Morning First Word at Holden Village at Six Months

Good morning! 

My name is Kathleen. I serve the village as……

lead hugger, hand holder, tear wiper, lover, mermaid, listener, encourager, bread baker, barber and poet. 

I'm starting to keep a list of things I love and am grateful for - to offset the things that I find difficult and challenging at Holden. Here is a partial list. I hope to keep adding to the beauty…..to remember and keep a healthy perspective on the hard days. I have learned that hard can also be good. 

I love experiencing communion served from hand thrown pottery. 

I’m thankful for Beanie’s and the baristas behind the counter. 

I’m grateful for the lime green velvet couch in our cozy room at the BOTTOM of chalet hill. 

I’m thankful for Terry, his guitar and his songs that make me cry and laugh. 

I’m glad Craig has learned to make good beer from scratch. 

I’m thankful Carolyn generously shared her weaving wisdom, enthusiasm and experience with me. 

I love the snow globe like atmosphere of winter here in the village. 

I’m glad I have been able to try snowshoes for the first time ever. 

I love being able to play with clay and to have the opportunity to learn from an artist and teacher of George’s caliber. 

I’m thankful I’m learning how to weave baskets and backpacks from Marty even though mine will never be collectibles. 

I love getting to know the looms and learning to weave textiles. 

I love the river flowing beside the village. 

I love all the heart shaped rocks I find. 

I enjoy the deer and their fawns. 

I love observing mama bears with cubs. 

I love seeing Craig during the day and getting lots of hugs, kisses and whisker rubs. 

I like seeing Craig driving the Bobcat. He's a stud muffin! 

I love not having to deal with traffic and light pollution and grocery shopping.   

I like seeing new green ferns sprouting through charred ash and wood.

I love the waterfalls cascading down the mountains. 

I love the children in the village. 

I love meeting people who have traveled all over the world and experienced incredibly varied adventures.

I am thankful for the pictures I’ve captured of beautiful hands doing lovely work.

I’m thankful for the pictures I’ve captured of villagers at play and full of joy.  

  

I’m thankful for the love and affection people give me. 

I am thankful for being asked, invited, and included. 

I’m thankful for a porch swing and those who come to swing with me. 

I’m grateful for a hummingbird feeder to invite the jewel birds. 

I love the spring wildflowers which bloom in such profusion. 

I’m glad to be able to see the stars and the moon hanging above the basin.

I’m thankful for sweet water to drink. 

I’m grateful for rainbows. 

I enjoy the Lady of the Lake ride to and fro - on beautiful Lake Chelan. 

I’m glad for wholehearted people who crave intimacy and connection and engagement. 

I love the accessible hiking trails to Hart and Holden lakes.  

I’m thankful for soft shoulders to cry on when needed. Danielle’s are the best - FYI. 

I dearly love bagpipes echoing through this valley.

I’m thankful for our beloved medic who knows looms and how to fix them when they break. 

I love pursuant people who are curious and interested. 

I love to cheer and clap and celebrate with you. 

I love being brave enough to dance and risk look ridiculous in public - for the first time. 

I love having water to swim in. 

I love all the places available to hang my hammock. 

I’m grateful our chalet has a fireplace and a piano. 

I am grateful for the supplies in Curley that enable me to bake bread in our own chalet. 

I’m thankful for people who allow me to pray for and with them. 

I’m glad for the raku kiln which doubles as an awesome pita bread hearth oven. 

Most of all - I’m thankful for candlelight. It makes us all incredibly beautiful.

Daisy Paths

Bev gave Tessa a bridal shower. We looked out the window to their back yard and saw Jon, her husband, placing daisies face up all over the grass in a path to the still empty wicker chairs waiting for guests.

To Tessa, daisies represent uncomplicated, unsophisticated joy and happiness.

The daisies grow wild everywhere around here. They are free. They did take some thought and planning, some noticing, some investment, some time, and some follow through.

I think gifts like this bless the giver, the receiver, and those of us watching. The shower was sweet. Yummy food was heaped on the table, and gorgeous decorations were draped everywhere.

The gifts were thoughtful. There was intimacy. There were tears between young women who have been friends a long time.

But the daisies. Daisies made a mama and her daughter feel beloved.

It brought tears to my eyes. Jon and Bev have known Tessa for many years. They know she likes wild flowers and especially daisies. Our girls always said if we died, they wanted Jon and Bev to be their guardians.

Over the last few months, Tess more than once has said, "Man, I love that Jon Hatfield." Or, "I just love Bev, mom."

I'm grateful for good neighbors and good friends. And long history that says, "You matter, we are going to believe the best about each other and see this thing through till the end. And by the way - may I borrow a cup of butter or your staple gun?" Or, "We have an extra melon, could you use it?" Or, "Here, let us help you with that." Or, "Could we go biking or swimming or camping this weekend?"

Seth's Version

of the Golden Rule
scales when shipped.

First you recognize
and come to believe
you're an artist by his
definition, then you
start living like you
really do believe it.

While on vacation I downloaded Seth Godin's latest three books. Graceful, V is for Vulnerability, and The Icarus Deception. Novels aren't the only good beach reading material. 

His writing is nutritious whole food without plastic packaging. No waste. Nothing to discard. It doesn't give you a sugar rush insulin spike like self-help motivational goo does. There isn't a plummeting sense of despair when you can't quite measure up to the hype the morning after. Or, the morning after that because there's nothing to measure up to. There's only someone to be. Your best loving self, the one who loves their neighbor as much as that.   

I believe we all desperately want to feel acknowledged, seen, noticed, and named.We need reminded that what we do in our everyday lives - matters. It gives us fuel to love more.

If that is the bull's eye, his aim is true and he hit the mark. His words are validating, affirming, and immensely encouraging. Consistently healing. Generously loving. It's like he's committed his life to minister (in the truest sense of the word) to the whole world. I'm thankful.  

I think I've always felt like a poser saying with assurance and confidence that I'm an artist. By his definition - in every way - I'm an artist. Wow. 

Hi, I'm Kathleen. I'm an artist. [smiling] [waving] 

Sleepover

I was six, potty trained
many years when I surprised
myself and everyone else by
wetting my pants, wrecking
long laid plans for
an overnighter.

What young boy
curious to
be a man
would want
to try
to enter
that?

I came home for clean clothes
and stayed. I also stayed
ashamed, but came away
from that night intact.

For Warren Farha

He intuits a young poet needs Jayber Crow to cut his first Berry wisdom teeth on. 

I come begging counsel from a generous librarian willing to direct fledgling spiritual formation and midwife my thirsty, gaping soul. 

His care and passion for passing on well crafted wordsmithing reminds me of Helene's beloved Frank Doel - purveyor and curator of painterly words.

The remedy exists if you missed out on your own 84 Charingcross Road experience. You can find it in Wichita, Kansas where Warren's bottomless bag of gifts waits for you. 

I have my finger poised, ready to click and pre order when he finally decides to write and publish his own work. Nobody can be as sensitive, intuitive, and well read as he is and NOT be a prolific writer. I'm waiting Warren. 

I had fun stalking this bag, the coolest bag I've ever seen, and asking for and getting a private photo shoot. The patina? Let's just say.....patina matters....it helps break the ice. 

Recap 2011

Because we don't live a Christmas Letter life, I can't write one. The pictures would be a little troubling also. Sorry. We can't laugh about it all yet, but maybe someday.

Here is a recap, though. Our year started with Brita getting rear ended, totaling her car and breaking her ribs. Christmas was not fun for her, nor were the many weeks after. Tess was sick four different times, each lasting for about seven weeks. Tests. Tests. And more tests with no answers. Craig was hit by an oncoming car turning in front of him as he was riding his motorcycle. He was in pain most of the summer and fall. Shoulder, ribs, neck, knees, and arm. The internal bruises have been slow to heal. He experienced depression for the first time in his life. I experienced him not being able or capable to bear the load he usually does. I concluded that I take his emotional and physical strength for granted. This, I purpose to rectify. I still have the piece of shattered glass from his windshield. It is in the shape of a heart. I'm grateful he wasn't taken from us that day.

We added two kitties to the estrogen laden air in our home. If I don't get them fixed soon, I'm afraid we will have two batches of kitties birthed in our closet. The kitties made us smile and laugh with their playfulness. They alone had the fortitude to lay curled up next to Tess for hours at a time bringing warmth and comfort. Brita cared for her sister in intimate and generous ways that most siblings never experience. She nursed and bathed and cleaned up after her. She found perfectly tempting food for Tess's wilted palate. Her tenacity was a welcomed character quality as it translated into a year's worth of never giving up. Love is an action verb to Brita. We all were the recipients of it many times over this year. Somehow she carried all of us at different times. She is a woman of substance. Beloved. Complex. Mysterious. Beautiful inside and out.

Tess was the most uncomplaining patient in history. I watched her be disappointed and lose heart each time she got sick, but I also saw her catch the tail of hope and rise with it. I witnessed her training her thoughts to comply, obey, and be disciplined instead of rule over her. This I admire in one so young. Her thought processes  are those of a mature woman. An old soul. I don't fear for her future. She taught me how to live this year. She has an ethereal loveliness that comes from experiencing great trouble. It's in her eyes. Forever.

We had some fun vacations and getaways this fall. Restorative days. At this moment in time our family is intact. Our love is thriving. We have our home and garden, heat and a full freezer, hot water and soft beds. Life is good. Life is sweet. And the bright spots and light places and good memories twist together with the hard parts making strong rope.

Loverby's mom always proclaimed after a bad harvest, "Well, maybe next year will be better."

I don't think it was a bad harvest after all is said and done, but I do hope next year will be better. :)

Ode to Twitter Bird

Two years ago my world expanded 

exponentially. Because of Twitter,

and you. Twitter seemed scary back

then-a different world speaking a 

new language. The learning curve 

at middle age gets fierce, but you

 all were patient. My eyes opened 

to new conversations and new ways

 of thinking. The cravings and

 tenderest desires of my heart found

 a path, easy to follow on my 

timeline page day after day. 

My curiosity was aroused, satisfied, 

and whetted again, only to be 

satiated once more. My favorite

 thing, the thing that has stimulated

 me more than anything else has 

been observing the 

 creative creative pursuits of

 people from all over the world. 

Being exposed to artist in all 

mediums, writers, and poets 

has lit my fire too. I'm compelled 

to try what others are brave 

enough to try. It gives me 

courage to face my own 

blank piece of white space. 

Following behind the @ were 

names of strangers who now have 

become friends. Someday, I wish 

we all could sit around a big table 

together. I could finally hug you, 

feed you, see your eyes sparkle 

or tears run. We aren't strangers 

any more. Thanks for not  following

 your mama's advice. I want you 

to know that your words, links,

 shares, mentions, RT's and @replies 

have held me up when life became 

to heavy to bear alone. This is my thanks.

 This is what community looks like from 

my point of view. 

Ironing the Wrinkles Out

Advertising couldn't convince mom we needed a toy ironing board and iron that wouldn't work. We couldn't afford to waste money on an Easy Bake Oven. We used her real tools of the trade. I'm thankful for this.

Mom had a huge pile of unending ironing. It was before permanent press and wrinkles don't go away when clothes are hung on a line. When she got the courage to face that mound, I loved watching her sprinkle each piece by flicking water with her hand, then rolling them up to keep the moisture in until she was ready to iron it. If the budget allowed her the luxury, a can of spray starch was sparingly used.

The best part was when the last piece was hung up in the door frame and she put the ironing board down to its lowest notch just right for my height. Dad's white hankies were mine to finish. If there was spray starch left for me to crisp them it was heaven. It was serious work. Important work. Loving work. It seemed necessary and I was chosen and entrusted with it. I found great pleasure in it.

I don't remember any catastrophes. I do remember hours of playing house with the real stuff of life.

When I want to take it down a notch and let my mind have a complete rest, I plug in the iron and pull out the ironing board. It feels like recess, not a chore. I find a pile of clean vintage napkins, aprons, or hankies, a hot iron, and a $1.89 bottle of spray starch. The spray starch still feels like an extravagance....

The wrinkles in my head are smoothed with each finished piece. My brain becomes more orderly as the stack of folded pieces gets higher. It's like my mind becomes a kaleidoscope of new visions and colorful thoughts. When I do this peaceful activity, it feels like I have the freedom, authority, and permission to rename things ~ like I could be chosen next time to give paint and crayons their colorful names.

Camping

He helps me
into water
washing my skin
and hair tender
before
leading me to lay
down clean ~
heaven above,
earth beneath,
water beside us ~

loving me back
from exhaustion.

Like a stuck

casement window, 

handle gears rusted~

wanting to stay shut~ 

he cranks me

wide open, 

letting fresh love 

blow through. 

The stars peek inside

open screens, then 

shoot across the sky

in applause.

Watching the flame

lick and caress the wood

till its colors 

come out glowing

pink, purple, red, 

blue, apricot, and yellow

makes me 

want to stay 

burning also ~

to fear not 

the dark.  

The colors of bruises 

are also the colors of

rainbows. 

Unlikely Pair

Dick Staub doesn't do celebrity coming or going. Neither does Nigel Goodwin. What they do is dream up ways to gather artistic creative thinkers. They encourage, include, endorse, and foster. Kindling is a way to start fires and keep them burning. 

They both have lion sized hearts. Untamable hair. Voices that roar over valleys and bounce off the highest hills. Hugs that mend aching, fatherless hearts. 

Nigel wears funky street dancer shoes just in case the mood should strike him to tear up the pavement. His signature style is butterfly colored socks and jackets unmatched to anything else he wears. He is unabashedly bold about being seen in public this way. He tries to keep Dick stocked up on colorful socks, to no avail. Barefoot is better. It must be an island thing?

Kay Redfield Jameson in Exuberance tells of the musical that Jim Dale wrote about P.T. Barnum's extraordinary life. It reminds me of Nigel. 

Barnum is portrayed as keeping at bay his own and the world's ennui by spinning off energy and joy. "Through a night as dark as space / And cold as the sea / Someone's got to make it bright / Shoot a rocket, shine a light." Someone, in short, has to build a fire.  Exuberance, Barnum knew, is complicated. Exuberance is contagious. 

In the musical he also sings ~

"The colors of my life

 Are bountiful and bold 

The dazzle of a flame 

The glory of a rainbow 

I put them all to shame. 

no quiet browns and grays 

I'll take my days instead 

And fill them til they overflow 

With rose and cherry reds. 

And should this sunlit world 

Grow dark one day 

The colors of my life 

Will lead a shining light 

To show the way."  

She also quotes C.S. Lewis. It reminds me of Dick's untiring work to see his vision come into being and bear fruit.

"Good things as well as bad are caught by a kind of infection. If you want to get warm you must stand near the fire: if you want to get wet you must get into the water. If you want joy, power, peace, eternal life, you must get close to, or even into, the thing that has them.....They are a great fountain of energy and beauty spurting up at the very centre of reality. If you are close to it, the spray will wet you: if you are not, you will remain dry." 

Might I explain Kindlingsfest 2011 this way?  I've been both warmed and wetted three years in a row. I don't have to have a studio, an audience, or a patron to be creative. I don't need permission, degrees, pedigrees, or papers. I don't need to have a maid, or months of solitude. I only need a way of thinking and being. A way of living each day noticing beauty. I need to choose it amidst the interruptions and disruptions of real life. I want to use color, words, my voice, my gifts, and our home in ways that dance and sing and cast prisms for me and others to swim in.

May these men (and their forbearing, steadfast wives and families) receive more grace, much mercy, and heaped to overflowing blessing upon blessing. Someday we will stand with all heaven and applaud as they receive the  eternal, "Well done boys, well done."

The Kindlings has a wide assortment of links and doors to look behind. You'll discover the dots connecting with International Arts Movement, Taproot Theater, Jeff Keuss's new book, Your Neighbor's Hymnal, Image Journal, and more. The recorded interviews and podcasts are a gold mine of interesting dialogue. The archives are deep and wide. Take a deep breath and dive.

Early Phone Call

When the phone rings at six in the morning, it usually isn't someone wanting to have a friendly chat. A week ago Wednesday, the phone woke me. I picked it up and saw Loverby's number. Instead of saying, "Hello" I said, "Did your motorcycle run out of gas again?" "No, it's worse than that. Someone turned in front of me - I'm in the hospital. Will you come and pick me up?"

His shaking voice told me to hurry. My one comfort was that he was able to call and the news wasn't from a nurse or an officer.

On the way home, I stopped at the scene of the accident trying to find his new prescription glasses. Shattered glass was mingled with broken reflectors and a headlamp. I didn't find his glasses, but in the rubble, sparkling to be noticed, was a heart shaped piece of windshield.

I'm a grateful wife, thankful for the miracle, grateful that the sacred was not torn from my hand. 

Manliness

When you observe a man who has a wife that glows - you see a lover who has studied his wife well.

When you observe a man who has grateful children - you see a father who has truly loved.

This man is kind in public or in private. In his home and outside his home.

This man uses his strength to protect instead of hurt.

This man cares accurately for his wife and children's heart, their wounds, their joy. He breathes air into their dreams.

This man is generous secretly.

This man has a wife who responds to physical intimacy and affection with matching hunger.

This man's words are congruent with the way he lives.

This man believes the best about people.

This man is comfortable with who he is, giving him the wherewithal to be a good friend.

This man is mine.

Once more, I'm grateful beyond words for the gift of living with a man who shows me the face of God, over and over again.

(Yes, whenever I come home from a trip I appreciate my life with greater clarity.)

Tessa Past and Present

Many people have asked what is Tessa's story. We didn't really know she had one until recently when the patterns started repeating and the symptoms got more intense.

This last time we all believe her safety was in other hands, supernatural ones. She was not functioning normally.  Her drive from the Boise airport to her place was a miracle. The first 5 days she was gravely ill. It was terrifying to watch a limp, lethargic daughter laying there for days.

This is a brief medical history as we remember it:

Chief Complaint: Progressively increasing intensity of debilitating symptoms associated with flying as demonstrated by the following history.  (related from most current to present) These symptoms have not appeared during a flight. They usually start the day after a flight and linger.   January, 2011 Flight: Boise to Seattle Utilized pressure equalization with no ear pain. Post flight day 2:  fatigue, eye pressure, minimal nausea Day 3:  Space Needle Trip (650 ft in 43 seconds, 10 MPH).  Symptoms following were extreme fatigue, slow gait, no appetite, lightheadedness, blurry vision, pressure in eyes, inability to focus, disorientation, gait disturbance by that evening.  She asked if her eyes were bleeding? Eyes kept rolling around in a strange way. Day 4:  Woke up gagging, diarrhea, vomiting (dry heaves), felt disoriented. Flight scheduled that night to return to Boise.  Flight: Seattle to Boise 1/19/11 Inability to focus to find car/follow signs to exit.  Eye pain, Heart pain, and difficulty breathing.  Extremely blurry vision, felt like she was in a tunnel.  By the time she made it to the home of relatives, her skin was white and she was disoriented, pupils dilated, shaking uncontrollably. 1/20/11:  Following day:  extremely lethargic, slowed speech, difficulty responding to questions.  Aware of her surroundings but inability to respond.  Emotional lability, crying hysterically.  (This is contrary to her natural character).  Progressively non responsive.  Inability to eat or drink. Admitted to ER.  Treatment:  monitored her vitals, IV for hydration, anti-inflammatory meds and benedryl. Migraine RX recommended which we did not fill. - Hide quoted text - Treatment administered: Tylenol PM : 2 capsules on 1/20 Gaba  4 times/day, Adrenal support: 2 capsules 2x/day. Vit. C: 1000mg. TID Calcium/Magnesium Hydrated with water as able.  Response:  different pattern of healing this time:  This time her mind is clearing but bodily symptoms are slower. 1/23/11:  Still slow and sluggish motor coordination, decreased ability to coordinate vision, disconnect from her body. Update today, January 31. She went to work for 4 hours. Able to drive. She is connecting and coordinating better. Her tongue feels tight and clumsy when she tries to talk. Since she started to talk again, it has gotten more noticeable. Her left eye has continued to be scratchy, irritated, bruised, achy with pressure behind it.  Fall, 2008  Seattle to Hawaii Nausea, blurred vision, eye pressure, lightheadedness, disorientation, slow motor movement and speech.  Slow recovery upon return to home but kept working. Summer, 2007  Seattle to Mississippi No notable symptoms following this flight. Summer, 2007  Seattle to Austria (3 month stay) Day 2 post flight:  sick, lightheadedness, disorientation, blurred vision, inability to visually or mentally focus, body/brain disconnect, fatigue, needed to lie still and stay in quiet environment.  Saw a german MD but translation issues were difficult. Given antibiotics thinking it was an inner ear infection. Required 3 weeks to get back to normal. Flight home from Austria:  Similar symptoms occurred as described above.  Saw primary MD who suggested anti depressants.  Saw a psychologist for 6 weeks who determined it was not a mental health issue. Anti depressants meds were declined. Went to see a vision specialist:  negative results Short MRI performed:  Negative relults ENT:  Negative.  “He felt is was due to an over active imagination, too much salt?  and panic attacks. 2006, Seattle to Israel (2 week trip) Symptoms following:  extreme fatigue, nausea and vomiting, inability to participate in tour requiring bedrest. Lightheadedness, slowed movement and speech. Eye pain and blurred vision, confusion.  Tried Dramamine: seemed to accentuate her symptoms. 2005  Seattle to Austria (3 month stay) No significant symptoms noted other than fatigue. 2004 Seattle to Israel Symptoms:  Sick the 2nd day after arrival with lightheadedness, disorientation, lethargy and fatigue. 2003, age 14 Seattle to North Dakota Symptoms:  sick following flight with fatigue, ear pain and inability to depressurize ears.  Other PMH:  fractured clavicle at age 12 She isn't motion sick. She doesn't have vertigo. We have followed trails for possible altitude sickness/decompression sickness, or aerotoxic syndrome. Both were negative.  Tomorrow she has an appointment with an opthamologist - not to see if she needs new glasses.......   I'm staying with her this week until she is completely stable or we know something more. Keep us in your thoughts and prayers, please. :)

Winter

The last month has been different. I've was holed up in the craft room creating - most of December. There are times when deliberate isolation and solitude are needed. Creating gets my feathers smooth again, lubes the gears, and fills me up. Quickens and quiets me.

We spent Christmas with my family of origin in Southern Idaho for the first time in years. It was a good day, simple and uneventful. Everyone left for home on a good note. All of us siblings were together.

Craig and Brita drove home to Washington without me. I stayed to help Tessa get settled into her new life and apartment. It is a miniature home in a brick fourplex. We had fun furnishing it with essentials.

I washed and changed sheets downstairs. It is ready for company again. Mom has a never ending round of overnight guests. I moved upstairs with her . We are snuggling in her king sized bed in the master bedroom.

Yes, I'm fifty and love sleeping with my mom. She smells like warm toast and has the silkiest skin. We wake up and hold hands while watching the sunrise over the canyon walls. Mist from the warm water ponds puff up into the cold air, making each morning a new mystery.

I fly back home Saturday where I will pick up my real life. It has been strange being offline for so long. I feel rested and full. Mom has nurtured and nourished me and my family. I am thankful.

I have my yearly bronchitis attack going on. She heats towels in the warmer at night to put on my chest and back smothered in Vicks. She heats the tea kettle for a dunk under the steam tent we make in the sink. I don't think any of us lose our need to be mothered and fathered. Lord, be with the orphaned ones.

I've been holding history in my hands this week - old journals, old music, pictures, letters, tools, recipes, records, and stories. I am storing every detail in my mind.

"We have this moment to hold in our hands......."

I have missed you all! The Twitterers, The Facebookers, The Google Readers, The Bloggers, The Beloved Friends and encouragers. I hope 2011 will be full of love, kindness, generousity, adventure, risk, comfort, making memories, new friends, and art of every kind and medium. Let the music play and let color dance all around us.

Smooch.

Man in Black

Harnesses and hames hang 

with dusty reins 

tangled in single trees.

The surrey sings

 a red fringe on top song.

Horseshoes fit hooves 

as big as dinner plates 

for working horses 

 drafting with pride.

Yoked together

 beasts obey bit

attached to reins 

held gentle. 

Knowing hands feel 

current passing through 

leather ~ master and team ~ 

at one. 

Double trees, cutters, and sleighs

collect our storied past.

The springy buckboard

 dream made from scratch

 takes his lady easy

on Sunday drives slow.

Runners, wheels, and antique 

saddle frames restored 

preserve history.

Bells and rings attach 

when it's time

 to play dress up. 

Prancing, they put on a 

show for us and 

the man in black. 

I love the prowess of reinsmen. Garfield and Uncle Cliff have given us many hours of pleasure. The sleigh rides and hay rides on the wagon are epic memories. Thank you. 

Tribute to a Teacher

His name unknown

demeanor humble

a teacher

simply offering

one track of time

 traveling deeper 

deeper into silence

for deeper understanding

towards deeper reading

spurring deeper response

  to write alive words

alongside

songs sung sweet

the track in this trail

blazed hot

kindled a fire

branding need into life 

propagating

 days of invitation to

 swim together in bathos

without drowning in tears

  being still

 waiting quiet 

 opening soft

 listening close 

 before burning

 without being consumed

from worship

divino 

Mr. Wong

He was delicate without being feminine. Mr. Wong was tiny, dressed fastidiously, didn't grow a five o'clock shadow and had thick black hair which couldn't decide to stick straight up or lay down. It was the only thing indecisive about him.

Carson was his first name. I feel disrespectful saying it. He didn't demand respect or honor. We gave it to him gladly. Using his given name seems too familiar for someone with such dignity.

We lived in Southern Idaho. Jerome was a small, mostly Mormon town. At the time, there were only a few Hispanic families representing our total ethnic diversity. Soon after graduation there was an influx of Persian, Filipino, South American and Mexican. No black or Asian people, other than Mr. Wong.

I love to travel and taste what I missed in my bland vanilla school diet. The Basque girl in my class was the most interesting thing we had. I peppered her to tell stories of her pure heritage, and begged her to bring her family's food to try.

Mr. Wong looked very different, but we never thought of him as Chinese. We thought of him as a musician. Mr. Wong was music, had music, taught music, dreamed music for us, wanted us to understand music, loved music, pulled miracles of music from our rough voices, and gave us musical memories to last a lifetime.

Music defined him. Watching him conduct from the audience was delightful. He was too little to be so full of energy and passion, and ended up being the focal point, no matter how hard you tried to focus on your sibling or friend. When in the chorus, it was impossible to look anywhere else.

His toothbrush hair flew madly about, swirling his cowlick around like a palm tree in a hurricane. Hair product would have complicated things, and distracted him, and us.

When he came out on stage in his elegant tuxedo, step bouncing, tails flying, we clapped our hands numb - until he bowed. I have never seen the equal of Mr. Wong's bow. Royal. Distinguished. Eloquent. After he bowed, thunder cracked, shaking the floor, walls and ceiling.

His timing was perfect. Not only was the chorus well trained, but when he stepped up on his wooden platform the audience stopped the applause on cue. Courtesy, no more, no less. We were enamoured of him and would not have known when to stop. He knew. When the silence was complete, he would bring his white ivory wand down to click twice on the music stand, before bringing his child sized hands up to charm the proper notes out of his pupils.

His hair was comical without being ridiculous, his tuxedo elegant, his body busting with vibrant energy and passion, but it was his hands that touched our hearts. His eyes were too black to read, but his hands expressed his vision and love for us completely. Don't confuse it with smarmy, sentimental love. We didn't feel loved or experience it as love during the grueling sessions of practice.

During a concert his hands caressed, pulled, held us back, brought us together, tickled, stroked, aroused, assured, comforted, healed, forgave, infused, exuded pride, cajoled, pleaded, and affirmed us. His miniature, magnetic hands shaped us easily, like metal shavings.

We performed complex, intricate music far above our abilities. He introduced us to a new world, beyond our culture. He delighted in surprising us with a new genre. We were never stuck in a rut, or bored. If we snickered looking at a new piece, it was under our breath. We always ended up thinking it was our favorite. Till the next one.

Dear Mr. Wong influenced my life deeply; I never actually touched them, but the poetry in his hands reached in to throw open the window of my soul. Many more windows have been opened since then, but he was the first. You never forget the first time.

Swans and Tulips

We live about twenty minutes south of the famous Tulip Fields of Mt Vernon, Washington. Each spring we meander the back roads through the fields to feast our eyes on the slurpee colored rows. It's hard to be considerate, enjoy it, and take pictures without trampling the farmer's field of labor, love, and his hope for the harvest. The flowers aren't the 'fruit', the bulb is what he harvests.

The tulip fields are famous, drawing people from everywhere. There are tours, a festival, and art walks. The area comes alive.

The fields are stunning, but there is something I enjoy more. It happens when the ground is dull and brown. What is even better than the fanfare is not only quiet, but happens without much of an audience to enjoy it or notice. No signs, no advertising for a magical event.

I don't know the science of it, can't tell you the exact days of the year, or tell you which field to go to. It has been serendipity or lagniappe each time. Lagniappe is a beneficent kind of extra, an extra you weren't expecting, but immensely glad to have.

We must be on the migration trail for white swans. They must like daffodil and tulip leftovers? They land to rest or feed on something in the bare soil, completely covering a field in white, like a thick plushy blanket. Acres of white blanket.

The few people who come upon this sight pull over to the side of the road, turning the engine off. They wait. Photographers will quietly set up a tripod. No one moves fast, honks, yells or waves. We all wait for it to happen. If you've seen it once, you'll wait as long as it takes to see it again. Making it happen would be considered poor sportsmanship.

Finally, some signal alerts the whole flock of these heavy, royal swans it's time. With wingspans as tall as a person, they spread their massive wings to fly. It always starts in one corner of the field as they begin to lift off, looking just like a blanket gently being turned back on a bed, then hurled high, across the sky.

It's not the same as a flag being raised, the national anthem being sung, Fourth of July grand finales, a parade, or a Hallmark commercial. The emotion it evokes might be in the same family, but it's nature, a symphony orchestrated by an unseen maestro.

It is rare to see it happen, but each time it feels like a peek into Finn McCoul's giant private bedroom. Or God's.

The earthy part is that the farmer feels like they leave a gift, fertilizing his fields evenly, organically and generously.

The only response is a long whispered sigh, as you shade your eyes to follow them. During the turning down of the coverlet though, you want to stand, put your hand over your heart, salute or raise your hands to heaven in spontaneous worship, while trying to follow them through flooding eyes.