"Do Not Be Afraid, Little Flock"

The Aviary at Central Park Zoo

Photo Credit: Henry Hobbs

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"We are at work in more than 50 nations across Africa, Asia, Latin America and North America,

protecting wild landscapes that are home to a vast variety of species from butterflies to baboons."

WCS

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Some people are very anti-zoo. They talk knowledgeably about the early death rate and the apathy of the corralled animals. They compare the cooped-upness to the loss of freedom human counterparts experience in old age homes with overworked attendants. I'm more of an, "I know why the caged bird sings" type. I'm not out to convince anybody. I'm simply telling my experiences and why my, "You belong in a zoo" decal was my favorite on my little white Justy side window. I love going to the zoo on days packed with school field trips. Recently at the Bronx Zoo, I thought it was wonderful how small peacocks strolled like guest hosts around the picnic tables. I wondered if any of the youngsters would have an opportunity to travel to places where they could see peacocks in the wild. The best scene that day, though, was up the trail aways. I was planning to watch the giraffes, so elegant, so graceful, when suddenly I came upon a hilly field of flowers reminiscent of Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite. Frolicking in a game of catch-me-if-you-can with more peacocks were dazzling zebras. The children and I were struck breathless by the sight of these playful zebras. Teachers were explaining how zebras have stripes right on their skin, not just on the fur. Later, at the giraffe section, I was reminded of the San Francisco Zoo where the giraffes have a large barn style house. Watching them chew on the eaves in a tooth cleaning activity was a delight. The lofty serenity of these creatures has always appealed to me. In the Charm Department, I would put the Mill Mountain Zoo which overlooks the city of Roanoke, Virginia on the same Blue Ridge with the Roanoke Star. I used to look up at the star at night and think about the animals bedded down, protected from nocturnal predators. At the Sequoia Zoo in Eureka, a long-time resident, Bill the Chimp, was visited by Jane Goodall. It was known how he disliked women with designer handbags and often threw you know what at them. He was extra special nice to Jane and she to him. At the North Carolina Zoo, I never tired of the polar bears diving. And at the Prospect Park Zoo, my new friend for life is an alpaca.Such colors and textures, far better than any photo! Here is what the website says of her home: "Welcome to the farm! Barbados sheep, pygmy goats, and alpacas are some of the friendly animals you’ll find here. Beside the barn, a picturesque garden with a waterfall, wooden bridge, and pond attracts local ducks and butterflies." The Wildlife Conservation Society is in charge of the zoos and aquarium. I am grateful to the Society for bringing us all this beauty and surprising facts. Maybe some of the children will grow up to be wildlife advocates. Maybe some will become virulently anti-zoo. It's certain that no one leaves unmoved. The "City that never sleeps" has a plenitude of domesticated pets. "Mine" are given a bit more room with wildflowers as their carpeting.

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,,,may you have the touch of a tiny or large beast in your day today...

Provisions, the Universe Way

Photo credit and art courtesy of Linda Blalock

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At Riverside Church in New York City, there is a poster with a quote from William Sloane Coffin, Jr. "I love the recklessness of faith. First you leap; then you grow wings." I'll like to add, "About those wings? Don't try to grow them yourself. They will be provided for you." My way of looking at the world is to see the Unseen Friendlies as actively pulling the curtains, setting the stage, and delighting in those who can't quite figure it all out but can still suddenly be taken aback by an event that could only come from a long chain of events happening behind the scenes. The blob has certainly been an instrument of example of this kind of action. I was only going to do one post so that I could show a friend how to do a blog. The first thing that transpired was a typographical error. I typed blob instead of blog. Instantly I knew it was the right thing. Some unseen hand had jumped in and brought my fingers down one line. No doubt about it. That intrigued me. There was going to be more to this blog business than I had thought! I might have known. At that time I had been living in Lucille's basement one month. It is located by a creek right out of a magical woodland painting. My imagination went into high gear and I decided the blob should come from the "Shire." My Lord of the Rings theme was arranged that very day. I hadn't looked for a long range project but a fiery feeling came over me that I was going to keep at it for awhile because something Good would be arriving from a faraway place, totally unexpected, which I then could show to all as being a True Story of Behind the Scenes.Years ago, for a writing class I wrote a short story called "The Night Shift Gang" about how my brain works. It was part humor, part science fiction, and part my philosophy of life. It is my belief the cosmos is alive with characters and forces trying to make our days one big surprise parcel wrapped in radiance if only we pay attention. I learned very young to spot the signs of, "something great is coming! Who knows? It's only just out of reach, Down the block, on a beach, Maybe tonight ..." Sure enough. My friend Cheryl Dolby in Roanoke, Virginia started a blog, too. Hers was spectacular from the start and on her sidebar were links to many artists from the entire globe. I picked one by LInda Blalock( http://atclindab.blogspot.com/) at random (ha!) to read and fell right into a wonderland of crafted art that was beautiful in every respect. Wonderland was a fitting word as I had that afternoon gone to the 34th Street (how could I pass up a movie house where the Miracle on 3th Street happened?)cinema's matinee showing of Alice in Wonderland. I was taken by the line, "She's the Wrong Alice!" Linda's art blog was having a contest to win a ring. I didn't realize that by making a comment I was entered into the contest under my e-mail moniker, Mimja. I was stunned when the winner was posted. It was Mimja! I really couldn't fathom this so I replied, "I hope I am not the Wrong MImja!" And I wasn't. In distant Australia, my name had been picked at random (!) for something that was so Shire (a ring) and beautiful (my cosmology) it took my breath away. Last week the ring arrived in the Big Apple more magnificent in real life than in the photo, larger, more glisteny. It gave new meaning to the phrase "the dance of the wild faeries...in a magical circle of faerie ring," a piece I play often in the Shire. In "proving" my faith, I often use statistical probabilities to sway an unbeliever. What are the odds that I would help start a blob for someone I only knew a few months online in Eureka, CA and step by step without any hint or knowledge I would this day hold in my hand this evidence of my cosmic helpers? Unbeknownst is in my ten top favorite words list along with serendipity, foreshadowing, and coincidence. On the Chapel Hill buses, there is an announcement which advocates seeking mental health counseling. There is a list of symptoms. One clearly caught me in the act: frequent and unusual coincidences. I gather from this that the UNC mental health people consider me totally bonkers. Well, hey, Mental Health Experts! When did you last have a ring come winging your way out fo the blue? I'm sticking with bonkers any ol' day.

Riverside Church on the First Day of August 2010

Long time gone,

I heard the name, "Riverside Church"

on a Voice of America broadcast.

The words lodged in my mind

as a piece of an imaginary

jigsaw puzzle I worked daily

to be completed in years ahead.

"Home" was its simple title

and included many things

which differed from

my overseas "home away from home"

lad chapels in cathedral alcoves.

Oh, those homes were not lacking;

they simply were not my primary residence,

my true homeplace.

This morning, I am here, journey's end,

as the summer choir practices with tips

from the director on pronouncing Alleluia.

The whole picture puzzle is now revealed.

The final little crooked slot is filled.

The circle begun in childhood drawn to a close.

No wonder the Alleluias.

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...may you notice today something slightly off your peripheral vision that looks to be a sign in the making...

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.

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...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.

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

"Gallantly Streaming"

"It's a grand old flag, it's a high flyin' flag!" I remember Barbara Emily, about three years old, punching out the words and soaring on the tune while in her car seat in the back of my little white Subaru Justy. You know how three year olds are: once they find something they like, they will repeat it for days on end; sometimes only one word will catch their attention as in, "Flag, flag, flag." I kept my eye on the road but also I began thinking (didn't want to interrupt her) about flags, all the flags of countries I had lived in with Brazil the only one I remembered. Prayer flags and early American flags are my cup of tea. I like the way prayer flags look like colorful washing on a clothesline. Delving this week into the history of prayer flags I found this quote:

"When raising prayer flags proper motivation is important. If they are put up with

the attitude 'I will benefit from doing this' – that is an ego-centered motivation

and the benefits will be small and narrow. If the attitude is 'May all beings

everywhere receive benefit and find happiness,' the virtue generated by such

motivation greatly increases the power of the prayers."

I have often wanted to make prayer flags. The closest I came was in Roanoke during Mimsey Camp when B.E. and Henry made paper stars of all sizes and we strung them on a wire and gave them the official title of, "String of Stars." They have been the first thing to go up whenever I have moved. I think my summer project will be poetry prayer flags. I will make seasonal ones. Wordsworth for Spring; Shakespeare for Summer; Basho for autumn; Rosetti for Winter. All flower related, of course. Tibetan flags use cloth. I am partial to cloth but I will probably go with paper as I can then attach ornaments. It's the age of 3-D and 4-D so why not have my flags a poppin'? There will have to be some musical ritual involved, too. First thing every morning I might just look over and quietly sing the familiar strain, "It's a grand old flag. It's a high flyin' flag and forever in peace...." Join me in the singalong?

....may summer projects be fruitful for you and bring blessings of peace...

"En Un Lugar de la Mancha" and Other Destinations

My father's favorite book was Don Quixote. I could walk into a room to show The Daddy my scratch copy of an essay and like clockwork, he would say, "'En un lugar de la mancha.'" He did this so often that as a parting gift upon hearing of our transfer orders, the chauffeur furnished by the State Department in Cali took his meager savings, went up to Bogota, where he bought two oversized volumes, leather-bound, gold trimmed of Don Quixote. My dad was dismayed by this gesture knowing how much trouble and expense Nestor had gone to. My mother exclaimed, "He can barely feed his family!" We carted those heavy books through dozens of moves until, after the death of my parents, I felt I needed to find the set a home. I sold them in Durham to a passing antiques dealer from New England. My dad obviously had a favorite place on the mancha of Cervantes' imagination. One of my mother's favorite places was the Pelican Diner on St. Pete Beach. I like places with good talk and a charitable aspect such as Gone CoCo Boutique tucked into the historic City Market building in Roanoke, Virginia where, as they say at Jan Hus Presbyterian Church, "You are welcome before you arrive." In Manhattan, I like Manna's with its plentiful hot/cold buffet in East Harlem. Not only is the "soul food" extravagantly tasty but it is a boon to poor people because after its discount card is punched ten times, one receives a $10 "free plate." The chatter is great and soulful, too. The cross-section of patrons is heartening: a vet from the Iraq War in a wheelchair, an old couple saying grace, inspectors who know good food without testing it, a "regular" with her small cart bearing the bargains she found at Pathmark. The space holds only a few tables but the turnover is continuous. I've heard a lot of complaints about McDonald's. I turn a deaf ear. Here's why: in Eureka, California, my Sunday trek was to Mickey D's for pancakes and to see my friends--a washed up Old Salt with Parkinson's and a Downs Syndrome young woman who proudly boasted every time I saw her, "I been here 14 years!" I wondered when 15 rolled around if she would remember. It took only a week or so to learn. He "swabbed the decks." She kept the tables spotless and the condiments tidy. She was diligent about her break, watching her watch, struggling to complete easy word finder puzzles. How delightful to have someone hire these excellent workers! Personally, I have too many favorite lugares, too many books to single out one. Currently, I'm reading Crow Lake, a tale of Ontario, Canada. It reminds me of The Crow Island Journal about a man, Clinton Trowbridge, and his disabled wife, Lucy. They bought an island off the coast of Maine and together with their four children (as I recall) built a house. Lucy's illustrations certainly put this haven in my Top Ten. Speaking of islands, I often go to Roosevelt island on the jaunty red bus. I walk towards the lighthouse, past a magnificent rose garden. It's lovely but the best part is a cat rescue house. If only Google could translate what those cats have to say about their travels! Take a peek at "Island Cats" when you have a chance. And don't forget to tell me of your special scapes.

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...may the blessings of evocative haunts be yours this week...

Jonesy's Gone

the view from our house

In 1944, my family was living on Angra do Heroismo, an island in the Azores. Because of nearby bases, our house was filled with a steady stream of soldiers and Red Cross volunteers. There were four regulars I looked most forward to seeing: Walter, who later became a Presbyterian minister involved in peace activities; Clifford, who gave me my first paper doll and whose standard greeting was, "What's cookin', good lookin'?" Berg, a future jolly entrepreneur; and Jonesy, the violinist who took me through a crash course in classical music. His favorite piece (the poignancy of which continues to bring tears) was "The New World Symphony." He told me the theme was based on a spiritual, "Goin' Home," and taught me to play it with my right hand all on the black keys. I have a "program" my mother saved of my "recital" with Jonesy. Soon after, life changed abruptly. Jonesy was "shipped out." When the news came that Jonesy had "gone home," killed in an undisclosed location, "shipped out" became a terrifying set of words associated with death. His was the beginning of many, many losses for me and the catalyst for the firm resolve in my five year old mind to put an end to war. Lucille writes: "His name is Billy Anderson. Just a kid from a small town trying to start a life." Billy Anderson, 20, was killed in Afghanistan, leaving behind a young wife and 8 month old baby. He was the best friend of Lucille's grandson-in-law who lives in Tennessee. I'm inclined to say to those in sorrow, "Go ahead and have a crying spell. It gets the toxins out." My friend Sherry Boone, on the other hand cautions, "It's o.k. to have a pity party; just don't hold an open house. " Stacy L. Jackson's poem seems exactly right, the perfect grief poem. She thought it might be too sad to be published in the final issue of Sondra's Autumn Leaves but in my opinion, too sad can paradoxically lift one's spirits. It's a way of facing reality. Denial simply delays, a kind of post traumatic stress syndrome. Syndromes fester.

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I Cannot Go to Your Grave

by Stacy Campbell

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my heart feels flush to that flat stone

with your name, your name!

etched so deeply

there is no place for me

to grieve out of view

I don't visit

yet, I talk to you daily

surely that counts

I never thought

I would make it

without you

sick that I do

ashamed that I can

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The photo above of the World War I driver is courtesy of The American Field Service.

...may the blessings of remembering bring you peaceful times...