10/1 Sleepytime Ritual

Bedtime routines are a real help. It’s a pleasure when I manage to tune out non-essential distractions, tick through a list of evening chores, and settle in early.

Recently it occurred to me that my spiritual practice wasn’t as close or comforting any more, and rest was not as restful. Finally it dawned on me: the kitchen stove light, a small incandescent bulb, burned out several weeks ago. It was the perfect illumination: soft enough for transition to sleep, and a reverent sidelight for the icons and flowers on the fridge. It made the kitchen a nice place to stand and pray in front of the icons and study the Bible as an end to the day.

Well, the overhead fluorescent kitchen lights were much too bright for bedtime or prayer, so I’d taken to lying on the floor outside the bathroom. But that’s not nearly as comfortable for reading, and no way to contemplate icons, so that bedtime devotional time was just not taking place.

Finally while chatting with a group of neighbors I told them my brilliant insight that the difference in devotional zeal was really just an ergonomic lighting issue. Arriving home, I put down the groceries and heard someone knock on the door. It was one of the neighbors. He held out a stove-sized light bulb.

As he and I agreed, Don’t wonder why God doesn’t feel as close any more; just change the darn bulb!

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Windfall

The untraveled back alleys in our older residential neighborhoods have tiny tool sheds and tree houses and dog huts, woodpiles and heaps of tomato stakes, trumpet and wisteria and sweetpea and morning glory and honeysuckle vines softening the picket fences. Back alleys are where the fruit trees are. In August and early September, in some alleys the ground is littered with apples and plums and tiny pears. About half of it is moldy or buzzing with yellow jacket wasps, but some is sound fruit. If the stuff is lying around and getting spoiled, then it is likely the homeowner isn’t going back there to fuss with it, and it is a sure bet that the bugs and crows and raccoons and coyotes and whatnot will step up to the plate. Often the owners put up a little FREE sign; in fact I’m going out today to leave a thank you note in one owner’s mailbox, and to offer them some apple sauce.

With a couple of produce bags in the knapsack at all times, you’re ready to pick through the windfall and bring it home. But that fruit shouldn’t just sit out on the counter in a bowl. It’s wise to dip and rinse it all and process it right away, because any insect or worm spots will only get spottier. (If that isn’t possible, I set it in a pot on the balcony to give the bugs a chance to escape somewhere that isn’t my kitchen wall.)

In windfall apples, even a tiny surface bite hole can be the start and sign of a rotted core. That is why shaving off just top layer of a bite hole is not enough. This serves as a reminder that my everyday moments of impatience or judgment, which I flatter myself are relatively minor, indicate deep-seated attitudes which really need to change. For a soul, a sacramental confession with a good priest is just the thing, something like a gum pocket cleaning with my periodontist. For an apple, it takes a cut right through to the center; cutting the fruit in half will make the inner state easy to see and judge.

Sound apple cores can boil with the vegetables in the soup stock pot. Decayed parts go in the compost, and straight outside to the bin. But imperfect peels and flesh can be cooked for apple sauce. (With organic apples from the store, I make apple sauce raw in the Vitamix. For fruit from the sidewalk, cooking seems like a safer method.)

Three quarts of trimmings for a pot of sound fruit.

Sure, it means extra work. But there is nothing like windfall for taste. Simmered in a bit of water with cinnamon and cloves, then blended in the Vitamix, this goes in batches in the freezer. It makes a good salad dressing base for raw salads and slaws. A dash in a cast-iron skillet makes a nice accent to sauteed mustard greens. And of course it’s good with almond meal or sunflower butter or yogurt for a dessert.

 

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The Eep in the Uproar

At midnight a police car shot down our main road at breakneck speed. The officer switched on alarms which (according to the teacher at our precinct’s Citizen Academy) indicated a highest-priority distress call; perhaps another police officer in mortal danger. I listened intently, lying on the floor in my blankie roll, voicing prayers for everybody’s safe return.

A few minutes later there was another sound close by, a highly magnified male voice shouting out one word: “FIREARM!”

It is astonishing how much adrenalin and cortisol are ready and available in unlimited quantities, catapulting one from half-sleep to roll halfway across the room and away from the windows. My immediate fear was that this was a police car megaphone, telling the neighbors that we had an active shooter prowling around. (There’s no indication of that, though; today’s precinct feed and city news outlets and 911 incident maps don’t show anything unusual.) Still, while bolting those six steps I grabbed the cell phone, checked the security peephole to scan the hallway, then went diving into the windowless bathroom to get dressed and shod and to wait in the dark for further signals.

After tuning in for a good while to the vibes of our apartment building and the streets outside, I finally shut the bathroom door and turned on the light to calm down with an inspiring book on education (The End of Molasses Classes) by Atlanta school teacher Ron Clark. Having seen videos of Mr. Clark’s teaching style (bursting on to stages, dancing on desks, bungee jumping in the school library) I had to smile at the realization that for one golden midnight moment, I’d been moving just as fast as he does all day.

Back on the floor and blankie-enrolled, attending to the darkness outside, I heard another sound: “Eep!” That’s a favorite familiar night noise, some little spring peeper or bug or whatnot. It’s a tiny pure hopeful cheep, like the triangle at the very back of the symphony orchestra. Night after night our Eeplet is a sweet sound in the city, something tender and true to make silence even more golden. Like the plaintive hesitation notes of killdeer winging through the dark, or the barred owl in the Douglas firs asking “Who cooks for you-all?” it’s a nice sound for falling asleep in our neighborhood.

The Eep-in-the-siren-aftermath calls to mind the day I quit the Audubon Christmas Bird Count. My participation days were numbered anyway, because year after year to my bewilderment the Audubonnaires were really only there to count birds, not to be friendly to other bird watchers. (To me, sloshing through mud on a pre-dawn winter day tallying sparrows is really just a prelude to friendship with kindred souls. I guess this backwards thinking just puts the “rank” in Amateur.)

Anyway. On that fateful New Year’s Day several years ago I was duly up and out the door at 5:50, running through main roads to the residential street entrance of an urban forest trail. The intrepid leader of our large party named our group reunion point up ahead, and assigned me to join three fit yoga-trim senior women in sensible shoes. Off we went.

The women flowed right along over fallen logs and boulders through moss and mud, discussing search strategies among themselves. Clambering and thrashing along with them, I suddenly caught sound of a very distant thread of voice. Deep in the woods, down gulleys and gulches by a running stream, there was a man shrieking at the absolute top of his lungs. He was venting his displeasure with life and the human race. Clearly his New Year’s Eve had done him no good; the same adrenalin and cortisol that catapults sleepy people right across a dark room were impelling him to rave the most explicit profanity at an impossibly rapid rate. For the next ninety minutes, while we steered almost a mile all around him, he did not skip a beat in this tirade of graphic invective. And then, with their comfy homespun little noises the birds themselves, little troupers all, began to stir: nuthatches, flickers, robins, starlings, crowned kinglets Ruby & Golden, Steller’s Jays, on and on. The contrast made a surrealistic acoustic layer cake:

Birds: Rrrrrrrr. Oop oop. Weech! Bah walla. Tick tock.
Man: !@#$%^&*()+! [Sending Colonel Mustard, with the candlestick, to the Conservatory.]
Ladies: “Yes, jot that down: Three more Haberdashered Wooty-Woots.”

That’s when I stepped outside the park and walked home thinking about our culture, where at Christmas every sparrow is counted by civic-minded people, where even its discarded feathers and nests are protected by law. But a human being in obvious need of intervention can slip through the cracks and sit screaming in a public park all night.

And yes, nature is no pre-fall Eden either; there is plenty of danger going on there right under our awareness. But what’s amazing is that the birds and frogs can share space with us, and still have the heart to go right on chirping and beeping. One sunset on the Olmsted Emerald Necklace, distorted decibels boomed across the water and phragmite reeds, from an overly magnified “We Will Rock You” at Fenway Stadium; but somehow, one Goldfinch kept right on trilling from his seat atop a flowering thistle. One rainbowed evening at the Granary Burial Ground (founded in 1660), two boys tuned their boom box to “Let’s Go All the Way” and started a fist fight among fragile historic headstones while a robin unveiled a first spring song right overhead.

In sounds of everyday ruckus and mayhem, it’s a great comfort and uplift to stop and notice and breathe thanks for all the small things that keep on singing.

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Our Lady of the Gate of Dawn

You can learn things just by taking the garbage out to the garbage cage and saying hello to people that you see walking down the street. Last Sunday some folks passing by said a hearty hello back, speaking in a faint but very pretty accent. It turned out that they speak Polish. Well, so did I, back in college days, so we had a nice chat. “Wait right here,” I asked them. “There’s something for you upstairs.”

Running up to the kitchen, from its place of honor on the fridge I took down an icon of Our Lady.

That icon came from the thrift shop, where it sat on the bargain shelf because someone had defaced the bottom of it with a magic marker. At the time, wondering who would do an irreverent thing like that, I picked up the icon for a closer look. And glory be — the inscription was in Polish: “With Blessings — John Paul II.” Well. If anybody gets to write on an icon, it’s probably the Pope. So for 99 cents I brought the icon home. It’s lived on the fridge for 12 years, while I took it on faith that some day a nice Polish family would appear as the true and rightful owners. And now here they were! So I ran outside and handed the icon over to the family.

What I didn’t know, though the Pope probably did, was that this portrait is the beloved Mother of Mercy “Our Lady of the Gate of Dawn” (Polish, Matka Boża Ostrobramska). The original (see above) hangs at the gate of the city wall of Vilnius, Lithuania — which used to be part of Poland, as my Polish neighbors emphasized to me. Then when the Russians took over Lithuania, the family’s ancestors got away to safer ground in Poland, carrying a replica of the icon with them. That icon brightened and warmed the little room where the family all lived together.

Now the next generation has moved here to town, where some total stranger burst out of the garbage cage and presented them with yet another replica of Our Lady of the Gate of Dawn, with a handwritten blessing from their own newly canonized Polish Pope.

They, being Polish, insisted that the total stranger come inside and join them as their guest for a full course Sunday dinner. Then we all discovered that we attend the same large Catholic church, they in their favorite corner on the far right back, I in my favorite corner on the far left front. Next Sunday we’ll try swapping sides and meeting in the middle.

A humble house chore errand, but a pretty good adventure in the end.

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Gene Stratton-Porter, An Indiana Author

Mrs. Gene Stratton-Porter (1863-1924) was a favorite childhood author who I still re-read today. Nowadays we can take with gentle grains of salt her occasional sallies into soapbox crusading (an anti-immigration phase, lamentation about high heels and jazz dancing, warnings about “the scarlet woman” and the “dress of unearned cloth”). Most of all, she deserves credit as an enterprising woman who hiked considerable distances with camera and notebooks. Her novels are a vehicle for her considerable knowledge of nature photography and nature study passages, and glimpses of everyday housekeeping, natural health advice, traditional holidays, family bonds, and aesthetic tastes; these passages are still brimming with charm.

Over the years, browsing dollar-clearance book carts and garage sales, I’ve pounced on any available copies of her novels. Each lucky find was a scuffed worn fragile little treasure, with intricate woodblock or engraved illustrations and ornate covers. Just seeing them in their place of honor on the bookshelf felt like a moment’s interlude to beautiful settings described a century and more ago.

This week it was time to pack up these old friends and donate them to the Gene Stratton-Porter State Historic Site and house museum in Indiana. After all, I can read them at the library, and even on line. But it felt as though those original editions really belonged at the author’s cabin house, back home in Indiana.

I emailed the Museum to inquire. They emailed back right away. And sure enough — the Museum welcomes donations to sell in their bookstore. Visitors enjoy buying vintage copies, and the proceeds go to maintain the house and wildflower grounds. The books were due for delivery there today. Maybe they’re on display now, in this appealing shop:

https://www.genestratton-porter.com/genes-gift-shop

Here below is my favorite passage from The Harvester, my favorite Stratton-Porter book. It impresses me to think that the author took it on faith that the Youth of Today would recognize all of these wildflowers; maybe in 1911 they really did. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if someone painted them all in a landscape? Copies of The Harvester traveled with soldiers going to Europe for The Great War; apparently the men even read it aloud to one another in the trenches and field hospitals to keep up their spirits! It has certainly done my spirits good over the years.

The Harvester, Chapter 13, “When the Dream Came True”

…Everywhere flamed foxfire and cardinal flower, thousands of wild tiger lilies lifted gorgeous orange-red trumpets, beside pearl-white turtle head and moon daisies, while all the creek bank was a coral line with the first opening bloom of big pink mallows. Rank jewel flower poured gold from dainty cornucopias and lavender beard-tongue offered honey to a million bumbling bees; water smart- weed spread a glowing pink background, and twining amber dodder topped the marsh in lacy mist with its delicate white bloom. Straight before them a white- sanded road climbed to the bridge and up a gentle hill between the young hedge of small trees and bushes, where again flowers and bright colours rioted and led to the cabin yet invisible. On the right, the hill, crowned with gigantic forest trees, sloped to the lake; midway the building stood, and from it, among scattering trees all the way to the water’s edge, were immense beds of vivid colour. Like a scarf of gold flung across the face of earth waved the misty saffron, and beside the road running down the hill, in a sunny, open space arose tree-like specimens of thrifty magenta pokeberry. 

High around the blue-green surface of the lake waved lacy heads of wild rice, lower cat-tails, bulrushes, and marsh grasses; arrowhead lilies lifted spines of pearly bloom, while yellow water lilies and blue water hyacinths intermingled; here and there grew a pink stretch of water smartweed and the dangling gold of jewel flower. Over the water, bordering the edge, starry faces of white pond lilies floated. Blue flags waved graceful leaves, willows grew in clumps, and vines clambered everywhere….

With wide eyes she stared around her. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME IT WOULD BE LIKE THIS?” she demanded in awed tones.

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4/30/19: New York

On a recent trip, there was a free weekend to visit New York. Here were some of the sights.

Here is the Ashokan Reservoir, one view in very early morning with the mist on the water, and one view an hour later in the sunshine.

Here is the Poets’ Walk park, overlooking the Hudson River.

In the town of Rhinebeck, here is the Dutch Reformed Church built in 1807.

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3/17/19: Joyful and Not-Quite-Joyful Noise

A Jewish friend once admonished me for passing up a recreational day trip. He let me know that one day when we face God, He will say “I filled this world with innocent wholesome pleasures. What pleasures did you go and enjoy?”

Well here is a new innocent wholesome pleasure to add to the post-bucket list.
I can pull out my cell phone and say “Look at all these nice hymns all about You that I figured out how to record right on my cell phone. At night while flossing or ironing, I could turn on the phone inside my waist pack pocket and play them back.” It’s a great way to learn those grand old German Lutheran hymns that we Catholics missed along the way while we kept the indulgences and relics and Luther left with the really good music, and then composed more.

And today’s catch of the day was especially good, including “I Bind Unto Myself Today,” with the lilting Irish melody “St. Patrick’s Breastplate.” Why have I never once heard this melody in a Catholic service? To make up for lost time, here’s a clip with the Keble College choir, ending with some wonderful harmonies:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q5Hin4swdKg

And another with the sheet music:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VX0Au21A6Yw

When first recording hymns three weeks ago, I couldn’t help noticing that the phone picked up a sound which wasn’t audible to the naked ear in church. It happens whenever our gifted organist strikes the first note of a hymn. It’s an awful whirring howling growl, starting low and ending high and angry. The first time I heard it on a cell phone recording I thought “Goodness. Did a cat jump into the organ?” How strange — it happened every time the organ struck up a song!

It was only while standing in church today that I figured it out. Eager to record the very first note, yet not wanting to appear that I was texting or surfing the ‘net during the hymns, I would whip out the phone, press Video, aim the camera at the name of the hymn in my worship book, drop the phone back in the waist pack, and — Whirrrrrrrrrrraugh!!!! yank the pack zipper closed. Mystery solved.

Next time the world dismays me with its noise, it is worth checking to see whether the racket, external or internal, begins with me. Meanwhile, Happy St. Patrick’s Day! Let’s put on the breastplate of the Trinity and go appreciate some innocent pleasures!

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