(warning: Only two people that I know of, other than me, reads my blogs. One is Kim, my daughter-in-law, the other my son - her husband. And on one occasion someone who happened to stumble through by accident. This is to say that while Kim is welcome to read this, I don't think Nathan is quite ready - :) After I'm gone. Maybe. )
Names are supposed to mean something and this one surely does. Minnie the Pooh. Why are some of the funniest scenarios in life just too embarrassing to write about? Or read about? That is what I’m wondering as I muse on my one and only indoor cat and some of her vexatious ways.
I have written in other places about the Christmas-light wiring in Minnie’s brain. Her demands for human fare, then refusal of service as if it were an insult, made permissible copy. And I hope elicited a few belly laughs. When clawing the door to get out in Minnie language translated, "A blizzard is brewing out there, head for the back of the house!" I wrote about it with inner chuckles, and no qualms. I even risked my image, appearing as a disgusting creature slithering through the night when I told about Minnie’s kinky ideas as to lap time. In that story, interpreting subtler clues as for setting was left to the reader. At least I wrote.
But now I am faced with tougher choices. Do I for the sake of comic relief place the delicate ears of my reader(s) in harm’s path? Or should I let this one pass, only to regret the one that got away? The obvious answer is that if I planned to let go of it, you wouldn’t be reading this right now.
So I may as well just dive on in there. To put it frankly, despite all Minnie’s feminine wiles and cutey-pie looks, she is the poohing-est cat that ever owned us. I cannot, simply cannot keep this cat in litter. Constantly dashing to the store for more is running up my grocery bill - and the gasoline card. In big enough boxes, litter does not come.
And then there’s this other thing about – well, hangovers. While faithful to the litter box no matter where I move it, our girl sometimes forgets to wipe. Or maybe she is having so much fun playing, that like some kids in training pants, she waits one second too many and doesn’t quite make it to the bank. I never know if the deposit was made premature, or as an afterthought. Only that I better get to it before someone less understanding in the house steps along.
Should I mention effluvium, or is that going too far? In plain language, Minnie’s litter stinks to high heaven. And she doesn’t even bother to say; "The dog did it!" We have tried deodorizing; let me count the ways. Vanilla room spray, vanilla candles. Arm and Hammer and Oust. Frequent scooping, flushing, cleaning, and changing. Multiple-cat litter when there’s only one. Filters and fart fans. Regular fans. If I put her outside, she can hold it for hours.
We are a two-bath house; the box started out in the "other" one. Trying to keep this space smelling like something sweeter than an army latrine nearly drove me crazy. So I decided on the spare bedroom, which does quadruple duty as guestroom, laundry-folding room, ironing room, and prayer closet. For a while that seemed like a better arrangement; but then the pray-ers complained. My final option was the utility room where the box now lurks beside the back door, waiting for ill-fated victims.
There’s more, much more. But I’m thinking I won’t go a single step further. If you come to call at our house, please know that despite all Minnie’s peculiar, and yes sometimes less than delicate ways, we are still "love us, love our cat" people. Only keep in mind you may want to use the front door as first choice of entry.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
More Kinky Wrinkles
Eyelids battle but can't win over airplane glue. Brain maxes out at 395 lb – very dead weight. Feet shuffle forward in darkness; fingers feel for the light switch. "There – it’s right there."
With something between a groan and a sigh, an organism – once human – slumps onto frosty ivory. Toes withdraw from shards of Tidy Kat enmeshed in carpet.
"Oh no! Oh, please! Not now, Minnie!" a swamp frog croaks.
"M-m-f-f-f-t-t! I’ll decide when and where’s lap-time!"
Bog beastie mutters, "Minx. One of these days, you’re going to get on my last nerve!"
"B-r-r-r-r-r-m-m-m-m!" counters catawampus "- a little to the left, please. No, no – down just a smidgen. There. That’ll do. Now the ears – get the ears real good! Chin. And don’t forget the patch above the tail! You know sometimes you conveniently forget that part. Now - the belly! Oh-ho-ho! That tickles, that tic… ert, that’s enough!"
"Mommy tickle, tickle, tickle!"
"I said, that’s enough!"
"Ouch! Minnie you little imp! You’re out of here!"
"Whuft!" Thump!
Creature slithers back to lagoon from which it emanated.
With something between a groan and a sigh, an organism – once human – slumps onto frosty ivory. Toes withdraw from shards of Tidy Kat enmeshed in carpet.
"Oh no! Oh, please! Not now, Minnie!" a swamp frog croaks.
"M-m-f-f-f-t-t! I’ll decide when and where’s lap-time!"
Bog beastie mutters, "Minx. One of these days, you’re going to get on my last nerve!"
"B-r-r-r-r-r-m-m-m-m!" counters catawampus "- a little to the left, please. No, no – down just a smidgen. There. That’ll do. Now the ears – get the ears real good! Chin. And don’t forget the patch above the tail! You know sometimes you conveniently forget that part. Now - the belly! Oh-ho-ho! That tickles, that tic… ert, that’s enough!"
"Mommy tickle, tickle, tickle!"
"I said, that’s enough!"
"Ouch! Minnie you little imp! You’re out of here!"
"Whuft!" Thump!
Creature slithers back to lagoon from which it emanated.
Friday, March 17, 2006
A New Perversity
I am only thinking, mind you, about going outside. I haven't actually decided to do it, but it is a possible consequence of my facing in the general direction of the back door while lifting one foot off the floor. Movement pounds around me like a herd of stampeded buffalo. I see the flash of a gray comet tail and hear something that sounds kind of like this, "m-m-y-w-t-t-t!"
Dazed from the blast, I recover to see what wonder, looking toward that which in time past masqueraded as an ordinary door. But I can see now that in reality it is the steel-cold bars of maximum security, which are at the moment suffering violence at the paws of feline desperation . Minnie the Unfortunate is attempting to scratch and claw her way into freedom.
But then, but then. . . just as soon as her angel of mercy appears (that's me) to throw wide the gates of iron, caterwaul reverses direction, tail to door. She searches me with large and dreadful eyes; I understand I am nefarious mother consigning tragic child to orphandom and a howling blizzard - sans coat, sans hat, sans food.
But before I can say "perverse Minnie," off my pretty scrambles, fast as her fat little body can ripple (which is pretty darn fast). To dark catacombs she hies it- if only to survive but a few hours more - in the warmth and security of the only home she has ever known.
Dazed from the blast, I recover to see what wonder, looking toward that which in time past masqueraded as an ordinary door. But I can see now that in reality it is the steel-cold bars of maximum security, which are at the moment suffering violence at the paws of feline desperation . Minnie the Unfortunate is attempting to scratch and claw her way into freedom.
But then, but then. . . just as soon as her angel of mercy appears (that's me) to throw wide the gates of iron, caterwaul reverses direction, tail to door. She searches me with large and dreadful eyes; I understand I am nefarious mother consigning tragic child to orphandom and a howling blizzard - sans coat, sans hat, sans food.
But before I can say "perverse Minnie," off my pretty scrambles, fast as her fat little body can ripple (which is pretty darn fast). To dark catacombs she hies it- if only to survive but a few hours more - in the warmth and security of the only home she has ever known.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
I shouldn't be here this morning - typing at my computer blog station. When there's a to-do list a mile long, and places I must go in number just as intimidating, this can be a dangerous place to be. How well I know it an object of ambush. And yet I feel something worthwhile nudging me to elucidate what an article I just now read testified to me, or should I say where an article I just read took me.
My daughter-in-law, Kim, calls certain moments magical. Well, my present subject is similar, only rather than involving circumstance and place and the delerium these can invoke, when as she says, "all the ions in the universe line up together" it is entirely inward - though eager to air itself some way outward .
The article I read was written, first-person, by someone who had experienced both as a child and an adult the "thing" I am talking about. As a young boy with a writer father and a reader mom, the author found himself first awakened to this mysterious sensation while listening to his mother read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," by C.S. Lewis.
At the time the boy's home was an old abandoned mill in southern Italy, elected by his father as a place of summer residence. Father was a whimsical soul with a tradition of settling his family into strange lodgings. As usual this one was big and rambling much like the house in Lewis' story, with those "endless rooms" that came to mean for both the author and Lewis "the true house that we never seem to come to the end of", each room of which is more mysterious and magnificent than the last. Lewis has more about his personal experience in regards the odd something in his book "Surprised by Joy:"
"I desired with almost sickening intensity something never to be described, and then found myself at the very same moment already falling out of that desire and wishing I were back in it." Lewis name for it was "joy" and as a child it came over him when reading certain books.
Trying to enunciate this inner place in my own life is like trying to pin down a moonbeam. I may serve better by giving instances. A book can summon it, but just as often it is an abstract, though significant concept, a 'vision' of sorts that comes during prayer, or Bible reading, or while meditating on Jesus and the amazing Person that He is. Amazing - like His answering the trifling little prayers I sometimes forget I prayed - if only to encourage and let me know He heard every word. These little kindnesses of His drench me in incredulity, invoking " the joy thing" that He really is the God who numbers every hair, attends unto each sparrow when it falls.
Or it can come, while fascinated I watch light and shade act out a movie on the wall beside the bathtub when I am taking a good long soak. I seem to see another world there, transendent to this one, in that pattern of light and dark, a place I could enter if I just concentrated hard enough. Sounds corny, I know, but true nevertheless. The comfort is that God never finds his children corny when they are raptured over the wonders of this awesome cosmos - both physical and metaphysical - that He thought up.
A hymn can do it, or a poem. But especially does it woo me when I hear of amazing coincidences in peoples' lives (or as some say there are no coincidences), or in my own when I know without a single doubt that God has spoken to me in esoteric language. These are moments I have heard identified as common grace; to myself I call it finding God in the common and the uncommon. It is then He is most magnified in my life, when I can feel Him hovering close enough to reach out and touch; and yet not quite. A whole book I know of was written about the coincidence phenomen, identifying it as a wink from God. To paraphrase the author, "like Grandma winking across the table at Johnny when he's gotten himself into trouble with his parents.
While these few examples of mine fall short of real description (the article this morning called it "a sense of moreness - an unidentifiable something" that we yearn toward), I guess all said, that if I could describe it - or reach it, then it would no longer be what it is, the indescribable. In some other lanuage I might find a word like that: the thing sought but never reached. A linguist would know. And God.
My daughter-in-law, Kim, calls certain moments magical. Well, my present subject is similar, only rather than involving circumstance and place and the delerium these can invoke, when as she says, "all the ions in the universe line up together" it is entirely inward - though eager to air itself some way outward .
The article I read was written, first-person, by someone who had experienced both as a child and an adult the "thing" I am talking about. As a young boy with a writer father and a reader mom, the author found himself first awakened to this mysterious sensation while listening to his mother read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," by C.S. Lewis.
At the time the boy's home was an old abandoned mill in southern Italy, elected by his father as a place of summer residence. Father was a whimsical soul with a tradition of settling his family into strange lodgings. As usual this one was big and rambling much like the house in Lewis' story, with those "endless rooms" that came to mean for both the author and Lewis "the true house that we never seem to come to the end of", each room of which is more mysterious and magnificent than the last. Lewis has more about his personal experience in regards the odd something in his book "Surprised by Joy:"
"I desired with almost sickening intensity something never to be described, and then found myself at the very same moment already falling out of that desire and wishing I were back in it." Lewis name for it was "joy" and as a child it came over him when reading certain books.
Trying to enunciate this inner place in my own life is like trying to pin down a moonbeam. I may serve better by giving instances. A book can summon it, but just as often it is an abstract, though significant concept, a 'vision' of sorts that comes during prayer, or Bible reading, or while meditating on Jesus and the amazing Person that He is. Amazing - like His answering the trifling little prayers I sometimes forget I prayed - if only to encourage and let me know He heard every word. These little kindnesses of His drench me in incredulity, invoking " the joy thing" that He really is the God who numbers every hair, attends unto each sparrow when it falls.
Or it can come, while fascinated I watch light and shade act out a movie on the wall beside the bathtub when I am taking a good long soak. I seem to see another world there, transendent to this one, in that pattern of light and dark, a place I could enter if I just concentrated hard enough. Sounds corny, I know, but true nevertheless. The comfort is that God never finds his children corny when they are raptured over the wonders of this awesome cosmos - both physical and metaphysical - that He thought up.
A hymn can do it, or a poem. But especially does it woo me when I hear of amazing coincidences in peoples' lives (or as some say there are no coincidences), or in my own when I know without a single doubt that God has spoken to me in esoteric language. These are moments I have heard identified as common grace; to myself I call it finding God in the common and the uncommon. It is then He is most magnified in my life, when I can feel Him hovering close enough to reach out and touch; and yet not quite. A whole book I know of was written about the coincidence phenomen, identifying it as a wink from God. To paraphrase the author, "like Grandma winking across the table at Johnny when he's gotten himself into trouble with his parents.
While these few examples of mine fall short of real description (the article this morning called it "a sense of moreness - an unidentifiable something" that we yearn toward), I guess all said, that if I could describe it - or reach it, then it would no longer be what it is, the indescribable. In some other lanuage I might find a word like that: the thing sought but never reached. A linguist would know. And God.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Christmas Cowboy
He turns his face into the night,
His back upon the town and light,
Embraces cold reality
Of night and snow and wind-downed tree.
The town, back there, it seems to me,
Inviting though appears to be,
Shall not with all its warmth and gleam
Avail to tempt this Man to deem
'tis better than His mission bold.
That thing that makes Him brave the cold,
And brave the night, shall drive Him forth:
A mission dear to Him, its worth
The night and cold; though power to daunt
They hold, and 'neath Him steed is gaunt.
But tilt of head and cast of mien
Addresses more than wind's refrain.
For underneath His arm grasped tight
Are gifts wrapped up in paper bright,
And though the wind may howl and moan,
The Man - He does not go alone.
With Him go Love, and Truth, and Hope
To all who wait in rustic scope
Away from towns, away from light,
Away from human comforts' might
To lure them from the gift He brings.
It is this thought to which He clings:
That each may know and each receive
The gift of Life, from Death, reprieve.
His back upon the town and light,
Embraces cold reality
Of night and snow and wind-downed tree.
The town, back there, it seems to me,
Inviting though appears to be,
Shall not with all its warmth and gleam
Avail to tempt this Man to deem
'tis better than His mission bold.
That thing that makes Him brave the cold,
And brave the night, shall drive Him forth:
A mission dear to Him, its worth
The night and cold; though power to daunt
They hold, and 'neath Him steed is gaunt.
But tilt of head and cast of mien
Addresses more than wind's refrain.
For underneath His arm grasped tight
Are gifts wrapped up in paper bright,
And though the wind may howl and moan,
The Man - He does not go alone.
With Him go Love, and Truth, and Hope
To all who wait in rustic scope
Away from towns, away from light,
Away from human comforts' might
To lure them from the gift He brings.
It is this thought to which He clings:
That each may know and each receive
The gift of Life, from Death, reprieve.
Amazing Love, or And Can It Be That I Should Gain
And can it be that I should gain
An interest in the Savior’s blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain—
For me, who Him to death pursued?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
’Tis mystery all: th’Immortal dies:
Who can explore His strange design?
In vain the firstborn seraph tries
To sound the depths of love divine.’
Tis mercy all! Let earth adore,
Let angel minds inquire no more.
’Tis mercy all! Let earth adore;
Let angel minds inquire no more.
He left His Father’s throne above
So free, so infinite His grace—
Emptied Himself of all but love,
And bled for Adam’s helpless race:
’Tis mercy all, immense and free,
For O my God, it found out me!
’Tis mercy all, immense and free,
For O my God, it found out me!
Long my imprisoned spirit lay,
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
Thine eye diffused a quickening ray—
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.
Still the small inward voice I hear,
That whispers all my sins forgiven;
Still the atoning blood is near,
That quenched the wrath of hostile Heaven.
I feel the life His wounds impart;
I feel the Savior in my heart.
I feel the life His wounds impart;
I feel the Savior in my heart.
No condemnation now I dread;
Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;
Alive in Him, my living Head,
And clothed in righteousness divine,
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
An interest in the Savior’s blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain—
For me, who Him to death pursued?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
’Tis mystery all: th’Immortal dies:
Who can explore His strange design?
In vain the firstborn seraph tries
To sound the depths of love divine.’
Tis mercy all! Let earth adore,
Let angel minds inquire no more.
’Tis mercy all! Let earth adore;
Let angel minds inquire no more.
He left His Father’s throne above
So free, so infinite His grace—
Emptied Himself of all but love,
And bled for Adam’s helpless race:
’Tis mercy all, immense and free,
For O my God, it found out me!
’Tis mercy all, immense and free,
For O my God, it found out me!
Long my imprisoned spirit lay,
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
Thine eye diffused a quickening ray—
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.
Still the small inward voice I hear,
That whispers all my sins forgiven;
Still the atoning blood is near,
That quenched the wrath of hostile Heaven.
I feel the life His wounds impart;
I feel the Savior in my heart.
I feel the life His wounds impart;
I feel the Savior in my heart.
No condemnation now I dread;
Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;
Alive in Him, my living Head,
And clothed in righteousness divine,
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Worth
Once there was a shabby and disheveled doll named Perpetua. Perpetua had not always been shabby, but now she was. Stained and dingy, the dress that once covered Perpetua's stuffing so prettily, could not be called pretty any more. One of her button eyes was gone, much of her yarn hair had come out, and what remained of that hung like limp brown strings dangling from a half-bald pompon. Her pinafore drooped by one strap and a few threads. The stitching in her legs had come partially undone, and stuffing poked out the openings. It was dingy, too. Most people wouldn’t have given two cents for such an object, and many more would have said, "To the dustbin with you." For not only was Perpetua not worth anything, she was a real eyesore.
Now the trash is a terrible place for anyone to end up, even for an old rag doll. But sadly that is where the little girl of our story first saw Perpetua. Sure that someone had played a cruel joke on a real person, the little girl fished the doll out and took her home. She did not think there had ever been a more beautiful doll. She loved Perpetua just the way she was. But out of respect for the doll’s dignity, she cleaned her up as best she could. Hugging close from morning until evening, and every night sharing a pillow, hardly ever were the girl and her doll apart.
But then one day something terrible happened; Perpetua got lost. The little girl was broken hearted and looked every where for her friend, calling and calling her name, "Perpetua, Perpetua." She looked high. Standing on a chair she stretched herself as tall as she could to see above a topmost closet shelf. But there was nothing other than some old brown boxes and a stack of aged-yellow magazines. She climbed the stairs and looked in the attic too: but no Perpetua.
The little girl looked low. She crawled under her bed and felt among the dust bunnies; and filled with great dread she crept down cold, damp steps to the basement and hunted through a great number of musty objects. But Perpetua was not to be found anywhere.
Once the little girl had been sure her friend was discovered. When she saw poking out the side of her momma's sewing basket a corner of familiar blue cloth, her heart raced. Thinking the scrap was part of Perpetua's dress, she pulled on it - only to be disappointed one more time. But though the little girl was very sad, she was also stubborn enough not to allow this to stop her from looking.
And so she continued her quest, until one day it came to pass that she must take a journey on an airplane. There she met a kind lady with soft brown eyes. "Just like Perpetua’s," thought the girl. Watching out for people on the plane was the lady's job, the little girl was told; the lady had to make sure that every one stayed safe and happy. But someone on the plane does not look happy at all, the lady thought. It was the little girl. But when the lady tried to help her, the little girl only hunched her shoulders and ducked her head.
The lady was persistent. "What is wrong?" she asked. "Why are your eyes so sad?"
"It is because I lost Perpetua," the little girl finally answered, peering up at the lady. For a very long time I have hunted for her, but I haven't been able to find her. And I know Perpetua misses me as much as I miss her. This very minute she may be crying because she has no one to love or care for her."
"But who is Perpetua?" asked the lady.
"Oh, Perpetua is my best friend. She is a real person, disguised as a doll," replied the little girl.
"And what does Perpetua look like?" the lady wanted to know.
This time she did not hesitate a minute before answering. "Well, you see, Perpetua is very beautiful. She has brown hair like cocoa and her eyes match her hair. Her dress is blue and her apron is white with yellow flowers. She keeps herself neat and clean – and because she is so very pretty anyone would want her for their very own doll. I fear she has been kidnapped!"
"Oh!" said the lady. "And where did you last see Perpetua?"
For a moment the girl was silent, appearing lost in thought. "I keep trying to remember," she finally responded. "My Momma and my Daddy took me and Perpetua on a long journey and it was after that I noticed that Perpetual was missing."
"Was your trip on an airplane like this one?" asked the lady.
"Yes!" The little girl answered, " it looked exactly like this one. I remember I fell asleep on the seat."
"Don't be sad any more," said the lady. "I think I can help you. Just now I must go away for a while, but I will be back soon. " And remember, you are not to worry."
The little girl tried to be patient. That many hours had gone by she was certain; but it was really only a very few minutes that passed. She wondered, "Now, what did the lady mean when she said she might help?"
Just about the time the little girl was sure the lady was not coming back, suddenly she saw her standing there in the aisle, holding a bundle wrapped in a white towel. The lady passed the bundle to the little girl, who parted the cloth and looked inside. Shabby Perpetua looked back. And so it was Perpetua returned, appearing exactly as the little girl remembered her. Perpetua was still the same beautiful person she always had been. And she was loved, if possible, even more than before.
And so what can we say is the measure of Perpetua’s worth? Well, it is not to be counted by the negative profit implied by her appearance alone, nor is it to be assumed by the negative light in which others might view her! But rather, we must reckon it, by the inestimable value assigned her in the heart of one very small girl - the one who loved her best.
And that, my friends, was very much indeed.
The little girl and Perpetua lived happily ever after.
~The End
The LORD hath appeared of old unto me, saying, Yea, I have loved thee with
an everlasting love: therefore with loving kindness have I drawn thee.
JER 31:3 KJV
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
JN 3:16 KJV
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friends. JN 15:13
But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet
sinners, Christ died for us. ROM 5:8
But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us,
even when we were dead in sins, EPH 2:4 - 5a
And to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be
filled with all the fulness of God. EPH 3:19
Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should
be called the sons of God: therefore the world knoweth us not, because it
knew him not. 1JN 3:1
In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent his
only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him. 1JN 4:9
Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his
Son to be the propitiation for our sins. 1JN 4:10
Now the trash is a terrible place for anyone to end up, even for an old rag doll. But sadly that is where the little girl of our story first saw Perpetua. Sure that someone had played a cruel joke on a real person, the little girl fished the doll out and took her home. She did not think there had ever been a more beautiful doll. She loved Perpetua just the way she was. But out of respect for the doll’s dignity, she cleaned her up as best she could. Hugging close from morning until evening, and every night sharing a pillow, hardly ever were the girl and her doll apart.
But then one day something terrible happened; Perpetua got lost. The little girl was broken hearted and looked every where for her friend, calling and calling her name, "Perpetua, Perpetua." She looked high. Standing on a chair she stretched herself as tall as she could to see above a topmost closet shelf. But there was nothing other than some old brown boxes and a stack of aged-yellow magazines. She climbed the stairs and looked in the attic too: but no Perpetua.
The little girl looked low. She crawled under her bed and felt among the dust bunnies; and filled with great dread she crept down cold, damp steps to the basement and hunted through a great number of musty objects. But Perpetua was not to be found anywhere.
Once the little girl had been sure her friend was discovered. When she saw poking out the side of her momma's sewing basket a corner of familiar blue cloth, her heart raced. Thinking the scrap was part of Perpetua's dress, she pulled on it - only to be disappointed one more time. But though the little girl was very sad, she was also stubborn enough not to allow this to stop her from looking.
And so she continued her quest, until one day it came to pass that she must take a journey on an airplane. There she met a kind lady with soft brown eyes. "Just like Perpetua’s," thought the girl. Watching out for people on the plane was the lady's job, the little girl was told; the lady had to make sure that every one stayed safe and happy. But someone on the plane does not look happy at all, the lady thought. It was the little girl. But when the lady tried to help her, the little girl only hunched her shoulders and ducked her head.
The lady was persistent. "What is wrong?" she asked. "Why are your eyes so sad?"
"It is because I lost Perpetua," the little girl finally answered, peering up at the lady. For a very long time I have hunted for her, but I haven't been able to find her. And I know Perpetua misses me as much as I miss her. This very minute she may be crying because she has no one to love or care for her."
"But who is Perpetua?" asked the lady.
"Oh, Perpetua is my best friend. She is a real person, disguised as a doll," replied the little girl.
"And what does Perpetua look like?" the lady wanted to know.
This time she did not hesitate a minute before answering. "Well, you see, Perpetua is very beautiful. She has brown hair like cocoa and her eyes match her hair. Her dress is blue and her apron is white with yellow flowers. She keeps herself neat and clean – and because she is so very pretty anyone would want her for their very own doll. I fear she has been kidnapped!"
"Oh!" said the lady. "And where did you last see Perpetua?"
For a moment the girl was silent, appearing lost in thought. "I keep trying to remember," she finally responded. "My Momma and my Daddy took me and Perpetua on a long journey and it was after that I noticed that Perpetual was missing."
"Was your trip on an airplane like this one?" asked the lady.
"Yes!" The little girl answered, " it looked exactly like this one. I remember I fell asleep on the seat."
"Don't be sad any more," said the lady. "I think I can help you. Just now I must go away for a while, but I will be back soon. " And remember, you are not to worry."
The little girl tried to be patient. That many hours had gone by she was certain; but it was really only a very few minutes that passed. She wondered, "Now, what did the lady mean when she said she might help?"
Just about the time the little girl was sure the lady was not coming back, suddenly she saw her standing there in the aisle, holding a bundle wrapped in a white towel. The lady passed the bundle to the little girl, who parted the cloth and looked inside. Shabby Perpetua looked back. And so it was Perpetua returned, appearing exactly as the little girl remembered her. Perpetua was still the same beautiful person she always had been. And she was loved, if possible, even more than before.
And so what can we say is the measure of Perpetua’s worth? Well, it is not to be counted by the negative profit implied by her appearance alone, nor is it to be assumed by the negative light in which others might view her! But rather, we must reckon it, by the inestimable value assigned her in the heart of one very small girl - the one who loved her best.
And that, my friends, was very much indeed.
The little girl and Perpetua lived happily ever after.
~The End
The LORD hath appeared of old unto me, saying, Yea, I have loved thee with
an everlasting love: therefore with loving kindness have I drawn thee.
JER 31:3 KJV
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
JN 3:16 KJV
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friends. JN 15:13
But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet
sinners, Christ died for us. ROM 5:8
But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us,
even when we were dead in sins, EPH 2:4 - 5a
And to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be
filled with all the fulness of God. EPH 3:19
Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should
be called the sons of God: therefore the world knoweth us not, because it
knew him not. 1JN 3:1
In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent his
only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him. 1JN 4:9
Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his
Son to be the propitiation for our sins. 1JN 4:10
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Saturday, March 4
Well, I guess the time has arrived that I quit fooling around and start doing some real blogging - rather than just posting stories, poems, and the generally more anonymous writings I have been pasting up here. Actually I shouldn't have a problem with it, its just more letter-writing and I have had lots of practice doing that. But somehow this blogging affair is different. It feels foolish, like talking to myself aloud in an empty room, or giving the cat a rundown of my day - although I sometimes fear such things are beginning to feel a bit too normal. A couple times of late I even caught myself having conversations at the grocery store with canned goods, as if they were responsible for the increase in price - not loud or anything, but enough to draw a few startled looks from some of the passing younger cart pushers. The old ones never look my way. Either they can't hear me or else they don't see anything wierd at all about it.
This morning we attended the funeral of a dearly beloved friend of ours, a lady named Cherry Cook. We have known Cherry I am thinking for about 30 years. She was a very special lady to us and will be sorely missed even though, due to driving distance between our house and hers, we didn't get to visit with her as often as we would have liked. But just knowing she was there, and that we could see her every so often, we considered a great blessing.
Cherry was a comfortable, quiet person who lived an uncluttered life in a small town, a widow for about the last three years. I think what I loved most about this sweet lady was her total acceptance of people: her friends, family, and aquaintances. She took us at face value and loved us for ourselves, never speaking evil of a single soul so far as I know; and others have said the same thing about her. And her faith in her Lord was just as uncomplicated as she was. She simply knew that she could trust Him, and she was ready to go to be with Him.
For the remainder of the day, after leaving Cherry's home where friends and family had gathered after the graveside service, I kept feeling like this was the end of an era of some kind - though I couldn't quite figure out exactly what, since she is not the first elderly, longtime friend we have lost and surely not the last. Nevertheless the idea has persisted. I told my husband, as we pulled away from the curb, as the saying goes, "We may never pass this way again."
This morning we attended the funeral of a dearly beloved friend of ours, a lady named Cherry Cook. We have known Cherry I am thinking for about 30 years. She was a very special lady to us and will be sorely missed even though, due to driving distance between our house and hers, we didn't get to visit with her as often as we would have liked. But just knowing she was there, and that we could see her every so often, we considered a great blessing.
Cherry was a comfortable, quiet person who lived an uncluttered life in a small town, a widow for about the last three years. I think what I loved most about this sweet lady was her total acceptance of people: her friends, family, and aquaintances. She took us at face value and loved us for ourselves, never speaking evil of a single soul so far as I know; and others have said the same thing about her. And her faith in her Lord was just as uncomplicated as she was. She simply knew that she could trust Him, and she was ready to go to be with Him.
For the remainder of the day, after leaving Cherry's home where friends and family had gathered after the graveside service, I kept feeling like this was the end of an era of some kind - though I couldn't quite figure out exactly what, since she is not the first elderly, longtime friend we have lost and surely not the last. Nevertheless the idea has persisted. I told my husband, as we pulled away from the curb, as the saying goes, "We may never pass this way again."
Friday, March 03, 2006
Christian Doggerel
Corrie's personification of worry spoke such volumes to me that I decided to add some of my own.
Anyone who reads this is invited to contribute more isms.
Worry is an old man with a bent head,
Carrying a sack of feathers he thinks is lead. ~ Corrie Ten Boom
Faith is a hatchling ‘neath mother hen’s wing;
Though tempest may rage, it fears not a thing.
Sin is a viper with a forked tongue,
Tapping at our door, dressed up like fun.
Goodness is an angel in dazzling white
Come to our aid in darkest night.
Judgement is gray, a man of stone
None can breach save Grace alone.
O Grace exquisite, best leave you a mystery
For if we dissect you may become history.
(insp. by Philip Yancey in his book on grace.)
Fear is a bully, strutting his stuff,
Cowering the children, feigning his bluff.
But Love is the queen of the royal races
For in her we see the sum of all graces
Grudge was an elephant that sat on my chest;
I fed him so much that he sat me to death.
If you confer a benefit, never remember it;
If you receive one, never forget it. mjf
Anyone who reads this is invited to contribute more isms.
Worry is an old man with a bent head,
Carrying a sack of feathers he thinks is lead. ~ Corrie Ten Boom
Faith is a hatchling ‘neath mother hen’s wing;
Though tempest may rage, it fears not a thing.
Sin is a viper with a forked tongue,
Tapping at our door, dressed up like fun.
Goodness is an angel in dazzling white
Come to our aid in darkest night.
Judgement is gray, a man of stone
None can breach save Grace alone.
O Grace exquisite, best leave you a mystery
For if we dissect you may become history.
(insp. by Philip Yancey in his book on grace.)
Fear is a bully, strutting his stuff,
Cowering the children, feigning his bluff.
But Love is the queen of the royal races
For in her we see the sum of all graces
Grudge was an elephant that sat on my chest;
I fed him so much that he sat me to death.
If you confer a benefit, never remember it;
If you receive one, never forget it. mjf
Thursday, March 02, 2006
The Fascinating Disgusting Elephant
Late spring or summer it must be, the year 1945. At the zenith of the season, Breckenridge Park can be wickedly warm; but the sun and that acrid aroma of confined beasts leave no lasting imprint upon my small being. I am far too giddy for that.
At the end of interminable waiting, we are the vanguard of the queue; I look at my parents and they seem like giants beside me. A genial, annoyed man, standing to the side of a wood booth, barters tickets for cash: it is time for the boarding. Up and up, to dizzying heights, I am being propelled; but… in mid-hoist I mutiny.
"No! I want down! It has HAIRS!" The normally reticent child has found her voice. What appeared from afar as smooth gray pelt, up close proves to possess a scary addendum. The elephant’s hide is a leprous-looking affair, sparsely whiskered with black prickly fur.
"But we’ve already paid!" At mother’s tone, I tear up.
"The hairs," I say in smallest plaint.
"But it has a chair, see?" But my parents’ words fail of their consequence. It still looks to me like the hide will contaminate and the hairs will scratch. Reluctantly they lead me away.
I look over my shoulder. Other children about to ride are happy and excited. I survey the elephant. It is the magnificent beast from Lands and Peoples. "I want to ride!"
"What? But I thought you… Look at that line! No, it’s too late." A sense of loss: weeping.
"Please?" I promise.
My father nudges my mother, "Let her try!"
How many times did those hideous black hairs induce a wave of doubt? Did I ever ride the elephant?" My mother who was born in 1914 will be 92 this April. Just the other day I thought it was high time I ask.
"About four, I think, and yes, but of course is was your father." I knew just what she meant. My dad was right there with me – on the elephant’s back.
At the end of interminable waiting, we are the vanguard of the queue; I look at my parents and they seem like giants beside me. A genial, annoyed man, standing to the side of a wood booth, barters tickets for cash: it is time for the boarding. Up and up, to dizzying heights, I am being propelled; but… in mid-hoist I mutiny.
"No! I want down! It has HAIRS!" The normally reticent child has found her voice. What appeared from afar as smooth gray pelt, up close proves to possess a scary addendum. The elephant’s hide is a leprous-looking affair, sparsely whiskered with black prickly fur.
"But we’ve already paid!" At mother’s tone, I tear up.
"The hairs," I say in smallest plaint.
"But it has a chair, see?" But my parents’ words fail of their consequence. It still looks to me like the hide will contaminate and the hairs will scratch. Reluctantly they lead me away.
I look over my shoulder. Other children about to ride are happy and excited. I survey the elephant. It is the magnificent beast from Lands and Peoples. "I want to ride!"
"What? But I thought you… Look at that line! No, it’s too late." A sense of loss: weeping.
"Please?" I promise.
My father nudges my mother, "Let her try!"
How many times did those hideous black hairs induce a wave of doubt? Did I ever ride the elephant?" My mother who was born in 1914 will be 92 this April. Just the other day I thought it was high time I ask.
"About four, I think, and yes, but of course is was your father." I knew just what she meant. My dad was right there with me – on the elephant’s back.
Psalm 65
With His strength He fastened mountains to the earth,
Cliffs of rocks to hold back the raging seas.
Morning light fades away unto even,
Evening to the night give birth.
He attends unto our pleas
In every season.
By His grace He visits dry land with His moisture,
Stream of God to enrich the thirsty soil.
Fertile seed corn He provides us,
From bare earth fit a pasture:
Corn and wine and oil
Showering dust.
With open hands He lets down the rain on ridges,
In the valleys of the rows, to make them soft.
Tender sprouts He shall bring forth,
In the hollows, cross the ledges,
The year He crowns aloft,
He sends back dearth.
In His path He'll never cease to leave a blessing,
Where He walks the barren land yields fruits.
Hills do surge with flocks, abound,
All the empty places filling:
Green and yellow shoots
Of corn and ground.
Cliffs of rocks to hold back the raging seas.
Morning light fades away unto even,
Evening to the night give birth.
He attends unto our pleas
In every season.
By His grace He visits dry land with His moisture,
Stream of God to enrich the thirsty soil.
Fertile seed corn He provides us,
From bare earth fit a pasture:
Corn and wine and oil
Showering dust.
With open hands He lets down the rain on ridges,
In the valleys of the rows, to make them soft.
Tender sprouts He shall bring forth,
In the hollows, cross the ledges,
The year He crowns aloft,
He sends back dearth.
In His path He'll never cease to leave a blessing,
Where He walks the barren land yields fruits.
Hills do surge with flocks, abound,
All the empty places filling:
Green and yellow shoots
Of corn and ground.
God Will Make A Way
From time to time you'll see words to Christian hymns posted on my Late Bloomer blog spot. This one is a favorite, written by Dan Moen. It expresses beautifully the mysterious ways God has of bringing to pass in our lives that which seems only remotely possible. The last two (alternate) verses are my addition I sometimes sing on my daily walk.
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
He will be my guide
Hold me closely to His side
With love and strength for each new day
He will make a way, He will make a way.
By a roadway in the wilderness, He'll lead me
And rivers in the desert will I see
Heaven and earth will fade
But His Word will still remain
He will do something new today.
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
He will be my guide
Hold me closely to His side
With love and strength for each new day
He will make a way, He will make a way
(alternate second verse)
When my light goes dim, He'll lift me up, enfold me,
He'll wipe away my tears, and soothe my fears.
He is the Rock that lasts
For a thousand years to come
And eternity has only just begun.
(alternate last verse if melody is played through twice)
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
God will make a way
Where there seems to be no way
In blackest night, a candle bright glowing
In the dark,
God will make a way
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
He will be my guide
Hold me closely to His side
With love and strength for each new day
He will make a way, He will make a way.
By a roadway in the wilderness, He'll lead me
And rivers in the desert will I see
Heaven and earth will fade
But His Word will still remain
He will do something new today.
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
He will be my guide
Hold me closely to His side
With love and strength for each new day
He will make a way, He will make a way
(alternate second verse)
When my light goes dim, He'll lift me up, enfold me,
He'll wipe away my tears, and soothe my fears.
He is the Rock that lasts
For a thousand years to come
And eternity has only just begun.
(alternate last verse if melody is played through twice)
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
God will make a way
Where there seems to be no way
In blackest night, a candle bright glowing
In the dark,
God will make a way
Meme & Company
This is just a start. I have been here three hours, since 6:00 am this morning, editing, editing, and re-editing. More of family, friends, and pets will be added as I perfect the art of posting photos.This one of me appeared on a web-site called Focus on Fiction along with a comment as regards my admiration for the works of Cindy Martinusen, Christian Fiction writer. Her latest, Eventide, was slated to appear in January, 2006.
I have requested our local branch library to order this book but have not yet seen it on the shelves. May have to find it on the web. Can't wait!
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Nature Trails to God
Lone Stag in Snowy Forest -
His majesty is reflected in the grandeur of all living beings,
His uniqueness in the solitude of the lone forest creature,
His coming - in the unexpected beauty that can surprise us,
Suddenly taking shape out of a frosty, silent world.
May His appearing in your life this day
Be all majestic, all unique, all amazing!
Seeking Eagle in Winter -
To the soul that seeks and to the heart that hungers:
may you find this very moment His most lavish provision;
the gift of life through His Son Jesus.
About Shadows
The short first segment is about over. We are nearing the cluster of mailboxes where cedar clumps close to the asphalt, immersing us in its feathery shadows. Until one truly begins to dissect its minutiae, shade is only shade. But present pondering tells me shade is far from being a mere blob of eclipse. The variables of tree - stem and stalk and leaf – are immense, staggering in their ability to design. Each is eddied in the current of its surroundings: each respondent to a light stirring breeze; atmospheric conditions, whether humid or arid; or the change as minute by minute slowly, surely, the earth turns upon its axis.
At the outset this was not a journey, I must confess, that I looked forward to; covering same ground day after day can produce heavy ennui. First, I must contend with the dog. For no matter how many times we make our rounds, she is consistently, wildly ecstatic: titanic wagging competes with capers, ridiculously high. She waits for this daily walk; lives for it. So it behooves me to establish the rule of law from the start. She has to sit on command and she must measure her steps to mine as we edge our way out the ranch gate.
After her I must contend with myself. Yeller’s pleasures may be simple; we cover this same ground day after day, and still her ardor never cools. But I on the other hand too often feel only irritation when contemplating another forty-five minutes over territory that has become blandly all-too familiar. But this morning after looking around for something distracting to engage the intellect, my eye came to rest on the commonplace. And there it paused. The patterns of light and dark shuttering the road beyond beckoned me and I determined to use these and this time to sharpen my powers of observation and description.
Shadows change, as over eons trees change - by growing. Rainfall, carbon dioxide content of soil, wind currents, transpiration of moisture, photosynthesis, general climate, and the density or lack thereof of the stands they are a part of all have their effect on tree growth and cambium activity. These factors and myriad others, as well as seasonal cycling, work to modify the tree – fill out its trunk, increase its height, lengthen its limbs, and leaf out its branches – which in turn modifies the size, shape, and complex arrangement, to the nth degree, of the shadow it casts. But at this moment I see only the consequence and not the action. Trees appear quiescent models at the mercy of an artist free to move about and forge a thing of singular beauty from their mostly stationary selves.
My deep study is momentarily interrupted. My dog, never a successful mood-hider, is showing me she’s a happy girl; because of the direction our course is taking, she knows we will not be heading home just yet. Picking up her pace, she pulls at her lead; I pull back. She lolls her tongue at me, laughs in my face; I laugh back. I note her stumpy, morning shadow with its bracket vee of a tongue, and for the moment I enter into her buffoonery. But only for a moment, for I to my meditations must hasten.
I now note the shadows have stretched out, turning linear. Glancing to the left, I see it is the oaks that are making these long, tall people, the sun’s position behind them bequeathing its poetic power, urging them on. In unrelieved stretches of sun I must at times travel through, I too can feel its power acting upon me. But it gives me little to talk about as regards the present subject. In nature as in literature, it is contrast not uniformity that fascinates and interests.Marbled shade greets me next. It is the oaks again but the leaves and not the trunks are masters this time, weaving a pattern that is unique to the present, likely without possibility of duplication through infinite time. For I am thinking that if this pattern, at some future date is to replicate, then without exception each and every component working together with each and every other component to produce this particular pattern, must ossify faithful to this tiny wink in time. And the odds against that happening have to be immeasurable. "Let’s do this again is impossible; we can only do something similar.
But these while affording much fodder for thought, form but a small patch and Yeller and I pass through in no time to begin our graded descent to the cul-de-sac. As the trunks take over once more, shadows quickly become dark chalk, narrowly streaked across a pallet of lighter gray. Looking at the landscape I am unsure why this change. Is it the downward slope? Is it because the trees are further back from the easement? I have little time to speculate, because the road’s uninhabited crook lying just ahead is my pet’s favorite sector of the journey and her impatience, while not actually felt, is strongly sensed. Here she is free to do her thing for a few brief moments and she has this spot memorized. Every nuance of fragrance is her huckleberry. I let her have her head while I explore with my eyes the jumbled berm of rocks marking the end of neighborhood traffic.
With the snuffling, snorting, rooting and squatting, now out of the way, Yeller and I take the curve of the cul-de-sac, following its deepest outline to the opposite side. This is not a thing of necessity, for we could shorten our way by simply bisecting the road. That would be thriftier. But I established this less direct route when Yeller was but a puppy that she might profit of its discipline, and I of the marginally greater distance. We act by rote, receiving a peculiar comfort from its sameness and familiarity.
And so we must traverse our same path, only in reverse, on the opposite side, and uphill. The sun is in my eyes, my thigh muscles are straining and Yeller doesn’t want to heel. It would be easy to give in and allow her to crane me up the incline, but given the proverbial inch to mile ratio she favors – give her one and she will take the other – I hold out. It is a long, shallow grade we must climb, noticed more keenly now that we must work for our dinner.At last we reach the apex and I see that going down I must have missed this one small oak I now recognize as the homeliest tree on the block. It has least coloration, fewest leaves, and provides but scanty shade. In real life its skinny fingers with their arthritic joints approach the macabre. But in shadow form its’ limbs become a thing of beauty, a delicate tracery in winter’s smoky hues. Here on the pavement harsh outlines of limb and branch are gently blurred. In mind’s eye I see the artist, hunched over and intent upon his drawing. He experiments, turning the sharpened point of his pencil to the side for shading and a muted effect; and lacy filigree comes to life where sun shines through the thin branches.
There is a parallel here, nudging me forward. Bloated on our own sap we block all light; the shadow we cast becomes monochromatic, lacking interest. Inevitably though time, wind, weather, and the gardener will do their work, as on the shrub, so on us… if we will but lend our branches to their expertise. As the tree in winter, we must willingly let go our leaves and husks of self-glory so that the true brilliance of the artist at work may be manifest. It is but then that light can shine, not just upon us but through us, creating patterns of exquisite beauty not seen before, and whereby some passing patron of the arts, hoping for more than mere creature comfort, may be nourished.
Soon a sharp bend in the road will appear and I am hoping new umbrellas to contemplate. But instead a stretch of deep shade comes into view where winter’s late morning light is still almost entirely obstructed by a jungle made of tall oaks, squat cedars, and copses of scruffy chaparral. We have turned a corner and it is just as well there is not much in the way of pattern to report, for Contretemps Hill is not far ahead. After we pass the two barking dogs I have carefully schooled Yeller to ignore; after the house with the untidy yard; and after the reclusive man and his bashful wife, we shall begin our scaling of the precipice. But this segment of the journey I shall allow to remain as arcane as it appears - in the shadows. It is far too horrid a thing to recount.
Teardrops of light sprinkled here and there lengthen to become weeping streams of umber washing down a charcoal face. I liken them to tears squeezed from the press of the rack, or perhaps to my own sweated brow. We made the grade so to speak, though just, and the downhill run and are now trekking along fairly even ground, which in turn will give way to an almost indiscernible, long, slow incline. Were it not for the fact that we are nearing the end of our hike and breathing hard, it would be a good stretch for more scientific research on the attributes, ambiguities, and seeming unreasonableness of shadows.
But my imagination is paling in concert with my endurance. We enter into a long vale of sunshine cut at intervals by abbreviated shadow: a low mountain-ridge silhouette from a far horizon, large trees of various ancestries, but back a pace from the road. My pet's slowed but still rhythmic stride and my own more leaden steps take us by way of the feathered arch once more; but the influence of the cedar has receded from its former stature. Like us it is near the end of itself as regards shadows – or the exploration thereof. The sun’s rays strike the velvet fronds of the evergreen less obliquely now and will progressively burn off their declining shadow until it well nigh disappears. Then trees will be once more only trees, shade only shade – and Yeller and I almost home.
His majesty is reflected in the grandeur of all living beings,
His uniqueness in the solitude of the lone forest creature,
His coming - in the unexpected beauty that can surprise us,
Suddenly taking shape out of a frosty, silent world.
May His appearing in your life this day
Be all majestic, all unique, all amazing!
Seeking Eagle in Winter -
To the soul that seeks and to the heart that hungers:
may you find this very moment His most lavish provision;
the gift of life through His Son Jesus.
About Shadows
The short first segment is about over. We are nearing the cluster of mailboxes where cedar clumps close to the asphalt, immersing us in its feathery shadows. Until one truly begins to dissect its minutiae, shade is only shade. But present pondering tells me shade is far from being a mere blob of eclipse. The variables of tree - stem and stalk and leaf – are immense, staggering in their ability to design. Each is eddied in the current of its surroundings: each respondent to a light stirring breeze; atmospheric conditions, whether humid or arid; or the change as minute by minute slowly, surely, the earth turns upon its axis.
At the outset this was not a journey, I must confess, that I looked forward to; covering same ground day after day can produce heavy ennui. First, I must contend with the dog. For no matter how many times we make our rounds, she is consistently, wildly ecstatic: titanic wagging competes with capers, ridiculously high. She waits for this daily walk; lives for it. So it behooves me to establish the rule of law from the start. She has to sit on command and she must measure her steps to mine as we edge our way out the ranch gate.
After her I must contend with myself. Yeller’s pleasures may be simple; we cover this same ground day after day, and still her ardor never cools. But I on the other hand too often feel only irritation when contemplating another forty-five minutes over territory that has become blandly all-too familiar. But this morning after looking around for something distracting to engage the intellect, my eye came to rest on the commonplace. And there it paused. The patterns of light and dark shuttering the road beyond beckoned me and I determined to use these and this time to sharpen my powers of observation and description.
Shadows change, as over eons trees change - by growing. Rainfall, carbon dioxide content of soil, wind currents, transpiration of moisture, photosynthesis, general climate, and the density or lack thereof of the stands they are a part of all have their effect on tree growth and cambium activity. These factors and myriad others, as well as seasonal cycling, work to modify the tree – fill out its trunk, increase its height, lengthen its limbs, and leaf out its branches – which in turn modifies the size, shape, and complex arrangement, to the nth degree, of the shadow it casts. But at this moment I see only the consequence and not the action. Trees appear quiescent models at the mercy of an artist free to move about and forge a thing of singular beauty from their mostly stationary selves.
My deep study is momentarily interrupted. My dog, never a successful mood-hider, is showing me she’s a happy girl; because of the direction our course is taking, she knows we will not be heading home just yet. Picking up her pace, she pulls at her lead; I pull back. She lolls her tongue at me, laughs in my face; I laugh back. I note her stumpy, morning shadow with its bracket vee of a tongue, and for the moment I enter into her buffoonery. But only for a moment, for I to my meditations must hasten.
I now note the shadows have stretched out, turning linear. Glancing to the left, I see it is the oaks that are making these long, tall people, the sun’s position behind them bequeathing its poetic power, urging them on. In unrelieved stretches of sun I must at times travel through, I too can feel its power acting upon me. But it gives me little to talk about as regards the present subject. In nature as in literature, it is contrast not uniformity that fascinates and interests.Marbled shade greets me next. It is the oaks again but the leaves and not the trunks are masters this time, weaving a pattern that is unique to the present, likely without possibility of duplication through infinite time. For I am thinking that if this pattern, at some future date is to replicate, then without exception each and every component working together with each and every other component to produce this particular pattern, must ossify faithful to this tiny wink in time. And the odds against that happening have to be immeasurable. "Let’s do this again is impossible; we can only do something similar.
But these while affording much fodder for thought, form but a small patch and Yeller and I pass through in no time to begin our graded descent to the cul-de-sac. As the trunks take over once more, shadows quickly become dark chalk, narrowly streaked across a pallet of lighter gray. Looking at the landscape I am unsure why this change. Is it the downward slope? Is it because the trees are further back from the easement? I have little time to speculate, because the road’s uninhabited crook lying just ahead is my pet’s favorite sector of the journey and her impatience, while not actually felt, is strongly sensed. Here she is free to do her thing for a few brief moments and she has this spot memorized. Every nuance of fragrance is her huckleberry. I let her have her head while I explore with my eyes the jumbled berm of rocks marking the end of neighborhood traffic.
With the snuffling, snorting, rooting and squatting, now out of the way, Yeller and I take the curve of the cul-de-sac, following its deepest outline to the opposite side. This is not a thing of necessity, for we could shorten our way by simply bisecting the road. That would be thriftier. But I established this less direct route when Yeller was but a puppy that she might profit of its discipline, and I of the marginally greater distance. We act by rote, receiving a peculiar comfort from its sameness and familiarity.
And so we must traverse our same path, only in reverse, on the opposite side, and uphill. The sun is in my eyes, my thigh muscles are straining and Yeller doesn’t want to heel. It would be easy to give in and allow her to crane me up the incline, but given the proverbial inch to mile ratio she favors – give her one and she will take the other – I hold out. It is a long, shallow grade we must climb, noticed more keenly now that we must work for our dinner.At last we reach the apex and I see that going down I must have missed this one small oak I now recognize as the homeliest tree on the block. It has least coloration, fewest leaves, and provides but scanty shade. In real life its skinny fingers with their arthritic joints approach the macabre. But in shadow form its’ limbs become a thing of beauty, a delicate tracery in winter’s smoky hues. Here on the pavement harsh outlines of limb and branch are gently blurred. In mind’s eye I see the artist, hunched over and intent upon his drawing. He experiments, turning the sharpened point of his pencil to the side for shading and a muted effect; and lacy filigree comes to life where sun shines through the thin branches.
There is a parallel here, nudging me forward. Bloated on our own sap we block all light; the shadow we cast becomes monochromatic, lacking interest. Inevitably though time, wind, weather, and the gardener will do their work, as on the shrub, so on us… if we will but lend our branches to their expertise. As the tree in winter, we must willingly let go our leaves and husks of self-glory so that the true brilliance of the artist at work may be manifest. It is but then that light can shine, not just upon us but through us, creating patterns of exquisite beauty not seen before, and whereby some passing patron of the arts, hoping for more than mere creature comfort, may be nourished.
Soon a sharp bend in the road will appear and I am hoping new umbrellas to contemplate. But instead a stretch of deep shade comes into view where winter’s late morning light is still almost entirely obstructed by a jungle made of tall oaks, squat cedars, and copses of scruffy chaparral. We have turned a corner and it is just as well there is not much in the way of pattern to report, for Contretemps Hill is not far ahead. After we pass the two barking dogs I have carefully schooled Yeller to ignore; after the house with the untidy yard; and after the reclusive man and his bashful wife, we shall begin our scaling of the precipice. But this segment of the journey I shall allow to remain as arcane as it appears - in the shadows. It is far too horrid a thing to recount.
Teardrops of light sprinkled here and there lengthen to become weeping streams of umber washing down a charcoal face. I liken them to tears squeezed from the press of the rack, or perhaps to my own sweated brow. We made the grade so to speak, though just, and the downhill run and are now trekking along fairly even ground, which in turn will give way to an almost indiscernible, long, slow incline. Were it not for the fact that we are nearing the end of our hike and breathing hard, it would be a good stretch for more scientific research on the attributes, ambiguities, and seeming unreasonableness of shadows.
But my imagination is paling in concert with my endurance. We enter into a long vale of sunshine cut at intervals by abbreviated shadow: a low mountain-ridge silhouette from a far horizon, large trees of various ancestries, but back a pace from the road. My pet's slowed but still rhythmic stride and my own more leaden steps take us by way of the feathered arch once more; but the influence of the cedar has receded from its former stature. Like us it is near the end of itself as regards shadows – or the exploration thereof. The sun’s rays strike the velvet fronds of the evergreen less obliquely now and will progressively burn off their declining shadow until it well nigh disappears. Then trees will be once more only trees, shade only shade – and Yeller and I almost home.
Sticks and Stones
I make my bed with sticks and stones
Of hurtful words that break my bones,
Arrange myself on stumps and lumps
And try to spend the night.
I close my eyes, I do my best,
But cannot sleep, can’t even rest.
Around ‘n round ‘n round ‘n round
Go words that sting and bite.
The stones, now grown to boulder size,
Help sticks, become as knives:
Relief of mind I cannot find,
Though pray with all my might.
And then so soft and gently near
A tender voice says, “Child don’t fear!
I stole the words your ears have heard
And bathed you in my light.”
So now at last sweet sleep can come,
Those hurtful words have been undone.
And sticks and stones that broke my bones
Have vanished in the night.
Of hurtful words that break my bones,
Arrange myself on stumps and lumps
And try to spend the night.
I close my eyes, I do my best,
But cannot sleep, can’t even rest.
Around ‘n round ‘n round ‘n round
Go words that sting and bite.
The stones, now grown to boulder size,
Help sticks, become as knives:
Relief of mind I cannot find,
Though pray with all my might.
And then so soft and gently near
A tender voice says, “Child don’t fear!
I stole the words your ears have heard
And bathed you in my light.”
So now at last sweet sleep can come,
Those hurtful words have been undone.
And sticks and stones that broke my bones
Have vanished in the night.
Minnie Strange Reasonings
From some obscure household hiding place our feline stopwatch suddenly appears in my kitchen. From this I deduce that inside of two seconds my husband will report for eggs and toast. I am correct. Minnie's right on time with her first conjuring performance of the day.
She lies down near where breakfast man is seated, her posture reminiscent of the lady, who is no lady, in the saloon painting. Except for an occasional slow blink, merely accentuating her adoration, her gaze is fastened upon him in trance-like worship. The message is clear.
"You are the god of ambrosia," it says. "You have power to bequeath, or to withhold." Not typically Cat you say? Only wait!
My husband commences chewing, heedless of his obsequious subject. A second magic act and the chair beside him is tout-de-sweet occupied by fat, fuzzy grayness, lying low. Hippo-like, two pointy ears and wide prehnite eyes slowly come into view above the surface of the countertop.
"Minnie!"
The ears and eyes quickly submerge. Presently another body periscopes up; the paw begins its search. Feeling blindly, it snakes its way toward the cottage cheese carton. A claw hooks the lid, lying near the open container. Cautiously it draws its prey toward the edge.
"Minnie!" Padded import thumps the floor. "Okay, for gosh sakes. Here!" he tosses a morsel of bacon.
With another wave of the wand, the lowly minion is suddenly transformed into Your Royal Highness. "Hm-m-m-mph! Don’t try and kid me!" she sniffs at the offering. "This is not the food for the gods you led me to believe it was. This is garbage. Pure garbage."
Scratch, scratch! She is intent. Invisible litter now covers the mess. Neck arched and tail aloft, she stalks from the presence of her subjects.
"Home. I’ll go home. And I’ll think of some way to get mine back. After all… tomorrow is another day."
She lies down near where breakfast man is seated, her posture reminiscent of the lady, who is no lady, in the saloon painting. Except for an occasional slow blink, merely accentuating her adoration, her gaze is fastened upon him in trance-like worship. The message is clear.
"You are the god of ambrosia," it says. "You have power to bequeath, or to withhold." Not typically Cat you say? Only wait!
My husband commences chewing, heedless of his obsequious subject. A second magic act and the chair beside him is tout-de-sweet occupied by fat, fuzzy grayness, lying low. Hippo-like, two pointy ears and wide prehnite eyes slowly come into view above the surface of the countertop.
"Minnie!"
The ears and eyes quickly submerge. Presently another body periscopes up; the paw begins its search. Feeling blindly, it snakes its way toward the cottage cheese carton. A claw hooks the lid, lying near the open container. Cautiously it draws its prey toward the edge.
"Minnie!" Padded import thumps the floor. "Okay, for gosh sakes. Here!" he tosses a morsel of bacon.
With another wave of the wand, the lowly minion is suddenly transformed into Your Royal Highness. "Hm-m-m-mph! Don’t try and kid me!" she sniffs at the offering. "This is not the food for the gods you led me to believe it was. This is garbage. Pure garbage."
Scratch, scratch! She is intent. Invisible litter now covers the mess. Neck arched and tail aloft, she stalks from the presence of her subjects.
"Home. I’ll go home. And I’ll think of some way to get mine back. After all… tomorrow is another day."
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