oh, what a difference a day makes

Two days ago I blogged about patience and mercy.

Since then, I've recalled other plane rides, less serene moments:

reminders of questions that strained credulity...and my last nerve.

A fearless and searching moral inventory has revealed

that, while my first thoughts remained unspoken,

EPIC FAIL has, at times, loomed large in my mindset.

A little shame is a good thing.

Mea culpa.

Mea extremis culpa.

 I am now living with one of life's great truths: 

 Pray for patience & God gives me many chances to practice it.

The Questions

1.  Three states in a week, working in airports and on planes.  A Friday night flight and a report to finish. From a lady across the aisle:  "Would you mind turning your computer [squeezed onto an airplane tray table] so I can watch you do that?  I've never used a computer.  Breaks my nails."

2.  From an adult at the front of a long line:  "How do I work this thing?"  The cellular representative opened the instruction booklet to the page with pictures.  This precipitated a follow-up question accompanied by a laugh:  "Does anybody actually read these things?" 

3.  A quiet moment in a busy day, sipping a cup of coffee at a table in the mall.  From the person hovering by my chair:  "Are you sitting here?"

4.  Back on another plane:  "Do you mind if I put this bag under your seat?  It's too large to fit under mine with my purse." 

5.  This past Tuesday on a flight from Charlotte: "I lost my cell phone and didn't have time to stop in Charlotte for a phone card.  Could I borrow your phone to call my ride so she'll know where I'll be?"

The Thoughts That Sprang to Mind 

For Which I Am Now Atoning

and One Real Answer

1.  "Need anything else broken?"  

2.  "Just the twelve of us WHO READ THE BOOK and are now waiting in line with LEGITIMATE questions."   

3.  "No, this is an illusion.  In real life, I'm younger and less wrinkled."   

4.  "Yes, with every fiber of my five foot, nine inch being, yes, yes, yes, I would mind."   

5.  This answer was a kind, immediate, out-loud "Of course!"  To me.  I am grateful for the sweet young blonde woman seated next to me, for her mercy.  I haven't earned it.

on a winter's day

Today was a travel day.  All day.  Searched and re-searched.

First plane.  Plane stuck on tarmac.  

No time to grab a bite between flights.  

Another plane.  Luggage delay.  

Car.  Car stuck on I-65.

Filter out the irritations.  I crossed a continent in five hours.

Granted, the time spent in lines, waiting for a jet to move, 
and backtracking from Charlotte to Birmingham

almost doubled the actual travel time.

If I were a time traveller, however,

I'd refrain from telling my woes to, say, Laura Ingalls Wilder.

One nap and then I began to write.  

Wrote from one end of the country to another.

Didn't notice that three babies were crying 

until another passenger mentioned this fact.

Several times.

Louder than the babies.

Air travel is great for people watchers.

And eavesdroppers.  Writers call this research.

Nevertheless, the experience provides 

a unique opportunity to practice civility, 

to think about loving one's neighbor,

even when she snores.

Rather than fight the inevitable,

sit back and muse.

.....................................................................................

PROGRAMME:  THE TITANIC

Act Three [written]

Lavish arrivals for some, the hope of work for others…promises in gestation.  

Act One

The last landfall

Act Two

A new script

Past the proscenium, through a scrim, beyond a black drapery

Dreams dissolve

The picture of the harbor at Cobh, formerly Queenstown, shows the site where the Titanic last took on passengers. Too large to pass through the harbor entrance, the great ship weighed anchor just beyond the narrow opening.  The last to board were ferried to the Titanic in small boats.  I regretted the blurry snapshot made especially for my son.  The discovery of the ship's wreckage when he was five had captivated his imagination.  Yet, in the mist of the photograph, I can imagine a gossamer silhouette of the great ship and ghostly whispers of last farewells, ethereal reminders of a bygone era.

My childhood was spent in a hot humid landscape of gentle, rolling hills bordered by pine woodlands.  Flat beaches of white sand, the marshes of Glynn, and ancient oaks, with their moss-draped branches that brushed the ground of the tranquil Georgia coast, quietly seduced.  But the raw, rugged beauty of distant seaside cliffs called to a young girl, a desire that hinted inexplicably of homecoming.  Decades later, I finally climbed to the edge of the Cliffs of Moher.  Struggled to stand against the force of the gale that raged.  But a quiet grew within as the waves lashed and the gusts howled.  Below me, the show of millenniums:  perpetual creation born of erosion.  

My carefully scripted life long scrapped, I found strength in the fierce landscape.  Maria Harris writes that "Native Americans describe spirituality as having a 'moist heart,' perhaps because native wisdom knows the soil of the human heart is necessarily watered with tears.  And that tears keep the ground soft.  From such ground new life is born."  Life pounds us.  We are diminished.  Watered with tears.   Void of expectation. Rent by sorrow, made open by the tearing.  Open to love.  

Such a miracle, love.  Not for or from a single individual but a state of being.  This absolute that does not grow but arrives complete.   That whispers, shouts, "I cannot be quantified.  I AM!"  Ah, to live in the presence of the gift, each day an unwrapping.  To be grown by the great I AM.  Love demands only that we wait.  Wait upon it with all our senses and know the full measure.  Listen.  Watch.  Keep the channel open.  Cede to the death of self and let go.  

"Celeste," the older woman said one afternoon, "you just can't please some people.  Say to yourself, 'Your opinion of me is none of my business' and let it go.  Jesus said, 'Love - not please - your neighbor.  To live otherwise is to use people for personal gratification.  And be grateful for everyone you encounter," she continued.  "Not just those who treat you well, whom you respect.  But everyone.  Each is a teacher.  Some mirror good choices; others, the consequences of bad ones.  All instruct."  

Perspective.  Patience.  Respect for others.  Humility.  Praise.  Peace.  Prayers.  For the broken ones.  For those who cannot give love because they cannot receive it.  

I can be grown by love.  If I so choose.

sticks and stones but, thanks be to God, NO fried green tomatoes

The granddaughter of a south Georgia farmer, I spent many happy afternoons sitting on the front porch with my grandmother, shelling peas. Produce replaced the calender as seasons were defined by the crops “in season.”  An open market is redolent with memories of my childhood.  I am transported to an era when food was not wrapped in cellophane, when smell and touch precluded the need for a time-stamp.

Like the Celts whose prayers were woven into their daily tasks, my grandfather was enmeshed in creation.  Papa faced nature’s capriciousness with grace, humility, and perseverance: grateful in bounty, stoic in ruin. A quiet man, he worked hard, asked for God’s protection daily, and instilled a love of the land in his children.  To be in tune with the elements is to know the Creator.

I have a cold. Tis the season. The cats are happily ensconced beside me on the fleece spread, grateful for the warmth. Assured that, should starvation loom, a quick head butt to my forearm could make the difference between life and death. I know that if they COULD go to the pharmacy for me, they wouldn't. That's the deal.


One would think, what with a halfway decent excuse to be sedentary, I'd be devouring the book about the Age of Reason I've planned to start for the last six months. One would be wrong. My ability to absorb appears to be inversely proportional to the degree of nasal congestion, throat pain, and chills currently racking my body.


So I've been thinking of Ireland in December. The trees may be bare there but rest assured that all forty shades of green remain vibrant in the landscape.  So it was when Jane and I took a day bus trip with the Kinsale Senior Citizens group. We traveled first to the English Market in Cork City, then to the Lee Garden center located in the Lee River valley near Dripsey.  On to Blarney before closing the doors at a pub in Ballinhassig that evening.  A wonderful day to revisit.


We arrived at the designated meeting place early. By the time the bus arrived, we had introduced ourselves to a few people, including three Sisters of Mercy who would remain our guardian angels for the duration. We found our seats as the group leader efficiently called out names from a list.  When we scurried down the aisle, I heard the words, "Two ladies from America, you know…Alabama, no less," ripple through the bus.


The eighteen kilometers to Cork City passed quickly. Once there, our driver, Sean, entertained us with tales of his youth in the city. He particularly enjoyed reliving The Night of the Missing Tux. A friend, Mickey, had promised to help him acquire a bargain.  As is often the case, the deal fell through just before a formal dance.  Sean regaled himself with the memory of arriving at his date's front door in pants that were at least three inches too short and (here's where he lost his breath every time) bright red socks. "Over the years, whenever I saw Mickey, I'd tell him I might've married that lass if it hadn't been for the red socks."  He'd laugh all over again.  Finally, he added,  "He was a rounder, that Mickey. The cheek of that guy."  He paused and said, "I sure do miss him. When I see him in Heaven, I'm going to show up in those socks."  The laughter returned.

He dropped us off at the English Market. Why 'English' - all things considered - instead of 'Irish', I wondered.  But once inside, I quickly forgot everything as we wandered through the aisles, then up to the top floor where the group was served tea and scones. Not just any scone. The biggest, most delicious scone I've yet to meet. And I ate the whole thing. I stopped just short of licking my plate. We walked all too briefly before climbing on board for the next leg of the journey.



While in Cork City, the driver pointed out the building designs, similar to the raised first floors found in our Low Country.   Double staircases wound up to an elevated entry. Water had once flowed where the busy street now ran.  Merchants and businessmen traveled by boat to meetings, tying off to a rail before climbing up to the doorway. Venice with an edge.


The glimpse of Cork's past made our trip through the Lee River valley more memorable.  Famous for a near mythic brew, Mountain Dew.  No, not the soft drink, but a potent  alcoholic creation.  Of the homemade sort.  Moonshine. Poiton...pure, unadulterated hooch with an Irish brogue.  The valley, once filled with farm cottages and old castles, was intentionally flooded in 1958 following the erection of two hydroelectric generating stations. This created a waterway that stretches to the sea. We heard how, during The Troubles, deep concerns rose over the possible bombing of the dams. This would have resulted in horrific floods in Cork City.  Our traveling companions recalled harrowing memories of the Black and Tan.  As we wound through the lush evergreen forest with its huge wood ferns lining the roadway. I caught  occasional glimpses of the water.  The odd turret or the top of an old building pierced the surface of the river.  Ghostly reminders of days gone by.


We were deposited at the Lee Garden Center near Dripsey where we were instructed to shop for Christmas presents for forty-five minutes then gather at the restaurant . . . where we would be served lunch.  LUNCH?  Jane and I looked at each other. We didn't want to appear callous to the hospitality offered us. But those scones had expanded to fill all available internal space and were heartily defying digestion. In the meantime a small stick had fallen into my boot when we stepped off the bus and now dug into my right heel. I tried to bend over and remove the twig but halted when I heard my zipper growl.


From the minute we landed at Shannon, the dollar weakened as the Euro climbed. Already pressed for resources, we browsed and ogled a vase or an embroidered pillowcase every time another tour member passed us. One lady caught us empty-handed and inquired if we were unhappy with the selection. "Heavens, no!  We're just poor as church mice."


"Ah," she replied, her eyes twinkling, "and that would be makin' you proper Irish!"  No longer outsiders, our status was now elevated.  We were initiates to the culture.  Lovely!  But we still had to make it through lunch. The leader explained that, due to the seasonal crowds, a fixed menu had been arranged. We could choose between a small lunch plate of lamb, green beans, two kinds of potatoes, bread and dessert. Or a platter of the same. We smiled and held back a bit before walking through the restaurant door.


"What are we going to do, Jane? One more bite and I'm done for."


"Me, too. Let's share an order of chips ["fries" back home] and order two cups of tea. And ask a lot of questions to divert attention." She started to walk in then swiveled.  "You shouldn't have any trouble with that." After a double-take, I attributed the wry remark to her discomfort and followed her into the dining room. The food which would have otherwise have smelled delicious took on a cloying odor. My zipper groaned mightily again as I tried to hold my breath.


Relieved, however, that we had a plan, I placed the order while Jane found seats at the long table. When our single plate of chips arrived, the sweet lady who had announced us "proper Irish" thoughtfully offered to buy us lunch. We declined, saying that we had simply eaten too much at the Market. She smiled sweetly and nodded, as if complicit with our story, admiring our fortitude. The time for our diversionary tactic was at hand. I turned to Sister Mary with the intensity of an interrogator during the Spanish Inquisition.


The segueway would have been seamless if Jane and I had not dropped our mouths open when the servers appeared with the pre-ordered lunches. Piles of lamb, bushels of beans, mounds of potatoes (scalloped and fried), loaves of bread.  We discovered that these initial servings were the SMALL plates when suddenly two gigantic platters appeared. These required a server each. I stared in amazement as the dishes were placed in front of two small Irishmen at the head of the table. The scone loomed larger as I watch them eat. Jane and I willfully averted our eyes in an effort to curb our gawking.  But the will is so weak.  Stolen glances continued.


After savoring his last bite, the smaller of the two men called the waitress. I couldn't hear what he was saying as I struggled to swallow my third chip. But in a few minutes my head swiveled once more as I saw the waitress walk past with two huge slabs of apple pie.


My eyes locked in position, I tapped my friend's arm. "Jane, excuse me, would you take a look..."  Getting no response, I turned toward her. She sat huddled over the table, her bon mots now bon nots. She was gripping a chip, swirling it  delicately in ketchup. "Jane," I whispered deliriously, "look down the table."


Her head bobbed forward and I saw her eyes widen. The waitress was spooning thick globs of cream onto the wedges of hot pie. We turned to each other as if in conversation and moaned quietly. Whenever people around us busied themselves, another chip would go into the napkin in my lap. I'm not sure what Jane did with hers but I didn't check her purse.


Lunch was over. We stood up and introduced ourselves to the next wave of greeters as we headed to the bus. Just as we got to the door, I heard one of the men speak. "I heard we're havin' refreshments at Blarney.


"Well, good! That'll be just in the nick of time."


Months later, we regaled one of our Irish friends with the story of our first excursion. She laughed and wiped her eyes. But then she said, "You know, both of those men live alone. Neither of them cooks too well. I imagine they were stocking up."


Perspective changes everything. In the middle of the bounty we encountered during our trip, I had missed the limitations of age, not simply finances. One needs not walk far to find another in need. Of attention. Of physical assistance. Of food.

THE ENGLISH MARKET

'Why don't you call it the Irish Market?'

I know they gave an answer.

It's on the tip of my tongue, metaphorically speaking.

I cannot tell you now, though.

The tip of my tongue is otherwise occupied savoring a scone

covered with jam and slathered with clotted cream.

A stone per scone, this the largest ever.

'Decline,' I thought? 'Why never?'

I ate that scone and gained that stone

then mulled as I sat quiet.

'Tomorrow is another day,' as Scarlett said.

'That's when I'll start my diet.'

Food, glorious food, aisle upon crowed aisle

...but, within a block, only steps away, lies a hungry child.

Of course, before I beat myself black and blue, let me point out that they DID serve tea (supper, to us) in Blarney lest we keel over before the thirty minute drive to Ballinhassig.  And, before the snacks, we shopped some more.


We arrived at our last destination around six-thirty.  The next five hours are a blur of music, dance, laughter.  And food.  I watched Sisters Mary and Mairead dance "Shoe the Donkey" as I troweled in a salad sandwich.  I passed on the blood sausage.  And the chicken wings.  Also the chips.  You get the picture.  I did choke down a brownie.  The antioxidants in chocolate are amazing.

  


I treasure the bonds that were forged that day. And the lovely memories of our sing-along on the bus. One woman, with the help of spirits, led us in rousing choruses of "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" and "Show Me the Way to Go Home." Several times.  But mostly I delight in the beautiful Irish voices harmonizing as "Amazing Grace" wafted through the bus.   At each stop, the good-byes and laughter would pause, then the music would return until the next departure.    There are worse ways to spend - and end - a day.

bent out of shape: lessons in grace and artful living

words hide as thought takes flight

hands reach out

catching 

then telling

with paint or stone

   clay or silver

      wood or fiber

TRUTH that will not be silenced

In 2007, I traveled to Ireland, where I lived in a five hundred year old stone cottage with  my friend, Jane. The seacoast village of Kinsale, south of Cork city, was home for six months.

Three years ago this week, we took a bus to Killarney to visit Father Paddy, an Irish priest who served parishes in Alabama, a dear friend of Jane's cousin, Father John Owen.

Riding to Killarney, past fields littered with ruins and the odd standing stone, we saw the horse.  Not one of the countless thoroughbreds that grazed in green fields, this horse reared its legs over the edge of a stone cliff.  The creature, made of rusted iron, born in a sculptor's mind, rose above us, its Celtic presence as natural as the stone that anchored it.

One afternoon several months later, we stopped to watch a stonemason build a wall.  Jane commented, "You, sir, are an artist."

"No," he replied with a laugh as he continued his work.

Jane persisted.  "Oh, yes, you are.  You have an eye for composition."  He was smiling when we left.

Like time, language is man's invention, an often clumsy attempt to order existence.  Even St. Francis admonished us to "use words only when necessary." Love, art, and music: these require no translation.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I never felt the ring slip off, never heard it slide into the rarely-used garbage disposal.  Only later, when I slipped my thumb behind my finger to twirl the sterling band, did I discover the loss.  The search continued for weeks as I ransacked closets and drawers to no avail.  I did find the mate to one earring and three other mismatched loops.  The net losses mounted but none so personal as the Irish memento.

Dom, the talented artisan at Kinsale Silver, made the ring, with its slashed lines that spelled "grace" in the Ogham alphabet one sees carved into the standing stones of 4th century A.D. Ireland. I usually wore the simple, inexpensive silver band with its message facing outward. Somedays, though, I turned it toward myself...a reminder that I have to ask for my daily love.

Now the remains sit beside my computer on the breakfast table. Lop-sided, a bit mangled, hoarsely whispering an eternal message nonetheless. At one time, I would have fretted over my carelessness. Today, though, I do not feel loss. I take joy in knowing that, for a season, I wore this ring which triggered lovely memories of six months in Kinsale, Ireland. I wore it unselfconsciously, this talisman that I spun around my finger whenever deep in thought. Fine jewelry never suited me. But this simple, richly personal band pointed me to grace. And still does.

I have an artist friend who owns a kiln. We could melt it down and form it into a charm of sorts. Even stamp GRACE into the molten lump. But I think I will keep this bent, misshapen token by my sink. A reminder of the Celtic prayers that declare the sanctity of daily tasks or the Japanese tea service that refines the ordinary. Yes, this resonates. I am growing into a new season myself, one that treasures the simple. Fatigued by years of traffic jams and corporate politics, by reaching, always reaching to achieve, I am ready to wash up with quiet joy or to cook a consecrated stew.

Here I sit, typing with a southern accent, part Celtic, a bit Zen, with a rosary given to me by the Sisters of Mercy at a going-away party in a pub.

My chassis is dinged and I am a bit worn around the edges myself. I tire more easily and regularly yearn to retire to solitude. I think I'm being pulled to a good place. A centering place. In my autumn, extraneous bits of life are shed like the leaves that pile around my walkway and I revel in the lightness.

Now, if I can bide my time, listen more, love better, bite my tongue when compelled to share some wisdom, maybe...just maybe...I could point to grace occasionally. And then my Irish ring and I would have become bits of accidental art.