Out and About

The plan for the day was to take the R train to have lunch at Whole Foods where I like the "kids'" sandwiches and the upstairs seating, and then walk over on Warren Street to Poets House. Poets House is a poetry center with a library of some 90,000 poetry books, also with upstairs seating, this time overlooking the Hudson River. On the way after lunch, I barely looked at the window displays as I was noticing the historic buildings. Once there, for my reading matter, I chose a slim volume by W.B. Yeats. I had in mind finding a "signature" for my March e-mails as he wrote lengthy poems of antique times. You may have noticed my signatures rely heavily on the long ago and far away. The book was of his early works and I was surprised to read such a tender, short but compelling verse called A Cradle Song:

"I kiss you and kiss you,

My pigeon, my own.

Oh how I will miss you

When you are grown."

Returning from Poets House to catch the R subway, there is a wonderful path through a pile of impressive slabs of granite. There was construction on the street ahead so we detoured to Warren Street. It was a U. detour as you can imagine. I was looking in the various windows and stopped briefly to admire a painting. What an extravaganza of color and fury! The title struck me as a real thought provoker, "The Killing of Social Security." Behind me there was a young woman I was about to let pass when she said, "Do you like the painting? It's my dad." I was floored. How could it be that I stopped at the precise moment when our lives intersected? What if I had gone a different way? What if I had examined the buildings as I had before and skipped the window? What if I had lingered at the Battery Park rock pile or read more poems? That night, out of curiosity, I searched on Facebook to see if Joe or Noemie were there. The spelling of Noemie's name takes me back to when I lived on Clipper Street in Noe Valley. I found her and sent a message. She replied with a note telling me her art can be seen on cargocollective. My Out & About adventure turned into one of those ripple effect days (remember Slinky on the Chapel Hill bus?) where the unexpected blooms like a magician's bouquet springing from a top hat. I'm reminded of the first line of a poem I wrote in 1962, "The beautiful days of my life have lost their number" So many beautiful days! Such elegant arrangements and collisions provided by the gentle, merry U.

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...may your days be filled with festive blessings...

Photo Credit: K Ripp

Guidebook: Courtesy of the Battery Conservancy

"Ah, Sweet Mystery"

Heart courtesy of Gone Coco Boutique

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Continuing the theme of Heart Month, I'd like to mention I "heart" mysteries. Starting when I used to sit in a tree reading Nancy Drew in her roadster adventures, I couldn't resist the page-turning quality of the old clock, the haunted house,and the broken locket. There was a interval of time when I read novels instead but the first time I saw Mystery on Masterpiece Theater, I began another binge which has lasted without breaks. What a delight to run across an original paperback of Winston Graham's The Walking Stick in the basement room of a small bookstore in Boone, North Carolina. Recently I have found Japanese, Chinese, and Swedish mysteries where I have not only enjoyed the plotting but also discovered so much about the settings. For instance, I never knew the extent of the Cultural Revolution. Just think. While America was having the summers of love, Chinese students were forbidden mixing. The beautiful long flower skirts I saw on Haight Street in San Francisco would have been the worst of the worst "bourgeois decadence." How horrible to be a dedicated scholar and then sent out to the countryside to live a life completely alien and arduous under the guise of needing to be "re-educated." What back breaking work as glimpsed in the movie, Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress! I am beyond glad that times have changed and I can now be reading the mysteries of the Chinese writer, Qui (last name first) who lives in St. Louis. I don't have a hankering to go to these places but I luxuriate in Michael Connelly's Catalina Island; Martha Grimes' British pubs; P.D. James' Scotland Yard; Tony Hillerman's New Mexico; George Simenon's French countryside, and Qui's China. Sometimes I think the perfect symposium would be a gathering of the fictional detectives rather than the authors. Dalgleish could read Chen's poetry and Chen could read Dalgleish's. Jury could give us an account of Wiggins' investment in the health care industry and Jim Chee could perform Blessing Way dance. What is most striking about these protagonists is how much heart they have. Blustery and rebellious Frost really cares. Havers cuts sarcastically through the upper crust hypocrisy but worries herself senseless over her mother. If you'd like to read an outstanding mystery blog try http://meanderingsandmuses.blogspot.com on which the calendar of authors is a treasure trove. Speaking of heart, here is a poem I wrote years ago, published in Hearts Afire.

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By the Rim

You have been here always in my phantasy

walking up the road, laughing,

with shells from a prehistoric sea

just for me.

We have been together here, everywhere

joyously.

Climbing, falling pilgrims are we

in an old geography.

We do not wonder on how we met or why.

And if by chance you do appear

in the early sun's mirage

(as surely soon you must)

to discover that I am not the me I know

and you and your photograph are

strangely mismatched

and the canyon is there simply

ever-changing,

my phantasy will carry me through

the meeting you.

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...may the blessings of heartfelt endeavors and mysterious encounters be yours...

Remembering Poldark

"Do all the good you can,

By all the means you can,

In all the ways you can,

In all the places you can,

At all the times you can

To all the people you can,

As long as ever you can."

~~John Wesley

What I like in a homily, sermon, or e-mail message is a phrase which changes my perception. Last week, listening online to Riverside Church, I heard the new interim minister tell us what was wrong with mainline churches. "They have forgotten the stories." The fundamentalists are ever ready to tell others of their salvation--the hour, day, and year-- and ask in return, "Where were you when you were saved?" But the mainline churchgoer seems embarrassed to even admit that instead of the morning paper, jog, or outing to Starbucks, he or she went to church. "There is no inner transformation." There is no confrontation with that other kind of fundamentalism, blind faith in science. This past Sunday, I visited Christ United Methodist Church. One of the best parts for me in the Winston Graham novels, the Poldark series, was the supporting character Drake Carne. The time frame is the early days of what would become Methodism, what was then known as The Connexion. Christ United Methodist Church on Park Avenue is a far cry from John Wesley riding on horseback preaching the freedom for all to learn to read, to reject a life of alcohol and despair. What an arduous life those circuit riders had in America. Sometimes the circuits were as wide as five hundred miles. Many of the riders slept outside as bedbugs and fleas were the bane of parishioners' hospitality. Women had prominent roles. They led classes, ran orphanages, and if the rider didn't show up, gave the sermon. John's brother Charles Wesley's birth was one of those miracles that seem predestined. Premature, he hardly cried or had signs of life for weeks. However, his mother encouraged him. She taught the children (19 of them) Latin, Greek, and French and, probably the most important lesson, a fire for living. He wrote something like 8,000 hymns. The best of the morning at Christ UMC was the nine o'clock service. Such simplicity in a setting so elaborately beautiful! And what a joy to hear a homily of the kind that has the one focus of attention that upsets preconceived suppositions. In this one, the minister talked about "naming." He mentioned the Sermon of the Mount and how radical it was. When Jesus said, "You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world," he wasn't talking about a future state; he was naming us, telling us who we are, our identity. Rev. Bauman said, "Your middle name is Child of God." What a difference it would make if when we introduced ourselves we said, "I'm Salt," or "I'm Light." This early service in cane chairs rather than pews set in a side chapel with a domed ceiling right out of antiquity reminded me of those Drake Carne days. As Charles Wesley recommended, I sang fervently.

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...may the blessings of sudden insights no matter at what age be with you...

The Following Day

Before jumping to conclusions as to why I am late posting, I have to ask myself, "Why do you think I'm late?" This was a self-imposed deadline, after all. First I was only going to do one post and then I started dailies and then I figured out that this was a whole lot of work and there was nobody handy to be designated guest blobber. I settled on Tuesday for my posts as that is my favorite day of the week which involves a long story from my childhood, natch, and a George Gershwin songbook. This will be the Following Day. (I've liked the word following ever since I learned about the following sea). February is heart month. Personally, I can't think heart without thinking soul. We all care about our friends' physical health but how many of us shy away when we observe mental disintegration? I can't remember at what age I heard a sermon which branded me for life. It was what is known as a homily instead of a sermon by a kindly Irish priest. He was speaking of the Good Samaritan. He said all of us if we encountered someone having an appendicitis attack would rush to help the person realizing it was an emergency. Why is it, he asked that we are reluctant to do the same when someone is having a mental attack? Shouldn't the rush be similar to the urgency of the appendicitis event? I thought at the time it was because we wouldn't know where to turn, how to offer help. Maybe we'd be frightened of the unknown consequences. How many times have there been killings in the news which led to interviews with neighbors, teachers, even friends who shook their heads and admitted they knew "something was wrong." How often have we been witnesses to mass hysteria and shrugged our shoulders in helplessness. There was a woman in Eureka I called The Shouter. She would walk miles shouting in a language of her own. She often stood right under my window. I asked a neighbor if she had once lived in the house. The answer was, "No. She feels safe with you. She has picked you as her protector." I once saw her in a fast food restaurant on the other side of town. She was speaking quietly. How remarkable! She knew about, "Inside voices," a pre-school term for managing a classroom. Her unkempt look made me wonder at first if she were homeless but she didn't have a shopping cart. She didn't appear to have a caregiver or family. Did she eat from dumpster diving? Did she sleep on the beach? How sad that she had been allowed to sink to this strange yet happy existence. Where along the path had everyone given up on her, let her have the appendicitis of the soul? I'm thinking during heart month it might be good to remember the soul and the people who need soul mending. Heart & Soul. They are enterwined like the links on a delicate necklace. If one breaks, the other is not far behind.

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...may you find rest in contemplation and strength in stopping by the side of the road...

Current Posts

Photo Credit: B.E. Hobbs

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Current posts may be seen at http://christineintheshire.blogspot.com

"Saturday in the Park"

Last Saturday in Central Park I saw several sights I had never seen before. One of them was at least five hundred Santas jogging and strolling along yelling, "Ho! Ho! Ho!" At one point I decided to give Daff a "transportation call" to tell her about this. When a robust elf saw me on the phone, she dashed over and shouted into it, "She's on the naughty list!!!!" I started laughing so hard I could hardly get on with the call. Someone remarked that it was the Santas Union on strike. In actuality, it was Santa Con, a gathering of Santas each year for festivities to ready them for the big event. Further along, under a bridge, a small choir of young people were singing devout carols. It was so encouraging to see something with a reminder of what this time of year is all about. In the Overheard Dept, earlier in the week, I was surprised when a man at the Barking Dog Luncheonette ordered, "Two cokes, two coffees, and an egg cream." I thought he was going to be having company. But no. Instead he started punching numbers on his phone and screeching, "I want a person! I want a person!" When he finally reached a person, he said, "You are being very obnoxious to me!" 'Twas not the season to be jolly for him.

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All is quiet in the teepee

but she catches the sight of wee eyes peeking at the night sky.

Will Grandmother Bear meet the Holy Child and sing a lullaby?

There are what her daughter calls artifacts by the bedroll,

items found or made at school: an Ojo de Dios charm; a pebble;

a drawing, not so crude as might be expected from one so young, of an angel

with a feather crown rather than a halo.

It is a scene of domestic tranquility, everything tidily in its place

all cherished because of not being of great number.

"Goodnight, my little one. Christmas comes soon."

"Goodnight, God bless." is whispered in the chill air.

Across the great prairie, exultation hangs from the dark canopy like

large golden ornaments spinning peacefully,

prophesying,

the Morning Star less distant here.

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...may the blessing of anticipation be yours...

St. Labre Indian School supplied the gift wrap.

The Gone CoCo Cap

Appalachian December

Photo Credit: B.E. Hobbs

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The weather outside is wonderfully winter this week so I decided to tell you the Gone CoCo cap story. I had just moved to Roanoke, Virginia which welcomed me with a big snowy, blustery first outing day. However, the buses were running and I decided to go down to City Market and see what Roanoke was all about. There was little open so I thought I'd browse as I was well bundled up and spiffy with my red ear muffs. I was looking at the window of Seeds of Light when suddenly a forceful wind almost knocked me down. Forceful? I'll say. It blew my ear muffs right off and around the corner! When I went to retrieve them, I saw a notice about Sufi Dances of Universal Peace. As I was reading it, a fluttering caught my eye. There were dresses outside a store called Gone CoCo Boutique. Open! A sign! I went into the store and said to the charming person behind the counter, "If you have a cap with ties, you have a sale." She had some caps from Peru and there was one with six ties. Nothing would blow that away from me. We talked a long time as there were no customers. I told her about my apt. and how I had met the landlord, Jim Fulghum, online in Durham, had called him up and ventured sight unseen to Roanoke. He was a distant relative of Robert Fulghum who had written a story I loved, the one with the mermaids. Susan, the owner of Gone CoCo was a fan of his and we talked about how I as a writer had been led to this place with a connection to a writer I liked. I spent a lot of my Roanoke days at her store and sitting upstairs eating Zorba's Greek salad. There was a man who waited on me I called The Regular Guy. He was replaced by someone I called The New Regular Guy. I understand Zorba's has moved to Salem and I wonder if there are any regulars in attendance. Today I was wearing my Gone CoCo cap as it was a windy day in Central Park. I stopped to listen to the Children's Aid Society chorus. This is an organization that supplies 50,000 children with such things as hearing aids and braces. I was toasty as the wind tore down Madison Avenue. Every time I wear my cap, I am instantly back to the magical Roanoke days.

Christmastide on the #51

"Happy Holidays" scrolls on the destination box.

There is talk of the Farmers' Almanac with its

predictions for tall tale snows; the early bird sales good for finding "something nice" to leave the paper carrier;

the schedule of events at Haven of Hope, and Kwanzaa.

"It's not religious. Each day for six days starting the 26th

you give a homemade gift'" reminiscent, I think, of

Twelfth Night and the festive, undulating journey of the Magi.

When did the "partridge in a pear tree" go out of fashion?

A quiet greeting. A wave. A young man laughs at my socks.

He is conversant on many topics. I tell him what I need fixing.

He smiles and suggest, conspiratorially, "I ask Santa."

I know about asking. I have asked before, of Someone else.

Long ago, in a stone sanctuary where ancient plaques hung

written in languages unfamiliar to me lit by flickering votives

in a country seeping from war, I asked. I asked

for companions to exhort and encourage me.

One prayer. One recurring answer.

The bell rings, "Stop Requested," lights up the screen.

and echoed cheerfully by an anonymous voice.

On. Off. Rejoice. Giving, receiving, asking,

we travel along. Emmanuel. God with us.

For diverse believers and non-believers alike,

Christmas rides the #51.

...may the blessings of the landscape be with you now...