All together now

People, I love people. I don’t know why. They can be hurtful creatures---small, self-consumed, oversensitive, and just darn right mean. Everybody has their own agenda. And a group of them can’t gather for very long before some conflict is raised, factions are formed and chaos ensues.

But music, like some magic elixir, swirls it all around, and when the music starts, well, it brings them all together.

Keeping time--that’s part of it. Rhythm, the beat, like breathing, walking, the thump, thump, thump of the heart. Everybody has to hit it together, and the rhythm itself drives them to. Some, of course, dance better than others, but even those who stumble a bit, are gathered into the story of a song--love lost, love sought, love found, loneliness, hurt, joy, worship. Even music without words tells a story in the whirling, ethereal, mystery of melody. It can make you smile. It can make you cry, and it touches something in all of us.

A common chord.

What we play is life---Louis Armstrong 

A Dose of Reality

Not this much money...

Hey, I went and picked up some cash today. Real money, you know, green bills. I bought stuff, nothing significant really, just a few things where I always buy stuff with my discretionary income--the convenience store...

There’s something about using real money though. You know it’s paid for, and you’re done with it. It’s tangible. You know where you stand. I like that.  Reality, it’s something that seems to be slipping away these days.

I have virtual friends. I write blogs on the Internet, not with pen and ink on real paper. My photo albums are empty and neglected because everything is uploaded. I define myself online, and really, despite the fact that it’s interactive, it’s rather two dimensional--no animation.  I think I’m rather animated ;)  

It’s all about concept, like advertising. People are forever trying to reach, express and capture that Platonic ideal. The trouble is, it doesn’t exist on this plane. And well, when you turn your head from the screen and face the real world, it seems to fall short. 

But not if you take a really good look because the real world has a lot to offer that a virtual world cannot. The smell and taste of home baked cookies for example, the wide expanse of the morning sky, the velvet of a rose petal, the touch of someone’s hand. A hug when you feel alone in the world, closeness. Real relationships too, the ones you sometimes wish you didn’t have, but leave a big hole when their gone.

Of course, real isn’t always wonderful. But it does fill you up, and when you look back, something really happened in your life. There are memories, and you end up somewhere, and something real will happen tomorrow.  It’s tangible. You know where you stand. I like that.  

Compilation (A big pile of words)

So a new look, a new year, and I've made a new commitment. I have journaled my journey for close to 35 years. The problem is the words are scattered everywhere.  I've had several online blogs, probably a hundred notebooks and scribbles on bits of paper folded in drawers, tucked in books and probably in several landfills... Time to put it all together, a compilation of words and photos from then till now, well the ones I'm able to put my hands on. There'll be some new things too. But it's all going right here. Stay tuned

In the Shop

One of the nice things about being a substitute teacher is that every day is just a little bit different—different classroom, different subject, different students.  I substitute at a technical school. It is a program for high school students who are learning a trade. There is building repair, health services, digital media, etc., etc. and I enjoy it.

Recently though, I had a day that brought tears to my eyes. No, the students weren’t a problem. They can be a challenge sometimes, but it wasn’t them.  On this particular day, I was assigned to a metal fabrication class and the experience just hit too close to home.  I have subbed for the class before—no sweat. The teacher usually assigns some book work; we stay in a regular classroom and the most challenging thing I do is keep students on task and quiet.  But on that day, perhaps because the teacher was going to be in the building and had an experienced assistant, he decided to allow the students to work in the shop.  They were cleaning mostly, but also welding and grinding with a few working on a class project.

I was a little nervous at first. The thing about substitute teaching is that you are often navigating the unknown—the dynamics of personalities and the teacher’s own classroom procedure all are unchartered waters.  Now all the ships were pulling anchor and moving around. Still, life is an adventure and I was onboard.

Once in the shop however, something happened, something I didn’t expect at all and I started riding waves of emotion. “In the shop” even the sound of the phrase stirred something in my gut. “Your dad is in the shop,” how many times had I heard that.  And then there were the same sounds—the banging of the hammer, the grinding of metal and the smell of it—the oil, gas and flame, the same as when the door to the shop swung open, oh so long ago.

Wandering through the shop, counting bodies and making sure they were all occupied, I noticed the machinery, the brake, the shear, the press.  I knew them all by name. I picked up a piece of soapstone they use to mark the steel.  I felt its smoothness.  My dad always had a piece or two in his pocket. The shop smelled like his clothes, like my dad, my grandpa, my husband too, three generations in the shop. 

What a place to have my heart fill and spill over surrounded by the sound of grinding metal, the sparkling fireworks of welders (and students). Suddenly, it all came back rolling over me—childhood and my dad young again. The business I knew so little about that housed and fed me for all those years. I had never realized what a really big part of my life it was, something that I hardly realized was a part of my life at all--my roots black and sooty, hot, loud and heavy.

And I remember the dark faces of the men and how hard they worked and the shop bell that sent them to the locker room and home. And now I will never forget, ever. As far removed as it seems,  it is still a part of me, of where I come from and who I am.

Sunrise Service

Easter is my turn... I put the basic meal together and host the family. We have brunch, and it's wonderful--baked ham, eggs, fresh fruit salad, sweets of all kind and of course, coffee. I love decorating the table and always include fresh flowers for Easter. Everyone brings something of course and we hold an egg hunt for the kids. There are though a lot of us --about 30, give or take a few.

Hosting a brunch for 30 people kind of puts the kabosh on my regular 10:30 Sunday service. So generally, I go to the sunrise service at another nearby church on Easter. It's a better idea anyway--so symbolic, watching the sun come up, bringing light and life and another new day.

So, about 5:45, I drug myself out of bed threw some clothes on and headed to church. What a beautiful morning! The air was so clear. A glowing moon in an indigo sky was calling me to pull off the highway and get some pictures. The valley along the river was thick with fog. Ahh but I pushed onward. And just before sunrise, I arrived, which is probably why the service had been pushed back to 6:00 instead of 6:30--someone had realized they timed it wrong; but they forgot to change it on the Internet...

I missed it, but I tried, and now the sun was rising over that foggy river bottom. I turned right around. Because of the increasing light, the moon was fading to what seemed a translucent disc. No longer a great object for photos... I took the river road but the fog was so thick there was no mystery just a dull gray mass. Hmmm, I thought I had hit providence with the turn in my direction. I had not fallen into any miracles though, and if I didn't find something soon, the moment would be lost. I decided though come what may, it was going to be okay, and I could worship no matter my situation church or not, moment or not even sitting in my car on some empty parking lot. But I headed back on the highway, anyway.

Just over the bridge hemmed in by big ugly power lines, the sun was rising over the river. I pulled onto the shoulder and walked about half a block to the bridge. Yes, there was a moment God had given to me.

And more would follow.

It was a beautiful, holy Easter morning. Blessings to you--hope, light and love.

Any Road I Take

Here I am, a little slow, already a week after that February 14^th snow, and now it seems that spring is upon us. And it felt like spring that day too. The snow was thick, heavy and wet, and the air was cool not cold. The snow would soon be gone, but while it was here, I wanted to get out in a world of white.

I thought I would go to the Morse Mill River Access. I had never been there in the snow, but the snow-slushed gravel road put me off, and I passed the entrance and kept driving on Highway C, and so fate made the first decision on my little road trip.

I often do that, let circumstances direct my path. I know the discovery and the adventure of it are worth much more than any particular destination. And when I have some time and nowhere else to be I am pleased to trust that God will get me where he wants me.

So along the fields and rural acres between the hills I cruised till C met Y in a place called Ware. I knew that Brown’s Ford was not far from there, a river access I had not taken photos of before, so I turned down that road and rode on, and on a whim cut a curving right on a side road and up a mountain.

It was a beautiful digression. The road was lined with pines. I stopped, got out of my car and walked along the ridge looking down to the valley below. The snow was rolled out like a white blanket covering the hills and filling the hollow.

And at the crest of the hill, there stood a small cabin looking a little worse for wear, and maybe even abandoned, or was it just held at arm’s length  for moments stolen from an everyday world, too few moments.

Under the overhang a sign hailed it "Haven."

And so was the morning full of snow pictures, and I got back in my car to see where else the road would take me, when for a moment, I had a doubt. I wondered what I was doing on a Tuesday morning out taking snow pictures when I probably should be home looking for a job...

Suddenly I felt empty, thought perhaps I was fooling myself. The sky grew greyer, the air colder, the world more like a dismal winter. I looked up again at the snow-filled woods.

There, standing at the roadside was a coyote, winter silver, calm and cool. It casually walked across the street, turned, looked at me, and walked off into the woods.

I knew then I was where I was supposed to be.

I’d say the rest of the day was pretty anticlimactic, but it wasn’t. The world grew brighter again. I felt purpose and promise and I knew that whatever road I took there would be a reason, something beautiful, something to be learned and accomplished.   

All I had to do was believe.

Winter Wondering

Because yesterday was probably the last semi-warm day we will have for a while and the sun was making an appearance, I decided I would too. And under a February sky, I walked up to the old ball fields on Cedar Hill Road and cut through to the cemetery, as I often do.

As I walked, under my feet, flowers bloomed. I am surprised I noticed. They were so small, less than a quarter of an inch, and yet as brilliant a blue as any glorious morning glory.

And with the blue, a bit of purple henbit was also showing, and yes, even the clover was coming out.

It was quite a show for the first week of February, and I worried, not about the tiny field flowers, but the early blooms on peaches and apples and pears, and even more about the strangeness of the season and whether it was an omen of more weird weather to come.

The trees are dressed for March. Some of the roses have not yet lost their green. My mums sit in pots, not frozen and dead but just resting, a dull green at the base.

Bluebirds are everywhere, eating at my suet feeder, singing to me from leafless limbs.

And then, last night the rain came and quickly turned to snow.  

The grass was dusted and the buds chilled.  The world turned gray for a day, but even in Missouri, it was a lame excuse for a snow storm. Colder weather is on the way, but not to stay.  Winter had its chance, its last dance?

I enjoyed the taste of spring the warm weather through the worst of it, but there is something about the trip round the seasons, with all of them intact, even winter, that feels safe, that keeps you from wondering about the the weather, about the world, about what lies in store.

.