Christmas lights

We arrived in Northport today, a relatively easy drive, although long with a few pockets of heavy traffic and of construction work. Fortunately for me, Tal felt like driving, so I was able to navigate us along our way and through various change of route. (There are lots of options for avoiding Boston!) Given Hester's situation, we did not dally at all. We stopped only twice for fuel, both stops at the convenient travel plazas on the toll road/interstates in this part of the world which offer fuel, food, refreshment and probably entertainment, though we didn't seek that out. In fact, we ate in the car as we headed this way, keeping the meal simple ... crackers, fruit and beverage.

The house and location are as I remembered them from my visit two summers ago -- beautiful and welcoming. Hester is heavily sedated, particularly today having been bathed and her bed changed during the morning, a daunting and painful activity. Her hospital bed is in the living room, looking out over the deck to the Penobscot Bay, a view she has long loved. Bill had the clear Christmas lights put back up along the eaves of the back of the house, which softly illuminate the room through the nights, another thing Hester loved.

Seeing her this way is more than difficult. I would not trade being here for anything, though. Of course we had decided that we would only say hello and visit with Bill for a short time and then go on our way. Staying here would be an inconvenience to the family and we would be in the way. Our room, however, reserved for us by Hester and Hester having been clear about it before she slipped into her deep sleep, was ready for us. Stay here we have.

A place in-between

Our first two nights out on this adventure were with my brother and his family. Any tension with which I might have begun the trip vanished in that locale. We drank really good coffee and ate equally good food. We caught up on news of jobs and school. We told stories, were introduced to BBC's "Top Gear" (oh, my!), attended an end-of-band camp performance and even took in the wonders of the local (and massive) Bass Pro Shops. The Mechanicsville hospitality is always rich, warm and genuine.

There's not much to say about our day's travel from Virginia into Connecticut. It was hazy and hot. For most part the traffic was heavy and at one spot rather harrowing, the details of which I'll skip over rather happily. There wasn't much scenery to enjoy along that congested corridor. The George Washington Bridge, for example, is an architectural gem, as are many of the buildings on I-95 just as we entered the city. Even with Tal driving, however, who could actively do any more than notice? A long gaze at anything today, even for the passenger, was completely impossible.

During the Mechanicsville to almost-NYC leg which I drove and then during the almost-NYC to Meridian CT with Tal driving, it crossed my mind to decide inwardly that I do not want to make this particular drive again. Only in the most extreme circumstances do I want to drive to Maine again. It feels too hard and too dangerous. We were enormously grateful to tuck ourselves safely into our room at the Holiday Inn Express in Meridian on the Berlin Turnpike.

Then, I made a telephone call to our friends in Maine with whom we were to stay for three nights before joining the canoeing group, a telephone call that took my breath away. Hester's sister-in-law answered the phone; Hester, who has been battling newly diagnosed cancer, is getting ready to leave this world, the sister-in-law told me. The daughter and grandchildren had arrived. When I talked to Hester only two weeks ago, she was getting ready to welcome the garden club to tour her backyard and she implored us to consider returning for a longer visit after we canoed on the Allagash. Dying? I couldn't and still can't get my mind to cooperate with that thought. I'm trapped in an in-between place, stuck with Hester's invitation still fresh in my mind and Kay's very terrible news trampling all over my heart. Melodramatic, I know, but it's true in this moment.

Is it Eden?

Tal and I left home on Monday morning, September 30th. The first twenty miles of a 1200+-mile drive to Maine was in the wrong direction -- in order to drop Whitby and Belle at All God's Creatures where they will board while we are away. We have been preparing to make this trip for weeks and weeks, even months -- reading about the Allagash River, consulting maps of the Allagash River, collecting the requisite gear to spend eight days in a canoe and a tent on the Allagash River. I still can't quite believe what we have set out to do.

Over the years Tal and I have been married we have enjoyed travelling together, so the getting ready aspect is not unknown to us. We actually have a rudimentary checklist to ensure that the mail gets stopped and the hot water heater turned off. The process this time, though, was distinctly and pleasantly different in one primary way: I did not experience the usual intense panic leading up to our departure. There was no newsletter to finish; there were no last minute meetings to attend; I didn't have with me as we pulled out of the drive a list of notes to write and calls to make on the first day. I've not been gainfully employed for over two years and it's taken that long for me to clear the schedule and conclude a backlog of expectation.

Now, I didn't leave our home precisely the way I'd envisioned -- all the towels washed and freshly hung, Tal's truck clean (that'll be the day ...), the grass edged, the depleted pantry in order ... It's excessive expectation, I know, but I always want to leave home in perfect order. That's partly so I can walk back in and find it perfect, I realize. But, I also think, at least in part, there is some dim but persistent memory of Eden in all of us. From how I want to leave home as Tal and I depart on a trip to humanity's sense of fairness (and how we think things ought to be along with our restlessness and anger when they are not) -- maybe all that springs from the imprint of Eden on the collective conscience.

Well, I said maybe ...

A sunny day

We are in camp after a not-to-long paddle from Round Pond to Five Finger Brook. The campsite is another beautiful spot, sitting on a bluff overlooking a pretty and fast stretch of water where a number of streams run into the Allagash.

Here Tal and Alice enjoy the bench overlooking the river and some conversation prior to the beginning of supper preparations.

It has been a storybook day. The rains ended after the camp went to bed last night. That campsite on Round Pond was a quiet as all the rest, save the occasional sound of an occasional high-flying jet. And, since I was sleepless initially, I heard an eerie and beguiling chorus of loons. At one point, an owl, way in the distance, joined in. What a privilege to be here.

Tal and I got up at 2:00 to walk to the outhouse and saw the heavens aglitter with stars from horizon to horizon and reflected on the surface of the water. Utterly magnificent. I suppose that sight puts a person as close to pure worship as is possible -- that sudden intake of breath, the whispered, "oh, look!"

By 6:00, when the camp began waking, the place was completely socked in with fog. Only the edge of the water proved that Round Pond was out there. We had breakfast, broke camp and were on our way shortly after 9:00 into a clear, sunny day -- our first since setting off on this journey along the Allagash.

I took this photograph while everyone was breaking camp and the last of the fog rolled away.

Our route took us through the Round Pond Rips and the Musquacook Deadwater. Much of it was tranquil, even serene -- and, again, all river with one emerging view after another around every turn. In addition to memorable vistas, we saw two moose -- a cow and a bull; several eagles, two of which kept their tree-top positions as we paddled by, another escorting us for quite a distance along the river's route; many geese and mergansers. The bull moose gave a memorable performance. His rack was so wide that when he decided he didn't like the looks of five approaching canoes he had to trot a rather long distance in the shallow water at river's edge until he found an opening in the thick growth to get the antlers through. We all watched his every move until he melted into the woods.

The wind -- a headwind -- picked up well into the paddle, turning our transport into work. I am very sore, but am holding my own. The wind caught us once in a tight maneuver and we ended up hung on a rock, a position from which Alana had to free us by physically pulling us backward, lining us up with the water's flow and turning us loose. We ended up riding that rapid very well. The sunshine did help.

I've been in the water since arriving in camp. Cold and moving water. I resisted, trying to talk myself out of the frigid plunge and a freshly wet swim suit, but in the end concluded today likely to be my only chance in this lifetime to swim in the shadow of Musquacook Mountain. I had to decide quickly. Before the glorious sun fell below the ridge. Burrrr and whoo ha!

Youch

Well, I don't know if the title of this brief post is spelled right, but it's pronounced yee-ouuu-ch!!! and describes pretty well sudden pain and verbal response.*

Two terms should help you get the picture: lawn mowing and ground bees. Luckily, I was in the back yard and not working on the shoulder of Country Club Road, as the sweaty blue jeans had to go -- and in a big hurry.

After some self-doctoring I went back to the mower (having retrieved the jeans, you'll be pleased to know) with my Sure Shot toting Tal walking along next to me watching for evidence of the yellow jacket hole. It didn't take long to find it, but "they" also found us equally quickly, delivering a couple stings to each of us. Tal doused the hole and went back to weed-eating. I finished the lawn.

Generally, after a morning of yard work we have a few aches and pains to remind us of our satisfying efforts. Today's extra pain amounts to several I'd be just as happy to do without on lawn mowing day next week.

* Yes, believe it or not, I was that nice. Even surprised myself ...

Reading

Several weeks ago a friend passed along a book he thought I might like to read, given my vocation as priest. It took me some time open the front cover and get underway, but I'm now three-quarters through and thoroughly enthralled. Horrified, but enthralled.

The Last Divine Office: Henry VIII and the Dissolution of the Monasteries by Geoffrey Moorhouse is less about the history of the suppression and dissolution of the monasteries than it is about the state of monasticism on the eve of and during the English Reformation. Despite the fact that to make it through the chapters I have to have a dictionary at my elbow, I am coming away from the book's content with two distinct lines of thought which will stay with me for some time.

First, after the initial round of property seizures and, of course, the wealth associated with them, Thomas Cromwell and the king realized that coaxing those in the religious orders into surrendering their houses was less messy and helped them (Cromwell and Henry) avoid the charge of violent force. In a few cases those who gave up willingly were then allowed to continue their monastic lives, under authority of the king rather than the pope. One such instance was at Durham, my favorite of the English cathedrals.

I wonder what would have happened if Cuthbert Tunsall, Bishop of Durham, and the monks under him had resisted turning the monestery and cathedral over to Henry. Would that magnificent space have green grass for a floor and blue sky for a ceiling like so many of the other religious ruins across the English countryside? The other side of that coin, of course, is the fact that the deciding to give in for self-preservation's sake likely came at a terribly high personal price, costing nothing less than integrity. Where does flexibility end and abject capitulation begin?

Second, is the extraordinary (it seems to me) violence of the era. Even while I marvel almost daily at how cruel humans can be, this book has found a way to disturb me. The idea was the imposition of "demoralizing fear" throughout the realm in order to keep everyone, locals and the religious alike, in line, to "demonstrate that royal power was ultimately superior to all other forms of authority." (189) When Cromwell and Henry decided to make an example of someone, what an example it was.

What I'm reading in The Last Divine Office, however, is not unlike life as described in Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett and other historical novels like it. Human life did not seem to hold the same worth we seem to grant it today, although I suspect we -- American citizens of my ilk -- are somewhat shielded from the truth of the matter, if by nothing more than the American myth of being a peace-loving people. But, I do marvel at the thought that any given infant can evolve into a brutal torturer. When does it happen? How does it happen?

So, why am I continuing to read? Well, because it appears I have to. Not reading it wouldn't make it any less true. Not reading it would deny me this particular chance for self-examination. And, in a passage from earlier in the book describingthe time during the suppression and dissolution prior to the transfer of Durham to the king's control this quote keeps me turning pages and looking up words:

So the monks of Durham carried on the traditions of their house, blending the busyness of practical necessity with the stillness of prayer and meditation, in a paradox of vibrant tranquillity. (150)

No matter what is happening all around the globe, life does go on. I have to work to remember that simple and difficult fact. If I can somehow be vibrantly tranquil and "quietly purposeful" (150) as I go about my local, personal routine, perhaps I will discover and keep discovering my own power to interject both tranquility and purposefulness into the muddle.

A trio of Thursdays

It has been said, generally tongue-in-cheek, that doing something more than once constitutes the beginning of a tradition! So, Thursdays ... a trio of them to date. After today I wonder if I can count on Thursdays to be set apart in some way. I hope so, but only (to quote Jon Luk Picard of Star Trek: The Next Generation) if I make it so.

It all began on the 17th of July, a day on the calendar with nothing written in the square. Despite the oppressive heat our part of the country was enduring at the time, early in the week we proposed a field trip on that attractive unclaimed day and for several days we tossed around ideas of what we might do. By Wednesday evening we had settled on Redcliffe Plantation, a state historic site near Beech Island -- a drive of about an hour south of Edgefield, and a place associated with Tal's late wife's family. It was hotter than the hinges of hell, I promise, and I don't particularly like any of the photographs I made of the house and grounds. But, the magnolia grandiflora was in magnificent, fragrant bloom and I have several shots which pleased me, especially since the white balance was about right for a change. Thursday #1.

Early the next week I was invited on a field trip by a friend from the Art Association of Ridge Spring to photograph at a wonderful -- and ambitious -- location called the Daylily Depot near Ridge Spring in rural Saluda County. We settled on June 24th and it turned out to be a gorgeous morning. I had decided in advance to shoot macro and was delighted with how still the early morning was. As the sun rose and the temperature began to climb, however, a luscious but troubling breeze from across the cotton field began a lifting and swaying of the flowers and foliage that shifted my focus.

Kathy Eyster, a photographer from whom I took a class in macro photography at the annual photography retreat at Kanuga, taught us early in our breezy, and initially frustrating, week together during April 2009 that not all macro photography has to be of flowers. When the wind blows, she told us, one needs to consider photographing something that doesn't move. Now, why didn't we think of that? Fortunately, I did remember her advice, looking at garden sculpture, the depot itself and even a watering can's dented rose. Thursday #2.

Although today, Thursday #3, did not include camera work, the morning was extraordinary. Tal and I rose extra-early and were at the Vannland pond before dawn -- rods, reels, tackle boxes, insect spray at the ready. We caught and released fish to our heart's content. But, the real attraction was the location and simply being there. What could be better than the sight of an eagle soaring over our heads in the brightening sky, a beaver swimming across the pond in advance of the sunrise, the sea of tiny yellow flowers blooming on the surface of the pond at the water's edge?

I write about these Thursdays because they are powerful experiences that give my life extra meaning, adding to the ordinary cycle of yard and house work, of all the responsibilities I tend to make too hard and too heavy. Last fall on a whim I bought a book by Julia Cameron entitled "The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity" (Tarcher, 2002). Then, a month later I actually dipped into the book and began the 12-week program.

Part of it was easy, especially writing the morning pages -- three pages every day no matter what. I can count the number of days I've failed to write during the past seven months on a single hand. Another essential requirement, the weekly artist's date -- solitary time, free time, frivolous time, however, was almost impossibly hard. During the initial 12 weeks I might have managed something that I could in good conscience call an artist's date maybe five times. Seeing the Ansel Adams exhibition at the Columbia Museum of Art, for example, or cloud-watching, for another. The task oriented part of me talks its way out of artist's dates with persistent determination and remarkable skill.

Each of the past three Thursdays would most certainly qualify as an artist's date. It appears a habit may be forming. Or a tradition. July 8th is coming up, a mere six days from now. I'll let you know what happens.