I Read Dead People

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

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

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

The Broken Toe Soliloquy

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

ISAIAH 55

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surprise!

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

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

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

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

Post-mortem

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

Nightmare

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

Passage

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

Passage

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

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