Monday, August 29, 2016
On Saturday a Priority Mail packaged arrived from my 83-years-old stepmother. It contained a letter, some current photos of deer nibbling on everything green in her yard and an album, with this description:
"I am sending you the enclosd because the fire at Lake Nacimiento is moving west (we smell it and sometimes see the smoke) and the folks on San Simeon Road are on evacuation alert.
"This photo album of Russ from babyhood to newspaper reporter and columnist was prepared by Russ and given to me one Christmas and I have treasured it. But my feeling is that it really belongs to you and your sibs and I would feel terrible if, in the continuing drought and very long fire seasons, Cambria might be decimated and this album destroyed."
The album holds photos of my father, now gone nearly 22 years, that I'd never seen before, including the one above of a tiny fellow in a sailor-type suit, long before his naval enlistment in World War II. I wept for the words in the letter, for the pictures never seen and the faces of my brother and his son, perhaps a bit of mine, so clearly present in the serious and smiling images of my father.
As of Sunday afternoon, I have not been able to reach her by phone, will keep trying and then send off a letter in the morning if that fails. She tells of packing the car in preparation for evacuation notice, which it seems did not come. Having been through that once myself, I am familiar with the sense of unreality and terror that comes with contemplating the loss of all material goods, the notion of sanctuary and home, the always uncertain whims of weather and chance.
She mentions also, during the description of California's more than 60 million trees dead from drought and bark beetles, that the five trees she and my father planted on their hilly lot have had to be chopped down. "The two redwoods at the foot of the driveway are turning brown," she says.
That she felt the need to part prematurely with Dad's gift left me without coherent words to speak into the phone on Saturday. Thinking of her on her own having to decide just what to save if word came to flee caused me to admire, not for the first time, how capable she is, how good at figuring things out.
Loss, the contemplation thereof if we must, and the memory of it, never leave us. For too many, this will be the summer of smoke, of ash, of tears. For some, it is a small, sweet-smiling boy and a book reluctantly surrendered to keep it safe. May we be good stewards of this gift.
Monday, August 22, 2016
I suppose "believe" is the operative word here. We do not dissolve in our baths. The great winds come yet we are still standing. Reversals of fortune suggest that we grow more frugal, more cautious, but never hopeless. Perhaps the opposite. I have never accepted the notion that we are tested. Life comes along wearing its ordinary-life resoled shoes and frequently washed, possibly hand-me-down unassuming and faded uniform and delivers messages good, bad and indifferent. To each of us. We are free to choose the next step. Recall all the times goodness of a most unlikely nature sat itself down on your front step, more astonished than even you, beholding its presence. Messages and their carriers are dispatched, who knows from where, and suddenly what couldn't possible be, is. Today might be the day to run through the streets, calling "Thank you" to the animate and the inanimate. Both will understand.
Monday, August 15, 2016
|Art by Jack Vettriano.|
Storage for a ship's cargo or loving arms, words and where they can run to. Hold on, hold out, to have and to hold, hold this for me, hold up.
Gravity holds us in place, yet recent displays of gymnastic excellence say this may not be true for everyone. Hold a job, foothold, toehold, behold, I wanna hold your hand. He's a holdover from the last administration.
Contain, keep, protect, ensnare, persevere, cherish. Determined, stubborn. clinging, trapped, lawless, powerless. What is this strange hold you have over me? Hypnotic, possessive, bewitching, fated. Hold my place in line, hold me in your thoughts. Reserve, guarantee, promise.
Don't put me on hold. Disregard, dismiss, ignore.
We hold these truths to be self-evident.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
|Photo credit, with thanks.|
In response to the most recent Word of the Week, which was "experiement," my friend Penelope Todd shared an article about Buckminster Fuller and seeing our lives as just that, experiments. While my style is far from what I consider scientific, the term gives a framework to a way of approaching life and goals that eliminates failure as one of the options. We are not here, I'm certain, to fail or to feel as though we have. What an absurd notion.
Additional musings about the seemingly endless highway along which we travel, perhaps without destination, came from discussing GAME OF THRONES' latest season with my son and my sister, and from observing our state of national politics through as many filters as I can summon. Undiluted, it becomes Kryptonite. In G.O.T., for those of you who don't watch, there are the noir-esque characters who seek easy answers, quick fixes for what they believe thwarts them. Concurrently, others plan - or plot - over greater periods, seeing what will be needed to carry them toward a desired outcome, time not a deterrent. Acknowledging that we likely have hoped-for achievements as we totter toward infinity, how do we know that what we long for is not a skillfully disguised increment with the job of contributing to our spiritual evolution?
Without having a name for it until a few days ago, I have appreciated the long game most of my life. Lewis and Clark, John Wayne as Ethan Edwards in John Ford's THE SEARCHERS, Odysseus, the way Werner Herzog makes movies, those who study and practice Buddhism. Once we admit to ourselves that we are here for the long haul, a learning curve becomes less daunting, a time of doing-without feels less like deprivation, a wait of unknown duration seems bearable.
To be continued. It doesn't all want to be said in one sitting.
Monday, August 8, 2016
|With thanks to Ray Bradbury.|
|"A Trip to the Moon."|
Because catalogs persist in showing us plus-size clothing on model-size models, we order with hope in our hearts, visions of loveliness making us nearly drunk with anticipation. Reality often has different plans. If we hadn't tried, we wouldn't know.
We continue to try on this existenc, that is our mission. Mary Chapin Carpenter sings of, "...a life that's never safe and dry." So it should be. If the answers were known, why would we ever explore or step beyond the known, the tried, the relatively true? It only takes one solution to erase the discouragement of the first million attempts, or something very like that.
And in case you forgot, very little agrees to being hurried. Like, say, love.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Friday, August 5, 2016
|Copyright Marylinn Kelly|
"VIII. Desserts are not decadent, just as they are neither degenerate nor depraved. Nor is it reasonable to call a favorite television program or commonly popular book a guilty pleasure. It is simply a source of pleasure. Do not apologize for being alive, human and ordinary. It is within ordinary that we find and recognize each other."
Her patience with and interest in the steamboat experience now vanished, she decided whatever else the mail contained would probably make her cranky, too. It was, she admitted, a short trip from agreeable to glowering. Not always, but the things people did with words, people who were probably being paid enough to know better, could give her the blues. While she would never send an affronted note to the Auto Club or anyone airing one of her pet peeves, she wished heartily that a bit more care and imagination could go into, well, everything. She was likely breaking her own directive to "let it go" by giving small matters so much attention but cripes, she thought, reverting to adolescent vocabulary which still seemed a good fit. Cripes.