Yesterday was my last dance at St. John's. I won't work after Friday and in 3 months I'll be really retired--the first check from the Church Pension Fund and from SS will arrive on August 1 in our checking account. Amazing.
I'm not ready yet to write about it--it is still too foamy and bubbly and wondrous. But it was, truly, one of the best days of my life. I wouldn't change a thing.
Deep breath....Liturgy is very, very important to me and I think what we did in the liturgy was perfect, just perfect....like everything else.
I have been so profoundly blessed to have spent 21 of the best years of my life deep in the Old Man's Puzzle with the folks at St. John's.
How lucky can one person be???
Someday soon I'll be able to write about it...but not now....
Monday, April 26, 2010
I'm in love with Lucy Malpafatantial
Not even sure if that's how to spell her name. Have no idea what her ethnicity is. Never met her, never will. I spelled it phonetically from her time on CT public radio. Love her voice. Mostly love her name, however it is spelled, it sounds like this to me when she says it: Mal-paf-tantial.
Lovely.
My wife's grandfather came from Bari, Italy with the last name Lachettegnola (again phonetics) but it got changed to PEAS and then Pisano.
I love names like that. I love Lucy's voice and the way she says her name. Kind of crazy, I know. And I look forward to hearing her each day....
Lovely.
My wife's grandfather came from Bari, Italy with the last name Lachettegnola (again phonetics) but it got changed to PEAS and then Pisano.
I love names like that. I love Lucy's voice and the way she says her name. Kind of crazy, I know. And I look forward to hearing her each day....
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The back of my throat
There is a taste in the back of my throat. It's been there a day or two--not just post nasal drip--something wondrous and so sweet.
You know how they say we taste different tastes in different parts of our mouths? Know about that? Somewhere for salt, somewhere else for sweet, another place for sour....Lips and the tip of your tongue for.....let that go.....
Anyway, back there in my throat there has been a taste for a day or two.
I finally figured it out. It is the taste of happiness....
It took me so long because I'm not used to that taste. I am a consummately "joyful" person. But I don't think of myself as 'happy'--too ironic and reflective for that. Oh, I know how happiness tastes--holding a grandchild, watching the night sky, listening to music I love, eating ice cream...sure, I know that. But I'm not attached to it.
"Happiness", it seems to me, is a Bobbe Prize--a 'feeling', not something chosen, like "joy", a passing fancy, here today, gone in a heart-beat, like that.
Being at St. John's all these years has been remarkably, profoundly, always 'joyful' for me. But I see so much pain and loss and longing that I'm seldom 'happy' about it all. But, 'leaving St. John's' is so excruciating and exhausting that I realize now that the 'leaving' is almost over and in the back of my throat I taste happiness. Not to 'be gone', but that the horror of 'leaving' is almost done. It's like when I stood by my each of my parents' graves. Life was finally still and done for them, I could take a deep breath and move on. Like that.
Today I talked to a 24 year old woman from New Hampshire who wanted me to give her $700 to fix her car so she could go home to appear in court in Manchester tomorrow. I had no such amount of money, but I offered her a bus ticket home. That I could do. She left to consider it and never came back. Why she was here, why she was stranded, why she didn't take the bus, why she needed to appear in court...none of that do I know and did not ask. I know what not to ask, have learned that well....But she was lovely in many ways, very articulate (which English majors like me appreciate) and I can't for the life of me imagine what such a lovely, articulate young, young woman needs to be in court for.....
Then I talked to a man twice my size--quite a man that is!--about his father's funeral. His father is not yet dead but will be and we were discussing the whole thing. And this huge, massive man sat and sobbed for half-an-hour for his father who is not yet dead. Deep breaths is what I need. I need to focus and taste the taste in the back of my throat.
We are all--you, me, everyone--like the wings of the little parakeets I can hear yelling downstairs as I type. So fragile, so delicate, so intricately created, almost painfully perfect...that's what we are, you and I and everyone. Stranded far from home, innocent but due in court. Huge, strong, invincible but so pained.
That's what hooked me on this whole thing--this life, this work, this ministry--just the fragility of life itself and how seldom, in the back of our throats, happiness comes.....
You know how they say we taste different tastes in different parts of our mouths? Know about that? Somewhere for salt, somewhere else for sweet, another place for sour....Lips and the tip of your tongue for.....let that go.....
Anyway, back there in my throat there has been a taste for a day or two.
I finally figured it out. It is the taste of happiness....
It took me so long because I'm not used to that taste. I am a consummately "joyful" person. But I don't think of myself as 'happy'--too ironic and reflective for that. Oh, I know how happiness tastes--holding a grandchild, watching the night sky, listening to music I love, eating ice cream...sure, I know that. But I'm not attached to it.
"Happiness", it seems to me, is a Bobbe Prize--a 'feeling', not something chosen, like "joy", a passing fancy, here today, gone in a heart-beat, like that.
Being at St. John's all these years has been remarkably, profoundly, always 'joyful' for me. But I see so much pain and loss and longing that I'm seldom 'happy' about it all. But, 'leaving St. John's' is so excruciating and exhausting that I realize now that the 'leaving' is almost over and in the back of my throat I taste happiness. Not to 'be gone', but that the horror of 'leaving' is almost done. It's like when I stood by my each of my parents' graves. Life was finally still and done for them, I could take a deep breath and move on. Like that.
Today I talked to a 24 year old woman from New Hampshire who wanted me to give her $700 to fix her car so she could go home to appear in court in Manchester tomorrow. I had no such amount of money, but I offered her a bus ticket home. That I could do. She left to consider it and never came back. Why she was here, why she was stranded, why she didn't take the bus, why she needed to appear in court...none of that do I know and did not ask. I know what not to ask, have learned that well....But she was lovely in many ways, very articulate (which English majors like me appreciate) and I can't for the life of me imagine what such a lovely, articulate young, young woman needs to be in court for.....
Then I talked to a man twice my size--quite a man that is!--about his father's funeral. His father is not yet dead but will be and we were discussing the whole thing. And this huge, massive man sat and sobbed for half-an-hour for his father who is not yet dead. Deep breaths is what I need. I need to focus and taste the taste in the back of my throat.
We are all--you, me, everyone--like the wings of the little parakeets I can hear yelling downstairs as I type. So fragile, so delicate, so intricately created, almost painfully perfect...that's what we are, you and I and everyone. Stranded far from home, innocent but due in court. Huge, strong, invincible but so pained.
That's what hooked me on this whole thing--this life, this work, this ministry--just the fragility of life itself and how seldom, in the back of our throats, happiness comes.....
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
A perfect early evening....
This is about yesterday though it might have been about today since the two days were rather seamlessly put together by nature. But it's about yesterday because I got home earlier yesterday and got to notice it all more.
Walking the dog, still bright, not yet seven p.m., I noticed the light. Cornwall is an East/West street--sunrise from Rt. 10, Sunset down the hill toward Prospect. Great light much of the time. Yesterday, stunning.
I sat on our back deck for a long time. It is canopied by hemlock and firs and red oak. You have to look almost straight up to see the sky. And the sky yesterday was the blue of that girl's eyes back in eighth grade. You never kissed her but wished you had for decades. And if you had you would have been lost forever. That blue.
We have a side yard of ferns that are coming up nicely--all ferns and rocks and old tree limbs. The wind moved the ferns feathers slightly. Our deck is assailed on two sides by Rhododendron--state flower of West Virginia, by the way--and the green of the leaves is almost blinding, shiny and deep.
There were birds in the trees and a distant woodpecker who comes every spring and I've never been able to find and see.
Even the aged Horse Chestnut tree I keep thinking is dead is in full leaf. The air felt, tasted, smelled so alive, so sweet--like something called 'forever'.
How many perfect early evenings can we expect in a year or a lifetime? Better grab one when it comes and wrench all the beauty out....
The flowers in our yards and neighbors' yards are all primary colors--reds, oranges, yellows, blue, fluffy cloud white. Not a pastel in sight last evening.
One of the hemlocks has a perfect 'Green Man' on it--I may paint him when I retire so I can see him better and show him to people. He has a long nose and deep eye sockets and a chin that trails away from his mouth.
I had a glass of white wine and smoked a forbidden cigarette and thought things no deeper than something like this: "the light...the light...the light..." for an hour our so.
Our dog slumbered on the deck, his nose under the gate to the front yard. He wasn't even thinking something as weighty as "the light...", he was 'one' with the evening.
It was 53 degrees, I noticed. My favorite temperature yesterday.
Alas--we should all have evenings like that one often....
Walking the dog, still bright, not yet seven p.m., I noticed the light. Cornwall is an East/West street--sunrise from Rt. 10, Sunset down the hill toward Prospect. Great light much of the time. Yesterday, stunning.
I sat on our back deck for a long time. It is canopied by hemlock and firs and red oak. You have to look almost straight up to see the sky. And the sky yesterday was the blue of that girl's eyes back in eighth grade. You never kissed her but wished you had for decades. And if you had you would have been lost forever. That blue.
We have a side yard of ferns that are coming up nicely--all ferns and rocks and old tree limbs. The wind moved the ferns feathers slightly. Our deck is assailed on two sides by Rhododendron--state flower of West Virginia, by the way--and the green of the leaves is almost blinding, shiny and deep.
There were birds in the trees and a distant woodpecker who comes every spring and I've never been able to find and see.
Even the aged Horse Chestnut tree I keep thinking is dead is in full leaf. The air felt, tasted, smelled so alive, so sweet--like something called 'forever'.
How many perfect early evenings can we expect in a year or a lifetime? Better grab one when it comes and wrench all the beauty out....
The flowers in our yards and neighbors' yards are all primary colors--reds, oranges, yellows, blue, fluffy cloud white. Not a pastel in sight last evening.
One of the hemlocks has a perfect 'Green Man' on it--I may paint him when I retire so I can see him better and show him to people. He has a long nose and deep eye sockets and a chin that trails away from his mouth.
I had a glass of white wine and smoked a forbidden cigarette and thought things no deeper than something like this: "the light...the light...the light..." for an hour our so.
Our dog slumbered on the deck, his nose under the gate to the front yard. He wasn't even thinking something as weighty as "the light...", he was 'one' with the evening.
It was 53 degrees, I noticed. My favorite temperature yesterday.
Alas--we should all have evenings like that one often....
Living too long....
I was driving home after a great day at church listening to an NPR report on how most teens text some 50-75 times a day. "Mostly useless stuff," one of them admitted and all of them should, it seems to me.
I've recieved some text messages in my day on my phone and tried once or twice to return them (unsuccessfully).
Here's what I promise: I will not run away to Boreno, I will not drink Yak milk, I will become a Republican or a Baptist, I won't tug on Superman's cape or raise chickens (though I've dreamed a couple of times recently about having chickens--long story....) and I will never send you a text message on your phone. OK? You can go to the bank on that....
So I stop to get a bottle of Starbuck's cold coffee--Mocha, a weakness of mine. The total was $3.01. I had four quarters so I gave the kid 4 quarters, a $10 bill and a penny. He probably texts his friends 50 times a day.
He looked at me and said, "What do I do with this?"
I told him, "Enter $11.01 on your cash register and give me my change...."
Skeptically, he did. "Wow," he said, handing me a 5 and 3 ones, "Cool."
He wished me a nice day though he had almost ruined it....
I've recieved some text messages in my day on my phone and tried once or twice to return them (unsuccessfully).
Here's what I promise: I will not run away to Boreno, I will not drink Yak milk, I will become a Republican or a Baptist, I won't tug on Superman's cape or raise chickens (though I've dreamed a couple of times recently about having chickens--long story....) and I will never send you a text message on your phone. OK? You can go to the bank on that....
So I stop to get a bottle of Starbuck's cold coffee--Mocha, a weakness of mine. The total was $3.01. I had four quarters so I gave the kid 4 quarters, a $10 bill and a penny. He probably texts his friends 50 times a day.
He looked at me and said, "What do I do with this?"
I told him, "Enter $11.01 on your cash register and give me my change...."
Skeptically, he did. "Wow," he said, handing me a 5 and 3 ones, "Cool."
He wished me a nice day though he had almost ruined it....
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Hey, I can't leave you there...
sitting out on my back porch...just sitting, not thinking or pondering or anything else, mostly feeling the cool air on my face and staring at the trees and looking at the sky between their branches, not doing much of anything....I thought about my last blog.
My dad lived a decade and a half or more after that--saw his grandchildren (which my mother never did) lived with us for a few months before going to a nursing home in Hamden for a year or two before he died. Lots happened. Maybe I'll blog about that some time. But my relationship with my father improved--still improves....I love him and appreciate him more each day. Hey, I was 25 and an asshole, not the wise old bird I am now....so don't bum out on that.
And there is this: I can sit on my back porch on my 63rd birthday...just sit...just feel and see and hear whatever is there to feel and see and hear.
That ability may be the beginning of JOY.
I don't think of myself as a happy person, though I am happier than 95% of the people I know or meet. So, maybe I am happy--but I'm too pondering to call it that.
But I am a Joyful person. I tend to almost always notice every moment of my life with an intensity and a thankfulness and a pondering that gives me great joy. Great Joy.
Even when I'm 'unhappy' or 'depressed' or 'anxious' or 'distracted'--even then I am joyful.
I truly love, love, adore, honor, am humbled by and grateful for simply being alive.
I like being alive a lot. And I hope I'm not wasting more of it than I'm enjoying. I'm about to go wash out my sinuses with 8 ounces of salt water--not pleasant, but I'm sick and need to. And it will be a feeling I will acknowledge and honor--but not like....
So, being 63 is a lot better than not being! A lot better.
I am joyful.
And I encounter my father in dreams often these days and it is usually wondrous. Maybe he's forgiven me for being an asshole.
And maybe I'm becoming a wise old bird sooner than I expected.
So, in spite of that last blog, fret not. I am joyful to be alive.
Happy birthday to me.....
My dad lived a decade and a half or more after that--saw his grandchildren (which my mother never did) lived with us for a few months before going to a nursing home in Hamden for a year or two before he died. Lots happened. Maybe I'll blog about that some time. But my relationship with my father improved--still improves....I love him and appreciate him more each day. Hey, I was 25 and an asshole, not the wise old bird I am now....so don't bum out on that.
And there is this: I can sit on my back porch on my 63rd birthday...just sit...just feel and see and hear whatever is there to feel and see and hear.
That ability may be the beginning of JOY.
I don't think of myself as a happy person, though I am happier than 95% of the people I know or meet. So, maybe I am happy--but I'm too pondering to call it that.
But I am a Joyful person. I tend to almost always notice every moment of my life with an intensity and a thankfulness and a pondering that gives me great joy. Great Joy.
Even when I'm 'unhappy' or 'depressed' or 'anxious' or 'distracted'--even then I am joyful.
I truly love, love, adore, honor, am humbled by and grateful for simply being alive.
I like being alive a lot. And I hope I'm not wasting more of it than I'm enjoying. I'm about to go wash out my sinuses with 8 ounces of salt water--not pleasant, but I'm sick and need to. And it will be a feeling I will acknowledge and honor--but not like....
So, being 63 is a lot better than not being! A lot better.
I am joyful.
And I encounter my father in dreams often these days and it is usually wondrous. Maybe he's forgiven me for being an asshole.
And maybe I'm becoming a wise old bird sooner than I expected.
So, in spite of that last blog, fret not. I am joyful to be alive.
Happy birthday to me.....
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