An American Mind

I Read Dead People

2011-03-14T01:41:00.001-04:00

The tears coursing in lavish rivulets down my cheeks were not from the painful mumps I was experiencing, as I lay, quarantined, upon my grandfather's bed. No, they erupted, unbidden, from a young grief stricken heart that couldn't bear the pain of sweet Beth's untimely death. A death visited upon her as some sort of cruel twisted anti-Karma, for her unselfish charity to a poor family suffering with the dreaded scarlet fever. It had been Uncle Wiggily that had gotten me through the measles with his hilarious antics and quaint vernacular, but now Little Women opened the door to a new world - words on a page that had the force and power to move me from the depths of my soul.

Tolstoy held my heart in his hand as I wondered how Anna could possibly survive the narrative that was careening out of control and, although I admit to trudging, reluctantly, through the War scenes in his other epic, I was greatly enlarged by his incredibly poignant portrayal of a soldier's death. It haunts me still. Adam Mickiewicz gave to me a family history of which I had been deprived. How lovely it was to visit my ancestral homeland, to understand the forces that formed my genetic code. C. S. Lewis' Screwtape scared the living daylights out of me when I first read it - at a much too spiritually immature stage - but his other books helped me discern the meat from the empty calories in the religious smorgasbord being served.

So many dead people, speaking to me from their graves, enriching my life though theirs were long ago spent. It is indeed a wonder.

The Broken Toe Soliloquy

2010-11-18T02:14:00.000-05:00

Life is like that. You plan and plan and then out of left field comes a pop fly that knocks you out. Who knew a broken toe could be so debilitating? And there I was, racing along, energy level high, finally getting caught up with a backlog of projects, when all of a sudden I hit a brick wall - or, more precisely, a solid oak bench.
Columbus was looking for the Far East when he slammed into a huge landmass he was not expecting to find there. I know it's "popular" to bash Columbus but I have a copy of his log book as well as an understanding that the world was a far more brutal place in 1492 than it is in some corners today. I also understand the culture war waged by those whose true motives reside more in the realm of tyranny than the high moral plane to which they pretend. It's more than a bit ironic how those who decry "judging" love to wield the heavy hammer against anyone whose love of liberty and virtue, daring and enterprise, led to the creation of the most egalitarian society the world has ever seen.
I don't believe in earthly utopias because I know what is in the heart of man. I do believe that those who acknowledge their Creator and walk humbly before Him are often capable of phenomenal lives. I choose to admire Columbus and I'm grateful that his faith in God and his fortitude contributed to the creation of this amazing country.

ISAIAH 55

2010-08-27T22:50:00.000-04:00

When the trees clap their hands with joy
Will you be there?
When the thorns and nettles disappear
Will you be there?
When sorrow ceases and torment releases
Will you be there?

A Word so strong it stands alone
A Word so sweet we must repeat
A Word so old it's been retold
A Word so new it surprises you
A Word, a Word, His Word

Look up, for His ways are higher
Declares the Lord
Look in, for your thoughts are unrighteous
Declares the Lord
Look out, for His arms long to hold you
Declares the Lord

A Word so strong it stands alone
A Word so sweet we must repeat
A Word so old it's been retold
A Word so new it surprises you
A Word, a Word, His Word

It shall not return to me empty
He longs for you
It shall water your heart and replenish
He longs for you
It shall seed you and feed you
He longs for you

A Word so strong it stands alone
A Word so sweet we must repeat
A Word so old it's been retold
A Word so new it surprises you
A Word, a Word, His Word
A Word, a Word, His Word
Word

Surprise!

2010-07-29T00:26:00.000-04:00

I am so often amazed at how differently we disparate souls view this same world. I see a lovely day. You see a storm on the horizon. I smell the sweet earth. You're nauseous from the manure freshly laid on the farmer's field. I squeeze the juice from every orange. You timidly peel the rind and separate the sections.

There was a time I would have dismissed your view as inferior. But now I understand. Now I listen and read between the lines. I think this might be the beginning of wisdom but I don't want to jump to any rash conclusions. I wonder about those whose days are cut short. I wonder about those who live an entire life without seeing beyond the end of their nose. I wonder.

My Italian grandfather, Angelo, was a wonder to me. I lurked in his shadow. I always felt like the uninvited guest in my own life. He would startle me from time to time by bestowing some unexpected kindness. A knowing smile. A generous laugh. A rare caress. He was full of surprises and harbored luscious secrets it took me decades to unearth.

When I was a child I thought all adults were perfect. I was this miserably imperfect child. I couldn't wait to become one of those adults. Imagine my surprise.

Post-mortem

2010-07-21T01:50:00.000-04:00

   My friend called to tell me the inevitable news. Phil died last night. He took his last labored breath as the morphine dripped into his comatose body. I hope someone was there to hold his hand. He certainly deserved that much.
   No more will I walk into the Starbucks at 5th and State and bask in the warmth of his golden smile. No more will my soul dance to the music of his throaty chuckle. He has left the planet but he has not left the planet untouched by his grace. Phil ennobled that coffeeshop the way a flower enhances a barren field. He held court there every day and the patrons could always count on his ear when a problem plagued them, or his shoulder, when a burden weighed too heavily. He was always there. And, God bless them, they all showed up in his hospital room, day after day as the week stretched into the next. Caressing and coaxing him to "come back" into their coffee-stained world. A world they didn't want to inhabit without Phil.
   We seem to have developed a habit of categorizing people according to race and color. And some people will readily tell you Phil was a Black man, an African-American. But those of us who basked in the glow of his lovely spirit saw beyond that flimsy curtain. We saw him as he truly was. He was Golden. Godspeed, Phil.

Nightmare

2010-07-15T01:04:00.002-04:00

WOW! That was one long bad dream! Evil midgets were nipping at my ankles as I tried to rescue the abandoned babies. Then the flood came and nearly swept me away while I was keeping watch over my house by night. But that tornado really took me by surprise, ripping out all those stem cells I was saving for posterity! I'm in some kind of race, apparently. I thought it was the human race but they want me to choose from a list of 20 other possibilities and I refuse! Will they come knocking on my door in the middle of the night and cart me off to some re-education camp? Up is down, black is white, good is evil, and they automatically ignore the last three letters of my name. I want to come back, Dr. D, I do, desperately, but I'm at a loss as to why I should when there're people just struggling to breathe and I'm trying to figure out how to help them clear their lungs. If we could all just join together for one great big sneeze, maybe this November, I might be able to see my way clear to engage this blog again.
But, really, how sweet of you to care. I hope your little corner of Paradise is at peace.

Passage

2010-04-10T01:16:00.000-04:00

I created this piece while studying non-western art history. I was fascinated by the slow spread of tea rituals from culture to culture.

Passage

The oriental tea bowl is used as a symbol in this piece which addresses cultural influences throughout history. The custom or habit of tea drinking, having begun in China, has spread throughout the world. Its initial purpose, as a stimulant to enhance Buddhist meditation, is referenced by the pure white, delicate, paper castings made from actual tea bowls. The spiral orientation of the bowls evokes a sense of spreading or expanding: a passage of time, the creation of a universe. Repetition reinforces continuity, the tumbled placement of the bowls creates movement and the base of sand enhances the spiral, introducing an archeological element to clue the viewer to the piece's message.

In our McModern society I fear we live too much for the moment without a sense of our place in the entire story of man's footprint within time.

Sometimes...

2010-03-25T00:43:00.005-04:00

Sometimes I'm a firebrand who's ready to mount the white steed and rally in defense of the oppressed.
Sometimes I'm a monk who, disheartened by the sheer excess of treachery, aches to escape to a mountain hideaway to mourn the victory of evil in the hearts of so puerile a people.
Sometimes I'm a flower, catching a breeze and sunning myself in the bliss of joy.
Sometimes I'm a nightcrawler, tunneling through layers of detritus aerating the soil so new life can put down strong, healthy roots.
Sometimes I'm a distant star whose light is barely discernible except to the thoughtful souls who delight in things not easily seen.
Sometimes I'm a wave wearing away layers of ancient sediment, searching for that elusive gem.
Sometimes...
Sometimes...
Sometimes I just want to journey home. Maranatha

Cosmic Contrast

2010-03-03T00:22:00.000-05:00

In a successful painting, the eye is drawn to the focal point which has been carefully created by the artist employing one of the contrasts of color. Your eye then moves throughout the composition on a path designed by the artist. There may be restful areas or there may be tension keeping your eyes darting around, as the artist relates to you his inner vision.
Just so, in life, a lack of contrast causes us to lose focus, sending us about, lost. Is it any wonder the enemy works so hard at convincing the world that all is shades of gray - no values, no contrast. No black and white. No good and evil. He'll even feed our ego, convincing us that our "nuanced" view is intellectually superior. All in a skillfully crafted attempt to keep us from regaining our focus and once again clearly seeing the divine path created for us.

Big and Small

2010-03-01T00:02:00.000-05:00

I focused on the one immovable point
All my energy on that spot
Making my world as small as possible
To keep out the pain
Because pain is big
If I make my world small enough
It can't penetrate
I learned this in Lamaze
The first time I faced the enormous pain
Of pushing life out of small me
And into the big world
Breathe In...
Where am I, what am I doing here
I don't want to do this
I want to go home
Breathe Out...
I'm strong, invincible, I know who I am
I can handle anything
I conquer the world
Breathe In...
I'm small
Breathe Out...
I'm big
My body screams
But I am silent
Afraid to give voice
To my fears
Fear is very big
If I focus on that one immovable point
Maybe I can keep it out

The Winter Of My Youth

2010-02-14T23:07:00.002-05:00

My mother saved everything. String. Tinfoil. Bread bags. She was a true child of the Great Depression and she had a stockpile of inconsequentials to prove it. Of wordly goods we knew little but if you needed a plastic bread bag we had quite a selection from which to choose. I was raised to be a good steward of all the earth and its bounty. To this day I cannot discard any container without first squeezing, scraping, or rinsing every last drop out of it. Often, I cannot bring myself to dispose of the container. Our drinking glasses were mostly repurposed jelly jars. Yes, when the store of homemade jam gave out, we'd buy some - providing it was on sale.

As odd as it seems, empty bread bags evoke fond memories of frosty escapades and frozen feet. The first flakes of the season always found me dancing joyfully, tongue extended, exulting in the sacrament of communion. Communion with a wondrous element that ignited the imagination of every child. Out would come the abundant supply of bread bags to be slipped over well-worn shoes before stuffing our feet into hand-me-down galoshes. We all pretended this pitiful barrier would magically repel the wet and cold from our tender toes. It was part of the game and I was a faithful ambassador, slipping bread bags onto the precious feet of my own little ones until the advent of the now ubiquitous snow boot. Where have all the bread bags gone? Into landfills every one. When will they ever learn.....

Odd, isn't it? How something so mundane can hold such mystical properties when we chance to slide sideways into reverie. How the richness of life can be stored in a common bread bag. Or the life of a common man.

Beautiful Things

2010-02-11T00:50:00.002-05:00

It is a beautiful thing to send a melody out upon the wind.

It is a beautiful thing to link word after word after word until the winding path brings you to heaven.

It is a beautiful thing to be so full of love it escapes you without notice.

It is a beautiful thing to drift like a feather through a soulful reverie.

It is a beautiful thing to whisper fear and shout courage.

It is a beautiful thing to grasp the last straw and steer a course for higher ground.

It is a beautiful thing to speak truth in a room full of lies.

It is a beautiful thing to speak life so there will be many more beautiful things.

Not Underwater Anymore

2010-02-04T01:28:00.007-05:00

I took a vacation. I don't know if that's allowed in the blogosphere but I didn't know whom to ask so I just gave myself permission. The Holiday season can get pretty hectic as well as hugely joyous and writing this blog began to feel like a prison sentence. That is not a good thing. So I put this parallel world on hold while I cavorted in the real one.

Everyone was here for the Holidays except one son who is pursuing his PhD in Berlin. We all Skyped with him for several hours on Christmas Day. All 7 of the grandchildren arrived with their respective parents from Florida, Nashville, and nearby and we did it all up in grand style! One day we even piled into Rosie (the name the twins gave to our SUV when she joined our family 6 years ago) and drove to Cleveland to visit the Christmas Story house - the one used in the movie :~)

The Florida crew insisted on lots of snow time and I filled the kitchen sink with the white stuff so the 1 year old could get acquainted with it personally before we thrust him out into the Big Chill.

My daughter the Opera singer performed in NYC at Symphony Space. This was her second opera in New York and just to make it even more special, her 6 year old son debuted in it, singing the closing phrase.

All my siblings and I threw my Dad a surprise 80th birthday party in January which meant a long drive to my homeland, lots of music and laughter, connecting with friends and family, and a long drive home.

My youngest just had some great news. An album he worked on won the Grammy for Best Contemporary R&B Gospel Album (Audience Of One). His contributions were: Recording Engineer, Production coordination, Wrote one of the songs, Played guitar on some of the tracks. He receives his Grammy sometime in April and I'll be sure and post a picture as soon as I have one. The artist is Heather Headley and the producer is my son's boss, Keith Thomas. Grammys are awarded to the Artist, Producer and Recording Engineer. It is a truly beautiful album.

We've had some incredible snow this year but we've only gone cross-country skiing twice! Bummer! Either we have the snow but not the time or we have the time and not enough snow! Hoping for a big storm soon!

It's good to be back. Thank you for continuing to peek in my little window.

A Jeremiad

2009-11-21T01:05:00.001-05:00

Darkness or light, the choice couldn't be simpler. Many embrace the dark side of life and even consider themselves superior for doing so. Stanley Tucci tosses out the F-word in two of his most recent films (Shall We Dance/ Julie, Julia) as if to show he's "above it all" but what he actually succeeds in doing is to cement his emotional IQ at a 6th grade level. No class. And I'm actually a fan of his, or was. Seriously, can we be adults yet? When will the petulant pantywaists tire of their schoolyard games and come in from recess?

We continue to torture and murder innocent babies in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave and all Hollywood can do is give a shout out to the most depraved among us? And yet they insist on playing the compassion card to a morally starved audience who wouldn't know a soup kitchen from a bordello. Wake up America! The yellow brick road your gamboling down is the same illusion that caught Pinnocchio unawares until he began his transformation into a full fledged ass, of the donkey variety. Can you hear the braying yet?

Consider this tough love. I'm sounding the clarion call because I'd really prefer to have you join the ranks of the responsible rather than the reprehensible and to grab a broom and help clean up the mess you kids have made. How many broken lives do I have to witness, how many hurting kids do I have to counsel before you recognize the wreckage you have left in your wake? The "ends justify the means" train has stalled at the crossroads and the truth seekers don't know which way to go. You've taught them how to lie and steal for you and now they're lost in an Oz without a wizard to misdirect them further. For God's sake, tell them the truth! Tell them you got suckered and it was all a lie. Tell them before it's too late!

May God have mercy on us all.

Recipe For Disaster

2009-11-11T02:11:00.002-05:00

Penny Wise and Pound Foolish Bread

From the kitchen of Ima Crook

1 Cup of Thought from which all Commonsense has been removed

2 Tablespoons of Imitation Compassion (The real thing will keep the dough from rising)

1/2 Cup of Political Correctness

A dash of lopsided tolerance

8 Ounces of Shredded Constitution

A Sprinkling of Fear (A little goes a long way)

One Backbone with all the Courage squeezed out of it

Enough Bureaucrats to make a very soft dough

Preheat the country to an insipid lukewarm temperature. To the commonsense-free thought add the imitation compassion and leave it to ferment until it feels really good about itself.

Now we're ready for the political correctness. Fold it gently into the dough so as to avoid creating any air bubbles. If any of those rebellious air bubbles surface, pop them immediately and without mercy. Failure to squash any and all bubbling will ruin the final result.

While working the dough, add in the dash of lopsided tolerance. It is extremely important that you not use even-handed tolerance or you will end up with Liberty and Justice For All Bread and that's not what we're trying to make here.

The shredded constitution should be added a little at a time because the dough will not readily accept it if you try to add too much at once.

Sprinkle a bit of fear here and there as you continue the kneading process, it will really improve the elasticity of the dough making it easier for you to shape it any way you like.

Now you're ready to start adding bureaucrats a little at a time. As the dough begins to stiffen here's where your backbone will come in handy. Use it to massage the dough as you continue to add bureaucrats. At this point, you will understand the value of a backbone devoid of courage, making it a wonderfully pliable tool in the kneading process.

When the dough is ready, roll it on the counter with your hands until it is a long rope about three inches wide. Now here's where the pliability of your dough will make or break your bread. You must now take the two ends of the dough and tie it into a knot.

Apply heat until it is half-baked. Buon Appetito

Who Was That Masked Man?

2009-11-05T06:13:00.003-05:00

There I was, sitting in a coffee shop with my new friend. She was giving me the salient points of a talk she had recently attended. It seems a sheriff in one of those southwestern states finally had had enough of Big Brother forcing him to harass his fellow citizens and he had pulled out his proverbial six-shooter. The tipping point was the Brady Bill. He fought the unconstitutionality of what he was being forced to do ( on pain of imprisonment) all the way to the Supreme Court and won. Along the way he actually studied the Constitution he had sworn to uphold, and discovered...freedom. He, as sheriff, was the top law officer in his county and no federal government had the right to make him abuse the constitutional rights of the people in his jurisdiction. He had faced down the enemy with his trusty gun belt slung low on his hips and now he was blowing the smoke from the tips of both barrels, twirling those babies 'round his fingers a bit, and easing 'em back into their holster. Or, in modern day parlance, he was traveling around the country sharing his story and encouraging his compatriots to study the constitution for themselves and live it.
Boy I miss those great TV westerns where the bad guys were easy to spot by the bandanas pulled up over their scruffy jowls. Where the sheriff knew he was the only thing standing between order and anarchy and nobody was gonna dirty up his town. So while we were chatting, wouldn't you know, in walks a real live sheriff! My friend and I exchanged glances as we watched him order his drink of choice, as in, "What's yer pleasure, pardner?" ( OK, I'm moving on now). As he passed us by, my friend engaged him in conversation, trying out her new-found knowledge on him. "Well, yes. That's true but it's more complex than that," he apologized. My friend persisted. What she wanted to know was, if the federal government came to stick a needle in her arm (as in mandatory flu shots) could she count on him to come to her defense? "Well, no." It was "too simplistic" for my friend to expect protection from this most egregious violation of her person. Politics...money...personnel...don'tcha know. Apparently our sheriffs here in the northeast are essentially eunuchs.
It seems the bad guys have exchanged bandanas for three piece suits these days and they've been riding roughshod all over the rights of we the people up there on Capitol Hill for quite some time. I remember not so long ago when the government took a man's house and gave it to another man just because he promised to provide the government more tax money with it. At that point I realized that our freedom was an illusion. The government had become a raging wolf all the while posing as a gentle lamb who just had our "best interests" at heart. How had this happened? Certainly, plenty of us had tried to sound the alarm over the decades but the promise of a "free" bowl of stew was just too enticing to too many among us, and, like their brother Esau before them, they easily sold their birthright without so much as a backward glance.
Amazing. God, in His loving kindness, blessed us with a land flowing with milk and honey. He gave us founding fathers imbued with wisdom from above who warned us that fealty to our creator God was the only path to peace and prosperity in this land of liberty and justice for all. We've chosen to forget the wonder of "what God hath wrought" and instead have clamored for the shackles of slavery like the good old days back in Egypt. We're not just repeating history, we're repeating Old Testament history!

Move Over Indy, Luke Is Here

2009-10-28T00:45:00.005-04:00

Never did I ever think that being a grandma would require research. Yet here I am. Doing research. I guess I should back up a bit. Every week I babysit Lydia and Darrell's adorable boys. Lydia is an opera singer who also teaches a few college classes and maintains a private studio. Her husband is just as diverse in his activities. I help out where needed so the boy's lives can run as smoothly as possible.
Spencer is a rambunctious 6 year old with a delightful imagination and a passion for stories. It started innocently enough. I would tell stories from my childhood or his mother's or simply relate an incident that he found compelling enough to warrant repetition. My presence became synonymous in his mind with, "Ooh, yay! Story time!" Last year he chanced into the Indiana Jones mania through Legoland. He never saw any of the movies of course, due to his age, but that didn't stop him from sporting the hat, wielding the whip (with sound effects!), and demanding Indiana Jones stories from his grandma every week. I was well equipped for the task having just reviewed all the movies in preparation for the newest Indy adventure. My vocabulary on all things Indy was vast enough to satisfy his voracious appetite week after week as I churned out new plot twists, introducing different characters as he demanded them from time to time. At one point, his mom and dad rented some old Simon and Simon detective shows which caught his attention and I had to figure out how Rick and A.J. could meet up with our intrepid professor of archeology and have exciting adventures together. This went on for weeks and months until summer came, bringing an end to the academic year.
When classes started up again this semester, Spencer had discovered Star Wars at a friend's birthday party - another string of movies he is too young to see but which, nevertheless, have captured his imagination. Enter: Grandma the storyteller. But this time there's a problem. I watched the movies way-back-when but found them so slow I usually fell asleep. My Star Wars vocabulary is severely limited but like a trooper (not the Storm variety) I've been hobbling along. Last week I had Luke Skywalker seeking out Obi Wan Kenobi to tutor him in the proper use of a lightsaber. When I finished the story I then had to become Obi Wan and actually teach Spencer some "moves" with the weapon (we used the green roof slats from his Lincoln Logs).
Which brings me to this week. Before I head over there on Thursday I have to do some research on Star Wars characters. And planets. And ships. All I remember are the X-wing fighters and the Deathstar. I know there was an At-At Walker but I can't for the life of me remember what it's function was. I feel like Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker when they were trapped in the garbage crusher and all the walls were slowly pressing in on them! If there really was a Force, I'm certain it would be with me but since I live in this world (for now) I'll just have to buckle down and do the research.

A Fish Tale

2009-10-22T02:11:00.001-04:00

Funny how memories rise to the surface for no apparent reason. I was 18 and waitressing at a Holiday Inn. A family sat in my section and the father ordered the fish dinner. Another gentleman dining alone, probably traveling on business, required constant refills of his coffee while reading his paper. I snatched a roll out of the bun warmer for my dinner and after wolfing it down, went back out to make the rounds. The family man couldn't say enough about the fish and asked if I'd inquire as to the specific variety (it was breaded). I went back into the kitchen glad to relay a compliment to the chef. In response to my query, the tall, lanky, black man reached into the garbage can, retrieving a frozen dinner package and, with a smirk, read the package contents aloud.
Well, I guess some people are easy to please. We can probably assume the dad was a landlubber who had never tasted the coastal cuisine for which our ocean states are famous. Me? I had to go back out to the dining room and with grace and composure, answer the man's question as though it meant something. I felt silly. I was dying to tell him the whole truth but there seemed to be some kind of line I couldn't cross in that situation. No one told me I couldn't tell him but somehow it seemed wrong. Was I feeling a sense of loyalty to my employer? Did I think the man might feel embarrassed if his ignorance of quality aquatic vertebrates was revealed? Was I protecting the Holiday Inn? The family man? My tip?
Sometimes it's just best to follow those inward urgings even if their meaning is obscure. But the greater moral of this story is unambiguous. Be careful where you "fish".

Nashville News

2009-10-15T01:10:00.008-04:00

Lots of imagery is swirling around in my brain tonight. I just returned from Nashville where my new granddaughter was born 7 weeks ago. I enjoyed her sweet, gentle personality. All the while, however, a background of city-bred violence echoed in my mind, residue of the hateful imagery relentlessly pursuing me from airport to airport as I sought my final destination. High school kids beating each other even to the point of death with two-by-fours instead of enjoying a game of street baseball or kickball as my generation once had. The beaming face of a flaxen-haired 15 year old haunted me on the return trip. He'd done the right thing and reported a robbery he'd witnessed, only to be rewarded with a thorough alcohol dousing and lit on fire. He's currently in an induced coma as he fights for his life, threatened by severe burns covering 80 percent of his body.
I am well aware of the forces hard at work to destroy this nation but I feel as though I'm already living in a third world country. Did we import all this base, uncivilized, animal behavior or did we grow it? Perhaps it's a little of both, I don't know. What I do know is whoever is to blame will never be held to account. Perhaps that is the most exacerbating part. Imagine Little Red Riding Hood where the Big Bad Wolf gets off scott free. Oh, that's right. The Big Bad Wolf now has his own "version", claiming it's all a bad rap, wholly undeserved on his part. I remember how jarring it was when I first spied the cover at an elementary school Book Fair. I flipped through and found it amusing, a "cute idea", but on a deeper level it felt sinister, in a way that was difficult to enunciate. Today it puts me in mind of all those mothers interviewed on the evening news after their "little darlings" have been apprehended for murder and mayhem. "He's a good boy," they always assure us. I'll bet they think the Big Bad Wolf is a sweetheart, too.
Where did this downward spiral begin? An exact point of origin may be difficult to ascertain but I've been reminded of a few things of late, memories I've culled from my scant years in this great land of plenty. One in particular started fermenting in my subconscious during my recent southern sojourn. It all began with a trip to a local coffee shop for my favorite drink, an Americano (two shots of espresso, a little hot water, and nothing else). The barista, who had never laid eyes on me in his life, greeted me as though he was so glad to see me and where the heck had I been? It was a lovely feeling. When I shared this experience with a fellow northeasterner, I was told this was just "fakey nice" and not to be enjoyed. But I couldn't help thinking of a particular store owner "back home" whose business I tend to avoid because upon entering her establishment I am made to feel like the gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I much prefer "fakey nice", whatever that means. And "whatever that means" really is the issue here. (Sorry, but when my brain starts trying to figure things out it just can't be stopped.) Why is treating people with graciousness, respect, and civility, "fakey"? I remember the 60's and 70's when we were told how horribly "phony" the adults were and how we should "tell it like it is," "say what you feel," "let it all hang out," and various other admonitions to engage in self-centered displays of insensitive, philistine, boorish, and rude behavior. So, in some typically leftist sleight-of hand, civility was branded "fakey" (ba-a-a-d) while loutishness was proclaimed "honest" (go-o-o-d). Wow. Do you really prefer to be treated like an insect about to be swatted off someone's behind or do kindness, goodness, and self-control ring your bell? I suspect that had the latter three not been shown the door about 40 years ago, life today would be a bit more genteel, with friendly greetings all around rather than two-by-fours up side the head.

Simple Faith

2009-10-02T03:04:00.002-04:00

I hung the fall wreath on the front door today. The wind was blowing and rain strafed the fading garden blooms causing many of them to lay low. I decided to join them. I baked a spaghetti squash while salmon fillets smoked on the grill and started a pot of turkey soup for tomorrow. After harvesting copious quantities of parsley from the herb garden, I chopped wildly with my chef's knife until I had a large tame pile of pungent green leaves to flavor my cuisine.
I love Fall. It is my very favorite season. I always know it by the quality of the light. The angle at which the sun glances the earth this time of year creates a cool backdrop for the swirling leaves and scurrying squirrels. The squirrels seem to be in a bigger hurry than usual so I'm guessing they know something about the approaching winter I have yet to figure out. We've abandoned our rollerblades for bicycle wheels since the autumn debris has made the path hazardous and we don't tumble quite as gracefully as we once did.
Fall is a promise. It is a promise that asks us to believe in spite of what we see. All around us are signs of death and decay. One final burst of color and then the whole creation, weary from the effort, hunkers down for the duration. But we who have become intimately acquainted with this ancient earth trust that one day life will spring forth again. I like this simple faith in life's unwavering cycles. I like sending my faith out into the autumn air as a lullaby for the landscape. I simply can't imagine a life without faith.

Living In The Real World

2009-10-02T02:29:00.001-04:00

Phoniness is a difficult thing to apprehend. You might feel a wall between you and another, as if you're not really seeing the authentic person. Perhaps someone avoids eye contact with you or evades you entirely. There is nothing terribly overt to which you can respond just an uneasy sense of disconnection, a disquieting hunch that honesty has slipped out the back door. What do you do?
People can often be cowards when faced with a person with whom they would rather not interact. They choose to behave in a disingenuous and disrespectful manner, a choice which belittles themselves and sows nothing but discord.
Sometimes it's extremely hard to be honest. In a perfect world everyone would prefer to hear the truth. Alas, in this imperfect world we do not. We all want to believe we are something more than we actually are but in reality we end up being far less than we could have been. I'm pretty certain the way out of this miasma is humility. Seeing one's place in the world as it truly is can be a powerful force for good.

Let Freedom Ring

2009-09-25T01:07:00.001-04:00

So, violence in Pittsburgh from the anarchists. Some things never change. In the Spring of 1970 I was an art student at the Rochester Institute of Technology. It had been an interesting introduction into academia what with all the sit-ins, bombings, and general mayhem. I guess it was no big deal for all the rich liberal brats but for a poor kid struggling to complete projects without the necessary materials, it was a waste of time and money I couldn't conscience. I didn't return.
There was one peaceful protest that year with which I did agree, however. A professor at the nearby University of Rochester had been fired for expressing his political views concerning the war. I believe in the Freedom of Speech as outlined in our Constitution and joined the peaceful march to the university protesting this miscarriage of justice. I don't recall who purportedly organized this event but it was huge and it cut across all political ideologies. When we arrived at the U of R we were greeted by the president who informed us that they had rethought their action and had decided to reinstate the beleaguered professor. We all cheered and prepared to disband. Lady Justice had prevailed. At this point, a creepy little older guy wearing a tri-corner hat jumped up on a stone wall and started to scream at us, inciting us to riot. I had noticed him earlier and had wondered who he was because I had never seen him around campus before. He seemed to be involved in the organization of the march and it was becoming clear, by his frantic behavior that he was not there for the same reasons we were. He wanted blood. Unfortunately for him, he had the wrong crowd. We were there for the cause as advertised but clearly the organizers had ulterior motives and had hoped for something more along the lines of chaos and tumult. They were sorely disappointed.
I learned an unforgettable lesson that day that impacted me deeply. As I had watched that man screaming and gesticulating wildly at us it had dawned on me that this whole thing was a lie. The organizers didn't care about Freedom of Speech or a professor being treated unfairly. They merely espoused those concepts in a shameless pretense when what they really wanted was to use us in their nasty game of "revolution". It was quite an eye-opener for a barely 18 year old.
Over the years I've watched as individuals and organizations have undermined our constitutional freedoms by claiming to care about the children or the elderly or the homeless... Really, the list is endless. And to achieve their dastardly ends, they enlist the services of some people who actually do care about the children or the elderly or the homeless... What those good people fail to see is the creepy guy in the tri-corner hat whose motives are vastly different from theirs, and who has learned how to lie well in order to get what he really wants.

Lucubration

2009-09-21T23:49:00.009-04:00

lucubration \loo-kyoo-BRAY-shun; loo-kuh-\, noun:
1. The act of studying by candlelight; nocturnal study; meditation.
2. That which is composed by night; that which is produced by meditation in retirement.

So, here I sit waiting for the muse to inspire. Evening has long been my meditative time. When all the world is winding down and silence reigns in my little corner, the contemplative cloak shrouds me in its thoughtful cocoon.
I saw a man on the news tonight. He was being charged with the murder of his little baby whom he had shaken to death while trying to stymie her cries. He was visibly penitent and seemed beside himself with grief, stunned that he was the cause of this terrible tragedy. How did he get here?
One thing I ascertained early on as a young neophyte was that little things matter. They matter a great deal. Decades later, when I was learning to make cast silver work, the temptation often nagged to spend less time carving the wax model with the rationalization that any imperfections could be filed out during the finishing process and, after all, deadlines were always looming. By this time, however, I was older and wiser and I'd learned the hard way that all the ground work on any object of art had to be done to perfection if quality was the desired result. My younger peers sometimes gave in to temptation. Often the casting would be a complete bust because they failed to take the time to properly sprue the wax model. All that time and effort, wasted. The studio would be heavy with an air of depression, especially since it was usually something like 1:00 A.M. and the critique was the next afternoon.
Doing little things well prepares us for the big things when they come. Life is filled with mostly little things and if we don't get those right we won't have a prayer with the big stuff. Raising children is very big stuff. If we haven't taken the time and effort to develop virtue and starve vice in our own character, what will stop the dam from bursting when the hard rains fall? Crafting a moral character is hard work. My Dad would often say that any job worth doing was worth doing right and my mother would have me redo shoddy chores when the slacker in me prevailed. Then, when I became an adult, all of a sudden I was surrounded by plaques on kitchen and living room walls praising sloth and ridiculing those who sought perfection. Something had changed and now everywhere I look, mediocrity prevails. And our children are paying the biggest price for this major culture shift.

Of Thee I Sing

2009-09-19T00:09:00.006-04:00

Here I am reading Czeslaw Milosz's biography, The Land of Ulro and the Polish newspaper, Fakt, is screaming,"Betrayal! The U.S. Sold Us To Russia and Stabbed Us in the Back!" 70 years to the day Poland was invaded and FDR did nothing. I am actually living the kind of history I have, until now, only read about and now I understand. My first thought is, "I'm so glad Joshua is out of there." But, he's in Germany now, and somehow I am not terribly relieved. Besides, part of me is still in Poland cavorting midst the birch trees. Part of me will always be in Poland.
Loyalty is a thing of beauty. It strengthens and illuminates all who partake in it. It is a close cousin to faithfulness. Treachery, on the other hand is dark and destructive. Those who wield it always think they have the upper hand, but they are just ignorant pawns in a game they barely understand.
America has a special relationship with Poland going back all the way to the Revolutionary War and Brigadier General Andrzej Tadeusz Kosciuszko who was so moved by our Declaration of Independence that he joined our fight with all his heart and soul. If you don't know the story of this great man so admired by Thomas Jefferson, you should. He went back to Poland and died fighting for his people's freedom. My heart swells when I think of this honorable man and it aches when I think how often his old friend has failed to come through for him.
I feel the need to find a tower and a trumpet and sound the alarm: "Awake America, we've lost our soul!" But instead, like Elijah I sit dispirited under the juniper tree, longing for a company of angels to whisk me away.
As I lay upon my pillow tonight, I shall transport myself back to that glorious day when we fought wind and weather to make our way up Kosciuszko's Mound on the outskirts of Cracow, and there, at its zenith, I shall humbly bow and beg forgiveness.

Choose Well

2009-09-17T23:27:00.004-04:00

"Tread softly because you tread on my dreams" wrote Yeats, purportedly to his unrequited love, Maud Gonne. How often do we lay our dreams out there for the world to stomp as it rushes ever onward in its pursuit of pleasure? Remember the experiment undertaken with the great violinist Joshua Bell? He commanded more than adequate fees for his virtuoso performances and yet when he played his Stradivarius for free at a D.C. metro station, pedestrians rushed by tossing quarters in his direction, wholly uninterested in the free gift he offered. Of course, if you have to get to work then you have to get to work, and there's not much you can do about that. So how amazing must it have been when an itinerant preacher came to town and people followed Him instead of going to work? What power that Son of Man must have possessed to draw the crowds he did, with no press agent or media blitz to convince people He was worth their time and effort. He drew people to Himself with the sheer power of Goodness and it was an irresistible force.
To be sure, Joshua Bell is a mere musician compared to the Great Composer and so I guess we can forgive those busy Washingtonians their faux pas. And unlike Yeats, Jesus laid down his all with no stipulations for us to "tread softly" as we sorted through his personal effects, casting lots for his robe. I find myself a little less thin-skinned as time wears on, my dreams a bit more open to the disdain of harried pedestrians without the resultant angst in my artistic sensibility. Perhaps I've come to realize that it is of far greater importance to have something of value to offer, whether or not it is appreciated, than for others to value what I have to offer only if it comports with their opportunistic goals. Yeats gave us a beautiful poem of sensitive introspection though its object was unmoved; Joshua Bell gives us a glimpse into the realm of euphonious possibilities whether or not we care to look; and Jesus gently bids us come to the everlasting allowing for our preference for the present. It is ours to choose. It is always ours to choose.

Black And White

2009-09-16T23:08:00.002-04:00

I love color. Riotous, joyful, exuberant color. Apparently it has always been so. The childhood story has often been told of a car trip to deposit my Aunt Sophie at the train station for her journey back to Syracuse. I was resident in the back seat and asked her why she had not yet married. She replied that she just hadn't found the "right man". I asked if she'd like me to find one for her to which she chortled her approval. Then I asked, "What color would you like?" That last line is obviously what earned the story a permanent place in our oral history. If I recall, I was envisioning for her a husband who emanated shades of purple and orange.
Which is why I find it odd that I've laid aside my yellow ocher and ultramarine blue these days, staining my fingers, instead, with burnt charcoal of the willow variety. "Sometimes everything just needs to be black and white," I'd tell my fellow artists when they inquired as to my current work. Had my senses been so over-saturated that they were screaming for a place of rest? I don't know the answer to that question but I do know that I receive a satisfying thrill as the coal-black form edges up to the pristine white of the Arches paper.
I suspect the answer lies somewhere on the philosophical plane where my subconscious mind has to sort through the daily drivel circulating around me as I navigate this life. While nuanced color creates depth and beauty, inviting the viewer to transcend mediocrity, Truth stripped of its solid underpinnings begets confusion and murkiness, trapping the participant in a shallow grave. Perhaps I just need to dig in the dirt for awhile, sorting it all out. But I'll also remember, while I'm down here, that all those glorious pigments I adore were extracted from this very same soil.

Oh Say, Can You See?

2009-09-11T23:45:00.003-04:00

I leave tomorrow morning to salute a soldier who has just completed his fifth tour of wartime duty. This honorable young man is married to my niece and we are privileged to have him in our family. I go to embrace him and to thank him. For while I witness the contrived chaos reigning in my beloved homeland, he stands as a reminder of the nobler part of ourselves. Because of him, I know there are still many who are not spoiled and selfish and demanding they be given what rightfully belongs to another. Because of him, I know there are many who have not bowed their knee to Baal. It's just that sometimes I need to wrap my arms around it and feel the goodness of the righteous. So I'm traveling to New York tomorrow to deliver one very big, very grateful hug.
I would, however, enjoy the long drive on I-90 a whole lot more if I had a few of those "You Lie" bumper stickers on my vehicle. And when we journey back on Sunday evening, shielding our eyes from the setting sun, I will convince myself that this routine celestial event is not a metaphor for the waning days of a falling star spangled banner.

Butterflies And Winos

2009-09-08T23:20:00.006-04:00

I cyber-saw Joshua today. He's in Berlin, now. He looked really good against the lively cafe background. His apartment overlooks the square in East Berlin, a rather desolate place not that long ago, you might remember. What is it that makes some of us wander and some of us stay behind, stoking the home fires? All of my grandparents left the world they knew and stepped into the terrifying unknown, brandishing the sword of hopefulness, believing that somewhere there was a better place where they belonged. I feel torn, tonight. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a packaged life where everything is decided for you and just waiting for your birth. I think I worried about the happiness of those lonely street winos because I wasn't so sure about my own. I wanted to give them a little joy precisely because no one seemed concerned about throwing any my way. I stayed up all night fashioning lovely gossamer butterflies and in the early morning darkness, I hung them in the trees over the benches the neglected ones frequented by day. I stationed myself at the Kresge's lunch counter across the street, hoping for a display of life-jolting joy through the plate glass window. I watched as they gradually took notice of my loving gift. Shy at first, not trusting their earthly vision, they slowly acknowledged the presence of something beautiful and inexplicable. I walked on air that day. But the landing is never far behind. I was homeless that summer, grateful for a safe place to lay my head.
Love isn't always returned by the recipient, but it is always returned. Jesus was looking for me that summer and when He knocked on my new apartment door I didn't recognize Him right away. He looked like a couple of fresh scrubbed American Southern Belles. I invited Him in anyway, you know, the whole good manners thing. Turns out, He had a brand new life for me, if I wanted it. He threw a godly husband into the bargain and a new direction was forged for the wayward pilgrim clan. I'm glad I wrote this out tonight. It reminded me of the life I have been given. It certainly wasn't perfectly packaged and tied up with a bow but it has been a lovely gift. Thank you, Jesus.

Violets In The Snow

2009-09-07T23:16:00.004-04:00

I carried violets down the aisle that snowy February day. During Victorian times, people often communicated with flowers, assigning specific meanings to each bloom. A bit of that remains to this day. I think it a lovely tradition, especially since I often dwell in the symbolic realm. Violets signify faithfulness. I didn't know that then. I only knew that I adored violets. My Great-Aunt Mary covered her windowsills with them where they seemed to reproduce like rabbits under her loving gaze. The palette of rich hues against the verdant leaves of velvet entranced my senses and when I chanced upon the wild variety during woodland hikes it always filled me with a tender joy. I'm not certain we choose our passions, they seem, instead, to take up residence in our hearts of their own volition. And so, when my mother asked my choice for the marital nosegay, I didn't give it a moment's thought. It would be violets, of course.
Violets in the snow. This is, to me, a beautiful image of faithfulness. Imagine you've trudged through the winter storm, hopelessly lost and fearing the worst. Suddenly, you falter and sink to the ground overcome with fatigue and despair. With disbelieving eyes, you see before you a bouquet of violets poking through the frozen earth, a living testimony that life can sometimes fight the odds and win. Would you be encouraged to arise and continue the journey?
Violets chose me to bear their virtue before I understood its demanding depths, before I fully acknowledged its source. Many decades have passed since I tossed my bridal bouquet against a nor'easter backdrop and I know something about storms, now, and even a little about fatigue and despair. But meeting the Master of faithfulness who has showered me with violets whenever I needed them the most has made all the difference. I have a feeling my Great-Aunt Mary was well acquainted with Him.

Treasure Hunting

2009-09-06T22:32:00.006-04:00

I was awakened before dawn. A shadowy six foot figure loomed large over me. Time for second thoughts: "What was I thinking?!" It had all sounded so romantic the day before. I'd overheard Grandpa, Uncle Art, Uncle John, and my father planning a winter hunting trip and I'd begged to go along as the "photographer". I was always all about the "ambiance" well before yuppiedom had established its beachhead in Americana. In my mind's eye I saw myself as a young Ansell Adams, snapping brilliant photos of snowy white deer tracks, catching the morning light "just so", with my Polaroid Swinger. I don't know whether it was Fusco pride or Milewski stoicism - perhaps a volatile mix of both - but I managed to rouse myself even though I'd burnt the midnight oil the night before, wrestling with my paints.
Trudging through the snow, we came upon an old campsite. In the midst of the charred stones and other detritus, I found a battered blue teapot, its bottom perforated with rust. The speckled tin enamelware charmed me and I carted it home along with some disappointing shots of barely discernible snowy trees. I envisioned my new treasure as a planter with lush foliage spilling down its sides. Procuring some begonias from somewhere, I plopped them in a pot and arranged the whole thing inside the teakettle. My mother graciously allowed me to hang this creation in the kitchen window and, with my characteristic flair for the dramatic, I introduced our new family member as Aunt B. You know, B for Begonia, get it?
Why am I remembering ole Aunt B just now, I wonder? Perhaps it's because we seem so ready today to devalue anything that's lost its luster; a teapot, a friendship, a spouse, an elderly relative. That discarded teakettle still had something to contribute to the world, be it a spark for a young girl's imagination or a touch of whimsy in a working class kitchen. How many other people passed by that old campsite seeing only trash where I saw treasure and how many treasures have I missed as I've zoomed along, racing to meet the next deadline. I wonder.

Two Germans Walk Into A Coffee Shop...

2009-09-02T00:15:00.007-04:00

Two Germans came to our little coffee shop here in Fairview, a small town on the edge of Lake Erie. I know because I happened to go by to drop something off and there they were in full Harley-Davidson regalia. They had apparently flown into Milwaukee and headed straight to the Harley factory where they had rented their current wheels. I say apparently, because their English was limited - they said if I spoke slowly they could understand me fairly well. At this point I hadn't been speaking slowly at all, so obviously I had been talking to myself.
These were two serious Harley lovers. They were here in the USA to explore all things Harley from Milwaukee to a chop shop north of New York City, on to another factory in York, PA and back to Milwaukee again. All in just two weeks. Their leathers were a thing of beauty, laden as they were with all manner of Harley bling. I'll bet this was their dream-of-a-lifetime trip and there I was right in the middle of it! What a small world it was, once again. My older son had just left Warsaw for Berlin so I felt a connection to these two wayfarers and sat down to share a cup of coffee with them.
They were from Cologne but had heard of Berlin so we were off to a good start. I asked if they would mind posing for me in front of their bikes and they graciously consented, especially since I promised to post it on Facebook. Well, Georg didn't know what Facebook was but Christoph explained it to him (I think. His exposition was in German so that's just a guess.)
After the photo shoot, Georg pulled out a pack of Marlboro's. Harleys and Marlboros. I guess we've exported our culture pretty well. So, they give us Beethoven and Wagner and we counter with Harleys and Marlboros. Of course they also gave us BMW's, the Gutenberg printing press, and Martin Luther so the whole thing begins to look a bit lopsided. In their favor. But then I remember the greatest thing this country gave to mankind. This upstart little backwoods land made a proclamation to the world. It declared that all men are created equal and that they are endowed by their Creator with unalienable rights such as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Unalienable means they cannot be taken away nor can they be given away. What a concept! For more than 200 years people around the world yearning to be free have taken inspiration from this bold experiment. And now a spoiled, lazy generation wants to just give it all away, for a few trinkets. But those men who risked their blood and treasure to make this dream come true said it can't be given away. I'm sure they couldn't have imagined a free people choosing to sell themselves back into slavery. I have a feeling the ones who finally stand up and say, "this far and no farther" will be the ones driving the Harleys and smoking the Marlboros. I don't smoke or ride but I intend to be right there alongside them.
Someone once said, "Four wheels move the body, two wheels move the soul." Well, Christoph and Georg came to America for the love of Harley-Davidson but Harley-Davidson is, after all, a result of the American Dream. So ride on my new friends but remember, never ride faster than your guardian angel can fly.

Triangulating

2009-08-31T00:22:00.003-04:00

The surf is up at the great lake and the tide keeps going for my shoes. It's hard to watch out for that mischievous wave when your nose is in the rocks and shells and driftwood. I don't know what I'm looking for. Some solace, perhaps. Some special rock to mark this day. The day Carolyn died. I want a heart shaped rock like the one Olivia found last year. But for some reason triangles are calling out to me. Isosceles triangles. I take them, no questions asked. I learned a long time ago it's best to wait until the answer comes on its own. So here I am. Waiting.

It occurs to me that I've been in a love triangle. No, it's not what you think. This triangle was a thing of eloquent beauty. We three lived in separate cities, many hours apart. Three divergent points on the map. My sister Mary walked her dear friend through her last days and right into heaven. It wasn't a walk in the park either. It started out as a stroll more than two years ago when cancer came calling. In the end it was really a marathon. It was mostly Verizon that kept me in the loop through the good news and the bad, through the prayers and tears, the faith, the fears. As I look at this rock on my desk I notice that its nuanced shape mimics a pendant jewel. A gem. Yes. A worthy reminder.

Music Notes

2009-08-28T23:44:00.008-04:00

Melody. Harmony. Cadence. Rhythm. They all got to me and they invaded my life before I could trill my first "r-rrr". I would stare at the disc revolving round in the Victrola until I was mesmerized and then I would take to the linoleum-clad floor and spin and spin and spin. Trying my best to get inside the music, to get it inside of me. I needed it. I couldn't breathe without it. For one thing, music was portable. I could take it with me everywhere I went. When I was swinging, I crooned notes so loud and high I just knew the angels were catching them and showing them off to God. Cruising on my bicycle was an opportunity to sing into the wind which, unlike spitting, was quite pleasant. At four years of age my mother, probably hoping to harness my wild notes, sent me off to piano lessons where I learned about trebles and clefs and penny candy. Mostly penny candy.
Cacophony. Now that's my mother's word. I know for a fact she had better-than-average hearing because she heard every secret I whispered to my sister all the way up in our attic bedroom and yet the din she allowed to reign in our home was truly epic. I would bang on that old upright, singing about Nelly Bly at the top of my lungs, and never once did she ever tell me to stop. Not in all those years. And she carefully controlled a somewhat disapproving glance when I began strumming out Bobby Dylan's rebellious lyrics on my Dad's old guitar. But to really get the whole picture you have to know that she brought 8 children into this world, and in addition to the piano and guitar there were drums and violins, harmonicas and a tinny tambourine so essential for producing that all-important '60's folk flavor. Wow. And it didn't stop there. I married a musician and we produced four children of our own just so we could make more and more and more music!
Over the years we certainly have made a lot of beautiful music together - even all the way over in a Krakow coffee shop - and it is a major chord that binds us all together. When we gather around the piano to carol at Christmas, when we join the angelic chorus of praise to Our Father, when we sing at the weddings and funerals of loved ones, when we just sing for the sheer joy of it, we are making more than music. We are making a euphonious proclamation to a tone-deaf world that we are more than flesh and bone and sinew. We are more than the sum of our physical parts. We have a soul that longs to be fed and music is not merely a dessert, it is a main course.

Candygram

2009-08-27T00:07:00.007-04:00

Ribbon candy. I was fascinated by it. The way it folded back upon itself in perfect figure eights. The luscious stripes running through its middle and the delicate stuff itself that melted, deliciously, on your tongue. Mmmm! Unfortunately, it never came to call at our house. I figured we just weren't in its league, socially speaking. No. It would appear mysteriously at Christmastide and all I could do was hope for a chance encounter at some other location. Of course, it was always torture when at last we did meet since I had been inculcated with alarmingly scrupulous manners. First, I would have to wait to be asked - which I did, dutifully. But then, just when the beautiful bounty was finally within my grasp, I would humbly choose a modest little piece. Don't get the wrong idea, I was no saint. Every fiber of my being was screaming at me to grab the box and run! Run to the attic, run to the basement, run, run run! No, I was a coward. I feared the all too real reprisals that would be waiting for me at the end of my moment of bliss.
I was born during the waning days of the Age Of Restraint. If you are under 50 you have no idea what I'm talking about, you poor little Dr. Spock-lings. My childhood was filled with sermonettes about self-control, considering others before oneself, and the dreaded m-word: manners! Imagine an entire generation of children who behaved quietly and civilly in public. Of course something had to be done! The restraints were slowly removed and children were encouraged to "express themselves" while parents stood by, smiling at their precocious little darlings. Before you knew it children were grabbing and running with abandon! Whose idea was this stupid, straight-laced "civilization" thing, anyway? Perhaps it's not too late for me. I've heard the White House is planning a Cash For Candy program. I'm already lacing up my Nikes.

The Gift

2009-08-26T00:45:00.007-04:00

The sunflowers are blooming in my garden. A thank you gift from the birds who feast at our feeder year round. Rather nice of them, don't you think? My neighbor proudly showed me hers last week. We have very thoughtful birds in our neighborhood. It's a lovely synergy, performed to the tune of garden chimes and itinerant cicadas.
Grandpa Angelo grew huge sunflowers in his garden, on the edge where the garlic had already been harvested, and when they were ripe with seeds he would cut off their heads and bid us feast. He was a kind man with strange appetites I neither understood nor shared. He planted his own sunflowers and he had brought a taste for blackbirds with him from the old country, along with the garlic. He often spoke longingly of the blackbird stew his mother had prepared for him "back home" and, like a seed, a desire grew within me to supply the necessary ingredient for this culinary oddity.
I took some wood from my dad's workshop and fashioned a small box. In my mind's eye it is a perfectly square box with tight-fitting, smooth sanded edges. Since I was somewhere between 8 and 9 years old, the reality was probably a tad less sublime. I then propped up the box with a stick to which I had tied a long piece of string. No doubt this brilliant plan was inspired by Saturday morning cartoons, from which I had learned most of the really useful things I knew. I trailed the string back to the porch where I lay in wait for my prey to nibble the Wonder bait I had placed beneath the small, inverted box. A bird eventually wandered into my trap and I yanked the string hard. Running into the house, I jubilantly announced that grandpa could now have his blackbird stew! It didn't matter that it was only one bird. It didn't even matter that it was the wrong kind of bird. All that mattered was that it was the right kind of present. My grandpa was from the old country. He loved blackbird stew. And I loved him.

Wherefore Art Thou, America?

2009-08-25T00:09:00.003-04:00

Flying blind. That's what Charles Lindbergh did in 1927. He had his reasons. Figured he'd get by with "dead reckoning" and a magnetic compass. I think I'd want a magic compass. But that's just me. Flying blind means navigating without a visual reference. It means you rely entirely on instruments to guide you. It means, in other words, you can't see where in the world you are going! I imagine this is not such a big deal in 2009, but it's 1927 we're talking about here. They also used the word "gumption" in 1927. Have you heard anyone use that word lately? Me neither.

I've stood in Krakow's historic Grand Square, squinting up at the west window of St. Mary's tower, straining to hear the first notes of the Hejnal Mariacki. After its traditional abrupt ending, the trumpeter repeats the ritual in the east, south, and north windows. I know the story and I've known it a very long time. Emotion sweeps over me as I imagine it is the year 1241 and the Mongols have just attacked the city. The trumpeter must sound the alarm. He has sworn an oath to play that bugle until all danger has passed. He plays on, undaunted, as the Mongols wreak havoc throughout his beloved city. Suddenly, a Tatar's arrow pierces his throat. They used the word "honor" in 1241. Have you heard anyone use that word lately? Me neither.

On the Rocks

2009-08-22T23:18:00.004-04:00

Went in search of moving water today. Babbling brooks, waterfalls, coursing their way through centuries of bedrock. I needed to see the very essence of perseverance and sit in its midst and let it speak to me. I've had a life-long love affair with rocks. As a child I'd search for promising specimens, cracking them open in the sun, exulting in their glittering beauty. They were my jewels, my prized possessions.
These cliffs of shale surrounding me now don't shimmer in the afternoon light. They are children of the earth, not the sun-kissed beauties I collected in my youth. But they suit me today as I sit among their fractured remains. Sometimes I just need to be reminded that mountains can be removed.

Traditions

2009-08-22T00:45:00.005-04:00

I start traditions. I don't mean to, it just happens. Like waving goodbye. There always has to be the horn beep while driving away or it just isn't a proper goodbye. Once when my daughter was leaving with her family I energetically ran along the sidewalk, waving, until they were out of sight. Her 6 year old son expects the same visual of me running and waving joyously everytime they leave now. Not only that, but that same 6 year old wants to be the waver, running as far as Mom will allow, whenever I drive away (with the obligatory beep, of course). There's something in our DNA, I think, that searches for continuity and connections, for meaning imparted through communal ritual. I happily furnish the means to this end.
The ancients often piled up stones in significant locations to commemorate important events. They said, "Let this be a sign among you, so that when your children ask later, saying, 'What do these stones mean to you?' Then you shall tell them."
There was the year that Grandma Amelia died. My Italian father's mother had held a special place in our lives and her passing warranted a singular expression. She had died around the Christmas holidays and so I proposed that we prepare a New Year's feast in her honor. It was glorious. The table was laden with everything from braciola to bruschetta and we celebrated her memory with gusto, just as she would have liked. Last year nearly all the children were home for the holidays and they proposed a reenactment of that historic event. This time they all pitched in with their own contributions. There were homemade gnocchi and tiramisu, new babies, and the evocation of old memories.
I tell family stories over and over again to stress the importance of a shared history, a common thread weaving us all together, imparting a strength and purpose to offset the mundanity of life that can sometimes weaken our resolve. And I go about "piling up stones" just waiting for someone to ask, "What do these stones mean to you?" And then I tell them.

Lacrimosa

2009-08-21T00:28:00.004-04:00

I think I was 8 or 9 years old. I was walking home from the park or the library when a neighbor felt compelled to temper my jubilant mood with the news that my friend's mother had just died. I was stunned and confused and I needed to do something with this bewildering burden, but what? As though possessed, I went straight home and into the bedroom I shared with my sisters, seeking out the pocket created by the old upright piano which had been crammed into the crowded space, nearly right up against my bed. I huddled in that sanctuary for a long time not knowing why but feeling incapable of being anywhere else. I'm there now, even as I write this, arms locked around my legs, head weighed down with the burden of death. That moment is, to this day, a part of who I am, and it ever shall be.
I feel things deeply. I weep. I find tears to be a cleansing fountain where my personal sorrow and grief can mingle with the shared tragedy of our entire human race. Like David I cry out,"Put my tears in Thy bottle; are they not in Thy book?" Someone took this historical metaphor and brought it to life by putting their tears in an actual receptacle and wearing it about their neck. Even today a sentimental soul can order a lachrymatory to house the physical manifestation of their sorrow.
Tonight I watched Andrzej Wajda's film about the Katyn genocide. Yet another monumental injustice foisted upon the Polish people. My mother's people. Yet another horror ignored by an indifferent world. I wept. Not just for the individual stories of interrupted lives but for the unending echo of evil that reverberates throughout human history. Our history. A history of tears shed, collected, and registered.

The Art of Telling the Truth

2009-08-19T23:02:00.000-04:00

It was the winter of 2006-07, I think. I was in New York City for a conference of museum educators and we'd been invited to a Chelsea gallery for an intimate gathering with the gallery owner and the artist whose work was currently on exhibit. I was engaged in conversation with the owner and the artist when the topic turned to that dastardly Bush who had recently fired a handful (8, I think) of U.S. Attorneys. I have this thing about truth, you see, and so I very civilly proffered that, well, Clinton had fired all 93, after all, and no one seemed to mind. The response was a vague, "That's different." When I asked how it was different, the gallery owner struck one of those artsy poses where he held his left arm across his chest, resting his right elbow on the arm while the fingers of his right hand splayed across his face as if to say, "Who are you and what are you doing in my gallery?" He then smarmily intoned that, "At least we don't try to stifle free speech!" I was a guest in his establishment and therefore chose to let sleeping dogs lie but the look of utter incredulity on my face must have spoken a few pages if not volumes. I love irony.
But more than irony I love truth. I didn't always love truth. Like language, it has been a painful learning process. Lying was my survival mechanism as I navigated a lost and confusing childhood. I wanted desperately to say what I thought everyone wanted to hear, which made for a harrowing guessing game that I rarely won. One day, away at college, I read two opposing views on a topic and agreed with whichever one I was reading at the moment. This greatly disturbed me. I felt I should be able to take a position and yet I couldn't, I honestly couldn't. Something was definitely missing inside of me. This recognition, this awakening, compelled me to embark on a desperate search for a way to know what was true and what was not true. I was sick of the fog and longed for my own personal North Star.
My life had been missing a comprehensive worldview with bedrock principles that could withstand the ravages of subtle propaganda as well as the more odious deceptions of self-interest. I had a lot of catching up to do! Truth saved my life and I owe it everything. I went looking for it but it ultimately found me. So you see, how could I ever turn my back on such a gracious friend? I often read that art is truth and as an artist I embrace this hopeful aphorism but I think it would be highly beneficial to encourage more of the art of telling the truth.

An American Mind

2009-08-19T00:28:00.001-04:00

I respect words. I respect their force and their power. I respect their ability to heal and to kill. This is knowledge gained after years of gratuitous use of the gift of language. No one ever told me language was a gift for which I should be grateful. It came to me slowly, over time. It came to me painfully, as little stabs of regret and shame when capricious words escaped my lips before my mind could edit them.
You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now but here I am, wordfully engaged once again. Perhaps the delete key will be my salvation!
There's a Proverb I love that says, "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver." I think about that a lot. I think about how I would like to graduate to that level of speech, to that place where there are no words of tin or plastic issuing forth from me, to that place where words are handled as the precious commodity that they are.
Ideals are worthy things. They remind us that life is a journey, a pilgrimage with a purpose. They remind me that my feet of clay could use some new shoes.