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.

On mowing the lawn

As has become our custom this summer, Tal and I rise very early on mowing day in order to finish our work before the summer heat gets its daily grip on the landscape. This morning, while the early temperature was lower than it has been of late, the humidity was extraordinary, the dew so heavy that the decks, steps and sidewalks were wet and the downspouts ran with water coming off the roof. It was the sort of humidity that made breathing itself a noticeable chore.

Although our riding mower has at last been repaired -- the belt that runs the blade reattached and the deck leveled (sort of), I chose to walk behind the small mower, leaving a 19" swath of short grass in my wake, pass after pass. It's a meditative exercise, actually -- a "one foot in front of the other" plodding, uncensored thoughts slipping unto consciousness as, watchfully, I keep the front edge of the mower aligned with the ever so satisfying just cut row.

Today as I worked at outlining the edges of the back yard I became aware of an oak leaf on the grass toward the middle of the area I was cutting. My first thought was to get a photograph. My next thought was to self-scold -- a rather long and harsh "conversation." You need to get this job done, Janet. Stopping the mower means restarting it ... This is mowing time, not camera time. You get the idea.

Round and round I went -- on the grass and in my mind. It wasn't until the last possible instant, when one more step would have put the mower over the leaf, that I stopped walking and released the hand grip that cut the engine, the sudden silence somehow intensely loud.

Then it was across the lawn up to the house, into the garage, off with the wet, grass-covered shoes, through the house for the camera and tripod -- and back again. The result isn't great, but it's pleasing enough, I think more for the fact that the taskmaster in me didn't win for a change than for the image itself.

I had a spiritual director once who told me many times during the years that we talked together that what captures our attention is important. A slant of light through trees, the music of a mountain stream, the fringe of a baby's eyelashes against its cheek, the sound of a winter wind around the eaves of the house ... It is those things -- and millions and billions of others if we're paying attention -- that whisper to us something of the divine, that give us hints of the eternal.

For me today it was mowing the lawn and a single leaf spotted with beads of heavy dew on the wet grass.

The tools you need

It has been months since I last posted to Meanderings. There are many reasons for that, which over time I will likely address, but for now let it suffice to say that I am back. Today is a rather significant day, my father's funeral having been two months ago yesterday. It's a hot June morning, the kind of hot that almost squeezes the life out of a person. Despite that, however, I feel as though, in some strange way, I am beginning to live again. This essay was originally written for the June edition of a newsletter published by the Episcopal Diocese of Upper South Carolina for retired clergy, "From Friends to Friends."

I am grieving the death of my father. It is a time of conflicting emotion which I know will go on for a long time. Even as I have made my way along sorrow’s path since late April, however, I am finding the expected sadness to be tempered wonderfully by unanticipated and unbidden memory. One instance in particular seems to be intent on claiming sustained attention from me. With over twenty years having passed since the actual encounter on a Saturday afternoon, the date long forgotten, I am pleased and strengthened to be discovering new meaning in an old story.

It happened when I was visiting my parents for the weekend. I was involved in a divorce at the time and recently had moved into my first apartment. One of the things I had “inherited” for my new place was a small bistro table and four cane-bottom chairs for the tiny dining area at the end of the kitchen. Over our Friday night dinner I had entertained Mom and Dad with the tale of my trying to reassemble the table without any tools. My first attempt at a meal seated at that table was a wobbly one. The table leaned; the table gyrated. We all laughed at the story, agreeing that seldom does anything go right the first time.

After breakfast the next morning, while my mother and I visited and accomplished her usual Saturday morning tasks, my father disappeared into the garage. At lunchtime he reappeared – and not empty handed. With gentle ceremony he presented me with a red metal toolbox. When I opened it my eyes beheld a variety of tools, from a couple of hammers and several screwdrivers of varied sizes and type to a set of wrenches and a hand-crank drill. I was touched, needless to say, and delighted. My own toolbox. Dad downplayed the gift, telling me that none of the tools were new, that they were extras he didn’t use any more. I was still delighted and he was obviously pleased with himself.

At the end of the weekend I returned to Columbia – and successfully shored up that table! It was also during that week that I told my therapist, David Stewart+ (God, rest his soul) about what my father had done, about the box of tools I’d brought back to my apartment with me from that visit. David’s response was simple, direct and true: “Your father has given you the tools you need.” I got it; David didn’t have to explain. That statement was true about the heavy, brightly-colored box of tools, AND that statement was also true about my having been given – over the course of my childhood and youth – what I needed to know about getting on with my life.

Since Dad’s death and with this memory having come to the fore, I have to say I’ve come to understand another way of appreciating that gift of a tool box. Dad did downplay his gesture, wanting me to understand that what he was giving me was from among a large collection. He not only had his own tools, he also had those of this father and his uncle. To give me a tool box to use in my new apartment (and in the ensuing years; I still have the toolbox) he only had to walk out to the garage. No purchases were required; it was all right there in his workshop. To allude rather loosely a line from a prayer I used at Dad’s graveside, Dad lost nothing in that act of giving.

As I begin moving into the phase of my life I’ll live without my father and as I mine that toolbox memory, I am coming to realize that it’s not so much the toolbox as it the workshop that’s ultimately important here. A metaphorical workshop, mind you. The workshop – containing tools – being represented by me.

I wonder about what’s bountiful and extra in this workshop. And, I wonder how well and to whom I’ll give that extra away.

New eyes

It's rather a pleasure to come home after more than a week away and to see the place with new eyes. Yesterday afternoon, even though the afternoon was sunless, I spent an hour strolling around the yard, finding subjects aplenty to photograph. Like Wilmington and Baltimore, we are having a fine autumn.


There's a tulip poplar volunteer growing near the screened porch which displays its own lace, letting the observer see the intricacies of the vein pattern in this prominent disintegrating leaf.



The Japanese maple is one of my favorite specimens in our yard, the leaves showing both red and green, sometimes in the same leaf.



Getting this shot required flattening myself on the ground in front of the dandelion and red leaf -- and ending up sort of disheveled looking.



The crepe myrtles are giving us double colors in the same leaf, some red and green, here showing yellow and green.

Over achievers

With a plan to get a head start on the day I sprang from a warm bed at the first alarm and arrived in the basement to discover the treadmill, stationary bike and elliptical machines already in use. ("Grrrr ... over achievers," she muttered.) Not wanting to venture outside in the cold dark and into unfamiliar territory, I took to the halls and the stairs. While a circuit of three times from the basement to the 9th floor and back didn't take nearly the time I would have spent on the treadmill, it certainly got my heart rate up, turning my legs to rubber in the process.

Still thinking about adaptability I enjoyed first conversations with my mentees immediately after breakfast, two new relationships which will demand very different things from me -- from the knowledge I carry around to new areas (psychic, theological, ecclesiastical) I'll have to explore, from directing at one moment to letting a realization emerge over time, from addressing the complexities of family life to encouraging a social life outside the parish, from meeting face-to-face with one and via Skype with the other. The same calling, the same profession, the same vows, the same desires (maybe) to service coming to life along dramatically different avenues of expression and in a variety of outcomes.

Somewhat akin even to the early moments of my day, with the treadmill unavailable the stairs satisfied my need for exercise and discipline, these relationships will be a wonderful challenge. At the moment another helpful maritime image or term comes to mind: I shall have to develop sea legs in this mentoring role.