Category: Reflection

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Optics: Weed or Flower?

I came across a patch of Queen Anne’s lace in the woods about a month ago. Queen Anne’s lace, also known as wild carrot, is a plant I’ve loved since I was small, when I was told it was a weed and not the lovely flower I saw. I still find it odd that a weed is named for a queen’s delicate lace, it’s tiny dark red center poetically representing a drop of blood from her needle-pricked finger. Apparently, it also bears a close resemblance to the poisonous hemlock, and one is cautioned to be careful if planning to eat it. This is not a weed. It’s a short story on a stem. What makes a weed and what a flower? Who decides?

Presumably a weed grows where it shouldn’t. This doesn’t necessarily make it a bad thing. In fact, so-called weeds often serve a positive purpose. In the case of Queen Anne’s lace, when it’s native to the area, it attracts wasps and sometimes butterflies and can boost tomato production. But in the wrong area, it’s considered noxious and a pest.

There is much that seems dualistic or is revealed to be something other than it is. “Optics” has become a buzzword. Optics are used to influence how we will interpret or view the facts and seem to play as important a role as the facts. And while we’d like to think we are immune to that influence, the truth is we are all sensitive to appearances or our perception of things.  We do make judgments and decisions based on optics. Is a panel of women asking the questions or a panel of men? Is the panel multiracial or one race? Young or old or mixed? We create entire stories based on images. We also know that optics often don’t tell the whole story, that they can be a fiction.

The best we can do at any given moment is see past the fiction to the truth, knowing the truth can sometimes be a matter of perception. When we find out the flower is a weed, we always have the option to recalibrate. Can I still love a weed? Not always. Sometimes? Absolutely. Because in the end, we’re all like Queen Anne’s lace.

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Forgiving August

Burning white hot days, electric thunderous skies, oppressive smothering humidity, claustrophobic preternaturally cool interiors; it’s August again. It was August when you left. The cells of my body, the cells you created, they forever carry your parting, forever try to connect between the veils. Is August nicer there? Is it calmer? Is it cooler?

Tahlequah pushes her dead newborn calf for weeks and miles in the sea, her raw mourning on display, teaching us about grief and loss and complicity and neglect, breaking and expanding hearts all over the world. She brings me to my knees with her pain, with my human shame. So much to atone. In August, mother and calf let go, she begins the road to healing, her pain subsumed, not forgotten.

He went to the mountains. She went to the ocean. They went halfway around the world. Me, I’m running from you in place, August, dripping with salty sweat, evaporating suffocating thoughts with the business of breathing. I keep moving through you, trying to get past you. A heavy, blush pink hydrangea overflows onto the sidewalk, blocking the path, grazing my cheek with a dewy cuff, or is it a kiss? My fingers reach up to feel where you touched me.

August, oh August, we are locked in an eternal heated tango, stomping and twisting, twirling and teasing in a dizzying, exhilarating and enervating dance to nowhere. Aren’t you tired? I throw down my castanets to you my nemesis, my soulmate, my mentor, my match.

Come on, then. Let’s put on our bright colors and straw hats, escape now to our very own luncheon of the boating party, sip on a cool, crisp white, have a laugh with some friends, the still river floating by us on a warm, breezy afternoon. I like this side of you, dear August, and I forgive you all.

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Lady of the Lake

Last month when I took my first trip to Lake Tahoe with my brothers, all sorts of imagery played out in my mind in advance of our arrival. I didn’t expect to see the Arthurian Lady of the Lake, but she certainly featured in my imaginings. It’s a little late in the game for me to get my Excalibur. On the other hand, dreams are not only for the young, nor are they for the faint of heart. Who knew what Tahoe would offer? I felt the anticipation and excitement one might feel on the way to meet a guru or high priestess. How could I show my reverence? Was I setting her up to fail with my high hopes?

Saluted by Sugar Pines, Jeffrey Pines, Aspens and White Firs and ringed by the protective peaks of the Sierra Nevada, Tahoe’s startlingly blue waters have an impressive 72-mile circumference. When we got there, my younger brother turned to me and asked, “Well, is it everything you imagined?” Eyes filling behind my shades and too overwhelmed to form a sentence, I could only nod and half-whisper, “Yes.”

We drove around the lake, stopping at several spots, including the Emerald Bay, a striking pool of green water in an otherwise endless oasis of blue. There, I learned Lake Tahoe is known for her healing powers.

Down by the waterside, I looked to my older brother, “Could you get one of those pine cones over there and dip it in the water and bless me?” Without so much as a crooked smile or sarcastic remark, the former acolyte quietly walked over and picked up a large pine cone, dipped it in the water and sprinkled me with elixir from the lake.

It’s not Excalibur that rises from Tahoe; it’s a reflection of spirit writ larger and deeper than Arthurian tales. The eyes literally cannot take in all the beauty. The soul takes over, rising within and expanding to meet its own reflection. The lady does not disappoint, offering a glory-filled chalice to carry forth on the journey and an open-ended invitation for a refill any time.
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Gabriel’s Horn

The trumpet notes drift to her in sleep, a melody she’s never heard, stupefying in its beauty, a solo played just for her. She pictures the lone trumpeter in the street leaning against a lamp post, an Edward Hopper figure half in shadow fingering the valves, blowing soaring notes. Is it a love song? A keening? Exultation to something higher? More mesmerizing and seductive than she imagines the song of the sirens, like Odysseus she wants to follow it, but is rendered motionless, tied to the mast of her bed.

When unwanted silence returns, she rouses herself and hurries to the window sure to catch the thin time trumpeter, but there are only parked cars in the street, a family of raccoons tripping her neighbor’s outdoor sensor, a streetlight at the corner lighting a stray cat on the prowl. She returns to bed to catch a few more restful hours before dawn.

The flap of wings is like the loud snap of a sheet on a crisp sunny morn, a whoosh of air, wings beating so close she ducks and cowers from what she cannot see, trying in vain to control the rapid flailing of her caged heart. Fearful of disturbing the source about her head, she lies down, submissive. It hovers and finally rests above her crown where it abolishes fear, holds her weary spirit, healing it for another go, imparting peace and impossible joy before it is gone quick as it came, before she has a chance to ask her questions, to say her thanks. A dream within a dream.

Only a glass of wine with dinner, she’s sure. Her head says dream. Her heart knows better. Who can she tell? What would she say in the telling? She did not awake from the nighttime visitations with any message to share, only indescribable majesty, succor in the nick of time, divinity delivered in a way she can digest, endlessly nourishing. A longing quenched, a new one in its place.

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Reminders

You forgot to spritz yourself with your good-natured Kumbaya spray before you left home yesterday, and you were a bit short with someone you care about and respect. You are fretting about this and several other things, the same things day in and day out, only the particulars altering. Other people you know are carrying so much, too much. You worry for them. Why aren’t you carrying more? We’re all a loose stitch away from coming apart at the seams.

You head to work, late as usual, rounding the corner you see the school bus arriving. Slowing, you see a mom and her young son waiting on their porch holding hands, he shining the widest smile you ever saw, hopping from leg to leg, giddy to get on the bus and start his day. Mom hugs her boy. You have just become today’s lucky recipient of a drive-by jolt of joy. Let it wash through you, let it be a touchstone.

A friend and you are emailing each other about this, that, the other and whatnot. She sends you a one-liner that makes you laugh out loud. Suddenly you are right there with her. You see her ready smile, hear her voice, the way she goes from earnestness to levity and back again in flow. Her name is Gift.

On a windy night standing beneath the skylight in your place, the one that you often take for granted, you are awed by the incredible display of blowing branches on a magnificent tree, a priceless, original work of art, irreplicable. Whisper, I will try to be worthy.

Swimming. Kick, kick, kick, breath to the left, kick, kick, kick, breath again to the left. Wrong. Lessons would make you more efficient… is it too late? Awkward technique aside, shapeshifting feels good in the cleansing water, the lengths, the laps, the rhythm, the exertion, the community of others in the pool, the solace of your lane. Off to the deep end, goggles flipped up, body leaning back to rest, floating, cradled by Grace. Baptism and renewal each time.

The thread does break, the stuffing will spill out, the mending of the seam may take time, if it’s ever done at all. The reminders always come to shift the focus, if only for a moment. It’s all precious.

***

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Easter Monday Surrender

Sitting at home on Easter Monday listening to the morning snow melting in rhythmic drum taps on the bathroom skylight, I look out at the tree branches gallantly holding another thick blanket, regal and elegant in spite of the weight. Steamed heat in the old radiators blends hisses and bangs with the dripping beat in an unexpected improv percussion jam. A train whistles a trumpet glide announcing a journey, joining in the riff of the moment.

My mind wanders to an earlier conversation with a young person in my life seeking her path, feeling stuck, a bit confused. I wish I had wisdom, but I can only offer love, the promise of a book in the mail that maybe will help, some gentle questions and suggestions, the faith that I am here. I am always here.

I think, too, of a flaming email that arrived on Easter causing sadness over the state of a relationship, a person and his pain, the knowledge that age is not necessarily a shield from our very human emotions. I wish I could erase the pain, that I could clear the bramble and thorns that are choking new growth, that I could bring the thaw. But with every step of our path lately, I see more cloudiness and perhaps a permanent fork in the road. Retreat seems the only way to peace.

I’m invited upstairs for espresso with warm milk and a delicious homemade cookie I don’t need, Easter abundance still straining the waistband of my slacks. Easy conversation roams from our latest dreams and goals to the behavior of our cats. When I get back downstairs the jam session has faded, the cats are curled into C-shapes, content, peaceful.

The snow has slowed its steady fall and through the covered trees I can make out the river beneath the cliff, catching and carrying the melting snow. Sometimes the weather changes with little or no warning. There is grace in gravity, in standing still, relief in letting go, melting like the snow and entering the flow, surrendering what I cannot control.

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Welcome to My Worlds

This is an old post resurrected in honor of Stephen Hawking who I am sure is still out there soaring somewhere.

In 2016 when PBS aired Stephen Hawking’s Genius series, I caught an episode that featured parallel universes and the scientific community’s increasing belief in them. Falling into a black hole, one might find a way out through a portal to another universe. What that means practically speaking, I am not sure, but my mind keeps turning over the wondrous possibility. In a world where violence continues to reach depressing new peaks of disbelief, where our leaders cannot seem to do the right thing, the idea of other worlds where we our are better selves holds appeal.

It may seem impossible to consider living other lives simultaneously in multiple universes, particularly when you think of how complex your life already is. On any given day, you bring several versions of your life to the table. While sitting in a meeting, you might also be thinking about your bills or retirement.  How will you pay for your kids’ college education?  You may be worried about your health or the health and welfare of someone close to you. Maybe you feel you are falling short of your life goals. Will this meeting never end?

At lunch with a friend, you might be half-listening while planning a celebration in your head or pondering your next week off. Will you go out of town or stay local?  What’s for dinner tonight? Do you need to stop at the store on the way home? What did she just say? Is your spouse happy? Really? With an effort, you pull yourself back to the present until your mind wanders off again to one of your other worlds.

It’s nearly incomprehensible to think we might be holding just as much in parallel universes! And yet, you have to admit, if it’s true, there’s something magnificent, beautiful and divine in that design—a kaleidoscope of lives within a kaleidoscope of lives—different depths, shapes and colors. Do our actions here have a ripple effect that is even greater than we realize?

As scientists and physicists discover and explain more, the circles between what we know and what we imagine continue to overlap and grow, expanding the subset of the two. You can almost hear the echo of your heartbeat in the middle of it.

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Red Herrings

A good mystery keeps you guessing up until the end, or at the very least, leaves you satisfied when you figure out who done it before it’s revealed. It does this by throwing out red herrings, clues that are intended to be misleading or distracting. Typically, several prime suspects are involved. Seemingly innocent people connected to the crime or murder by association with the victim become prime suspects by having no alibi or witness and by unexpected behaviors–the local priest having an affair, the quiet elder shopkeeper who has a dark, secret past. That doesn’t necessarily make them guilty, but it does make them intriguing and persons of interest. Shadow sides are brought to the fore in mysteries.

We all have them. Regardless of the level of self-awareness with which we’ve lived or tried to live our lives, we can still be caught off-guard by our shadows. A trigger, a mood or too much stress–all can cause us to behave in ways that surprise or disappoint us. In fact, we can become like red herrings, confusing not only people around us but also ourselves!

What ensues when the shadow is triggered is not always a pleasant play of shadow and light. Depending on the situation and the depth of emotion attached to it, it can take days to put the shadow to rest. For most of us, this is a delicate dance, whether we’re wrestling with our own shadow or have been caught in the crossfire of someone else’s or both. Examining the darker side can be like solving a mystery.

If we lived in a world that was made up only of light or of darkness, we would never see one another, much less our own reflections. Complete light is blinding, as is total darkness. Forgiveness is of necessity wrapped up in examining our shadows, as is tenderness. Love, especially of self, is what allows us to stay with the mystery, to let go of the red herrings and focus on the light in the mirror.

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New Pajamas?

When I was about five-years-old my mom made me a pair of pajamas with a waistband that was too big. I strutted around the kitchen table at breakfast modeling them for my father and brothers until they fell down around my ankles. In that moment I learned the high of making people I love laugh. Naturally, I had to repeat it, pulling my pajamas up and letting them fall down, until I wore out the effect, and my mother made me stop. But it was done. I was a certifiable goofball and proud of it.

Humor is an elixir with the power to break tension and soothe what ails, if only temporarily enough to keep us buoyed and balanced, especially in these hard times. And hard times they are. Heightened environmental and socio-political ills coupled with whatever we may be carrying personally provide a seedbed for anxiety, pain and stress making us more susceptible to illness.

Laughter releases endorphins, the opposite of anger, fear and panic, which release adrenaline. It boosts our immune systems, protects our hearts, and burns calories, among many other things. It’s also a great leveler and can be the magic gateway to ending a stalemate when other means fail. Laughter is a master matchmaker, fostering likely and unlikely alliances.  Click here for more benefits of laughing.

You might think you can’t manufacture laughter but not so. In 1995, Dr. Madan Katari founded laughter yoga theorizing that the body doesn’t know the difference between fake and real laughter and it experiences benefits either way. Journalist, professor and peace advocate Norman Cousins famously treated his illnesses with laughter, vitamins and diet.

So, seek it wherever you can find it–through friends and family, funny movies and books, comedy clubs and shows, whatever works. There is nothing to lose in trying to be a little lighter, because there simply can’t be too much light right now. Me? I may have to buy some new pajamas and invite some friends over for breakfast.

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The Wonder and Work of Christmas

Somewhere around Thanksgiving I start to feel uneasy about Christmas and my increasing lack of connectedness to it. The relentless bombardment of advertising for endless sales feels like psychological warfare, an assault reinforced by the inescapable ambient noise of tinny carols. I worry about people who do not have much, the financial pressure they live with all year mounting to a crescendo at Christmastime. My heart is always with addicts and people suffering from mental illness and those who love them. Christmas does not necessarily bring a break in abusive situations. Holidays can be stressful for so many.

Yet somehow, some way, the wily wonder of Christmas will woo me.

This year I am awed as I follow the Facebook page of a friend of a friend, parents who have a two-year-old battling cancer. Their courage, faith and strength make me marvel anew at the boundless capacity of love.

My colleague routinely updates us on a refugee Afghani family he and his congregation are journeying with: finding them an apartment, taking them to medical exams, lining up ESOL classes and helping to find employment, welcoming the stranger.

On a favorite annual trip with friends to Old Ebbitt Grill in Washington, DC, we are delayed for a moment by a homeless man selling copies of his book, Homeless Lives Matter. Indeed, they do. After a delightful hour or so inside, as we prepare to leave, one of my friends witnesses the bartender refusing another homeless man’s money, handing him a beer on the house, restoring my faith in the generous, compassionate heart. Everyone deserves dignity.

I love decorated trees, the smell of holly and greens. I am enchanted by the lights that deck the streets, the halls and just about everything in sight. I relish traditions with friends and family. And I confess I cannot make it through a verse of Silent Night without crying. It’s not Christmas I am not connected to–it’s the commercialization of it. But I should know better by now; wonder cannot be short-circuited or smothered.

My favorite Christmas poem is Howard Thurman’s The Work of Christmas. May we all know the wonder and light of this season and remember the work of it always.

The Work of Christmas
by Howard Thurman

When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,

When the kings and the princes are home,

When the shepherds are back with their flock,

The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nations,

To bring peace among brothers,

To make music in the heart.