Quo Vadis (Where Y'all Goin'?)

Many of the wonderful words in the English language have roots in Latin: celestial navigation, conservatory gardens, unknown quantity, madrigal feast, desert isle. It occurred to me that Latin is also the precursor of text messaging. For instance, take the phrase e pluribus unum. "Out of many, one." e frees up space that "out" would need. That makes me think of, "Three strikes, you're e." Fiat Lux could be shorthand for, "Turn on the light!" (Not an exact translation). Then there's amo, amas, amat, one word verbs which include who is verbing. Quo vadis could easily replace, "Where are you going, dude?" Personally, I don't favor text messaging. It took too long for me to learn how to spell perambulator, vermilion, participle, and ridiculous. I'm still learning. Recently, I misspelled adviser. I wrote, "Advisor." Now-- I'd like to know why we can have tutors, authors, senators but not advisors. I'm guessing it's one of those, "I before E except after C" tricks of the grammarians' trade. It's interesting how the original crop of Latin seeds spread across the world to become the romance lingoes of Portuguese (which my mother called Spanish with a French accent) French, Italian, Spanish and Esperanto. This leads me to a poem I wrote in the days before i-anything. It's about summer and homework and theories:

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California, 1979

Jenny is at the picnic table doing her homework.

She has taken the birdcage out

and set it next to her book.

Although she is leaning over her papers

busily sorting,

her head almost touches the side

of the cage where Sanctuary sings.

The snowy finch, unaccustomed to

a change of location,

eloquently expresses gratitude

with exotic new trills.

I like to think it's gratitude, anyway.

According to Erik, the equator is responsible

for the warm winds converging in our yard.

The Amazon, too, is hovering somehow

in the trade of sparkling humidity.

It's all got to do with an arc of heat

coming up from South America.

There is also an arc of time.

As I watch Jenny, I remember my childhood

in a tropical garden.

When I was little, I use to think

that someone was minding me

when actually I was alone.

I'd often turn quickly, a friendly greeting

half spoken,

to see who it was.

Looking at Jenny now, I see myself then,

listening to bird calls

and tilting my head,

trying to catch a glimpse

of the future hurrying by.

~~~~~~~~

...may the via dolorosa not appear on your map this day...

Two's Company

My friends are into oceanography, the origins of faith, tectonic plates, spaceship conspiracy theories, aromatherapy, and all sorts of worthy areas of study. My fascination lies with the mind of a child. I was fortunate to be sitting in the sparsely populated Café car of the Carolinian when a girl I estimated to be two hopped onto the seat across the table. Pulling on one of her eight tight braids, she gave me a big grin. I had overheard the conversation she had been having with her grandmother full of Sits and Don'ts. This was one live wire tot. The Café car is a good place to read as the windows are large and for long stretches the scenery never varies so I had brought along a paperback version of Prodigal Summer. This edition is unusual because there is also an inner cover I can only describe as a Hallmark moment. Since the author, Barbara Kingsolver, was a biology major her book is rich in the proper names of Biology World. The illustrations on this extra cover, however, simply had unlabeled standard greeting card drawings. The girl climbed on the table, grabbed the book, sat, and began to "read" to me. When she turned to the drawings, I told her what each one was. Big Butterfly. Baby Butterfly. Moth. Baby Moth. Beetle. Baby Beetle. I was astonished when she repeated them quickly and correctly. I asked the grandmother who hadn't moved from the table opposite to join us, "How old is she?" The grandmother answered, "Two. The Terrible Two's." Well, there was nothing terrible about this Two. We discussed thoroughly the possibilities of Baby Moth getting together for an ice cream social with Baby Beetle. We played a shadow game when a stripe of sunshine hit the table. Some ladies looking for white wine saw my book and exclaimed that they had read it. They started in on some hackneyed imitation of a blurb critic. Spare me. I was polite but I had to get back to Big Butterfly. I wished Barbara Kingsolver could have watched us, she who specializes in minute observation. What would she make of this delightful wunderkind? The Café closed for a break and the grandmother thanked me for my patience. Patience had naught to do with it. It was the sheer joy of connecting to the electricity of Fledgling Sapiens. Coincidentally, while at Riverside Church on Sunday, I noticed prominently displayed on the Summer Reading poster at the library adjacent to the sanctuary, the beautiful green colorations of Prodigal Summer. I will always remember the "reader" of that book during the summer of 2010 on a day when Two was the best of company.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may a little one's commentary bless your life today...