Cater’s Lake
Anderson, South Carolina
Unseen, I watched you today; not as voyeur, rather as student. You were building childhood, magic, for that little girl you had with you. I thought of Daniel Quinn’s books on community building. You must have read his books. I saw you doing exactly what he said we should do. Every child deserves the full and complete positive attention of one adult. Your child was getting the full loving consideration of an adult. Another adult, a distance learner across the lake, was giving you his full concentration, learning, wondering what it would have been like to have received this attention himself. Your little girl was getting things that technology could never deliver on. You must have also read the works of Thich Nhat Hahn and Eckhart Tolle as well. You were practicing the art of living in the present, in the now. Suddenly I wasn’t worrying about where I need to be or what I needed to be doing.
At your picnic table you gently placed your daughter on the bench, unfolded a napkin before her, and then set out a meal of childhood delights from a fast food bag. Perhaps one of the fastest ways to build a happy contented child is to occasionally feed them their favorite treats from a white bag while seated on the shores of a duck-filled lake, paying attention. Between bites I saw you stand your little one up on the bench and point out the assorted shore birds to her, perhaps even a butterfly in the early morning rays of sunlight filtering down through the mist. I saw a mother carefully building memories into her life that will stand her in good stead in the distant days of her far-off future when she will need them. Unwittingly, this same mother was building important lessons into the present day of the cloudy life of an observer unseen at another table on the far side of her experience.
Each morning I ride my bike to try and get a healthy start to my day, attempting to find a small updraft that can give me a bit of even lift to my uncertain wings. A small lake near my house is about halfway along my route and often I will sit at one of the picnic tables to meditate. So it was today that from my table a teacher presented herself today on the opposite side of the rippling waters. It is but 8 AM and I have already been well instructed in what matters most. Give away that which we value most greatly and it will come back to us. On the way home one of my favorite neighborhood dogs came out to great me.
Today I learned that the world is a safe and generous place, if I look for it to be.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Floral Memories - Birmingham
The Botanical Gardens
Birmingham, Alabama
Memory is an interesting phenomenon. Over time we tend to remember the good things that have happened to us more completely than the bad things, unless these things are truly dreadful and branded into our beings, only to recur as flashbacks or nightmares, sometimes far into the future. Today offered me an interesting, perhaps profoundly healing, experience of selective memory.
Eight years ago I experienced a catastrophic life event that has kept me away from Birmingham for nearly a decade. I have been willing to go anywhere on earth except here, despite having more than two decades of very happy experiences living in and visiting Birmingham, with its many good friends. One bad experience wiped out decades of good living.
Today I decided that it was about eight years past the time I should have faced my demons of dark memory. Recently I have been realizing that running from demons of fear only gives them more power. A two hundred and seventy mile journey brought me back to the epicenter of my greatest anxieties. As had been my practice for many years when visiting here, before the incantations of fear kept me away from the Magic City, I made my first stop at the Botanical Gardens. These gardens at one time in the distant past provided me great comfort and refuge when going through a yet more remote life challenge. Twenty years ago when facing the prospect of a terminal illness, these gardens helped me find life anew in a spectacular way. There was no more important place on earth to me than these gardens.
What did I find here today? Life, actually. The infinite happy memories that made these gardens so important to me and gave me life in the remote past may just be able to give it to me once again. Today my experiences in the gardens were devoid of fear, my experience of the city without the panic that once had me trembling with anxiety.
Arriving just after lunchtime I found the gardens to be much better attended than I recalled them to have once been. A hundred or more species of annuals, perennials, woody plants, ornamental trees, and roses reminded me that some things do go on despite fear. The immense array of blooms reminds me that life can be more powerful than death, joy more powerful than fear. A garden really can be a place to have an encounter with God.
A stone table in the wild flower garden reminded me of the epic luncheons I shared with my dear friend Nancy as she traversed a very dark season of her life. We relished this game of who could outdo the other in opulence. I recalled hauling sterling, crystal, and hot chicken cordon blue to that granite table in a backpack while riding my bike.
The swing in the back corner of the rhododendron garden was the site of many a fine meal with a dear friend who was the love of my life for several years. I would arrive after driving five hours, absolutely famished and Jan would have these incredible hot meals packed in her wicker picnic baskets. It is true that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I cannot recollect just how many incredible meals I enjoyed here in the gardens. Perhaps, now unleashed, more of these delightful memories will bubble to the surface of my consciousness in the days ahead.
Already another one has surfaced. I had just returned from a month in Vienna with some fine Russian Champagne I had picked up on a weekend journey in Hungary. The Alabama Symphony was set up for a sunset concert on the east lawn in front of the glass houses. I was with a dozen or more good friends and had that bottle of Champagne with me as well as some culinary contributions to a really opulent potluck al fresco. How healing must it be for me to remember a fabulous meal from twenty years ago rather than those dark terrors from eight years ago that drove me from this city?
In the glasshouses today I was reminded of a distant time when I was wandering around the same stone paths, wondering if I would really experience life again, or if terminal disease was my reality. I could recall the classical music being played by one of the gardeners working with the tropical delights, suggesting to me that life really was there to be embraced once again. The neurological death sentence was commuted and I have been since given another twenty-one years of life and the opportunity to see much of the world.
It was here in the main conservatory of the growing houses that I was inspired to write my first book of poetry and perhaps do one of the most important things I have ever done. Thirteen years ago it had been my plan to take a young girl to see the castles of England before her life was truncated by a hideous brain tumor. Alas, she was too ill to make it to the crenellated wonders of England, but she was able to make it with assistance to these gardens and become completely absorbed in the wonders of a roomful of exotic orchids in full bloom. I remember other lovers of these gardens being especially helpful to us that day. Susie looked very ill that day and I suspect those other patrons knew it was an important day for her. Those orchids were to be the last things Susie was to see from life that weren’t part of a hospital room. Today I took photographs of some of those very same orchids. The lighting was just right.
These gardens helped Susie to have a vibrant colorful end to a brutally short life. They helped me to find my way back to abundant and radiant life once before. Perhaps they will be the place from which I emerge from a dark night of the soul, which has cloaked me for three years. Facing the demons of long-entrenched fear in such a bucolic place of color and life can only increase the possibility of this happening.
“Eyes have not seen, ears have not heard, the hearts of men have not even imagined the things I have prepared for you.”
Birmingham, Alabama
Memory is an interesting phenomenon. Over time we tend to remember the good things that have happened to us more completely than the bad things, unless these things are truly dreadful and branded into our beings, only to recur as flashbacks or nightmares, sometimes far into the future. Today offered me an interesting, perhaps profoundly healing, experience of selective memory.
Eight years ago I experienced a catastrophic life event that has kept me away from Birmingham for nearly a decade. I have been willing to go anywhere on earth except here, despite having more than two decades of very happy experiences living in and visiting Birmingham, with its many good friends. One bad experience wiped out decades of good living.
Today I decided that it was about eight years past the time I should have faced my demons of dark memory. Recently I have been realizing that running from demons of fear only gives them more power. A two hundred and seventy mile journey brought me back to the epicenter of my greatest anxieties. As had been my practice for many years when visiting here, before the incantations of fear kept me away from the Magic City, I made my first stop at the Botanical Gardens. These gardens at one time in the distant past provided me great comfort and refuge when going through a yet more remote life challenge. Twenty years ago when facing the prospect of a terminal illness, these gardens helped me find life anew in a spectacular way. There was no more important place on earth to me than these gardens.
What did I find here today? Life, actually. The infinite happy memories that made these gardens so important to me and gave me life in the remote past may just be able to give it to me once again. Today my experiences in the gardens were devoid of fear, my experience of the city without the panic that once had me trembling with anxiety.
Arriving just after lunchtime I found the gardens to be much better attended than I recalled them to have once been. A hundred or more species of annuals, perennials, woody plants, ornamental trees, and roses reminded me that some things do go on despite fear. The immense array of blooms reminds me that life can be more powerful than death, joy more powerful than fear. A garden really can be a place to have an encounter with God.
A stone table in the wild flower garden reminded me of the epic luncheons I shared with my dear friend Nancy as she traversed a very dark season of her life. We relished this game of who could outdo the other in opulence. I recalled hauling sterling, crystal, and hot chicken cordon blue to that granite table in a backpack while riding my bike.
The swing in the back corner of the rhododendron garden was the site of many a fine meal with a dear friend who was the love of my life for several years. I would arrive after driving five hours, absolutely famished and Jan would have these incredible hot meals packed in her wicker picnic baskets. It is true that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I cannot recollect just how many incredible meals I enjoyed here in the gardens. Perhaps, now unleashed, more of these delightful memories will bubble to the surface of my consciousness in the days ahead.
Already another one has surfaced. I had just returned from a month in Vienna with some fine Russian Champagne I had picked up on a weekend journey in Hungary. The Alabama Symphony was set up for a sunset concert on the east lawn in front of the glass houses. I was with a dozen or more good friends and had that bottle of Champagne with me as well as some culinary contributions to a really opulent potluck al fresco. How healing must it be for me to remember a fabulous meal from twenty years ago rather than those dark terrors from eight years ago that drove me from this city?
In the glasshouses today I was reminded of a distant time when I was wandering around the same stone paths, wondering if I would really experience life again, or if terminal disease was my reality. I could recall the classical music being played by one of the gardeners working with the tropical delights, suggesting to me that life really was there to be embraced once again. The neurological death sentence was commuted and I have been since given another twenty-one years of life and the opportunity to see much of the world.
It was here in the main conservatory of the growing houses that I was inspired to write my first book of poetry and perhaps do one of the most important things I have ever done. Thirteen years ago it had been my plan to take a young girl to see the castles of England before her life was truncated by a hideous brain tumor. Alas, she was too ill to make it to the crenellated wonders of England, but she was able to make it with assistance to these gardens and become completely absorbed in the wonders of a roomful of exotic orchids in full bloom. I remember other lovers of these gardens being especially helpful to us that day. Susie looked very ill that day and I suspect those other patrons knew it was an important day for her. Those orchids were to be the last things Susie was to see from life that weren’t part of a hospital room. Today I took photographs of some of those very same orchids. The lighting was just right.
These gardens helped Susie to have a vibrant colorful end to a brutally short life. They helped me to find my way back to abundant and radiant life once before. Perhaps they will be the place from which I emerge from a dark night of the soul, which has cloaked me for three years. Facing the demons of long-entrenched fear in such a bucolic place of color and life can only increase the possibility of this happening.
“Eyes have not seen, ears have not heard, the hearts of men have not even imagined the things I have prepared for you.”
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Natural Tunnel, Virginia
Natural Tunnel State Park
Some Place in Virginia off Route 23
I have always found atlases and maps rather intriguing. The idea that even the tiniest dot on a map represents hundreds, if not thousands of interesting lives entrances me. Those little specks on the paper represent an entire world of hopes, dreams, challenges and possibilities to those living in them. Alas, nowadays most of us stay on the Interstates and see nothing but the stainless steel franchise fast food places we just left at home. We never see much of what makes travel a joy. Map Quest and other assorted computer-aided mapping devices always find the fastest most efficient ways to get from A to B, forgetting that point C in between might just be the best place to be. Sometimes it is worth the extra gas to find those little universes hidden away in remote regions, even at $4 a gallon.
While planning my return journey from Kentucky to South Carolina it occurred to me to consider something other than the four-lane super slab for my return. A thin serpentine blue line seemed much more interesting than the straight thick red one I had traversed a few days ago. I also would avoid a lot of tollbooths on assorted turnpikes. Map Quest would never had selected this route. It was too interesting. As it turns out, it was nearly a hundred miles shorter than the Interstate routing and easy to follow. That thin blue line took me from Ashland, Kentucky to Ashville, North Carolina where it became an Interstate leading me into South Carolina via the beautiful southern Appalachian Mountains.
Route 23 ended up taking me through Pikeville where my grandfather had been the town banker a century ago. A hundred years ago the Hatfields and McCoys had their infamous smolder family feuds that gave the town such great notoriety. It also was cause for my ancestors suddenly being driven out of town in the middle of the night. I never did learn what that was all about. I did have opportunity to pay homage to my past and save a hundred miles of driving in the process.
Not far below Pikeville in Virginia is one of those brown roadside signs suggesting a break from driving was in order. I was at Natural Bridge a few days ago so it seemed only natural to see if Natural Tunnel was as interesting. Actually, it was. A drive of three miles took me through one of those small dots on the map – a fine little well kept village where everyone knows everyone – a place I would like to live. Just beyond it was one of Virginia’s state parks containing some of the most intriguing geologic formations I have encountered. Somehow, a mysterious natural process had bored out a tunnel of perhaps a thousand feet through a massive outcropping of limestone. A hundred years ago a railroad put a set of tracks through the tunnel. These tracks are still active, carrying tourists through the Virginia Mountains. The well-maintained hiking trails afforded me an hour of relaxed wandering and picture taking. Like Natural Bridge, this park had a chair lift for those without sufficient stamina to hike to the top of steep canyons or the floors of deep gorges. I am grateful that I have the stamina to easily climb in such places.
I never saw anyone on the trails. A remote state park on a weekday off a thin blue line is not likely to have many visitors. However, at the information office I did encounter a pleasant English couple taking in the scenery. The English are good about traveling on the thin blue lines of life and finding what is interesting. The English call a walk outside a ramble. They are not in a hurry.
I resumed my southern journey along Route 23 as it traversed Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina where I stopped for a late lunch of eggplant parmesan in a newly constructed Italian Bistro outside of Ashville.
I had fine cerulean skies all day as I traverse five states to arrive just in time for a chicken parmesan dinner.
Some Place in Virginia off Route 23
I have always found atlases and maps rather intriguing. The idea that even the tiniest dot on a map represents hundreds, if not thousands of interesting lives entrances me. Those little specks on the paper represent an entire world of hopes, dreams, challenges and possibilities to those living in them. Alas, nowadays most of us stay on the Interstates and see nothing but the stainless steel franchise fast food places we just left at home. We never see much of what makes travel a joy. Map Quest and other assorted computer-aided mapping devices always find the fastest most efficient ways to get from A to B, forgetting that point C in between might just be the best place to be. Sometimes it is worth the extra gas to find those little universes hidden away in remote regions, even at $4 a gallon.
While planning my return journey from Kentucky to South Carolina it occurred to me to consider something other than the four-lane super slab for my return. A thin serpentine blue line seemed much more interesting than the straight thick red one I had traversed a few days ago. I also would avoid a lot of tollbooths on assorted turnpikes. Map Quest would never had selected this route. It was too interesting. As it turns out, it was nearly a hundred miles shorter than the Interstate routing and easy to follow. That thin blue line took me from Ashland, Kentucky to Ashville, North Carolina where it became an Interstate leading me into South Carolina via the beautiful southern Appalachian Mountains.
Route 23 ended up taking me through Pikeville where my grandfather had been the town banker a century ago. A hundred years ago the Hatfields and McCoys had their infamous smolder family feuds that gave the town such great notoriety. It also was cause for my ancestors suddenly being driven out of town in the middle of the night. I never did learn what that was all about. I did have opportunity to pay homage to my past and save a hundred miles of driving in the process.
Not far below Pikeville in Virginia is one of those brown roadside signs suggesting a break from driving was in order. I was at Natural Bridge a few days ago so it seemed only natural to see if Natural Tunnel was as interesting. Actually, it was. A drive of three miles took me through one of those small dots on the map – a fine little well kept village where everyone knows everyone – a place I would like to live. Just beyond it was one of Virginia’s state parks containing some of the most intriguing geologic formations I have encountered. Somehow, a mysterious natural process had bored out a tunnel of perhaps a thousand feet through a massive outcropping of limestone. A hundred years ago a railroad put a set of tracks through the tunnel. These tracks are still active, carrying tourists through the Virginia Mountains. The well-maintained hiking trails afforded me an hour of relaxed wandering and picture taking. Like Natural Bridge, this park had a chair lift for those without sufficient stamina to hike to the top of steep canyons or the floors of deep gorges. I am grateful that I have the stamina to easily climb in such places.
I never saw anyone on the trails. A remote state park on a weekday off a thin blue line is not likely to have many visitors. However, at the information office I did encounter a pleasant English couple taking in the scenery. The English are good about traveling on the thin blue lines of life and finding what is interesting. The English call a walk outside a ramble. They are not in a hurry.
I resumed my southern journey along Route 23 as it traversed Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina where I stopped for a late lunch of eggplant parmesan in a newly constructed Italian Bistro outside of Ashville.
I had fine cerulean skies all day as I traverse five states to arrive just in time for a chicken parmesan dinner.
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