Anderson, South Carolina
Once a year my small town puts on a great effort, and a most successful one at that, to create a fine destination event. Anderson has become known as a regional hot-air balloon mecca. 250,000 people will make a pilgrimage to visit us each year. What makes a particular town suitable for annual balloon festivals are several variables –favorable weather, suitable launch facilities, a good road infrastructure for chase vehicles, and a sense of hospitality for the hundreds of thousands of people that show up for such events. Especially important is that the balloonists and their crews feel wanted by the townspeople. Some towns actually don’t want them landing in their pastures, fields, or yards. Here, people will actually let their grass and hay grow up a few days before our annual festival so as to be able to mow smiley faces into it and write ‘Land Here’ below them. We just had eighty-five colorful balloons spend four days drifting over our countryside and dropping in unexpectedly to start parties. Hot air balloons are quite the catalysts for spontaneous happy events.
Most of us that live here have learned to listen carefully for the distinctive sound of a balloon’s propane burner. We are quite willing to drop whatever we are doing and join a party. I can be sitting in my closed-up house and instantly know when a balloon is near by. I also enjoy the happy circumstance of having a commercial balloon pilot living five doors down from me. Many mornings I hear Steve’s burners as I am out riding my bike at first light. Sometimes I call him from my cell phone to see ‘What’s up.’
Each year the last evening of our Labor Day balloon festival is given over to an outdoor sunset concert. We enjoy the distinct sounds of our fine community orchestra. 10,000 happy visitors will convene in our grassed amphitheater to hear a couple hours of inspirational, patriotic, and classical music as they dine. Some will eat out of a fast food paper bag. Others will set up something akin to the elaborate digs of a major tailgating. Either way, all enjoy being in a spontaneous community. I struck a middle ground and brought a Styrofoam cooler and fed a number of good friends around me.
As the sun submerges below the horizon, we listen for the familiar pieces played each year along with the special selections picked for the current year’s theme. This year the theme was Star Wars. All of the kids in Anderson County were in the amphitheater with their light sabers, pretending to be Luke Skywalker. I could only wish my childhood had been seasoned with the joyous and colorful memories that were being created before my eyes.
There is nothing like being surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, of happy kids enjoying sunset with their friends and families while watching all their favorite images of science fantasy projected with multicolor lasers onto giant scrim sheets and clouds of theater fog. Perhaps the most important images are those of the reality that comes from shared community as the edge of night reveals the spectral wonders of Zambelli fireworks in the ebony of night.
I went home feeling very much a party of life
Friday, September 5, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Midnight Flight
Anderson, South Carolina
I found myself cast into a huge vortex of life today. Our little town has put on what is known as the Midnight Flight for thirty years. These annual midnight road races are held as a benefit for the youth programs at our local YMCA. At 9, 10, and 11 PM waves of thousands of runners will sweep down a four-lane state highway, chasing down endorphin highs and the satisfaction that comes from satisfying a competitive spirit. The YMCA has become a profoundly important part of my life and simply showing up there to exercise is not enough. I need to give something back. I had never been to one of these road races in the past and agreed this year to help out as a volunteer for this event.
The event has turned into nearly a destination. I showed up about 3 PM in the middle of a sultry southern summer afternoon. I was surprised at how elaborate the preparations were for this and how many hundreds of people were involved in setting up the venues. I had expected a couple of folding tables and half a dozen people I would have already known. There were miles of roads that had been cleared and marked. Midways had been set up with kiosks to dispense everything from Avon ointments to ice cream to $110 running shoes to Dansani water, to bags of saffron rice. I never did figure out what saffron rice has to do with road racing but there it was and I did end up with several bags of it. Bandstands were set up. Timing mats with computers were set up in the roads. Digital clocks were placed. Floodlights and generators were installed in many strategic locations. Water stations were placed along six miles of roads. Thousands of sponsor packets were assembled for the registered runners. Rooms were set up to pass out timing chips to keep track of race times. The olive branch long ago yielded to the T-shirt. We had thousands of these to pass out.
I quickly realized I was going to be a small fish in a much bigger pond. Hundreds of people wearing green tee shirts all seemed to be on specific missions and I soon found one of my own, passing out runner’s bibs, sponsor packets, and safety pins to those people with last names starting with J, K, or L. I did this for four hours. So many volunteers showed up that I yield my slot to someone else so she could feel useful and like she was contributing to this explosion of life that was about to take place.
Then about 7 PM all sorts of things started showing up, as if choreographed to maximize the overall experience and intensity of the event. A magnificent sunset erupted in the western sky. Orange and crimson bands streaked across the sky as the edge of night moved towards us at 1000 miles per hour. In the remaining boundaries of day, eighty-five hot air balloons participating in our regional balloon fest chased the winds and became speckled silhouettes in the spectral layers above us. These giant colorful gumdrops dropped down in convenient open locations and dozens of happy little parties erupted at the scattered landing sites.
Then people started showing up. Lots of people. Thousands of people. Happy people. People embracing health and life. People who show up in hot air balloons, chase vehicles, and runner’s nylon are chasing life and dreams. The atmosphere became expansive and vibrant. A fine band fueled the energy of the venue with strands of old classic songs from three decades. Finally six hours after arriving it was time to get down to business.
Runners ranging in age from 6 years to nearly 90 years showed up to exercise dominion over the state highway into town. Hot noisy roads choked with heavy traffic 24/7 had been transformed into a car-free runner’s heaven. I thought of how glorious it would be to be on my bike on that empty ribbon of asphalt. Thousands of on-lookers and well wishers were sharing happy community and anticipation in the once-a-year span of four hours when the combustion engine yields supremacy to the runner’s shoe and.
Happy laughter and eagerness had the runners crowding the timing mats. I found myself recruited by the race timers to stand in front of a thousand runners and keep them four feet back from the edge of the timing mats. I suddenly had visions of the soccer stadiums in Brazil where hundreds are occasionally crushed in stampedes. No tragedies occurred this night. I was given ample time to get out of the way before the starting gun release all this pent-up energy into the night. Three times, waves of families, friends, lovers, dreamers, and competitors swiftly headed into the darkness of the night just out of reach of the arc lamps illuminating the start and finish lines. Suddenly the road emptied of its human potential.
The spectators drifted over to the finish line a few hundred yards away and waited anywhere from 4.5 minutes to 2.0 hours for their favorite athletes to re-emerge from the darkness into the brilliance of victory. Everyone who goes out and does even a short road race in the middle of the night is a winner in my book.
It was 3 AM before the last of the road race infrastructure had been dismantled and the streets re-opened to the combustion engine once again. Some of the YMCA staff had been on site for 22 hours. A lot of tired happy people slept well Friday night.
I went home feeling like I had been caught up in the stream of life. Literally I had.
I found myself cast into a huge vortex of life today. Our little town has put on what is known as the Midnight Flight for thirty years. These annual midnight road races are held as a benefit for the youth programs at our local YMCA. At 9, 10, and 11 PM waves of thousands of runners will sweep down a four-lane state highway, chasing down endorphin highs and the satisfaction that comes from satisfying a competitive spirit. The YMCA has become a profoundly important part of my life and simply showing up there to exercise is not enough. I need to give something back. I had never been to one of these road races in the past and agreed this year to help out as a volunteer for this event.
The event has turned into nearly a destination. I showed up about 3 PM in the middle of a sultry southern summer afternoon. I was surprised at how elaborate the preparations were for this and how many hundreds of people were involved in setting up the venues. I had expected a couple of folding tables and half a dozen people I would have already known. There were miles of roads that had been cleared and marked. Midways had been set up with kiosks to dispense everything from Avon ointments to ice cream to $110 running shoes to Dansani water, to bags of saffron rice. I never did figure out what saffron rice has to do with road racing but there it was and I did end up with several bags of it. Bandstands were set up. Timing mats with computers were set up in the roads. Digital clocks were placed. Floodlights and generators were installed in many strategic locations. Water stations were placed along six miles of roads. Thousands of sponsor packets were assembled for the registered runners. Rooms were set up to pass out timing chips to keep track of race times. The olive branch long ago yielded to the T-shirt. We had thousands of these to pass out.
I quickly realized I was going to be a small fish in a much bigger pond. Hundreds of people wearing green tee shirts all seemed to be on specific missions and I soon found one of my own, passing out runner’s bibs, sponsor packets, and safety pins to those people with last names starting with J, K, or L. I did this for four hours. So many volunteers showed up that I yield my slot to someone else so she could feel useful and like she was contributing to this explosion of life that was about to take place.
Then about 7 PM all sorts of things started showing up, as if choreographed to maximize the overall experience and intensity of the event. A magnificent sunset erupted in the western sky. Orange and crimson bands streaked across the sky as the edge of night moved towards us at 1000 miles per hour. In the remaining boundaries of day, eighty-five hot air balloons participating in our regional balloon fest chased the winds and became speckled silhouettes in the spectral layers above us. These giant colorful gumdrops dropped down in convenient open locations and dozens of happy little parties erupted at the scattered landing sites.
Then people started showing up. Lots of people. Thousands of people. Happy people. People embracing health and life. People who show up in hot air balloons, chase vehicles, and runner’s nylon are chasing life and dreams. The atmosphere became expansive and vibrant. A fine band fueled the energy of the venue with strands of old classic songs from three decades. Finally six hours after arriving it was time to get down to business.
Runners ranging in age from 6 years to nearly 90 years showed up to exercise dominion over the state highway into town. Hot noisy roads choked with heavy traffic 24/7 had been transformed into a car-free runner’s heaven. I thought of how glorious it would be to be on my bike on that empty ribbon of asphalt. Thousands of on-lookers and well wishers were sharing happy community and anticipation in the once-a-year span of four hours when the combustion engine yields supremacy to the runner’s shoe and.
Happy laughter and eagerness had the runners crowding the timing mats. I found myself recruited by the race timers to stand in front of a thousand runners and keep them four feet back from the edge of the timing mats. I suddenly had visions of the soccer stadiums in Brazil where hundreds are occasionally crushed in stampedes. No tragedies occurred this night. I was given ample time to get out of the way before the starting gun release all this pent-up energy into the night. Three times, waves of families, friends, lovers, dreamers, and competitors swiftly headed into the darkness of the night just out of reach of the arc lamps illuminating the start and finish lines. Suddenly the road emptied of its human potential.
The spectators drifted over to the finish line a few hundred yards away and waited anywhere from 4.5 minutes to 2.0 hours for their favorite athletes to re-emerge from the darkness into the brilliance of victory. Everyone who goes out and does even a short road race in the middle of the night is a winner in my book.
It was 3 AM before the last of the road race infrastructure had been dismantled and the streets re-opened to the combustion engine once again. Some of the YMCA staff had been on site for 22 hours. A lot of tired happy people slept well Friday night.
I went home feeling like I had been caught up in the stream of life. Literally I had.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The Geography of Miracles
Midtown
Atlanta, Georgia
Can a miracle really be a click away?
With the advent of the Internet, high resolution satellite imaging of the entire world, and with wireless digital communication of all kinds, distance has lost much of its meaning. Gone are the days when it took six months to two years for a letter to be delivered by a ship’s captain to a recipient on the far side of the world. Now it takes but a fraction of a second for a long letter with photos to be sent to a thousand people simultaneously in dozens of countries. The world does seem far smaller than it once did. This week the world felt even smaller to me in a numinous way. Sometimes God works in ways that defy explanation, even by systems network engineers.
For seven years I have been involved in an intercessory prayer project that is found in twenty four countries and as many American states. On Thursday night a large file is e-mailed to me. It contains Christian teachings, answers to prayers, and petitions for new prayer needs. Friday morning after I have edited it, I return it to the sender. On Saturday it is forwarded with photos to people in twenty-four countries. As a result of this prayer network, six hundred children in Kenya are now getting an education that includes safe drinking water, sanitation, solar lighting, and school supplies. Men are gainfully employed cleaning banks and hospitals to augment their meager incomes as ministers. A young gospel singer in South Africa had life saving cancer surgery this week because of this network. A hundred orphans and leprous widows in India eat every day and have clean safe places to live because God is able to send his mercy through this worldwide congregation of intercessors. It goes on this way in twenty-four countries because one person had a vision and reaches out and clicks others a lot, everyday.
A very different kind of Network is to be found in Atlanta, this one also discovered through an Internet link between two of God’s people on the Internet prayer team. Childspring International has special connections in a hundred countries. Children who are born with congenital defects or have experienced catastrophic injuries find their way into this network. It gives these children a real chance at life through the miracle of reconstructive surgery offered to them at no cost. One hundred and fifty children a year come to America to receive extensive treatment and rehabilitation. Airlines, stewardess, hospitals, physicians, and hundreds of volunteers donate their services to bring these miracles to pass for children who have drawn the short straw in life.
An eleven-year-old Bulgarian girl has retino-blastoma and it was only a matter of time before she will have lost all of her eyesight. Attempts at treatment have failed to arrest what is considered a progressive irreversible disease. Some months ago I was asked if I could surf the web and find some kind of facility that might be able to teach Kalina life skills that would enable her to navigate in her growing darkness. I was asked to find one in the southeast United States and if fortunes were really good, perhaps even in Georgia where Childspring has its offices. It is really important to be able to connect host families with these special needs children and a facility here in the southeast would make these logistics much easier. I am in South Carolina so a bit in the dark about what might be in the Atlanta area, if anything. Walgreen’s and CVs build pharmacies on every corner but benefactors don’t put up schools for the visually impaired on every corner, or even in every state. I was not optimistic but kept my thoughts to myself.
Clicking and drilling through the findings Google produced was a bit hopeful. A residential school for the blind turned up in Alabama but it seems that one had to be a resident of the state. Another turned up a couple hundred miles away. Another turned up a thousand miles away and another turned up in Canada. From the web sites it was difficult to determine of these schools could or would provide services to a foreign national and at what cost. Another site turned up after more drilling. The Center for the Visually Impaired turned up on virtual radar. From the web site it was not possible to tell if the Center could help her or would, or at what cost. Further research and contact proved that there would be a good fit for Kalina in this Center. It would also be able to provide Kalina’s services at no cost. There are some incredible benefactors that have made this magnificent program possible. As it turns out this fine facility is located a mere ten blocks from the Childspring offices! I can walk from one office to the other in twenty minutes or less. I started out hoping to find something in the western hemisphere and ended up finding the best possible answer within walking distance. An advertising slogan for the yellow pages says, “Let your fingers do the walking.” In this case the slogan ought to read, “Let your God do the clicking.”
I am in South Carolina and was asked by an agency in another state to find special assistance for a child from Bulgaria. I was asked to see if we could find services in the southeast. She ended up in the neighborhood.
Kalina was able to enter the Center for the Visually Impaired and learn those skills that will be so essential to her having a full and meaningful life. This Center proves to be a premier facility at teaching independence skills to the visually impaired. In fact, this is the primary mission of the facility. Kalina has just lost her remaining vision and she just graduated from this program on Friday, along with fifteen other children who make their life journeys in physical darkness. However, they travel in the brilliance of the love of God and those generous benefactors who made this opportunity possible. I was invited into this sacred space to see the baton of God’s love handed to these children by volunteers and staff that have found a passion that consumes them. Watching this graduation program in the basement of a building in downtown Atlanta was every bit the equal of my awe-inspiring experiences in the great cathedrals of Europe,
If one is uncertain if the world really is a warm friendly place, then one merely needs to visit the Center for the Visually Impaired and watch the volunteer staff work with these children. There really are people in America doing grand things and not getting paid for it with the currency of this realm. They are piling up their treasures in other places.
Atlanta, Georgia
Can a miracle really be a click away?
With the advent of the Internet, high resolution satellite imaging of the entire world, and with wireless digital communication of all kinds, distance has lost much of its meaning. Gone are the days when it took six months to two years for a letter to be delivered by a ship’s captain to a recipient on the far side of the world. Now it takes but a fraction of a second for a long letter with photos to be sent to a thousand people simultaneously in dozens of countries. The world does seem far smaller than it once did. This week the world felt even smaller to me in a numinous way. Sometimes God works in ways that defy explanation, even by systems network engineers.
For seven years I have been involved in an intercessory prayer project that is found in twenty four countries and as many American states. On Thursday night a large file is e-mailed to me. It contains Christian teachings, answers to prayers, and petitions for new prayer needs. Friday morning after I have edited it, I return it to the sender. On Saturday it is forwarded with photos to people in twenty-four countries. As a result of this prayer network, six hundred children in Kenya are now getting an education that includes safe drinking water, sanitation, solar lighting, and school supplies. Men are gainfully employed cleaning banks and hospitals to augment their meager incomes as ministers. A young gospel singer in South Africa had life saving cancer surgery this week because of this network. A hundred orphans and leprous widows in India eat every day and have clean safe places to live because God is able to send his mercy through this worldwide congregation of intercessors. It goes on this way in twenty-four countries because one person had a vision and reaches out and clicks others a lot, everyday.
A very different kind of Network is to be found in Atlanta, this one also discovered through an Internet link between two of God’s people on the Internet prayer team. Childspring International has special connections in a hundred countries. Children who are born with congenital defects or have experienced catastrophic injuries find their way into this network. It gives these children a real chance at life through the miracle of reconstructive surgery offered to them at no cost. One hundred and fifty children a year come to America to receive extensive treatment and rehabilitation. Airlines, stewardess, hospitals, physicians, and hundreds of volunteers donate their services to bring these miracles to pass for children who have drawn the short straw in life.
An eleven-year-old Bulgarian girl has retino-blastoma and it was only a matter of time before she will have lost all of her eyesight. Attempts at treatment have failed to arrest what is considered a progressive irreversible disease. Some months ago I was asked if I could surf the web and find some kind of facility that might be able to teach Kalina life skills that would enable her to navigate in her growing darkness. I was asked to find one in the southeast United States and if fortunes were really good, perhaps even in Georgia where Childspring has its offices. It is really important to be able to connect host families with these special needs children and a facility here in the southeast would make these logistics much easier. I am in South Carolina so a bit in the dark about what might be in the Atlanta area, if anything. Walgreen’s and CVs build pharmacies on every corner but benefactors don’t put up schools for the visually impaired on every corner, or even in every state. I was not optimistic but kept my thoughts to myself.
Clicking and drilling through the findings Google produced was a bit hopeful. A residential school for the blind turned up in Alabama but it seems that one had to be a resident of the state. Another turned up a couple hundred miles away. Another turned up a thousand miles away and another turned up in Canada. From the web sites it was difficult to determine of these schools could or would provide services to a foreign national and at what cost. Another site turned up after more drilling. The Center for the Visually Impaired turned up on virtual radar. From the web site it was not possible to tell if the Center could help her or would, or at what cost. Further research and contact proved that there would be a good fit for Kalina in this Center. It would also be able to provide Kalina’s services at no cost. There are some incredible benefactors that have made this magnificent program possible. As it turns out this fine facility is located a mere ten blocks from the Childspring offices! I can walk from one office to the other in twenty minutes or less. I started out hoping to find something in the western hemisphere and ended up finding the best possible answer within walking distance. An advertising slogan for the yellow pages says, “Let your fingers do the walking.” In this case the slogan ought to read, “Let your God do the clicking.”
I am in South Carolina and was asked by an agency in another state to find special assistance for a child from Bulgaria. I was asked to see if we could find services in the southeast. She ended up in the neighborhood.
Kalina was able to enter the Center for the Visually Impaired and learn those skills that will be so essential to her having a full and meaningful life. This Center proves to be a premier facility at teaching independence skills to the visually impaired. In fact, this is the primary mission of the facility. Kalina has just lost her remaining vision and she just graduated from this program on Friday, along with fifteen other children who make their life journeys in physical darkness. However, they travel in the brilliance of the love of God and those generous benefactors who made this opportunity possible. I was invited into this sacred space to see the baton of God’s love handed to these children by volunteers and staff that have found a passion that consumes them. Watching this graduation program in the basement of a building in downtown Atlanta was every bit the equal of my awe-inspiring experiences in the great cathedrals of Europe,
If one is uncertain if the world really is a warm friendly place, then one merely needs to visit the Center for the Visually Impaired and watch the volunteer staff work with these children. There really are people in America doing grand things and not getting paid for it with the currency of this realm. They are piling up their treasures in other places.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Observer
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
The Perfect Day, Anderson South Carolina
In the recovery world it is often stated that right action will lead to right thinking and right thinking will lead to right feelings. The implications are that our experience and perceptions of life will often be strongly determined by our feeling states. The reality is that feelings and little else often determine one’s perception of the quality of life. Perhaps this is why depression, anxiety, and other affective disorders are so devastating to those suffering from them. The structure of life can be sublime yet its benefits lost on the victims of affective angst.
The recovery journey teaches its pilgrims to fly by the instruments when life seems shrouded in darkness. Whether one’s nemesis is alcohol or drugs or some other form of all consuming addiction, the solution is identical. One finds through other people and God the help to do the next right thing, to have the next right thought, to live the first of a series of present moments that will turn into a whole day, which will in turn into a whole week, and then a whole year. We build a meaningful future by stringing together a series of meaningful present moments. We often find ourselves challenged to do the next right thing, whether we feel like it or not, trusting that eventually we will feel like it. We then can find ourselves living joyous, happy, and free lives
One of the useful tools to gaining wholeness is to take inventory of one’s day before falling asleep. We look at those things we did during the day and ask ourselves if they made the world friendlier, warmer, and safer to those around us. Did we contribute to community building? Did we give others hope? Did we draw closer to God? Did we give people laughter and joy? Did we do these things with a right attitude? While lying in bed this morning I again thought about what my day was like yesterday. I suddenly realized that it had been an absolutely perfect day, even though it did not feel like it.
The day started with me walking about forty minutes around a small lake in my neighborhood. Carrying a small deck of scripture promise cards, I worked at renewing my mind with promises that speak a very different message than the curses that were pronounced upon me in a troubled alcoholic childhood. The infusion of these promises into my mind along with mild exercise prepared me to do the next right thing.
On Wednesday mornings about a dozen of us gather at Meals on Wheels to cook and pack 650 hot lunches for the invisible and marginalized that are imprisoned by their infirmities and poverty. And so we did yesterday. The forgotten and discarded of an individualistic material culture were reminded that they really do have value and matter in God’s economy.
In much of the world people live at the lowest level of Maslow’s need hierarchy, consumed with the survival needs of shelter and food. These billions of people do not have the time or energy to think about purpose or actualization. As I do about this time every month, I went to a local grocery and made a funds transfer to a small orphanage in India. I then went to the public library and sent a control number via wi-fi e-mail to the orphanage. The hundred or so orphans and leprous widows that live in this small island of safety will eat and be attended to for another month. In the next few days I will get an e-mail containing digital pictures of a mountain of rice and those other things that make life more plausible. It is a profound return on investment for the half hour it takes me to do this each month
For those of us that own our own houses without the encumbrance of mortgages, it is easy to lose sight of the fact that decent housing is a huge issue for many people. In the recovery world of addictions, homelessness and poor shelter are rampant. Many of those trapped in poverty have forgotten how to dream. On Wednesday and Saturdays, and often on other days of the week, a group of us will gather with our tools at one of several sites to build dreams for those who have forgotten how to dream in their struggles for survival. We simply build simple decent houses in the poor parts of town under the auspices of Habitat for Humanity. Yesterday the sheetrock was finished in one of the houses and the vinyl finished on one end of the same house. The kitchen cabinets were planned out for another one of the three houses currently in progress. My part was to be up on an extension ladder installing vinyl siding. A fellow doing community service hours for underage drinking helped me. This took me up until about 2:30 PM.
Recovery is about finding a full meaningful life. It is a means to an end. Life should contain laughter and joy and friendship. Community theaters are good places for this to happen. Each afternoon I make it a point to go to the community theater and build sets for the plays we put on. There is nothing glamorous about working alone in a dark hot auditorium, yet on opening night the payoff is suddenly paid out under the bright Klieg lights. The joy the patrons get over the next several weeks is full compensation for my hot tiring work in the dark. Giving people a respite of good entertainment from their often-challenging lives is part of God’s economy.
Life is also about stewardship of one’s health and the local YMCA has been a grand place for me to exercise for several years. Besides getting exercise with other people who are embracing wellness and community, the Y provides the opportunity to make people feel visible and significant. Our Y has a lot of very elderly patrons and they are often uncertain about being on fitness floors with buff young men who seem to have it all. Simply speaking to them and offering assistance on the use of machines can make their day. I always leave the Y feeling, younger, better, and healthier. Perhaps some others do as well because I made it a point to do the next right thing and show up there one day.
An important part of drawing closer to God is to participate in the life of a church or other religious organization. Sometimes simply showing up for a Wednesday dinner and making a newcomer feel a part of the community is enough. I simply showed up last night and ate a lot of fine fish at our annual fish fry and made two new comers feel like their presence really matters. One of them left the church years ago because she felt invisible. My being there last night was a good thing for both of us.
There must be nothing like the pain experienced by a young mother who loses her kids because she has been drinking and driving her kids around while in black out. I cannot pretend to know this specific pain for myself but when asked by a mother if life can ever get better again, I can emphatically state that there is hope and that it positively can get better if she will own up to her problem with addictions and get help. She was in the right place to start a new journey to wholeness and I was allowed to be standing along her path for a few minutes.
A homeless man on the street needed a ride to the Salvation Army shelter. I took him over there and he felt like he had gotten a bit of a lift in life.
If I keep doing these things each day, perhaps one day I will find I am truly happy, joyous, and free. “All things do work together for those that love the Lord and are called according to His purposes.”
The recovery journey teaches its pilgrims to fly by the instruments when life seems shrouded in darkness. Whether one’s nemesis is alcohol or drugs or some other form of all consuming addiction, the solution is identical. One finds through other people and God the help to do the next right thing, to have the next right thought, to live the first of a series of present moments that will turn into a whole day, which will in turn into a whole week, and then a whole year. We build a meaningful future by stringing together a series of meaningful present moments. We often find ourselves challenged to do the next right thing, whether we feel like it or not, trusting that eventually we will feel like it. We then can find ourselves living joyous, happy, and free lives
One of the useful tools to gaining wholeness is to take inventory of one’s day before falling asleep. We look at those things we did during the day and ask ourselves if they made the world friendlier, warmer, and safer to those around us. Did we contribute to community building? Did we give others hope? Did we draw closer to God? Did we give people laughter and joy? Did we do these things with a right attitude? While lying in bed this morning I again thought about what my day was like yesterday. I suddenly realized that it had been an absolutely perfect day, even though it did not feel like it.
The day started with me walking about forty minutes around a small lake in my neighborhood. Carrying a small deck of scripture promise cards, I worked at renewing my mind with promises that speak a very different message than the curses that were pronounced upon me in a troubled alcoholic childhood. The infusion of these promises into my mind along with mild exercise prepared me to do the next right thing.
On Wednesday mornings about a dozen of us gather at Meals on Wheels to cook and pack 650 hot lunches for the invisible and marginalized that are imprisoned by their infirmities and poverty. And so we did yesterday. The forgotten and discarded of an individualistic material culture were reminded that they really do have value and matter in God’s economy.
In much of the world people live at the lowest level of Maslow’s need hierarchy, consumed with the survival needs of shelter and food. These billions of people do not have the time or energy to think about purpose or actualization. As I do about this time every month, I went to a local grocery and made a funds transfer to a small orphanage in India. I then went to the public library and sent a control number via wi-fi e-mail to the orphanage. The hundred or so orphans and leprous widows that live in this small island of safety will eat and be attended to for another month. In the next few days I will get an e-mail containing digital pictures of a mountain of rice and those other things that make life more plausible. It is a profound return on investment for the half hour it takes me to do this each month
For those of us that own our own houses without the encumbrance of mortgages, it is easy to lose sight of the fact that decent housing is a huge issue for many people. In the recovery world of addictions, homelessness and poor shelter are rampant. Many of those trapped in poverty have forgotten how to dream. On Wednesday and Saturdays, and often on other days of the week, a group of us will gather with our tools at one of several sites to build dreams for those who have forgotten how to dream in their struggles for survival. We simply build simple decent houses in the poor parts of town under the auspices of Habitat for Humanity. Yesterday the sheetrock was finished in one of the houses and the vinyl finished on one end of the same house. The kitchen cabinets were planned out for another one of the three houses currently in progress. My part was to be up on an extension ladder installing vinyl siding. A fellow doing community service hours for underage drinking helped me. This took me up until about 2:30 PM.
Recovery is about finding a full meaningful life. It is a means to an end. Life should contain laughter and joy and friendship. Community theaters are good places for this to happen. Each afternoon I make it a point to go to the community theater and build sets for the plays we put on. There is nothing glamorous about working alone in a dark hot auditorium, yet on opening night the payoff is suddenly paid out under the bright Klieg lights. The joy the patrons get over the next several weeks is full compensation for my hot tiring work in the dark. Giving people a respite of good entertainment from their often-challenging lives is part of God’s economy.
Life is also about stewardship of one’s health and the local YMCA has been a grand place for me to exercise for several years. Besides getting exercise with other people who are embracing wellness and community, the Y provides the opportunity to make people feel visible and significant. Our Y has a lot of very elderly patrons and they are often uncertain about being on fitness floors with buff young men who seem to have it all. Simply speaking to them and offering assistance on the use of machines can make their day. I always leave the Y feeling, younger, better, and healthier. Perhaps some others do as well because I made it a point to do the next right thing and show up there one day.
An important part of drawing closer to God is to participate in the life of a church or other religious organization. Sometimes simply showing up for a Wednesday dinner and making a newcomer feel a part of the community is enough. I simply showed up last night and ate a lot of fine fish at our annual fish fry and made two new comers feel like their presence really matters. One of them left the church years ago because she felt invisible. My being there last night was a good thing for both of us.
There must be nothing like the pain experienced by a young mother who loses her kids because she has been drinking and driving her kids around while in black out. I cannot pretend to know this specific pain for myself but when asked by a mother if life can ever get better again, I can emphatically state that there is hope and that it positively can get better if she will own up to her problem with addictions and get help. She was in the right place to start a new journey to wholeness and I was allowed to be standing along her path for a few minutes.
A homeless man on the street needed a ride to the Salvation Army shelter. I took him over there and he felt like he had gotten a bit of a lift in life.
If I keep doing these things each day, perhaps one day I will find I am truly happy, joyous, and free. “All things do work together for those that love the Lord and are called according to His purposes.”
Friday, May 30, 2008
Late Illuminations - Slade, Kentucky
Natural Bridge State Park
For some months now, Bill and I have been planning on a day journey to visit a picturesque natural rock formation that spans an ancient river gorge. Bill has been most excited about showing me the world of Eastern Kentucky in which he grew up. On the phone he described the incredible views available to those who are willing to climb up a steep trail to the top of this old Appalachian river gorge. I was hopeful of seeing breath taking images much like those the great landscape painter Albert Bierstadt was able to capture on canvas in the 19th century.
Alas, the day we had available to visit Natural Bridge dawned dark, gray, and wet. This is the third day of dense cloud cover and it is telling on our mood. Yet, we did not let it impede any of our planned activities. About 11 AM we headed west for the Natural Bridge State Park, which is supposed to be the crown jewel of the Kentucky state park system. With the park shrouded in dense cloud and rain at 2 PM it was hard to tell if this is true. All I saw was milky white. I was reminded of the time I invited friends from England to climb Whiteside Mountain in North Carolina, only to see dense white cloud. I told them to imagine a valley floor thousands of feet below. So it was with Bill telling me to imagine what was below.
We did go ahead and hike up to the natural bridge in drizzle and dense cloud. It was very mystical and despite the conditions I was able to get some fine images. The grand fern and tree species that thrive in these mountains require long periods of being shrouded in dense cloud with drizzle. There is a price for everything. The geologic formations are impressive and the park trail maintenance is very good. It was very easy to climb the various trails. This park has many of the pleasant sensibilities I have always found in other state and national parks. It would be easy to shift focus from exotic foreign destinations to nearby state parks. They really do attract a very different unpretentious kind of person. To wit: we encountered a nice talkative fellow on the trail who was a pipe fitter for Ford for 38years.
With some reluctance we left the park about 4 PM, figuring to go to Lexington for the rest of the day and Saturday since the weather was not conducive to hiking about the mountains or capturing grand vistas with a camera.
We quickly changed our plans and decided on an urban outing to some of the Lexington spring festivals, despite the hideous cost of gasoline. Bill pulled up a faded memory of a restaurant down by the Kentucky River, sort of on the way to Lexington. Amazingly, we hunted it down fairly easily, despite an obscure location. We found a distinctive local color place cantilevered over the river, fairly remote from any immediate town. The setting was actually most pleasing, reminding me of many such places in the United Kingdom.
While eating there, the dense cloud cover of three-days duration suddenly dispersed and we found ourselves looking out into brilliant sun for the first time in three days. The late afternoon illuminations in a crisp clear cerulean sky suggested it might be worthwhile to quickly retrace our steps.
We decided to drive the hour back to the park to see if we could actually get to the top of the gorge in time to film the sunset. We actually got to the park at exactly the right time to hike up to the bridge to catch the sunset. It was helpful to do another hike. I really did need the exercise. I can tell the difference when I don’t get aerobic exercise. The hike to the natural bridge is only half a mile but very steep. I think the gain in elevation is about 1000 feet. The views from the top were crystalline clear and did afford views up and down the river gorge. The full moon presently itself at just the right time to illuminate the lavender sky one finds in the east at sunset.
We decided this park really is better experienced as a destination rather than as a mere stop on the way to someplace else. We were able to get a room cancellation and stayed in the resort lodge in the park. The view out the plate glass of our room was much like that from a well-done tree house. The room and its context were really fine.
I was up early enough for a quiet wandering around the lake, and various assorted facilities of the park lodge. Bill sleeps late on vacations so I have a lot of morning time by myself. I get a powerful sense of many people working in this resort and having a truly happy compact world to live in. A square dance facility on a small island was truly compelling. An island has been developed as a single purpose dance floor with bleachers and bandstand. I had powerful images of happy people dancing under the stars and living totally in the moment. The appeal of state parks was really strong while walking about the empty spaces in the early morning.
In the afternoon while walking about and seeing young happy families, my speculations of early morning about family life in state parks were reinforced. It was hard to not resent my childhood having been truncated by alcohol and drugs. I saw some incredible mothers creating magic for their children. A Caucasian couple and two adopted Korean boys were poking around, looking for insects with magnifying glasses. I could not wander what it would have done for my mental health if Mom had me foraging for bugs with a magnifier instead of fetching her pills and drinks.
The dining room in the resort lodge reminded me of a simpler more rustic time from 40 years ago. There is a natural earth tone stone motif of interior design that was common in the 40s and 50s that I find comforting and more enduring than the faddish motifs of the present day. The unassuming pleasant wait staff added to the overall sense of the resort. Bill was nearly in love with the woman who waited on us. It would have taken little to convince me to stay a few more days in this oasis of tranquility.
I now pay a lot more attention to those brown roadside signs. I get a big yield on my tax dollars when I partake of the offerings in these grand parks.
For some months now, Bill and I have been planning on a day journey to visit a picturesque natural rock formation that spans an ancient river gorge. Bill has been most excited about showing me the world of Eastern Kentucky in which he grew up. On the phone he described the incredible views available to those who are willing to climb up a steep trail to the top of this old Appalachian river gorge. I was hopeful of seeing breath taking images much like those the great landscape painter Albert Bierstadt was able to capture on canvas in the 19th century.
Alas, the day we had available to visit Natural Bridge dawned dark, gray, and wet. This is the third day of dense cloud cover and it is telling on our mood. Yet, we did not let it impede any of our planned activities. About 11 AM we headed west for the Natural Bridge State Park, which is supposed to be the crown jewel of the Kentucky state park system. With the park shrouded in dense cloud and rain at 2 PM it was hard to tell if this is true. All I saw was milky white. I was reminded of the time I invited friends from England to climb Whiteside Mountain in North Carolina, only to see dense white cloud. I told them to imagine a valley floor thousands of feet below. So it was with Bill telling me to imagine what was below.
We did go ahead and hike up to the natural bridge in drizzle and dense cloud. It was very mystical and despite the conditions I was able to get some fine images. The grand fern and tree species that thrive in these mountains require long periods of being shrouded in dense cloud with drizzle. There is a price for everything. The geologic formations are impressive and the park trail maintenance is very good. It was very easy to climb the various trails. This park has many of the pleasant sensibilities I have always found in other state and national parks. It would be easy to shift focus from exotic foreign destinations to nearby state parks. They really do attract a very different unpretentious kind of person. To wit: we encountered a nice talkative fellow on the trail who was a pipe fitter for Ford for 38years.
With some reluctance we left the park about 4 PM, figuring to go to Lexington for the rest of the day and Saturday since the weather was not conducive to hiking about the mountains or capturing grand vistas with a camera.
We quickly changed our plans and decided on an urban outing to some of the Lexington spring festivals, despite the hideous cost of gasoline. Bill pulled up a faded memory of a restaurant down by the Kentucky River, sort of on the way to Lexington. Amazingly, we hunted it down fairly easily, despite an obscure location. We found a distinctive local color place cantilevered over the river, fairly remote from any immediate town. The setting was actually most pleasing, reminding me of many such places in the United Kingdom.
While eating there, the dense cloud cover of three-days duration suddenly dispersed and we found ourselves looking out into brilliant sun for the first time in three days. The late afternoon illuminations in a crisp clear cerulean sky suggested it might be worthwhile to quickly retrace our steps.
We decided to drive the hour back to the park to see if we could actually get to the top of the gorge in time to film the sunset. We actually got to the park at exactly the right time to hike up to the bridge to catch the sunset. It was helpful to do another hike. I really did need the exercise. I can tell the difference when I don’t get aerobic exercise. The hike to the natural bridge is only half a mile but very steep. I think the gain in elevation is about 1000 feet. The views from the top were crystalline clear and did afford views up and down the river gorge. The full moon presently itself at just the right time to illuminate the lavender sky one finds in the east at sunset.
We decided this park really is better experienced as a destination rather than as a mere stop on the way to someplace else. We were able to get a room cancellation and stayed in the resort lodge in the park. The view out the plate glass of our room was much like that from a well-done tree house. The room and its context were really fine.
I was up early enough for a quiet wandering around the lake, and various assorted facilities of the park lodge. Bill sleeps late on vacations so I have a lot of morning time by myself. I get a powerful sense of many people working in this resort and having a truly happy compact world to live in. A square dance facility on a small island was truly compelling. An island has been developed as a single purpose dance floor with bleachers and bandstand. I had powerful images of happy people dancing under the stars and living totally in the moment. The appeal of state parks was really strong while walking about the empty spaces in the early morning.
In the afternoon while walking about and seeing young happy families, my speculations of early morning about family life in state parks were reinforced. It was hard to not resent my childhood having been truncated by alcohol and drugs. I saw some incredible mothers creating magic for their children. A Caucasian couple and two adopted Korean boys were poking around, looking for insects with magnifying glasses. I could not wander what it would have done for my mental health if Mom had me foraging for bugs with a magnifier instead of fetching her pills and drinks.
The dining room in the resort lodge reminded me of a simpler more rustic time from 40 years ago. There is a natural earth tone stone motif of interior design that was common in the 40s and 50s that I find comforting and more enduring than the faddish motifs of the present day. The unassuming pleasant wait staff added to the overall sense of the resort. Bill was nearly in love with the woman who waited on us. It would have taken little to convince me to stay a few more days in this oasis of tranquility.
I now pay a lot more attention to those brown roadside signs. I get a big yield on my tax dollars when I partake of the offerings in these grand parks.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Rainy Day Options, Mt. Olive, Kentucky
Carter Caves State Park
What better activity in the world to do on a rainy day than to play like one is with Jules Verne and making a journey to the center of the earth? And so it was for Bill and I. We have been planning for months to enjoy day trips to some of the fine state parks in Eastern Kentucky, and we were not about to let rain ruin this plan for us today. Caving suddenly became a viable option for us.
After a fine leisurely time with three hospitable women in Central Park for a spontaneous rain-free picnic, we headed west about forty miles to Carter Caves State Park in a dense rain which started up just after we left Ashland. We arrived in the state park during a lull in the downpour, which allowed us to have a pleasant short hike through some really picturesque woods and rock formations while waiting for a tour of one of the twenty caves that have been mapped in the park. I found myself completely present and happy to the experience of being in this park, cloaked in the emerald green of new spring. The extensive rock formations were entrancing and gave me a happy anticipation of the world below ground being just as interesting. Happily, I scampered about taking pictures. With digital cameras one can be completely reckless, no longer confined by the budgetary realities of using film.
The rain gods were good to us once again. The rains held off and did not start up in earnest until just before we entered the caves with two other very pleasant couples. A very enthusiast park ranger led our little group below the surface. I have always been entranced with the happy positive people that work in state and national parks. The ranger was rather gracious and knowledgeable about the caverns in the park. His country good old boy ways made the imagery of rural Kentucky most satisfying. Those working in the visitor center and gift shop reinforced my very positive view of those that get to work in parks. I have always had a sense that those who work in parks know that they have privileged circumstances.
The caverns were well endowed with formations of various kinds -stalactites, stalagmites, soda straws, drapery, bacon, columns, and translucent sheets. The lighting that had been installed in the caverns was such that I was able to get a very nice set of photos without using flash. The lighting was understated and added just enough color to accent what naturally was to be found in the mineral formations. There were no red, blue, green, or yellow flood lamps. It actually may be that I now have enough images from my assorted journeys to put together a cave lecture. Perhaps one of the best things about travel is to think about how the experience can be shared with others. I have been told more than once, “I would rather see the world through your eyes than through my own.” While wandering through the chambers of the Cater Caverns I was thinking about how I would show these to others that don’t have the good fortune of crawling around underground in the cool dark chambers, millions of years in the making.
It also occurred to me that I could make several nice additions to my Appalachian Paradise lecture with the pictures I took above ground. My head has been in a very good space today, even though in the blackness of the subterranean world.
We came above ground and our little temporary community of seven dispersed to four different cars and we each headed back to our own lives. One of the great intrigues of travel is the intersection of lives that take place in the most unlikely of places.
What better activity in the world to do on a rainy day than to play like one is with Jules Verne and making a journey to the center of the earth? And so it was for Bill and I. We have been planning for months to enjoy day trips to some of the fine state parks in Eastern Kentucky, and we were not about to let rain ruin this plan for us today. Caving suddenly became a viable option for us.
After a fine leisurely time with three hospitable women in Central Park for a spontaneous rain-free picnic, we headed west about forty miles to Carter Caves State Park in a dense rain which started up just after we left Ashland. We arrived in the state park during a lull in the downpour, which allowed us to have a pleasant short hike through some really picturesque woods and rock formations while waiting for a tour of one of the twenty caves that have been mapped in the park. I found myself completely present and happy to the experience of being in this park, cloaked in the emerald green of new spring. The extensive rock formations were entrancing and gave me a happy anticipation of the world below ground being just as interesting. Happily, I scampered about taking pictures. With digital cameras one can be completely reckless, no longer confined by the budgetary realities of using film.
The rain gods were good to us once again. The rains held off and did not start up in earnest until just before we entered the caves with two other very pleasant couples. A very enthusiast park ranger led our little group below the surface. I have always been entranced with the happy positive people that work in state and national parks. The ranger was rather gracious and knowledgeable about the caverns in the park. His country good old boy ways made the imagery of rural Kentucky most satisfying. Those working in the visitor center and gift shop reinforced my very positive view of those that get to work in parks. I have always had a sense that those who work in parks know that they have privileged circumstances.
The caverns were well endowed with formations of various kinds -stalactites, stalagmites, soda straws, drapery, bacon, columns, and translucent sheets. The lighting that had been installed in the caverns was such that I was able to get a very nice set of photos without using flash. The lighting was understated and added just enough color to accent what naturally was to be found in the mineral formations. There were no red, blue, green, or yellow flood lamps. It actually may be that I now have enough images from my assorted journeys to put together a cave lecture. Perhaps one of the best things about travel is to think about how the experience can be shared with others. I have been told more than once, “I would rather see the world through your eyes than through my own.” While wandering through the chambers of the Cater Caverns I was thinking about how I would show these to others that don’t have the good fortune of crawling around underground in the cool dark chambers, millions of years in the making.
It also occurred to me that I could make several nice additions to my Appalachian Paradise lecture with the pictures I took above ground. My head has been in a very good space today, even though in the blackness of the subterranean world.
We came above ground and our little temporary community of seven dispersed to four different cars and we each headed back to our own lives. One of the great intrigues of travel is the intersection of lives that take place in the most unlikely of places.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Central Park, Ashland Kentucky
Central Park
One of the great joys of traveling to new places are the surprises that often appear before unsuspecting eyes. Such was the case when I found myself today in an old steel and coal town along the Ohio River. My first impressions of the city of Ashland, Kentucky were less than stellar – vast mountains of coal being loaded onto barges at the river front, noisy labyrinthine railroad switching yards, stinking refinery plants shrouded in clouds of toxic air pollutants. Yet, underneath the accretions of a declining smokestack industrial empire, one finds an emerald jewel. It is much like finding a pearl of great price in a battered oyster shell.
A mere six blocks from the rusting industrial architecture on the riverfront is a large city park of perhaps a hundred and fifty acres surrounded by dozens of spectacular restored houses from a by-gone century when the prosperity of coal and steel allowed tycoons to build their lavish dreams. The City of Ashland clearly is home to a number of visionary citizens who sought to save their architecture and build a jewel of a city park. Having been in many of the world’s great cities and having enjoyed their grand parks, it is very easy to see them as among the greatest assets in public life.
One of the greatest and most rewarding journeys one can make in life is the one which leads us to wholeness of mind and body. It is often an arduous journey but the mercies of God do allow us blessed seasons of rest, even if but for the brief span of a couple of hours. On distant journeys, I have often found my rest in churches at midday. At noon I was sitting in a fine old brick Episcopal church when a woman came up behind me, unseen, and kissed me on top of my head. I was quite astonished until the woman apologized profusely and explained that she mistook my balding pate for another one of similar appearance. I readily accepted her apology and told her she could kiss my bald head anytime. Alas, we parted ways with my wondering about this person that dispenses lavish kisses to strange heads.
The 23rd Psalm is often considered the most powerful imagery ever created with words. Most compelling in this endearing promise of hope is the assurance that God will lead us into green pastures for rest and beside still waters for refreshment of our thirsty souls. I was walking with a good friend in the nearby park after leaving the church and he pointed out someone nearby. Sitting at a picnic table by the bucolic lake and fountains that mark the center of Ashland’s crown jewel, was the very woman who had endowed me with her mistaken affections. Perhaps the world really is small, warm and friendly after all. We approached her table and were quickly invited to sit with her. She even offered paper towels to dry the benches, still wet from a morning rain.
I was to soon learn that her wisdom is of far greater value than her kisses. She too is on a long journey to wholeness of mind and body. Sitting at the picnic table by the lake, I felt as if I was in one of the great lecture halls of Oxford or Cambridge. I was offered sage counsel on facing the myriad challenges of life that I quickly discerned had been learned from experience, not from textbooks. I even felt compelled to get pen and paper and make notes, not wanting to risk her pearls of wisdoms to retention in my uncertain wisps of memory. I did, indeed, find great refreshment for a thirsty soul by the still waters of Central Park and rest in a very real field of emerald green grass beneath ancients trees planted by visionaries long gone onto their greater rewards.
I suspect my daily meditations on Psalm 23 will be forever more visual and experiential after my experience today. Central Park in Ashland is a powerful metaphor that brought this Psalm to life today for a weary traveler. I found refreshment and rest from one of God’s messengers and did so in a time of dryness and weariness. Certainly, my experience in Ashland’s Central Park was the equal or better than any of those I had in London’s Hyde Park or Paris’ Luxembourg Gardens. It even bested my luminous times in the Stadt Park of Vienna.
I am reminded of the promises of Isaiah. “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not weary, they shall walk and not faint.”
God sent me my own messenger today to tell me it will get better if I wait on him.
One of the great joys of traveling to new places are the surprises that often appear before unsuspecting eyes. Such was the case when I found myself today in an old steel and coal town along the Ohio River. My first impressions of the city of Ashland, Kentucky were less than stellar – vast mountains of coal being loaded onto barges at the river front, noisy labyrinthine railroad switching yards, stinking refinery plants shrouded in clouds of toxic air pollutants. Yet, underneath the accretions of a declining smokestack industrial empire, one finds an emerald jewel. It is much like finding a pearl of great price in a battered oyster shell.
A mere six blocks from the rusting industrial architecture on the riverfront is a large city park of perhaps a hundred and fifty acres surrounded by dozens of spectacular restored houses from a by-gone century when the prosperity of coal and steel allowed tycoons to build their lavish dreams. The City of Ashland clearly is home to a number of visionary citizens who sought to save their architecture and build a jewel of a city park. Having been in many of the world’s great cities and having enjoyed their grand parks, it is very easy to see them as among the greatest assets in public life.
One of the greatest and most rewarding journeys one can make in life is the one which leads us to wholeness of mind and body. It is often an arduous journey but the mercies of God do allow us blessed seasons of rest, even if but for the brief span of a couple of hours. On distant journeys, I have often found my rest in churches at midday. At noon I was sitting in a fine old brick Episcopal church when a woman came up behind me, unseen, and kissed me on top of my head. I was quite astonished until the woman apologized profusely and explained that she mistook my balding pate for another one of similar appearance. I readily accepted her apology and told her she could kiss my bald head anytime. Alas, we parted ways with my wondering about this person that dispenses lavish kisses to strange heads.
The 23rd Psalm is often considered the most powerful imagery ever created with words. Most compelling in this endearing promise of hope is the assurance that God will lead us into green pastures for rest and beside still waters for refreshment of our thirsty souls. I was walking with a good friend in the nearby park after leaving the church and he pointed out someone nearby. Sitting at a picnic table by the bucolic lake and fountains that mark the center of Ashland’s crown jewel, was the very woman who had endowed me with her mistaken affections. Perhaps the world really is small, warm and friendly after all. We approached her table and were quickly invited to sit with her. She even offered paper towels to dry the benches, still wet from a morning rain.
I was to soon learn that her wisdom is of far greater value than her kisses. She too is on a long journey to wholeness of mind and body. Sitting at the picnic table by the lake, I felt as if I was in one of the great lecture halls of Oxford or Cambridge. I was offered sage counsel on facing the myriad challenges of life that I quickly discerned had been learned from experience, not from textbooks. I even felt compelled to get pen and paper and make notes, not wanting to risk her pearls of wisdoms to retention in my uncertain wisps of memory. I did, indeed, find great refreshment for a thirsty soul by the still waters of Central Park and rest in a very real field of emerald green grass beneath ancients trees planted by visionaries long gone onto their greater rewards.
I suspect my daily meditations on Psalm 23 will be forever more visual and experiential after my experience today. Central Park in Ashland is a powerful metaphor that brought this Psalm to life today for a weary traveler. I found refreshment and rest from one of God’s messengers and did so in a time of dryness and weariness. Certainly, my experience in Ashland’s Central Park was the equal or better than any of those I had in London’s Hyde Park or Paris’ Luxembourg Gardens. It even bested my luminous times in the Stadt Park of Vienna.
I am reminded of the promises of Isaiah. “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not weary, they shall walk and not faint.”
God sent me my own messenger today to tell me it will get better if I wait on him.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Faces Across Time - Atlanta
I found myself in Atlanta again but four days after my last journey there. Unlike my prior journey, which was for entertainment and frivolity, this one was sacred and assumed several dimensions.
My involvement with an Atlanta-based charity now finds me transporting children from the Shriner’s Hospital in Greenville, SC to Atlanta to prepare for return journeys to their home countries. Childspring International has as its mission the finding of children in the dark corners of the earth who are in need of radical life-saving surgery. Perhaps one hundred children a year are brought to Atlanta and then sent on to hospitals and host families throughout the United States for treatment that will save their lives or give them a new face or reconstructed limbs that will give them a chance at normal lives.
So it was today that I found myself taking a six-year-old boy from Haiti and a sixteen year old girl from the Philippines to Childspring in preparation for their return home. Olwitch was happily running around on his new feet. He will return to Haiti sans the wheelchair that has been a necessary part of his young life. Katrina will return to Manila and able to stand tall with her friends after having a severe scoliosis of her spine corrected.
Perhaps the most popular subject for artists throughout time has been the human face. The children at Childspring experience art of the highest order. Many of our children have fallen into cook fires in the developing world and had their faces burned away. Surgeons perform artistry on these children and create astonishing results that will rival anything painted by Rembrandt or Renoir or created in the dimness of antiquity. I stared with rapt attention at several pairs of before and after photos of children that have recently been given radiant new faces by dedicated plastic surgeons. Even though Olwitch and Katrina did not have their faces operated on, their faces were transformed by radiant smiles, knowing they would return home able to walk and stand tall.
After saying farewell to Olwitch and Katrina I found myself in the afternoon looking into a small blue face made of copper. Six thousand years of time elapsed since that face was created and I looked at it with focused attention. For an hour I viewed faces from the earliest reaches of recorded history. The Childspring offices happen to be across the street from a very large complex of buildings forming a great art museum. When I went across the street I also went across six millenniums. The High Museum was hosting an exhibition of antiquities from the Louvre in Paris. It was in the museum that I realized some things never change. Smiling faces are indeed our favorite subjects to apply our artistic talents to. One only has to think of the popularity of the Mona Lisa with its enigmatic smile in the Louvre or of the small copper face from 240 generations ago that was looking back at me through the glass today, or of the faces transformed by the modern miracle of reconstructive surgery.
Another thing that never changes is God’s love of Children. Just ask Olwitch or Katrina about that.
My involvement with an Atlanta-based charity now finds me transporting children from the Shriner’s Hospital in Greenville, SC to Atlanta to prepare for return journeys to their home countries. Childspring International has as its mission the finding of children in the dark corners of the earth who are in need of radical life-saving surgery. Perhaps one hundred children a year are brought to Atlanta and then sent on to hospitals and host families throughout the United States for treatment that will save their lives or give them a new face or reconstructed limbs that will give them a chance at normal lives.
So it was today that I found myself taking a six-year-old boy from Haiti and a sixteen year old girl from the Philippines to Childspring in preparation for their return home. Olwitch was happily running around on his new feet. He will return to Haiti sans the wheelchair that has been a necessary part of his young life. Katrina will return to Manila and able to stand tall with her friends after having a severe scoliosis of her spine corrected.
Perhaps the most popular subject for artists throughout time has been the human face. The children at Childspring experience art of the highest order. Many of our children have fallen into cook fires in the developing world and had their faces burned away. Surgeons perform artistry on these children and create astonishing results that will rival anything painted by Rembrandt or Renoir or created in the dimness of antiquity. I stared with rapt attention at several pairs of before and after photos of children that have recently been given radiant new faces by dedicated plastic surgeons. Even though Olwitch and Katrina did not have their faces operated on, their faces were transformed by radiant smiles, knowing they would return home able to walk and stand tall.
After saying farewell to Olwitch and Katrina I found myself in the afternoon looking into a small blue face made of copper. Six thousand years of time elapsed since that face was created and I looked at it with focused attention. For an hour I viewed faces from the earliest reaches of recorded history. The Childspring offices happen to be across the street from a very large complex of buildings forming a great art museum. When I went across the street I also went across six millenniums. The High Museum was hosting an exhibition of antiquities from the Louvre in Paris. It was in the museum that I realized some things never change. Smiling faces are indeed our favorite subjects to apply our artistic talents to. One only has to think of the popularity of the Mona Lisa with its enigmatic smile in the Louvre or of the small copper face from 240 generations ago that was looking back at me through the glass today, or of the faces transformed by the modern miracle of reconstructive surgery.
Another thing that never changes is God’s love of Children. Just ask Olwitch or Katrina about that.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
An Urban Outing - Atlanta
Living in a small semi-rural town with the pastures but a half-mile away makes for a calmer more serene way of life. Yet, for one having lived in Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and several other large cities there can be a longing for the stimulation and excitement of the big city. They tend to be grand places bursting forth with life. So it was I headed west.
One day this week was given to a journey to Atlanta to see a matinee comedy production called “Menopause: The Musical.” This proved to be clearly a ‘chick’ production as there were about six men in the audience of four hundred. Yet, I found it rather entertaining. I have a secret enjoyment of chick flicks and a not so secret enjoyment of women in general so it was rather easy to participate in this outing. The play was extremely funny and well-done and rather high energy. The lead actress (a statuesque blonde) came on our bus following the play and made pictures with some of our group. She then planted a fine set of lipstick imprints on my forehead. Others on the bus suggested I might not want to wash my face for the next month. I tended to agree. I had garnered quite a trophy on my journey to the big city.
About forty-five were on the bus and I had the happy circumstance of sitting with a good friend coming and going from South Carolina and during lunch. She is a rather well grounded person and I found her very honest and helpful in her conversations about dealing with her big life challenges. It was the first time we have really had extended one-on-one conversation. Our conversations in the past were always in the context of volunteer work with a lot of people in our midst. We had four hours to talk.
The group enjoyed a fine meal at the Madison Grill. The service was prompt and attentive. A busload of forty-five did not faze the wait staff. I had a fine salmon Caesar salad and several pieces of truly decadent chocolate sin. The other women at my table insisted they could not eat their delights. I made sure there was no plate waste.
The climate was idyllic and nearly expansive. The breezes and sun and newly budding trees were signals that spring is very close now. We go to daylight savings next week and the evenings will suddenly be light and fresh. The dark cold evenings of winter will be nearly forgotten.
One day this week was given to a journey to Atlanta to see a matinee comedy production called “Menopause: The Musical.” This proved to be clearly a ‘chick’ production as there were about six men in the audience of four hundred. Yet, I found it rather entertaining. I have a secret enjoyment of chick flicks and a not so secret enjoyment of women in general so it was rather easy to participate in this outing. The play was extremely funny and well-done and rather high energy. The lead actress (a statuesque blonde) came on our bus following the play and made pictures with some of our group. She then planted a fine set of lipstick imprints on my forehead. Others on the bus suggested I might not want to wash my face for the next month. I tended to agree. I had garnered quite a trophy on my journey to the big city.
About forty-five were on the bus and I had the happy circumstance of sitting with a good friend coming and going from South Carolina and during lunch. She is a rather well grounded person and I found her very honest and helpful in her conversations about dealing with her big life challenges. It was the first time we have really had extended one-on-one conversation. Our conversations in the past were always in the context of volunteer work with a lot of people in our midst. We had four hours to talk.
The group enjoyed a fine meal at the Madison Grill. The service was prompt and attentive. A busload of forty-five did not faze the wait staff. I had a fine salmon Caesar salad and several pieces of truly decadent chocolate sin. The other women at my table insisted they could not eat their delights. I made sure there was no plate waste.
The climate was idyllic and nearly expansive. The breezes and sun and newly budding trees were signals that spring is very close now. We go to daylight savings next week and the evenings will suddenly be light and fresh. The dark cold evenings of winter will be nearly forgotten.
Coastal Visions - Charleston
Living in South Carolina has its distinct advantages. We have four seasons of climate change each year without the temperature extremes other areas have. One nice snow fell January 16th and allowed me to have a magical setting for a theater party. The snow was gone the next morning. South Carolina has what is known as the fresh water coast – a necklace of large lakes extending all the way down the southwestern border of the state. Of course, we have a salt-water coast with a grand necklace of islands and salt marshes. It was in this part of the world I found myself during the weekend – to experience a little bit of Heaven.
After 270 miles of driving in rain accreting from dense cloud, I arrived at Seabrook Island south of Charleston for a three-day men’s retreat. The five hours of travel time was used as a mini-retreat, listening to four CD’s on the merits of prayer as a way to relieve one’s life of complete chaos. The drive was quite uneventful and stress-free. A good omen for the weekend was a complete cessation of the rain during the time I was unloading all of my things from the car and carrying them to a weathered gray cabin on the sand. This retreat center has provided me with many a happy memory in years past and this year was no different. Saturday proved bucolic –74 degrees and clear. Sunday was much the same.
During dinner our first night we enjoyed grouper and shrimp. A five star chef gave up an immensely lucrative career as an executive chef in a hotel in order to have a ministry of feeding top quality food to those that come for retreats and camp experiences. All of our meals were quite opulent and served on linen. Our times were seasoned with stimulating conversation. My table ended up with several pilots who shared their intriguing stories.
There is nothing like being with 160 men in a serene coastal setting who are really seeking to improve their lives and the lives of those they love. These men gathered from several states to hear topical presentations on how to experience the sovereignty of God in the sometimes severe challenges of daily life. We all left after three days rather inspired and well fed in body, mind and spirit. Upon my return home Sunday night I was invited to join a dozen others in a local eatery for another fine repast.
Life was good this weekend
After 270 miles of driving in rain accreting from dense cloud, I arrived at Seabrook Island south of Charleston for a three-day men’s retreat. The five hours of travel time was used as a mini-retreat, listening to four CD’s on the merits of prayer as a way to relieve one’s life of complete chaos. The drive was quite uneventful and stress-free. A good omen for the weekend was a complete cessation of the rain during the time I was unloading all of my things from the car and carrying them to a weathered gray cabin on the sand. This retreat center has provided me with many a happy memory in years past and this year was no different. Saturday proved bucolic –74 degrees and clear. Sunday was much the same.
During dinner our first night we enjoyed grouper and shrimp. A five star chef gave up an immensely lucrative career as an executive chef in a hotel in order to have a ministry of feeding top quality food to those that come for retreats and camp experiences. All of our meals were quite opulent and served on linen. Our times were seasoned with stimulating conversation. My table ended up with several pilots who shared their intriguing stories.
There is nothing like being with 160 men in a serene coastal setting who are really seeking to improve their lives and the lives of those they love. These men gathered from several states to hear topical presentations on how to experience the sovereignty of God in the sometimes severe challenges of daily life. We all left after three days rather inspired and well fed in body, mind and spirit. Upon my return home Sunday night I was invited to join a dozen others in a local eatery for another fine repast.
Life was good this weekend
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Brown Bag on Broadway Lake
A day trip of a mere four hours to a bucolic lake a mere eight miles from my house proved important in a number of respects. It was one of those journeys into relationship rather than one into the history of the ancient castles of Europe or the picturesque mountains of the Blue Ridge Escarpment of Appalachia. Some musings came from my time with Bob at his cabin on the lake.
It has been my great fortune to have enjoyed opulent meals in some truly grand restaurants. I recall the magnificent meals on the 95th floor of the John Hancock Center in Chicago. One time during a sumptuous dinner we could see lightning striking below, the sky above and beneath us turning that magnificent lavender hue. There was the incredible Windows to the World restaurant on top of the World Trade Center. The helicopters below were like honey bees going from flower to flower, shuttling unknown VIPs from the top of one building to another. There were grand meals in Paris, Tokyo, Bangkok, Antwerp, Jakarta, and London. There was a stupendous six-hour fifteen course wedding feast in a medieval castle in northern Italy. There was the delectable ten-course meal in the floating Sea Palace in Hong Kong harbor. There have been hundreds of meals in the great dining rooms of cruise ships. It has been my experience to delight in many a grand culinary adventure.
We have those days when the smallest things can become so very important to the maintenance of our sanity and sense of self. We have those days when we need to be strongly reminded that life really is a magnificent gift and that others really do love us completely. Some of us forget far too easily. So it was ordained yesterday that I ended up being given four hours of a dear man’s life to be reminded of these important realities. It was truly luxurious to be granted an un-encumbered uninterrupted block of time with a very busy man who normally is out of state on business. Conversation, prayer, reminiscing, and a bit of lamenting seasoned our time together. We declared our time really good.
I remember looking down at all of the fine porcelain and china plates in Europe and Asia and being thankful for the great privilege to be dining in such places. I have always had a sense of awe in being allowed such splendid opportunities.
It was in my friend’s screened in boathouse that I found myself looking down into the top of an ordinary brown bag with. In there I could see a large turkey sandwich in a zip-loc bag and a bottle of water. At that moment I realized these were holy gifts from a holy God who knew I needed a reminder of His love that day. Bob’s dear wife had made this meal and sent it to me as an offering of God’s love.
I was immediately reminded of the phrase in the liturgy of the Eucharist, which is pronounced when the consecrated elements are lifted up, “This is holy, you are holy”. It was so very easy to remember to offer a prayer of thanksgiving just before beginning to dine. I ate slowly and with great reverence, just as I do when at the altar rail.
Alleluia
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Promises of Possibilities, Oconee County, South Carolina 2-2-8
The bucolic lake, paddle boats, and the diving platform all suggest summer is here. The cerulean skies with mottled textures of cirrus streaks make me certain that diving into the sapphire water would refresh my day. Alas, it is only February 2 here in the mountains and we need be content to let the mallard ducks have their own way in the water today. It is not so bad. It would be a lot worse if we dove in with them! We had the good health and sixty degree sunshine in mid winter to hike six miles up onto an overlook and enjoy our lunch with a 270 degree view of this glorious region of the planet we call the Blue Ridge Escarpment or the Southern Appalachian Paradise.
Having awakened early enough I prepared crab salad sandwiches, yogurt, fruits, snacks, and even put in some breakfast foods. We started out in 28-degree air and needed some warm building energy food until that sixty-degree sunshine arrived in our midst. And so it did. It is so grand to get off the couch and to go stand on high places and give thanks for the beautiful world our God has made for us. Do come out here and enjoy it. There is room for others here. We saw but one other hiker the whole day.
Craig Johnson
Tamassee Knob, South Carolina
Having awakened early enough I prepared crab salad sandwiches, yogurt, fruits, snacks, and even put in some breakfast foods. We started out in 28-degree air and needed some warm building energy food until that sixty-degree sunshine arrived in our midst. And so it did. It is so grand to get off the couch and to go stand on high places and give thanks for the beautiful world our God has made for us. Do come out here and enjoy it. There is room for others here. We saw but one other hiker the whole day.
Craig Johnson
Tamassee Knob, South Carolina
Transformations, Sassafras Mountain, South Carolina 1-26-8
This day began dark, dreary, and cold, just like the litany of days that have been passing by us since the winter solstice crossed our calendars a month ago. A devotional book I read says that yesterday is the most depressing date of the entire year. It’s been cold forever, the holidays are done, bills are coming due, and we are headed into that long empty stretch on the calendar.
Thirteen of us decided to take matters into our own hands and brave the elements and make a hike from the top of the highest mountain in South Carolina and work our way about six miles to the west. We had no expectation whatever of snow and ice being the offering of the day. We arrived at the summit of Mount Sassafras by car (yes we partly cheated) and set off from the trailhead to find that the north side of the mountain was completely covered in snow and ice. For one wearing nice walking shoes worn smooth by five years of walking, this was an ominous sign. It did not help that I had met up with the group sans gloves, and walking sticks. I thought we were having just a fine little Saturday afternoon walk. Fortunately, my friend Tom was a bit better prepared and had spare gloves and a sturdy stick for me to use. I traded him a bottle of water for them as he had forgotten his water. I did not feel quite so stupid, knowing that a very experienced hiker had shown up with no water. Traversing the ice and snow did prove challenging and caused me to focus closely on each little spot that might allow me some safe footing. I also made a note to get some appropriate boots since it is my plan to hike with some regularity once again.
At late morning in the space of a mere hundred feet we came off the snow and ice and found ourselves walking on dry leaves under the branches of a majestic deciduous forest. The three dogs in our midst were delirious with the new found traction and streaked off into unknown regions. The cloud covered thinned and teased us with the promise of thready weak sunlight. We took the opportunity to take the first of two stops to eat and soon thin streaks of blue sky on the horizon were making us ever more hopeful of a warming trend. Actually, I was more interested in the possibility of bright photons that could chase off those winter doldrums, which can get intense this time of year.
We set off our repast and soon found ourselves walking in an evergreen forest with a cobalt sky overhead. The under story consisted of majestic rhododendron. The sun-drenched hemlock, spruce, and rhododendron forest with warm leaves covering the ground seemed far removed from the dark ice and snow we had traversed but three hours before. The climate for our second meal break was rather grand. The sky was much like an October one with jet contrails indicating the trail taken by those not interested in walking with us over the mountain. A short nap in the leaves followed. We completed our journey about 3 PM, loading up dogs and gear and heading back to the low lands. Walking can certainly exceed economy class most of the time, and it makes us less dependent on foreign oil.
Craig Johnson
Sassafras Mountain, South Carolina
Thirteen of us decided to take matters into our own hands and brave the elements and make a hike from the top of the highest mountain in South Carolina and work our way about six miles to the west. We had no expectation whatever of snow and ice being the offering of the day. We arrived at the summit of Mount Sassafras by car (yes we partly cheated) and set off from the trailhead to find that the north side of the mountain was completely covered in snow and ice. For one wearing nice walking shoes worn smooth by five years of walking, this was an ominous sign. It did not help that I had met up with the group sans gloves, and walking sticks. I thought we were having just a fine little Saturday afternoon walk. Fortunately, my friend Tom was a bit better prepared and had spare gloves and a sturdy stick for me to use. I traded him a bottle of water for them as he had forgotten his water. I did not feel quite so stupid, knowing that a very experienced hiker had shown up with no water. Traversing the ice and snow did prove challenging and caused me to focus closely on each little spot that might allow me some safe footing. I also made a note to get some appropriate boots since it is my plan to hike with some regularity once again.
At late morning in the space of a mere hundred feet we came off the snow and ice and found ourselves walking on dry leaves under the branches of a majestic deciduous forest. The three dogs in our midst were delirious with the new found traction and streaked off into unknown regions. The cloud covered thinned and teased us with the promise of thready weak sunlight. We took the opportunity to take the first of two stops to eat and soon thin streaks of blue sky on the horizon were making us ever more hopeful of a warming trend. Actually, I was more interested in the possibility of bright photons that could chase off those winter doldrums, which can get intense this time of year.
We set off our repast and soon found ourselves walking in an evergreen forest with a cobalt sky overhead. The under story consisted of majestic rhododendron. The sun-drenched hemlock, spruce, and rhododendron forest with warm leaves covering the ground seemed far removed from the dark ice and snow we had traversed but three hours before. The climate for our second meal break was rather grand. The sky was much like an October one with jet contrails indicating the trail taken by those not interested in walking with us over the mountain. A short nap in the leaves followed. We completed our journey about 3 PM, loading up dogs and gear and heading back to the low lands. Walking can certainly exceed economy class most of the time, and it makes us less dependent on foreign oil.
Craig Johnson
Sassafras Mountain, South Carolina
Oak Portals, Atlanta, Georgia 1-22-8
It was one of those cold drab days of winter, a short gray one just past the winter solstice. A spitting semi-frozen rain accreted on the windshield as I drove one hundred thirty miles. Traces of recent snows fluoresced in the woods along the roadway. While hoping for a break in the leaden clouds, which never came, I became resigned to not seeing any color before nightfall. As it happened, a fleck of iridescent paradise unexpectedly washed up on the shores of my life during mid-afternoon.
Sometimes one is greatly surprised by what is concealed by closed doors. And so it was today when I pulled on the fine antique brass knob attached to a century-old oak door at the end of a narrow blind hallway. Even the clues of this fine old door did not prepare me for what lay on the far side. I opened it and passed through to find myself standing on the tiled dais of a sanctuary from another time and place, perhaps from the mythical city of Chiron. The feeling was a bit like passing through a fictional Star Gate or some kind of wormhole. The realities and troubles of a large angry city were instantly left behind. I gawked with head facing upward into dazzling lights that chased away any remembrance of the steel dullness of the journey.
On either side of me were a hundred feet of Tiffany glass windows depicting the seminal events in the Christian story. The luminous nature of these images was so stunning, so believable; merely looking at them helped my faith. In my mind, no one could possibly put this much effort, talent, and expense into creating these epic windows unless they depicted absolute truth. Before me was a Rose window that drew me further into this faith journey, a journey from drabness into the spectral brilliance of new life. Could it really be true for me?
I left this soul haven and went to do my business elsewhere and was draw to return in the afternoon. This time I had not only those visual images to immerse myself in; the immense organ was resonating throughout the sublime space. A recitalist was practicing for an upcoming program. Today he had an attentive audience of one.
I wandered back into the raining reality of a dreary rainy winter day, knowing that there is an inner light that glows regardless of the climate, that a song can be sung in my heart despite the cacophony of life, no longer crowding out the solitude and serenity that give us true knowledge of the One who sends flecks of paradise into our lives every day.
Craig Johnson
Atlanta, Georgia
Sometimes one is greatly surprised by what is concealed by closed doors. And so it was today when I pulled on the fine antique brass knob attached to a century-old oak door at the end of a narrow blind hallway. Even the clues of this fine old door did not prepare me for what lay on the far side. I opened it and passed through to find myself standing on the tiled dais of a sanctuary from another time and place, perhaps from the mythical city of Chiron. The feeling was a bit like passing through a fictional Star Gate or some kind of wormhole. The realities and troubles of a large angry city were instantly left behind. I gawked with head facing upward into dazzling lights that chased away any remembrance of the steel dullness of the journey.
On either side of me were a hundred feet of Tiffany glass windows depicting the seminal events in the Christian story. The luminous nature of these images was so stunning, so believable; merely looking at them helped my faith. In my mind, no one could possibly put this much effort, talent, and expense into creating these epic windows unless they depicted absolute truth. Before me was a Rose window that drew me further into this faith journey, a journey from drabness into the spectral brilliance of new life. Could it really be true for me?
I left this soul haven and went to do my business elsewhere and was draw to return in the afternoon. This time I had not only those visual images to immerse myself in; the immense organ was resonating throughout the sublime space. A recitalist was practicing for an upcoming program. Today he had an attentive audience of one.
I wandered back into the raining reality of a dreary rainy winter day, knowing that there is an inner light that glows regardless of the climate, that a song can be sung in my heart despite the cacophony of life, no longer crowding out the solitude and serenity that give us true knowledge of the One who sends flecks of paradise into our lives every day.
Craig Johnson
Atlanta, Georgia
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