Pythian Games

Thickest rope,

perfectly knotted,

strategically postioned,

just right. Swoosh!

Spalsh! Warm

creek water ripples.

prompt found at the Dig Tree

I find myself standing amid the debris and destruction that was my dig tree.  I am not disenchanted or downtrodden or sad.  I find that I am feeling strong, happy, hopeful.  I search through the shards and shrapnel of exploded wood with care.  I do not know for certain what it is for which I search, but I am sure I will know it when I see it.  I stand there astounded by how far out the blast area reaches.  Even though the lightning strike had caused a huge contusion, it hadn’t occurred to me that some much could have been thrown so far.  And yet, it obviously had been.  I walk slowly, circling, from left to right, in ever-widening circles, then ever-shrinking circles, over and over again, losing all sense of time and space, going in and going out, as my brain ceases to ponder the whys and wherefores of what happened last time I stood with this tree.   I merely observe and attest to the reality of nothinglessness.

The remainder of the trunk remains attached to the roots seems to be stuck canted half in and half out of the dirt.  I see shriveled blackened roots.  So much of the wood appears to have died long ago, densely choked with noxious black goo, as well as plenty having withered away to tendrils of ash and dust.  However, there is also a lot of healthy growth showing, where there were good times, places where healing continued as best it could under the circumstances.  Even amidst this chaos of death, I can see the tiny fragments of life beading up, demanding their own fighting chance to survive.  I cannot and will not take that from any of them.

I start to think I have spent enough time here, commiserating with the left-overs of the tree.  Apparently, whatever it is I came to find is no longer here.  Or maybe it was the memory alone that I was to gather and hold tight as my own.  I walk away, back towards where I had come from, when I see it, about twelve feet away from the main core of the trunk.  A tiny seedling, gasping with hope and vitality.  My tree does not grow from seed, but from seedling, from an outgrowth from the roots that sends up new shoots at random periodic intervals.  Here I am.  Here is the spark I have been looking for, waiting for, needing to gather up with gracious arms and loving tears, to transplant to another , much safer ground.

With the utmost care and lightest of touches, I clear away the ground, digging around to ensure the safety of the root ball.  The ball of craggly earth that I prise up is nearly three times larger than the sapling itself, but I don’t care.  All I know is I must protect this baby.    I carry it in my arms until I return to my abode, not quite a home, now less than a house since my heart has left it.  I fill a deep wide pot full of the richest soil and plant my tiny tree in the pot, covering it with more fresh dirt and mulch.  I will give it three days to adjust to the changes before I water it, in order to protect the roots that much more, according to the way I was taught by an ancient gardener long ago.

I offer it prayers, send energizing love and sweetest healing powers deep into its roots and its core.  I set crystals around its edges to catch the sun and add that much more healing power and energy to the soil.  I pray over it, weaving ribbons of light around the pot, the trunk and the tiny little leaves that bravely spurn the arena of death we so recently departed.  I know that once I find my Home, I shall dig a wide deep hole and burrow the roots of this tree into the earth there, where I shall nurture and attend to this tree constantly, with all my love and ability.  Where this tree grows shall be my everlasting Home.  Now, in order to protect both this tree and my family, I must look even harder for that home that is meant for us.

drawn and written by Tabitha Kietero

http://knittingjourneymanredux.blogspot.com/

http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/

http://sapphyresinthesky.wordpress.com

The sky is awash. Streaks of gray and blue. The world. As far as the eye can see. Muted tones. No bright pastels. Glowing cobalts. Streaks of brilliant light. Not tonight. This eve’s artist is in a gray mood. This eve’s artist is using a minimalist’s pallet. Is using a wide brush. With little color.

The sea is flat. Hardly a ripple on the surface. A mirror. Reflecting the gray sky. A squall hides Simbo. Thick and black. No visible movement. No sound. Just a curtain of a darker shade. Hanging. From sea to sky. Drawn across the view. Hiding something? Protecting what? An evil deed? An act in progress?

The breeze is light. Palms moving leisurely. Lazily. Mountains of clouds build the horizon. Stationary. As though guarding. Protecting. Adding to. Accentuating the over all theme. The preponderance of the vague. A minor statement on a grand scale. A statement of majesty and beauty. Understating the power. Building up. Held. Possessed by. The gray clouds.

The darkness is thick. The gray of the eve has led to impenetrable blackness. Frogs sing. Wind has died down. It started raining. Much needed. Came down pretty good. A nice change from the blistering hot day. Looks like it’s here for the night. A welcome guest. Come, clear the air. Tap-dance me to sleep.

In glass I see wonder and light
Miracle of sand and ashes fired together
Silent serene self-contained
here and now
glass is what it is
and it is beautiful –
it’s been through the fire
it shows its true colors
only its essence is left
what you see is what you get
but keep looking through the layers
and see your soul wrapped in its shroud
the shy mystery and magic within
recycling connections forevermore
to all that was, and is, and someday shall be…
world without end, amen.

by Kerry Vincent (c) 2009

 Just sit me on a shelf on a sunny window

Maybe I will ripen or not

But If you forget about me I will rot

I’m here for the tasting now

But I won’t last forever

That’s what they tell me

So taste me now,

Fresh, juicy, succulent,

Fat and full-flavored,

Full of goodness,

Dripping with life,

A peach worth her fuzz

A blackberry worth her thorn

A melon worth her rind

Summer’s almost over

And my life is like

One big fruit salad,

All sizes shapes flavors

Some tart, some sweet

So many tastes to be remembered,

Savored, shared.

by Kerry Vincent (c) 2009

by Kerry Vincent, 2009

I have been fortunate to have had many good teachers over the years, but my favorite always has been and will be Jane Ellen Ibur, my teacher and my friend, Janie. Last year, Janie received a well-deserved Outstanding Arts Educator Visionary Award. Her acceptance speech follows, preceded by a few words from me, her grateful student.

Dear Janie, I am so proud I can call you my teacher. As a teacher you probably remember mostly what happens in the classroom – as a student, I know that experience, but also what I carry with me, away from the classroom. It’s not just what teacher tells you, it’s how teachers help you listen to your own voice. For example, last month, when I was at the stained glass conference with people from all over the world, PhDs who are reknown historic stained glass restoration professionals, when we had to go around the room and introduce ourselves, I asked, “How many of you teach?” Over half the room raised their hands. I said, “I’m here because of my glass teacher. She showed me I could learn, but mostly, her passion for glass made me want to learn more.” But before Lynne Ulett (my glass teacher), there was, and always will be , Janie Ibur, saying, long before Barack Obama, “Yes you can.” And maybe, most importantly, “Yes you should – your art is worth doing, your words are worth hearing, your ideas are worth sharing.” So whether it’s poems or fused glass or mastering the art of French cooking, we can do it – but we need a teacher who says, “Yes, you can, yes, you should, now show me what you can do!”

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce Ms. Jane Ellen Ibur…

Visionary Speech by Jane Ellen Ibur

Edward Albee says in Zoo Story … “sometimes you have to go a great distance out of your way to come back a short distance correctly.” Thus have I. A few things I knew for sure at a very early age: I was other, and those things that made me other were not okay, not okay for me to know, to discuss, to have a voice for – so I didn’t know till I met my partner 33 years ago that I was gay, wouldn’t say aloud till recently I live with the parasitic twin of depression, that I am also woman and Jew and none of those things were okay. I also knew I was a poet, that poetry, both reading and writing, saved me, so I was driven to write, to make art from a life and passionate to share my lesson of the transformative affect of art, particularly poetry, on the spirit and how finding a voice through the writing of poetry is finding a deeper way to breathe. I see the other others and to them, I’m a voice teacher, and through some stroke of luck, I’m a magical teacher, teaching through digression, humor, stories, authenticity, shock, singing, torture, prodding, cursing, cajoling, and downright lying. But I worried: was teaching radical enough? The way I teach, yes. I’ve taught ages birth to death, gifted kids to Alzheimer patients, homeless men and prisoners in maximum security. I can make anyone write something that will surprise them, something better than you’ve ever written before. When I returned to teaching after almost 20 years, I came back as a community artist, Ann Haubrich was there to hook me up with the jail, the CAT Institute, and a ton of varied gigs that I always said yes to and had to live up to. So I do. I guarantee my work. A prisoner student from last years said: “…In the St. Louis County Justice Center we were held as society’s trash in a lawless landfill, but Ms. Janie recycled us through writing. … . There was so much inside me that needed to be released. There was so much pain that needed to be converted. There was so much negativity that needed to be turned positive…. Ms. Janie helped us all reach deep down inside ourselves and reveal the true us to the many facades of hip talkin’, gold teeth, tattoo wearing, tough guys that really needed a road to redemption. That road was writing and Ms. Janie pointed us in the right directions, but it was up to us to take that first step.” Thanks Ann, for all your support over the years, for making us the Click and Clack of Literature on the radio. Quote: Pierre Reverdy says “…without doubt, a poet is not by definition one of the most perfect social beings, and if (s)he does not adhere to the order and if its injustice wounds the poet and throws (her)him outside of the degrading rights of society, (her)his work, which is a means of inserting and incorporating h(er)imself socially, recaptures for (her)him definitely a place in this society.” To the criminal, the homeless, the mentally ill, the elder, the seeker, the child, to all the others that I am, I raise our voices to say Thank you for recognizing us. I am abashed and deeply moved.

Jane Ellen Ibur

Free floating anxiety stresses around

until it finds a mark

-money – now there’s an issue -

there’s never enough of that

and I could always worry some more

about what a bad mother I’ve been.

There’s always fuel for that fire.

I could resurect some memory

of a mortifying moment from my past,

give it a twist,

and cast myself,yet again,

into a position of failure.

The list of potential worries

is endless really.

It’s only limited by my imagination.

Then again -

it’s a late winter morn.

Gnarled old fruit trees reach for the skies

branches bare of leaves.

Sprays of white blossom catch the light

punctuating the twisted black stems.

Birds tweet and warble.

Dew clings to the unmown lawn

- a carpet of sparkles.

The tin roof on a neighbouring cottage

is shadowy. Icy.

A climbing rose reaches  out towards it,

one lone bloom trembling.

Live in the moment, the holy men say.

They have a point.

The Pond

Like Ghosts in the water

they come and they go,

to and fro,

in light and in shade.

They’re there for the looking,

but take your finger,

ripple the surface,

watch them scatter and dive

into the murky depths

to hide where it is,

they think, safe.

Never knowing in their tiny brains

there are denizens waiting,

just waiting

to swallow in one gulp,

lunch, dinner, and supper.

Then those that were there

truly are

Ghosts in the water.

Would that we humans

had such tiny brains

that we too,

could live

in the moment

and not concern ourselves

with an uncertain and scary future.

But the thought of that too,

is scary.

Vi Jones

©July 25, 2009

During the end of my career as a state employee, I worked across the street from the State Capitol of California.

(photo-Wikipedia)

Every day brought a new adventure at the Capitol, be it a demonstration or presentation. “Breasts Not Bombs” brought hoards of men to the west steps of the Capitol. One couldn’t help but notice there were very few women. Instead of the bare breasted women that had been arrested at a demonstration in another city weeks before, the men saw other men and a few women wearing plaster casts of mammary glands.

I really enjoyed the “presentations.” There was usually free stuff. On those days I would cross the street, walk through the beautiful Capitol park, and find which of the four sides of the Capitol had the freebies. Sometimes it was a health fair or an event put on by a corporation. Once it was Planned Parenthood of America and there were goodies galore geared toward sex education for high school students. Now don’t be afraid when I tell you there were some interactive demonstrations at this event…Noting there was a large group gathered near one booth, I became curious. I found myself a place near the back of the crowd where I could see. (It’s good to be tall.) There was a young woman blindfolded. I had raise myself on my tippy toes to see what she was doing. Oh, she was putting a condom on a banana while her classmates teased her ruthlessly.

Some of the events were quite touching. Like the one that was held on the north side of the Capitol where there were small coffins placed on the lawn. They represented the number of people who were the victims of violent crimes.

The one event that affected me more than any other was on the south side, but a half block down from the Capitol. It was a huge labyrinth made of shoes. There were shoes that lined the sidewalk and path to the labyrinth…thousands of shoes. They were the shoes of ordinary people that had died in Iraq…their actual shoes. Next to those were boots…hundreds of pairs of boots. The boots of the soldiers that had died in Iraq.

As I walked the labyrinth, I cried and couldn’t stop. Thankful that it was a Saturday, I let the tears flow. The shoes of all the children was what had pierced my heart. Some of them were so tiny. I think I must have shed a tear for each pair of shoes, each pair of boots that day.

My all time favorite day was on the west steps of the Capitol. The Tibetan Monks were there. They traveled around the U.S. sharing the wisdom of Tibetan Buddhism and making sand mandalas, selling their many splendored hand made crafts to raise money for their monastery in Dhamsala, India near the home of the Dalai Lama. This day, however, the monks were there to chant, blow their massive horns, and pray. And let me tell you, if there is any place that needs prayers it is the place where the lawmakers of California do their work.

After all the chanting, prayers, and horn playing of the monks in their full regalia consisting of their saffon robes and big taco shaped yellow hats with the fringe on top, we took them on a tour of the inside of the Capitol. As they followed me into the Senate Chambers, I turned to watch. The monks all shuddered as though passing by the ruins of a great tragedy. Lobsong, the monk I had known for many years, noticed me trying to hide my snickers. He said the place didn’t feel good. I gave them a brief explanation of what took place in the chambers then had them all look up at the ceiling to see the gargoyle that was placed there to remind the head of the Senate to be humble. It was a real challenge for the interpreter to find a word for gargoyle. Before the monks left, they asked if they could pray in there. I thought so since the Senate was out of session. There was almost regret as a fear the prayers would take hours!

Just after I returned to work after recovering from my broken leg, I was treated to an event on the other side of the building away from the Capitol. It was a movie premiere starring John Travolta, Uma Thurman (whose father incidentally is an expert in Tibetan Buddhism) and The Rock (yum!) in a comedy/crime movie, “Be Cool.” I was always the last person out of the office, so I though I would stay even later and check it out from my fourth floor window. The police were out in full force and so were the protesters as the Governator (as we call him) wanted to cut the salaries of the workers employed by the State of California. Sitting there waiting to see the celebrities, I learned all songs and chants of the state employees gathered in protest. (This was in 2005. I wouldn’t want to hear what they would be chanting now!) Anyway, it was facinating watching the police, listenting to the protesters, calling my friends to tell them what I was doing.

 All of a sudden I hear the pounding of footsteps on the floor above me which happened to be the roof!  I wasn’t sure if I should open the window and scream for the police…oh, yeah they were painted shut. As my mind ran through a series of explatives, I suddenly recalled that the agents had come into the office asking for roof access and talking with our parole agents about security stuff. Whew! Then I was thinking that here I was sitting in the dark (so I could see better-no reflections) on the windowsill of an office building that should have been vacant and if anyone shot the Governor, I would be first on their list of subjects. I imagined myself being drug out of the place (sans crutches or cane) thrown into an interrogation room for 100 hours and I hadn’t eaten dinner! Maybe I should go through the refrigerator in the break room and eat what was in there. I could apologize to those whose future lunch I ate. They would understand…

The crowd grew into a frenzied roar as the Governor and The Rock entered the reception tent in front of the theater. Crap! (and stronger explatives) I sat on a thin windowsill trying to get comfortable with a nearly healed broken leg, an empty stomach, and the threat of the secret service over my head (literally) and handsome Johnny wasn’t there? I mean The Rock is a hunk and a fine speciman of a man, but he’s no Travolta…and Arnold Schwartzenegger? Neither was he! (He’s not as tall as one would think.)

Now that I am retired, I look back on the police on horseback,

the convoy of vehicles that came out of the underground garage whenever Governor Schwartzenegger exited the premises, the occasional bagpiper walking through the gardens, and the many random demonstrations and events that took place and I miss it all. (And yes, even I joined a demonstration for a cause I felt strongly about.) But, that is about all I miss about working and my old office moved several blocks away anyway.

I will always miss Rocky, who I got to know while pretending to be a paparazzi outside a restaraunt where the Governator was dining. I didn’t get a photo of the Gov as he was behind a vehicle taller than him; however, I believe that Rocky was trying to tell me something…What’s on his mind?

CREATIVE ARMOUR

http://www.outbackonline.net/soulfoodcafe/Armoury.htm

Cruising around SFC I came across the Creative Armoury link and read:

In this project the object is to protect the fragile creative spirit from attack by disparaging forces.

The idea of armour and protection reminded me of a photograph of unusual armour I recently saw on a web site for the Museum of Victoria.  The armour dated from the 1850s and came from  the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific.  The islanders were very war like and made body armour from woven coconut fibre and dried shark skins.  Helmets were constructed from the skin of Puffer Fish.

‘Ah, perfect armour for my Piscean self,’ I thought and then proceeded to wonder if I really was a fish what kind of fish would I be.  I decided I would like to be a flying fish that was equally at home in air and water.

All this thinking about fishy armour resulted in these pages in my sketch book.  (My sketch book is larger than my scanner so they haven’t scanned very well).

Here’s the link that will take you to a photograph of the Puffer fish helmet.

http://museumvictoria.com.au/treasures/colldetails.aspx?PID=80

Beware of self-importance. Did I say that wrong? Yes? Sorry. Thanks.  Beware of self-impotence. The ancient Seers said. It was the image of The Self. An anchor. In truth. It is, they said. Beware. The image of Self is attractive. It can be wounded. Demeaned, conditioned. Desires, propensities, needs. All as important as The Self.

Did I say that wrong? Yes? Yes. Sorry, again. Thanks, again. All as impotent as the self. They spoke of being balanced. Aware. The world around us. One’s personal environment. Being balanced and aware. On guard. Protecting our self-impotence. To think, a personal insult. More threatening than. What? A touch’n go near-miss on the freeway?

The Seers. The Shamans of old. Viewed things from a different angle. The sense-of-self was an anchor. An impediment. Foolishly accepted. Fiercely protected. Cherished. Lovingly cultivated in our garden of self-impotence. But why? Because our elders did thus? Traumas are real. But somethings we agree to accept. Fear to lose. Protectively hoard. I wonder why.

I wonder. A lovely day. The Point Crux Beach. Savo, five miles distant. Could I swim that far? I know a guy. Swam from Kolombangara to Gizo. A fund raising activity. It took nine hours. Could I swim to Savo? With a bit of training? But I wouldn’t do it jeans. Or with a weight-belt.

I wonder why. We go through life. “Carrying the weight of the Worlds”. And perversely enjoying every step. I recall an old Mantra, “When you seek it. You cannot find it. Your hand cannot reach it. Your mind cannot exceed it. When you no longer seek it. It is always with you.” I wonder why.

(50 word story, plus W is for Wheel of Life from Box of Wonderment – 2 prompts overlaid to create one story, shorter than this explanation!)

Here I go again reinventing the wheel of my life, trying not to get wrapped around the axle of myself, pushing forward, one slow circle at a time, one day at a time, one breath at a time, engineer of my own soul by my own design, simple, succinct, sincere.

(c) 2009 Kerry Vincent

I have chronic fatigue.  Earlier this week I had to a Govt. Agency and get assessed for disability payments.  For over an hour I was grilled by a severe looking woman in a navy blue uniform.  She asked me all kinds of inquisitory and seemingly irrelevant questions. ‘Have you ever been to prison?’ she demanded at one point.  ‘No’, I answered in surprise wondering what prison had to do with chronic fatigue.

Days later I realised I should have answered yes, I have been to prison.  I went there one sunny Sunday with a girl who liked to save souls.  It was decades ago.  We went there to see a young guy she knew who was in Remand awaiting trial.

We rattled out to the prison on a Melbourne tram.  It was only a couple of suburbs on from our inner city share house.  As we travelled the girl filled me in.  Hamish, the guy we were going to see, had been hitchhiking through the countryside with some girl.  After a few days on the road they were hungry and dirty.  They came across a farmhouse where there was no one home.  After breaking in they ate what they could find, showered and sat down to watch TV.  The farmer and his family came home, found them and rang the police.  Hamish and the girl were arrested.  The girl was sent off to face her own fate somewhere outside of this story and Hamish was sent to the Remand Centre at Pentridge Prison in Melbourne.Apart from the fact that Hamish sounded like the most unlikely name for a prisoner I had ever heard I had trouble dealing with his crime.  It sounded incredible.  Unbelievable.

Once we got the prison we joined the queue outside. Women who looked like gangsters molls from B Grade movies smoked cigarettes.  Whole families of overweight people clustered round each other talking loudly.  The children ate potato chips and chocolate bars.  Above us towered the bluestone walls of the prison.  At intervals watch towers topped the walls.  Motionless men carrying rifles stared down into the prison.  At the base of the wall red flowered geraniums grew.

After an age of waiting a vast wooden door swung open and we filed in.  The girl who liked to save souls talked to a guard and we were directed to the Remand Centre.  After crossing a courtyard surrounded by windowless walls we entered a sun filled room where the families sat on shabby couches, their voices subdued.  Again we waited.

Eventually our names were called.  We were given a number then ushered into a chill, sunless, cavernous place.  We walked past a row of booths until we found the one that tallied with our number.  Hamish was led in by a warden and stood facing us on the other side of a glass panel.  He was really young and really small.  He shook from head to foot.  He and the girl liked to save souls talked to each other through Bakelite mouth pieces that looked like they had been recycled from antique telephones.  They discussed Hamish’s options.

It turned out Hamish’s father was a hotshot lawyer in Sydney.  ‘You must write to him,’ said the girl.  Hamish replied that he had and his father had written back  saying that he deserved to be punished.  For the remainder of our visiting time the girl tried to convince Hamish to write to his father again.  I smiled in what I hoped was an encouraging way whenever Hamish looked at me.  Although I could see his father’s point of view I felt for the quivering mess in front of me.  He was so young and so small and the prison was so huge and so cold.  When the warden returned to take him back to his cell, Hamish gave us both a forlorn, flickering attempt at a smile.

Weeks later Hamish turned up on the doorstep of our share house.  He had contacted his father again who relented and got him legal assistance which got him off the hook.  Hamish slept on our lounge room floor for a few nights then disappeared back to Sydney.  Shortly afterwards the girl who liked to save souls joined a cult.  I never saw her or Hamish again.  I never went to prison again either.

Having read the lists of others, I am pressed to consider what inspires me to live this creative life. I notice that inspiration comes from the strangest, most painful, and humorous places. A myriad of emotions, sometimes conflicting, assail me as I compile my list.

WHAT INSPIRES ME

The four seasons…Summer: Sweltering hot days give way to cool summer evenings where the earth breathes in the cool air and living things that found the day too difficult come out to fresh air and gentle breezes that carress the body.  Autumn: The spectacular display of color provided by the tree people and the brisk snap to the mornings.  Winter: Reading, writing, drawing while snuggled in warmth (fleece or flannel) on the sofa with lots of pillows where I can see both the fireplace and the backyard as the winds and rain whips through the trees.  Spring: The alternating thunderstorms and days warming the ground as seedlings grow and flowers bloom to perfume the air.

Being a mother…finding out I was pregnant after so many years and tens of thousands of dollars…from that point on has been my biggest joy, my best job, and the most fulfilling part of my life. And this I know to be true…I AM AN EXCEPTIONAL AND INCREDIBLE MOTHER!!

The sound of the wind blowing the dried pods of the pepper trees making the trees rattle.

Clouds of all shapes and sizes moving across that indescribable shade of blue background.

My daughter’s singing, dancing, laughter, love, dreams, and compassion.

My husband’s joking, gentle, giving heart, strong broad chest to lay my head upon, and dimples when he smiles.

Sunsets gloriously colored, often striated with hues of orange, pink, purple, yellow, and red.

The full moon as it first appears on the horizon and continues to rise into a large golden or lavendar globe in the night sky. The way it shimmers in ribbons upon the ocean’s water.

The stories and poetry of my youth.

My mother’s hugs and her cheek resting against mine.

Babies. Babies sleeping, watching, crying, snuggling, anything they want to do as long as I’m holding them.

The sound of children’s laughter.

The sounds of a school yard…children’s voices, teatherball chains striking the metal pole, screaming as the children run or play dodge ball.

Water that is moving. It can be the sight of a river meandering through the countryside, a fountain before a skyscraper in the city, a waterfall in the tropics, or a waterfountain on the table.

The ocean…the Pacific that carried the ashes of my fisherman father around the world; that is home and habitat to great species such as the whale and dolphin, shark and squid; the bountiful and colorful water and creatures; the way the waves break on upon the land.

The delta breeze or the wind as it playfully toussles my hair, strokes my eyelids, blows the cobwebs out of my head and the stink off my body.

Art, mine or others. That which is created by the mind is astounding.

Books, books, books written by those with a true gift of teasing my emotions, taking me to places unknown, and making me laugh out loud in public.

People who aren’t afraid to take the fun with them wherever they go for they have the true gift of changing people’s days. These are the people who sing out loud to the music in the grocery store, dance for joy on the sidewalk, and make waiters and waitresses laugh in restaurants.

Being with family that I have chosen, those friends who have known me and my best, my worst, and love me anyway; who encourage me to put my talents on display, travel to see my daughter’s performances, wrap their arms around me and tell me they love me for no reason other than we are together.

The past…memories of parties at my aunt and uncle’s house, times when my dad still lived with us, being on the boat, silly songs and family sayings, stories about me in my early years, stories about my ancestors, remembering old loves.

Heartbreak and sadness. In reading my youth, I note that I wrote the most when unhappy or sad as though proving I was alive and visible, I had something to offer to others, there was something to like-even love-about me.

Helping people through Reiki, sound/vibrational healing, heart centered therapy, and intuition.

Connecting into that which is, the deep spiritual connection that allows me to “know” and put into words what is so difficult to communicate.

My father…his humor that has lived on, his lessons, his gift of continuing to speak to me through others at every possible opportunity.

Soul Food Cafe, Lemurian Rookery, SS Vulcania, etc. inspires me to no end as I see the words, art, jewelry, and other creations of those who share what I love…these strangers that have given me so much and fed my soul by being there as I discover myself over and over again.

Life! Life inspires me more that I can say. The way the pieces fit together; the existance and connectedness of all living things; the life stories of people I meet; my own life story that is still being written; witnessing people live their lives.

In making this list I realize just how blessed my life is and has been. Though the hardships have been many and the accomplishments often not acknowledged, I know that I am living a good life, doing the best I can. Life is good.

(These are all true neighborhood scenes I or a friend has experienced over the years. I don’t know the back stories.)
Small town USA, this week – A young woman is pushing a baby stroller up the street. It is filled with all her earthly belongings. Atop the stroller is a cage in which rides a big white goose, loudly honking. A few feet behind her, a 4-year-old boy with dark curly hair shoved under a baseball cap follows, crying.
• * * * Another small town scene: I go to visit a friend who’s dad does the occasional circus gig, playing a clown, riding a unicycle. Today, he’s in the backyard, wearing just his underwear, juggling fire.
——————————

In an American city in the 1970s, when I was 18-22 years old, trying to ‘serve the Lord’ in an inner city ministry:
• * * * *
I enter the apartment and suddenly I know what my mom meant when she used the term “flop house”. There are mattresses flopped all over the floors, with alcoholics lying on them, snoring, belching, farting. I’ve come to pick up Betty for a church meeting. Her husband Bill says he can’t go, he fell on the ice and broke his ankle. Betty says, “Bill got fallin’down drunk and is goin’ to hell.” But Betty should have moved out of reach before she said that – Bill whacks her with his crutch.
• * * * *
I am in the bad part of the city, handing out free loaves of bread to the poor. I enter one house. The only furniture is a urine-stained mattress on the floor, and an extra large rubber trash can, right in the center of the living room. I offer them bread – they ask for money instead.

• * * * *
I am new to the city, new to City Hospital. I ask for directions to the emergency room. I am told, “Just follow that trail of blood drops.”

• * * * *
I go to visit an elderly lady. She shows me her bird. There are cockroaches crawling in the liner papers. Mabel doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe with her cataracts, she can’t see the bugs. “Pretty bird, pretty bird,” she coos.
• * * * *
• I am in a church meeting. It is hot summer. One of the guests can’t take the heat any longer. She peels off her girdle, puts it in a paper bag, and passes it down the aisle for me to hold until the service is over.