Sermon: Faith for what?

 I have not written in some time, having "reported" on daily life with Tal and me via photographs on flickr rather than writing regular blog entries.  With a growing urge to begin writing again and having worked hard on a sermon for yesterday, I'm signed back in at least for today.  Making no promises ...

The folks of the Episcopal Church of the Resurrection sent me home with the flowers, which had added some wecome fall color to our not-often used dining room.

 

Sermon for 6 October 2013

Episcopal Church of the Resurrection, Greenwood SC (@ Wesley Commons)
Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 22, Luke 17:5-10

            Six weeks ago today I turned 60.  The actual event wasn’t near the trauma I had anticipated as the day made its relentless approach all summer.  In fact, it turned out to be something of a non-event.  Lots of well wishes; but no official celebration.  No cake, no ice cream; no champagne, no toasts.  I turned 60.  And, the day it happened was a lovely enough late summer’s Sunday.

The days since then, however, have made up for it.  While the significance of the milestone didn’t reveal itself on “the day,” its magnitude wormed its way in in short order.  Here’s the gist of it:  During Lent several years ago I heard a talk by Tony Campolo, a popular Christian speaker.[1]  He relayed a pithy anecdote.  Telling someone he was middle aged while within earshot of his wife, resulted in this instant and irreverent response from her:  “Middle-aged!?  Dear, how many 120-year-olds do you know?”  Thank you, Mrs Campolo.

I know in my head all the stuff about life on this earth being a fleeting thing.  I thought I’d faced my own mortality long ago.  So, I hate to admit to a visceral, deep down psychic fear and how completely it took me by surprise.  The clock is ticking; I have lived more days than I will live.  And, I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.  All of us wonder if we’ll leave a lasting mark on this world, if our lives will have mattered after they’re over and done.  I’ve been forced by a birthday to face – like I’ve never faced before – one of those elemental parts of being human: the question of meaning.  I wish there were an easy answer.  That’s another elemental part of being human, isn’t it?  The simple solution.  “Make it clear – and make it now.”

Enter the disciples in today’s gospel reading.[2]  “Increase our faith.”  An urgent plea?  A defiant demand?  A little of both, probably.  But, make it clear and make it now.  We don’t know the precise context of this passage from Luke.  It’s part of a collection of sayings, coming right after Jesus has criticized the Pharisees for their choices, for their behavior, for their commitments:  failing to welcome children, denying compassion to the poor, striving for recognition and position.  Jesus’ message to the disciples is something along the lines of “Don’t be like the Pharisees.”  That Jesus has to warn the disciples in this way suggests that they are in need of further formation.  They weren’t getting it.  That Jesus has to tell them not to be like the Pharisees lets us know that they were – like the Pharisees.

The disciples aren’t malicious, of course, in their behavior or in the request we’ve heard this morning.  I think they’re just having trouble understanding what it is Jesus is talking about.  Remember, they’d never encountered anyone like him before.  They can’t seem to get a handle on what Jesus expects of them.  Their situation is much like my angst over the meaning of life – who and how I’m supposed to be.

And, they’re probably thinking matter of factly:  more faith is better than less faith, right?  While they’re genuine in wanting to follow Jesus more faithfully, they’re human, they’re confused, they’re frustrated.  “Enough of this formation stuff.  Just increase our faith and be done with it.”  I have to wonder, though, just what they thought they would get with more faith.  Where did they think they would they be with more faith?

A couple weeks ago I stumbled on an article entitled “Confessions of a Late Bloomer” – an entry in one of those online daily posts intended to inspire.[3]  Confessions of a Late Bloomer.  I perked right up at the title.  Originally published in Psychology Today, it was fine, an interesting piece of writing.  It didn’t give me any pat answers (as much as I wanted them), but it did offer insight. 

·         The author, Scott Kaufman, cited the usual late bloomers, the ones we all know about:  Grandma Moses, Charles Darwin, Sir Alex Fleming.

·         He questioned our society’s time course for success, those defining benchmarks that started for lots of us with an IQ test.

·         Most helpful to me was his suggestion that the apparent over-night success is rare.  Unseen sacrifice and dedicated hard work generally lead to that sort of achievement – which can “happen” in any decade.  Our lives are cumulative, our past experiences informing all that follows.  We cannot know how and when our lives will come together (or if they will).  Living life is the point.  Worrying about the legacy can be a waste.

Mr Kaufman did, however, surprise me.  With a three-word question, he set me on a new course.  “Especially in light of our extended life span, it's worth confronting the very notion of late blooming to ask: late for what?”  It’s worth confronting the very notion of late blooming to ask: late for what?  Late bloomer that I am, what is it I’m late for at 60?  Who defines late? 

Jesus could have asked his disciples, “Faith for what?” couldn’t he?  Who defines faith? 

“Faith.  For what?”  Not to be like the Pharisees?  To have the courage to follow Jesus?  To get, to grasp what he’s talking about?  To be no longer working class, but part of the ruling elite?  To find approval in Jesus’ eyes?  For what were they asking?  “Increase our faith.”  Did they know?

Jesus sees that.  He knows the disciples are not at all certain what they’re asking him to grant them – with their plea, with their demand.  So, he talks about mustard seeds again.  “If you have the faith of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”  (I wonder how much that helped.)  From our vantage point perhaps it’s more clear.  It doesn’t take more faith; it takes a better understanding of the seed of faith we already have.  Just the littlest of  bits …  In response to the disciples’ request to increase their faith, Jesus tells them they already have enough.  They’re not using what they do have to its fullest potential.  They are confusing having faith with being faithful.

There are two guys in a rowboat who somehow run into a muddy bank along a stream.  Instead of reversing course, trying to back up and ease their way out of their predicament, the one in the back keeps encouraging his partner in the front by yelling, “Row harder.”  And, of course they get deeper and deeper into the muck. [4]  At some point all of us, the disciples included, get headed in the wrong direction with our faith, in our lives, but continue plunging ahead.  “Row harder!”  “Increase our faith!” 

Jesus is suggesting, I think, that rowing harder, that clamoring for more faith – or for meaning, for that matter – is the wrong approach.   It keeps us in constant motion, ever looking for more – searching, grasping, worrying, fretting.  It’s one thing to demand more faith, and another thing to give ourselves over to being faithful.  Faith isn’t something we don’t have one day and do have the next.  It’s not a commodity, not a possession.  Faith is something we demonstrate – encounter by encounter, conversation by conservation, decision by decision, even mistake by mistake.  Living a life of faith is a cumulative proposition.  And no matter how late you start, it takes a lifetime. 

---

[1][1] “Wrestling with Angels” (video series), Zondervan, 1993.

[2] Thoughts about the disciples drawn from a sermon by The Rev’d Timothy E Schenck, 3 Oct 04.  Seen online in “Sermons that Work.”

[3] “Daily Good” for 24 Sep 13.

[4] Story from Schenick.

What we leave behind

New Orleans beckons, our date to board the Grande Caribe Wednesday, May 1^st.  Our departure has been calculated to give us an extra night on the road for a visit with friends near Mobile, a visit we’ve been talking about and promising – them and ourselves – for some eight years.

The water to the washing machine is off; the thermostats, switched to cool, are set at 82 degrees; the irrigation should run each Saturday we’re away; the refrigerator’s nearly empty; Tal took Belle to the vet yesterday (sweet girl who did NOT want to be left).  Should we not get home, we won’t be embarrassed.

How ludicrous is that?!?  An amazing thought ... How could we be – embarrassed, if we don’t get home?  If we don’t ever return, would we even know what people (our family and friends, no less) would be saying about us?  And, who in the world cares?  “Tisk, tisk.  Cluck, cluck.  How could they?”  Should the end come to pass, I won’t be there to hear it.

I do obsess over leaving the place in “dying order.”  While it might not be true for anyone else, it’s a learned behavior for me.  And, mind you, it’s not without its benefits.  Beyond the not dying part, there is a wonderful pleasure that comes out of the compulsion: a clean, orderly reentry.  That’s a pretty decent tradeoff for all the work, I’d say.

And, besides the not dying thing, I also struggle with the potential problem of not packing some vital item.  Admittedly, almost anything we might forget can be procured along the way or done without.  But, the angst of having to scramble at the last minute for hair goop or a prescription is such a confrontational pain.  It represents that most ultimate humiliation: having to admit a mistake.  Oh, perish that particular thought.

So far, so good.  We left home smoothly and I’ve not had any of those semi-sickening moments, like fearing the iron being left on or having forgotten a boarding pass.  The wonderful truth?  I enjoyed preparing our home for a long absence.  Everything I cleaned or put away was something I took a moment to appreciate; everything I placed in the suitcase was something I looked forward to using.

I am concluding that it’s ALL about attitude.  I can live in fear of being judged, of what someone might think.  Or I can revel in the life I am living.  I can dread the moment of uncertainty or I can embrace every moment as it comes.  A pretty simple either-or.

If I leave anything behind on this trip, I so want it to be the weight of that anticipatory judgment.  It’s simply not necessary to life; it's a terrible waste of time.  It limits who I am and everything I can become.  Even at the age of nearly 60 it stunts who and what I can become.  I am envisioning it – that big, mean-spirited not good enough view -- left behind on this trip and maybe, just maybe,  on the remainder of the journey that my life is. 

Joy versus judgment.  I’ll end up doing precisely the same thing no matter which attitude I choose.  I'll aways try to leave the house clean and not to forget anything not matter what.   But, one way will be so much more pleasant than the other.  

Leave it behind, girl.  Let it go.
 

Although we travelled from home to Valley AL in fair weather, the skies did darken rather dramatically once we were settled in for the late afternoon and evening.  I stood in the parking lot and waited for the entire disk to reveal itself.

Sorrowing, sighing

One of the advantages of making photographs over a long period of time and the discipline of maintaining a simple catalog is having -- and being able to find -- images to draw on to illustrate stories, concepts, thoughts.  This one, a bas-relief in old Montreal commemorating the first school in that city, isn't perfect for today, but nothing could be.

Likewise, one of the advantages of remembering phrases of songs and bits of poetry is that one doesn't have to come up with original words to express the inexpressable.  So, I offer two words put together by John Henry Hopkins (1820-1891) which he likely drew from biblical the prophet Isaiah or Jeremiah.  They appear together in the Christmas carol, "We Three Kings," in the fourth stanza about myrrh's significance in the Jesus story.   

Sorrowing and sighing is about all we can do in the face of this morning's events at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown CT.  The fabric of life has been torn top-to-bottom with "beautiful little kids" and adults who loved and nurtured them dead, and we know not why.  Sorrow and sigh we must.

Happiness: a definition

After yesterday this single sentence was a welcome find this morning, both provocative and sweetly settling.

Happiness is not a station you arrive at, but a manner of travelling.

-- Margaret Lee Runbeck

 



 

I know nothing about Ms Runbeck aside from her being a US author born in Des Moines, whose life span was 1905-1956.  But, I like the quote.  It's enough for now.



A new view

This image doesn't have anything to do with today being overcast or our region's longing for rain.  It is grey outside and precipitation would be welcome.  There's no need to illustrate or to elaborate on that.

The reason I'm showing off these dark clouds is that they're descriptive of how I am feeling.  I know ... yikes for poor Tal.  Realizing I was somewhat less than cheery, I did manage not to act out.  Fortunately.  And, I was able to ascertain the reason for my interior storminess.  Turns out my normal Sunday evening list-making for the coming week, rather than helping me feel organized and ready, sent me into a state. 

I know I've written about it before, the dotting of "i's" and the crossing of "t's."  I neither have to defend that tendency nor to be dismissive of it.  Attention to detail is a good thing.  But, maybe not always. 

From my years of list-making I know I don't sort very well and have a way of giving pretty equal weight to every task on the list.  And, I seem to put everything on the list that I might ever want to do no matter how long-term, along with the everyday things that keep our household running.  Prioritizing?  I know what it means, but I'm not good at its practice. 

Beyond those bad habits, however, there's another problem, a much more critical one, I think.  I really like getting things done.  Yes.  But, the truth is I dot "i's" and cross "t's" mostly out of fear.  I am afraid that if I don't take care of all the details someone somewhere's going to say something to me about it.  Or, worse yet, they'll say something to someone else about it.  So, I work myself into a dither.  Talk about ludicrous and a waste of precious time. 

How different it would be to act out of love.  There's a commercial being run this season that has charmed me.  I can tell it's a good one because I don't remember what its an ad for ...  The main character seems to be obsessing over everything from how far the coffee table is from the most comfortable chair to the height of the flowers for the center of the dinner table.  She's a bright whirling bundle of activity.

The twist comes when her event gets started.  Come to find out she's not running scared or sorry she's having people in.  An elderly man sits down in that comfortable chair and wearily lifts his feet to the coffee table that's just in the right place.  At dinner time our hostess looks across the table and receives a beatific smile from a tiny little lady who can actually see over the flower arrangement.

Yes, the main character wanted everything to be just right.  But, she wasn't put out or scared or inconvenienced.  Every task in advance of that event was an act of love.

Maybe I need to rethink my list.  While some of the tasks can go and never be missed, most of them can probably stay right there.  What really needs some serious "surgerizing," though, is my outlook, my attitude. 

Why do I do what I do?  Because I have to?  Because I'm afraid of what someone else is going to think or say?  Or, can I make what I do  -- even the most mundane task on the list -- an expression of love? 

If I dare say yes to that impossible question, I'm going to have to be intentional about changing my ways.  Not an easy prospect by any stretch. 

When a lesson is presented

Those who know me and my husband are aware that sports has become part of my life over the past 22 years.  For someone raised pretty much to denigrate all sports -- neither participating nor observing, I am surprised and sometimes even delighted at my interest.

Take this weekend, for example.  We watched the Army/Navy game yesterday afternoon.  It was an engagement of epic proportions.  This was a game unlike any other, largely because of the two teams playing.  One of the announcers made the distinction clear when he observed that for the men on both teams playing football was the easiest thing any of them did.  They were not essentially hired to play ball the way is seems some college players are; they are, in fact, students first -- good students, students who happen to play football. 

I didn't want either team to lose.  But, I rooted for Navy since a former parishioner is a student at Annapolis.  It was a heart-breaker for Army.  At the end, despite the dejection on one side of the field and the jubilation on the other, all the players stayed on the field for both schools' alma maters.  The Navy coach sought out the Army quarterback.  Opposing players spoke to each other.  There was dignity both in winning and in losing.

Although Tal doesn't follow professional football with the same energy he does at the collegiate level, we did watch the New Orleans Saints go up against the New York Giants this afternoon.  In the fourth quarter with the game out of reach Saints #8, Drew Brees, was sacked -- make that flattened -- by Giants #72, Osi Umeyiora.  I think it was the only sack Brees took, but that's not what made me take note.  No, it was #72 stopping and helping #8 up.  No posturing.  No gloating.  No celebration.  Two men on the field of play.

I know not all games go the way of these two and I know collegiate and professional athletes can be crude, vindictive and childish.  What I witnessed during these two games gave me a vision of how people can be with each other. 

I am left wondering why it is nowadays that seems required an opponent be an enemy, to be belittled and disparaged.  Why is it we seem to have to cast as evil people with whom we do not agree, people we simply dislike, people we don't understand?  Is is possible to disagree, not to like, not to understand and still to stay in relationship?

While our government and our churches say an emphatic "no" to that question, football this weekend has hinted at a quiet but hopeful "yes."

At the end of the day, I am grateful for this quiet lesson.

One block at a time

I'm making slow progress.  The second unit from the New York Institute of Photography (NYIP) arrived yesterday.  This afternoon I pressed on with Lesson Five, bent over the lesson book with the CD playing in the background.

It so happens I am familiar with much of what has been presented in the first four lessons, but I appreciate the methodical and disciplined curriculum thus far.  My hope is that I will be forced, not only into learning new things, but into seeing in new ways and into trying new types of photography that don't come as naturally -- as the closeup of lichen or the veins of a leaf.

Building blocks.  The review will be over shortly.  Reinforcing the foundation's just what I need. 

In the shadow

Isn't this a dramatic image?  To me it looks like a planet and the shadow it might cast into outer space.  Actually, it's an early-morning photograph of a drawer knob in my mother's kitchen.  Mom and I walked in at just the right moment to catch the sun at just the right angle and the camera was within reach.

I had to go looking for it after a conversation I had this week.  While we talked I searched for a word in the back of my mind, one to encapsulate the gist of it all.  "Attachment" didn't come to me for several days.  When it did, however, attachment ushered me past itself almost immediately.  Ha!  I didn't have time to become attached to the idea of attachment, at least this time around.

What was beyond attachment?  Where did I go?  I think I went straight to wondering about what was in the shadow, to whatever dwells in that dim darkness beyond the concept.  It was then I had to find this photograph.

What's in my own shadow?  In some ways it seems to me that our attachments keep us from taking a peek into the dark.  We're afraid of what's out there.  So, we hang on to what we know.
. 
I suppose if we found out, if we ventured into the murk, we would discover new things.  Maybe.  New things about the world, about ourselves.  It would change us.  And, we all know, if we change one thing, that one thing is connected to absolutely everything else.  Oh my, how messy that sounds ... 

It's easier not to look, I realize.  But, it is terribly hard to live scared.

What's out there? In that cone-shaped space?  In the dark?

Christmas on the Ridge

Calhoun Street in Johnston SC decorated for Christmas

Welcome to Johnston SC, the peach capital of the world.  Impressive, huh?  The peach capital part and this seasonal section of US23 that goes right through the center of town. 

When I made this photograph, we were returning home from a Christmas gathering in Columbia.  It was approaching 9:30. There was a light mist on the windshield.  Tal pulled to the curb in front of the Lutheran Church.  I opened the car door, stood up and took a couple shots, not even having presence of mind to ask Tal to turn off the headlights. 

Johnston isn't alone in its holiday charm.  Edgefield and Ridge Spring are also illuminated.  Our weather early next week is supposed to be warm.  Maybe I'll take advantage of that and visit all three with the camera and tripod after dark.

On this day

I don't read the daily newspaper on a regular basis.  That's more part of Tal's morning ritual than it is mine.  But, when I do settle in with the pages crinkling in front of me or arrayed on the kitchen counter, there are items I look to with more interest than others. 

"History Today" -- in The State always appearing at or near the bottom of A2 -- is in that category.  Some would call it nickel knowledge or even trivia, but I sort of like knowing what happened in history on any given day.  After all, today isn't the only time this date has occurred.  Noteworthy things happened on this date:  Martin Van Buren was born in 1782, 35-year-old Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart died on 1791, the Gold Rush of '49 started in 1848 (hmmm), Strom Thurmond celebrated his 100th birthday on Capitol Hill in 2002. 

Taking a look at "History Today" helps me remember that my existence isn't unusual or even particularly special.  I don't mean that to sound negative.   Far from it.  Lots of history has preceded me and lots will follow me.  In many more instances than we're likely to grasp, we are who we are, our world is as it is because of those past happenings.  We are part of a long history; we are connected to all those events.  It matters that George Washington was re-elected president on this date in 1792; it makes a difference that Albert Einstein was granted a visa in 1932, opening the way for him to visit the United States.

But, some important dates aren't going to make it into that newspaper column.  Personally, today is more set aside than most.  For me one event trumps all those listed in today's paper.  On this December day in 1957 my grandmother answered the telephone in the hall outside the kitchen, staying on the line only briefly.  After she hung up she announced to my sister, Joyce, and me that we had a brother.  Even though I was disappointed that it was a child and not a puppy, that news has been among the best I've ever received. 


This is Paul in the winter of 1966.

It's been a good 55 years with you in them, brother Paul.  Happy birthday.



Daytime darkness

After waxing philosophical yesterday about December and our collective leaning toward the light I woke today into a light of a different sort.  Is it possible for light to be dark, I wonder? 

My head hurt so badly I could scarcely lift it off the pillow.  With a lunch in Columbia with friends on the schedule, I knew without even thinking about it that I'd likely not be able to keep the date.

I've been headache prone as long as I can remember.    Normally, those I experience are limited to the right side of my head and face.  Oddly, today the pain has been perfectly symmetrical. 

With my eyes closed I could "see" a pair of wings extending along and beyond the cheek bones; dark, hollow ovals at my eyes; mirrored eyebrow-horns springing from the bridge of my nose, curving up, out and down past my temples .  All rimmed, all outlined in a pulsing, glowing, reddish orange.  A light to be sure.  But, at the same time urgently dark.

While the worst of it was over by late morning, the effects have lingered all day leaving me in a vague, distant, faded state.  Funny that I tend to make pictures illustrating that particular self-description rather frequently.

Here's to a clearer day tomorrow.

One of twelve

December is only one of twelve months.  Nothing new there.  Not exactly a news flash.  But, there's something about the month of December that sets it apart from the previous eleven.  As firmly as I decide, generally about the time the autumnal equinox rolls around, that I'm going to resist December's mysterious draw, I fail year after year.

 

It could be the holidays, out of control and over the top as they are.  Several years ago, though, we and our respective families decided to cease and desist the craziness, not to mention the costliness, of exchanging gifts.  So, the intensity of shopping and wrapping and mailing is no longer a factor in December's appeal.  We still send greeting cards, Tal and I.  Maybe that's it.  Partly, anyway.  And, December is easier now that I'm not in full time parish work anymore.  But, even when there was too much to do and I was working when other people were off and with their families, there was no denying some sort of magic.

 

Maybe what's special about December is the light.  The steadily diminishing daylight as we head toward the winter solstice used to be more worrisome to people than it is in our 21st century world.  But, just because we know shortening days won't shorten into permanent darkness, we sure do light up the place with shimmering, glimmering, flashing, blinking light.  We're just doing our part to insure the return of the sun, I suppose.

 

No answers.  I'm going to satisfy myself that December isn't a regular month.  I can pretend that it is; I can resist its allure.  Or, I can simply "be" in December and enjoy it.

 

Bittersweet anniversary

Twelve years ago today (it was December 3rd in 2000) Tal and I drove to Atlanta.  There we met Whitby.  He was a personality from day one.

William, Tal's grandson, had married earlier in the fall and his new mother-in-law raised miniature Schnauzers.  The newly-weds had driven to Ohio to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with Robin's family.  While there William called and announced to his grandfather and me that he was holding our new dog.  Its most striking nine-week-old feature, according to William?  He looked you straight in the eye and held the gaze.  That he did.  Always.


This is Whitby's first portrait made on Monday morning, December 4th.
From that day on he was my favorite subject!

He made the trip from Ohio to Atlanta with Robin and William that Thanksgiving weekend and we went to fetch him the next.  He captivated us from the very start.  Without question, our hearts belonged to him.

Today marks six weeks since Whitby disappeared.  Twelve years minus six weeks.  Wherever he ended up our hearts are following and searching for him still.  Sigh.  But, how we laugh as we reminisce.  With nearly 12 years of memories to draw on we won't run out anytime soon.   

Thanks for everything, buddy.

Oh, and you can come home anytime now ...

The long view

A new month.  Christmas looming.  A new year a mere 31 days away.  Geez Louise.

I made this image during the late morning while walking nine holes with Tal at the Pine Ridge Club near our home.  Even though I generally don't like my efforts at landscape photography, to my eye the light inviting and the late fall color palate soothing, this scene stopped me in my tracks and I couldn't help myself.

I like this long view.  The undulation of the land, the winter clouds, the trees, the pond and dam in the distance, the rich brown of the grass. 

Fact is, I think -- just recently -- I'm doing better with the long view.  For many of my 59 years I have been mired up in detail; I have been consumed with the short view.  Trying to get every "i" dotted and "t" crossed.  Not wanting to disappoint anyone.  Striving to keep everything in its place (including me).  To the point that I really do believe I missed the point most of the time.

Why?  Fear mostly, I suspect.  Fear of being caught unprepared.  Fear of being wrong.  Fear of being out of step with the majority.  That and self-doubt.  Who do I think I am?  Someone will be better at this than me.  Anyone would be better at this than me.

That short outlook is paralyzing.  It contracts a person alot more than it expands her.

What needs to be done this month -- between now and December 25th, between now and January 1st -- isn't final.  Those items on the list -- like everything else -- are passing.  So, I'm not going to be hung up on the tree or the food or the cards.  There can be dust on the blinds and not everyone has to be happy with me. 

The question I might dare ask is this:  Over the arching sweep of my life so far and from what I can project about my life into the future, am I happy with myself?

Don't stand too close.  There's potential at least for some lightening ...

Foundation

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost;

that is where they should be. 

Now put the foundations under them.

-- Henry David Thoreau

Could have been worse

To catch you up.  Here at the first of a new week Tal and I are in a cool house, breathing deeply of  well conditioned air -- and of relief.  Our Friday triple threat could have been so much worse.

So, first, the dishwasher.  Yes, indeed, it has to be replaced.  The plumber gave us that news late Friday afternoon.  He and his assistant took it to the recycling dump, saving us the task of (somehow) getting it into the back of the truck -- and out again.  For now, I'm washing dishes by hand.  The leak was a slow drip; the hardwood floor will dry.

The HVAC technician arrived Saturday afternoon after the air temperature in the house passed 90 degrees.  Our hero.  Talk about appreciated!  The system is fine.  A failed condenser in the compressor was all it took to send us into the sweltersphere.   I watched Tal's whole being relax as that news was delivered.  Several hundred dollars sure is better than several thousand.  Two down.

And, third, the car.  Specifically, that little pool of pink on the garage floor.  We dropped the car at the Ford dealership early this morning.  I know it's time to replace it, but I'd so been hoping to make it to 200,000 miles.  But, a new transmission isn't in its cards.  Sorry. 

The road home

The call came before noon.  As I answered, caller ID having given me a heads up, my heavy heart was in direct contrast to the cheerful voice of the service manager.  Nothing more than a couple of loose bolts at the transmission pan.  It took only $35.00 to reclaim that pretty spruce green vehicle.  I loved driving it home.  That 200,000 mile goal is looking pretty good again.

Flutter by, butterfly

Granny Tarbox always -- and I mean always -- called butterflies "flutterbys." 

Think about it.  What do they do?  They flutter.  Flutter by.  Don't they?  Lillie Marguerite Hodgson Tarbox was an observant women. And she was rarely wrong, let me tell you.

Despite today's heat I took the camera out into the yard during the afternoon.  There's little in bloom, but always something interesting to see and to photograph presents itself to me when I go on a slow stroll.  To my delight -- and I'll add reassurance -- a tiger swallowtail flew into sight and put on quite a show.  I probably don't need to say that I thought about Granny.  I knew she would be right there with me on the delight meter were she suddenly and somehow to arrive on the scene.

This gorgeous creature did not stop the entire time I watched it.  For some 15 minutes.  I set the camera's shutter speed at 1/125 of a second and hoped for an in-focus shot.  That I got more than a single is pure bonus. 

While these three images were made at the abelia, this flutterby went halfway to Country Club Road (about 150 feet), returned to the area right in front of the house, visited the cryptomeria, checked out one, two, three, four crape myrtles, hovered over a couple magnolia blossoms and returned to the abelia.  Moving.  Fluttering. Rising.  Falling.  Flitting.  I could not keep up! 

Have you read the funny story about the woman who, say, stops washing the dishes to get the mail that's just dropped on the hall floor?  She reads one of the letters, a treasure from a college roommate.  That takes her to a photograph album.  The shelf where the album resides needs to be dusted, so she goes for the dust cloth.  But, there's a leak under the sink where the dust cloth resides.  To the garage for a wrench.  Through the garage window she notices that the bird feeder is empty.  Once in the yard, bird feed in hand, her neighbor calls to her for a conversation at the fence.  And, so it goes through the day.  The next time she enters the kitchen, it's time to start supper and the breakfast dishes are half washed and the water's cold.

It would be safe to say that's sort of how flutterbys go through their brief lives.  Always on the move -- and to my eyes anyway -- not finishing very much.

Finishing is my thing.  Needing to finish is my thing.  Butterflys probably don't have that need.  One of the responses Tal hears the most often when he suggests some activity or asks me to do something either with or for him is "just let me finish ... whatever -- this paragraph, this upload, this sink of dishes.  I resist fluttering.  I write out schedules.  I highlight items on my lists of things to do as they are completed.  So many people I know would ask me what was wrong were I to flutter or flit.  I don't know very many people who would judge flitting to be a wholesome thing.

How to allow myself time for both the head-down drive to accomplish and the unstructured and even aimless pursuit?   After all, with its relentless flitting, the yellow and black focus of my lens today did end up nourished. 

Inspire me flutterby.

Six degrees

There's an idea, called six degrees of separation, which suggests that everyone of us is only about six steps away in terms of acquaintance from any other person on the earth.  Sounds far-fetched, maybe, but I understand that in many instances it works.  We've all had the experience of meeting someone who knows someone we know.  We've all though or even said, "It's a small world."  And, now with the likes of Facebook ...

In this post I am not referring to that theory.  Rather, the six degrees has to do with the difference between the temperature inside and outside our house.  It's late afternoon and we're still waiting for the HVAC technician.  He has called several times.  Sounds pretty frazzled.  We're mostly cheerful.  But, it's 90 degrees inside and 96 degrees in the shade of the screened porch.  Only six degrees of separation. 

It's not the most pleasant Saturday we've ever had.  We have stayed quiet.  The less movement the better.  All our meals have been cold.  The best part has been our mutual reminiscing about childhood and the unairconditioned summers we've known.  Good memories, funny stories. 

A very warm, but satisfying day.  We can survive another one if we have to.

The rule of threes

Is it really a rule?  The thing about threes?  The first time I heard it was in reference to deaths coming in threes.  Made me shudder and dismiss the entire idea -- entirely.  Silly superstition.  Nothing more.

But, then there's the Trinity, the faith's one god in relationship with itself .  There's water, ice and vapor.  Most decorators would tell you to group things in threes.  Well, at least in odd-numbered groups.

Today I thought about the rule of threes.

We've had a little leak in the kitchen for the past several days.  Just a little bead of moisture along the toe-moulding between the dishwasher and the angled counter.  The offender?  Number one suspect: the dishwasher.  After some delay (and a time of hand-washing dishes), the plumber arrived this afternoon.  We were right.  The plumber and his assistant hauled the guilty appliance out of the house for us.  They will return when we have its replacement on the premises.  In the meantime?  Suds and hot water for me!

The car needed to be moved so they could get the dishwasher through the garage.  Oh, dear.  A telltale little pool of pink where the car had been.  Transmission fluid.  The car has an appointment with the Ford dealership on Monday morning.

Deep breath.  So far so good.  It's all OK.

After supper, though, I thought it seemed unusually warm in the house.  Thermostat set at 78 degrees.  81 in the house.  The HVAC folks -- called on a Friday evening -- will get here when they can.  It's going to be warm here for the next little while.

Surely there won't be anything else ...  Ending with three will suit me just fine.  

More than meets the eye

This photograph of Lake Erie was made in the early afternoon from the mouth of the Welland Canal at Port Colborne, Ontario.  Most of the day had been overcast, but not gloomy.

I don't know what I'd expected the view of Lake Erie to be when we exited the canal.  Probably sparkling, bright water, high billowing clouds in a clear blue sky, lovely houses dotting the shoreline.  Whatever those expectations, an expansive wall of grey had not been among the options I'd considered. 

I stood on the upper deck for a long time -- watching, straining my eyes -- having trouble distinguishing the horizon line.  The occasional ship in the distance was a help.  I made several images, wondering what I'd get and how the various shades of blue grey would be seen by the camera's sensor.

It was only this week that I began looking at the photographs from that day.  Pretty subtle.  Lots of layers of grey.

As I began developing the image, however, lovely things began to happen.  Normally, I wouldn't push the post processing quite so far, but, oh, the intricate colors and textures that emerged.  The nearest water looks a little like a beach (which it isn't).  There is a ship out there.  The clouds are a bit billowy.  I especially like the wisps of cloud descending on the right side.  Clearly, the camera saw more than I did.

How often that is true.  And, not only the camera.  I simply don't see.  I can stand on deck, as it were, looking, watching, peering into the gloom -- seeing nothing, thinking "there's nothing here."

I so it with ideas.  I do it with people.  Dismissive.  Because ...  Because of what?  Hair style, grammar, interests that don't jibe with mine?  Without benefit of interaction I seem to feel free to categorize, to judge, to exclude.  Snobbish and conceited, without doubt.  I almost despair thinking about it.  But, I also understand that my tendency doesn't have to be absolute.  Seeing, seeing differently and deeply, is my choice, a choice I can -- and even sometimes -- make.   

This image, however over processed, reminds me that there is more than meets my oftentimes haughty eye.  There are layers and colors.  There is depth and interest.  Almost always, there is much to learn and to appreciate.