Fall Leaves and Winter follows

When we moved north of the Mason Dixon line in 1983, my dear Professor and I did not know what to expect. We had both known only two seasons in Texas, hot and hotter, and most of the trees in both of our necks of the woods, even though separated by 500+ miles, were green all year long.

Imagine our surprise that first October in Syracuse. Three year old Principessa, five year old Preacher and I collected as many of the leafy jewel colors that we could find to share them with "Granny" back in Houston. When cleaning out Dad's house last fall I found an old manila envelope with pictures of our first yankee home and a few of those leaves still pressed in wax paper.

Choices

What choices are ruling your day? I made one that made all the difference.  You can read about it here.

Burnt in the fire of love

She spoke truthful words aimed at healing but they shattered, wounding many. And now, with broken heart she asks, was the love wasted? I reply in words from a greater heart than mine, "no, love is never wasted."

The Beauty that Awaits

We played peekaboo all the way to work, her peeking above and through the clouds, me weaving the car around the curves and up and down hills.  I wanted so badly to stop and take her picture, but I restrained myself, choosing instead to get to work on time.  But a few hundred feet from my destination, on a slight rise that is the grocery store parking lot just above where I work, I stopped to admire her.

The King and I

Lions stalk me.

It's true. In Texas and in the Frozen North, and even Europe.

Lions stalk me.

The first was Elsa the lioness in the film, Born Free, the story of Joy and George Adamson and their Kenyan rehabilitation center. I decided then and there that I would move to Kenya just like Joy and George. I was born and raised in Texas, I could do big, dry and hot. And poisonous snakes if I HAD to!

Lions are majestic, awesome, dignified, glorious, noble, fearful.

And sort of dangerously cuddly.

When higher education called, I laid aside the African dream and picked up drama and english. Not exactly the perfect training for pulling thorns from a lion's paw in the wilds of Africa. Then I met my Dear Professor and there was no contest.

But the lions are patient.

As my Dear Professor and I strolled hand in hand down the Montrose end of Westheimer one sunny Houston Saturday, they found me once again. It seemed safe enough. Major artists and artisans displayed their wares at a street fair. As we passed the local NBC affiliate interviewing participants on camera, I felt him watching me. And then I saw him. The lion, nestled under the shade of an awning, called.

It was a painting by an up and coming Houston artist, Jim Rabby.  I had just recently read CS Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia, and was captivated by this rendering of Aslan.  The rich paint strokes were layered so thickly I could almost hear him breathe. I longed to take him home with us, but this new bride felt awkward asking her groom for such a costly painting.  I took a picture. A faded picture that does not do justice to the richness of color and those extravagant brush strokes.

I said goodbye, never dreaming that we would meet again.

A year later we attended a party given by a friend's cousin.  I could not believe my eyes as my feet crossed their threshold.  Through the crowd I caught a glimpse of something in the den, in an exalted place above the mantle. 

It was Rabby's lion.  What a joy to see him again!  He had stalked me from the far eastern end of Westheimer to the far western end.  All the way across Houston.

Lions stalk me.

Three summers ago my Dear Professor and I chaperoned a student group tour of Europe.  We traced the Reformation movement through Germany, England, and Switzerland.  There were also a few side trips to France and Austria.  It was a sobering time as the lectures recounted the clash of politics, tradition, and faith and the price paid by the faithful.  In Lucerne, we met the Dying Lion.  It is a granite monument to the Swiss Guards massacred while protecting French royalty during that country's bloody revolution.  Mark Twain said it was "the most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world."

I found myself agreeing with Mr. Twain.  As I gazed upon this lion I couldn't help but recall Aslan at the great stone table.  And the deeper magic CS Lewis wrote of in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Lions stalk me.  The dead and the living.

Last year a dear friend found a magnificent lion at the National Zoo.  There is something about her photograph that continues to haunt me.  Perhaps it's the sorrowful nature hidden within his royal bearing and fearful countenance.

(my rendering of Jessica's Aslan, with her permission)

Yes, lions stalk me.  And I see in their courage, beauty, power, soulfulness, fearfulness a pale shadow of the true image of the all powerful Lion of Judah, who continues to stalk my heart.

And yours.

Holding

I passed through fields of silk



and lace





and gold;



Chased the clouds,



and watched the sun unfold transparent gauze of light.



I drank it in.

And as the blanket, cool, descended on my skin,

I bowed in thanks again



for this small glimpse of Him Who gave a voice to stars



and holds me in His hand.

(For an old friend who is holding on, seeing the beauty in the midst of heaviness)

Questions

 

 He is our first grandchild.  Beautiful, sweet, intelligent.  Lover of Hotwheels and Legos.

As he reaches for a crayon he asks, "what does a question mark look like?" I respond, tracing imaginary curves in the air, then absentmindedly ask why.

"I'm drawing a question mark."

I return to my magazine. A few moments of silence pass. Then his response leaps back into my consciousness.

"I'm drawing a question mark."

I approach the crayon and paper strewn table, his hands are still busy at work. Now it's my turn to ask.

"Why are you drawing a question mark?" He is too busy to answer now, head bowed in creative concentration. Minutes pass. In the fullness of time he finishes, and proudly displays his work,  a large window box filled with living question marks.

"How beautiful! Tell me about your drawing."

He smiles, takes a big breath, and begins his presentation. When he is done, he pauses for my response.

I am speechless.

Hidden in the colored waxy lines on paper is the whole of life. Simple curves that speak volumes, glimmers of thoughts to come.

"And what do you do with the questions?"  His curiosity has encouraged mine.

"You eat them and they become part of your mind. And grow into bigger questions."

He is 5 years wise.

 

What questions will he eat in the years to come? What answers will he find?

For now, I draw him to me in a holy hug as the Fisherman did so long ago. 

"For such is the kingdom of heaven."

Happy Little House

Once upon a time there was a happy little house that lived near a big city.

(photo of the happy little house courtesy of Principessa)

It had a happy front door,

A happy flowered rug,

a happy back yard, and a happy coffee table.

In this happy little house lived Princepessa,

her two happy cats, (only one would sit still for his portrait, the other is a bit shy.)

and a happy little dog name Lucy (and her happy human friend.)

(photo of Lucy courtesy of her human friend)

 

The happy little house was so happy that soon after Principessa moved in, it arranged for a fireworks display. All over the neighborhood skies that night, the happy little houses oohed and ahhed over the brilliant colors.

Principessa oohed and ahhed too. (But not her unhappy little cats who were hiding under the bed. "Too many noises!" they meowed)

The unhappy little cats were soon happy again when the fireworks stopped. The happy little houses in the happy little neighborhood were happy it had rained before the noisy night and kept their happy little roofs safe.

But of all the happy little houses in that happy little neighborhood, this was the happiest of them all, because Principessa, her happy little cats, the happy little dog named Lucy (and her human friend) had come to stay.

The End.  

What Mother Never Knew

Mother never knew that she was beautiful.

But she was.

Mother never knew that she was loved.

But she was.

Mother did know the movies.  That was how my family celebrated holidays, we went to the movies.

 
Perhaps they were an escape for a shy and awkward girl whose Daddy loved her dearly, and whose mother was, I believe, jealous.  Mother spent her entire life longing for the approbation of her Mother that was lavished instead on her older brother.  It created a deep ache in her soul that nothing could soothe, not even the love of an adoring husband.

When  my uncle died, Grandmother mourned for him as if he had been her only child.  Mom mourned the death of her father, then her brother, and finally, the prospect of ever knowing the love of her own mother.

Perhaps it was this deep longing that made her more accessible for others in pain.  I tried to avoid going grocery shopping with her, because, sooner or later, someone would meet us in an aisle, and, sensing sanctuary in a stranger, begin unburdening their grief. 

There between the tomatoes and the lettuces they let down their stories of disappointment, anger, sadness as Mom listened attentively, compassionately, and I squirmed.

With older eyes I look back on those moments and see wonder, beauty, and sacrament.  The love and compassion Mom longed for from Grandmother was poured out with abandon on common stranger.  She gave unselfishly what she desired to receive, and blessed many.

 

This small, insecure woman of sorrow was a giant of love.  Deep inside, Mother was more beautiful than any of her favorite film stars.  And she touched just as many hearts.

In the produce aisle.

Undercover

I type slowly, quietly, in fear of rousing the one in the dark nearby. His breathing is steady and heavy. When I was younger, I raised the ire of my parents by reading comic books by flashlight after bedtime.

But there is a far more serious danger lurking here. . .

the Mafinator, aka Soggy Bottom Boy

And so I type, laptop hidden under the covers to avoid awakening the littlest Sprittle in the crib nearby. Each time he stirs, I freeze like a rabbit, heart racing. Will the softly glowing monitor leak through the fabric and bounce blinding light off my bifocals and into his darkened corner?



Or, perhaps the better question would be, why on earth am I hiding under the covers to write a blog post? Have I fallen into the depths of net addiction depravity? Is it really THAT important to send an email while visiting my precious Sprittles in their new home?

All I know is a few days ago I received an "anonymous" call inviting me to "come visit and sleep in my new bunny room and take us to the pool."

And so, after 3 weeks of living on the road, I repacked my suitcase (and swimsuit) and headed for a bunny room in North Carolina. Any grandmother not willing to respond in like manner to such a phone call is not worth her weight in fruity tic tacs.

Perhaps I am in good company. Perhaps all over the world tonight there are other grandmothers, purses laden with candy for the grandkids, typing furtively under the covers.

Or maybe it's just me. Alone, insane and delusional from too many miles in too short a time.

Would someone please call 911?

If It's Monday . . .

If it's Monday, it must be time to go home. I am travel weary. The last 3 weeks have gone by much too quickly, but I am grateful for each day. This year's pilgrimage to the homeland is almost over.

I can neither count the miles nor the memories, they are both many. But all are good because He is good, and was present in them all:

The sun and sand and the Sprittles,



seagull at the water's edge,



footprints,



the wonder of water,



the reunion of sisters,



outting of the old



inning of the new, in so many ways,



wildflowers along the road, so beautiful against the summer sky,



dragonflies,



a meal with new friends, night swimming and shooting stars, conversation with loved ones,

being there, and coming home.

Stone on Stone

Two on one, one on two. That's how a fieldstone wall is built.

No chink or mortar, just the stone,



stacked one on two, two on one.



The stones first pushed by ancient glaciers rolling over land



now raised again by horses' strain, by farmer's plow and hand.



Stacked one on two, two on one.



Two on one, one on two. That's how a fieldstone wall is built.

No chink or mortar, just the stone,



stacked one on two, two on one.



Grateful for

#77 the flow of words

#78 the flow of years

#79 the flow of love

#80 the flow of tears

#81 the melting glaciers in my heart

#82 the stones unearthed, each has its part

#83 the love that guides

#84 the love that holds

#85 the love that binds

#86 the love that molds

A Promise Kept

We've had our share of rain this spring, and it keeps falling. But for me, this rainy Monday is a day to rejoice.

A day of thanksgiving.



Last fall, our water well line had to be replaced. They cut a deep trench in the earth running 1000 feet from the well to our home. The trench was roughly backfilled, and a promise made to return in the spring, after the ground had settled, to smooth out the ugly welting scar left behind.

Spring turned to summer, leaving the promise unmet. Phone calls were made. No response. Hope gave way to frustration, despair. And then...



When hope had run dry, he appeared to fulfill his promise. The grinding, tamping, machine left bare, smooth brown in its wake. Soon scattered seed will cover the brown with green again.



Gentle rain began to fall as he worked the ground.  I took time to stand in the wet and watch its glory fall from the gutter,



scattering transparent pearls upon the roses,







the leaves,





the lavender,



and quenching the earth's thirst.



A promise kept,  refreshing as a gentle rain.

#66 a promise kept
#67 hope restored
#68 smoothed earth
#69 gentle rain
#70 transparent pearls
#71 roses
#72 raindrops falling from the gutter
#73 the promise of green
#74 healing of scars
#75 quenching of thirst
#76 refreshing