so many people attended the funeral it had to be moved from the chapel to the church. I was glad for the family to have visual proof of the character of this wife, mother, and grandmother. I was glad to have known Marie and grateful for the chance to have been a part of her life, and a friend to her family.
Just as the falling snowflakes described above, Marie's great grace touched my face with unimaginable lightness, and melted on the faint warmth of my blood.
She is a part of me now, and a part of us all.
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