Since spring is here

I thought I'd share a poem from a few years ago about Spring.

Ponder it.

YOU ARE MY SPRING

Walking on the Canal today, Bela and I

were serenaded by dozens of birds.

Bela stopped twice to cock his head and listen.

I could not escape their songs.

My soul leaned toward Spring.

Perhaps they are back too soon

and will freeze in the February night.

But they were there this morning,

trying out their voices,

making music that sounded like April,

when we both were born.

Some winters, here in the Northeast,

test the will and Hope, itself.

Others, like this one,

tease us with their mildness.

Either way—Winter Comes.

And it is the Spring I lean toward, always,

no matter which winter rolls in.

Today, walking with a Puli dog,

listening to the misplaced choruses of birds,

I realized that I lean toward you

the way I lean toward Spring.

In all the Winter-times of my life,

I lean toward you.

You are my Spring,

my Hope, my Love.

                              VALENTINE'S DAY 2012, from Jim to Bern

Cousins

One wondrous surprise at Angie's funeral was that two of my cousins, A and S, showed up before the service. I hadn't seen them for decades, but I knew them immediately. They are younger than me by a bit--third cousins, if I've got that right.

My father's side of the family was very loose in describing blood relations. I called A and S's mother and father 'uncle and aunt' though, truth be known, Ralph was the son of my grandfather Bradley's sister. So, he was my second cousin in reality, but "uncle" in my father's family.

I had two Bradley cousins who were the children of my father's brother and my maternal grandmother's brother's daughter. We called each other "double first cousins". My mother's side of the family would have be more precise: Sarita and Greg were my "double first cousins once removed".

I had a huge family. Lots of Aunts and Uncles and a multitude of cousins.

And I've not 'kept up' the way I was taught to.

I'm a person who lives pretty much in the moment. I form relationships wherever I am rather than carry relationships with me.

We lived far away from 'family', so our children grew up with 'adopted family' that Bern and I gathered along the way.

If I have any regrets in my life--and the truth is I am a person with almost no regrets!--it is that I didn't keep in touch with family.

Anita and Suzanne showing up last Wednesday filled me with great joy and wonder as well as a feeling of deep loss that I hadn't 'kept in touch' with them or any of my family.

My cousin, Mejol, is the sole exception. I still see her from time to time and her two children and two grandsons, but only because they all live in Baltimore and on some trips to see Josh and Cathy and my granddaughters, I touch base with Mejol. But not nearly enough. We did go to Charleston, WV a couple of years ago to visit our Aunt Elsie and this year to her funeral. But not nearly enough.

Anita and Suzanne gave me a great gift--the knowledge that my 'family' is still there. But they also reminded me of my guilt at not 'being family' in a more active way.

I'm going to do my best to 'keep in touch' with Anita and Suzanne. I wrote letters to some of my Jones side cousins I saw at my Aunt's funeral. And I haven't heard back. But A and S are email folks...I think I can keep in touch with them.

I hope so.

I pray so.

What a deep joy that they showed up.

Amazing.

I am blessed. So blessed....

The New Yorker is too ironic this week for even me....

I love irony. Most of the time I look at life as ironic and it gives me both possibility and hope.

I love the cartoons in the New Yorker magazine. Mostly because they are so ironic.

But this week's edition has a couple of dozen cartoons and every single one of them (by design and irony, I'm sure) is about Donald Trump. Some are laugh out loud. Some are ponder and chuckle. Some are find someone to show it to. Some are just to smile about. The last one (by design and irony again) is of a cartoonist at his desk and his wife/secretary is at the door saying, "that Trump cartoon you did yesterday just happened!"

I liked them all and liked how ironic it was to have every cartoon deal with the same subject, even if it was The Donald.

But it raised an issue for me. Should we still be laughing?

The Trump Clown Show was a hoot for a long time. In fact, the whole Republican field (14 of them at one point!) was ripe for humor, irony and satire. But now that we're down to two very scary possibilities (Trump and Cruz) and one not so scary 'impossibility' (Kasich)--should we still be laughing?

I'm still pondering that question.

returning is good....

I've complained a bit about my new computer--and one of the complaints is that if I turn away for more than a minute or so, it goes to sleep.

It actually doesn't 'go to sleep', it starts a slide show of all my photos. But I do have to sign back on to keep doing whatever I'm doing....

I've been doing stuff tonight that causes me to look away for a time. And every time I do, the photos start.

At the Making a Difference Workshop in Ireland, the second or third time we practiced Centering Prayer, someone bemoaned having so many distractions.

(I don't know what you know about Centering Prayer. Here it is in a nutshell: sit comfortably, INTEND to be with God who dwells within you, clear your mind and whenever you notice a distraction, use a prayer word to return to the center.

Pretty simple. In fact, so simple it drives people crazy who want to "do it right". You see, there is no "right or wrong" way. It is a prayer of 'intention' and if you 'intend' to be with God, whatever shows up is what shows up while you're being with God.

Basil Pennington, who gave the workshop Centering Prayer, used to reply to people who complained of having to use their word to 'return' so much by saying: "You had to use your word 50 times? How wonderful to 'return to God' fifty times!!!")

I'm going to apply that wondrous and sacred wisdom to my computer taking me off line if I don't touch it often enough.

The first photo I always see is of Mimi looking back at me and pointing in wonder to the bridge in Sydney, Australia. The other photos are all of people I love and pets I love and vistas I love.

So, when my computer takes me off line from now on, I'm going to say to myself, "how wonderful to 'return' to Mimi and all these memories again and again...."

Feels better already....

sudden Spring

After the post-Easter snows and days of rain, I looked around today at Spring.

Granted, I'd been gone two weeks--one in Ireland and one in West Virginia (neither of which seemed further along in Spring springing than Connecticut!)--but today it was all there.

The trees are budding, flowers are everywhere, birds are in profusion, the world is simply glorious.

Bern brought in a bouquet of jonquils from her garden--6 different kinds!

I wore shorts today. (The joke is that in New England people wear shorts with a hoodie.)

Winter wasn't nearly as brutal this year as in recent years, but the darkness and chill tend to drive down the Spirit. I'm writing this at 7:43 p.m. and there is still enough light to read on our porch.

Light is what is needed. Light brings the world to life.

As sudden as it seems, Spring has come in abundance.

I'm back....

Monday: drive to Bradley Airport, leave at 8:30 pm, go three terminals in Philadelphia, catch plane to Pittsburgh, get picked up by Dan and drive to Wellsburg, West Virginia (45 minutes) arrive about half-an hour after midnight. Sleep in Dan's Roman Catholic Rectory.

Tuesday: up at 7. Drive to Washington, PA to pick up Tony, Bern and Dan's first cousin, drive 5 hours to Princeton, WV, approve Angie's casket and deliver her burial stuff. Check into motel. Fall in motel shower hitting right calf, left foot and forehead. Go to Garrath and Monica's home outside Princeton with our son, Josh, who arrived after a 7 hour drive from Baltimore, eat with various cousins and high school friends, drive to motel at 10 p.m., watch the New York primary results, sleep.

Wednesday: up at 7. Eat free breakfast in motel (biscuits and sausage gravy!!!), go to funeral at St. John the Evangelist parish (Dan celebrated and preached--Episcopalians received communion!!!) go to graveyard, Dan chokes up, I finish interment, say good-bye to Josh, have lunch with Monica at Applebys, I drive to Washington, PA, we drop off Tony, Dan drives to his rectory. Hurried, put together dinner. Sleep.

Thursday: up at 6, coffee, drive to Pittsburgh airport, discover our plant to Philly is 57 minutes delayed because pilot is sick and they are flying in a pilot from Charlotte, NC (no way to run an airline!) get seats near the front of the plane because we're going to go 3 terminals to catch flight to Hartford, run last 1/8 mile, last people on plane, moved to exit row, rehurt foot running, take wheel chair at gate to place to catch bus to parking lot (my first time in wheelchair...probably not last) find car, drive home, eat two eggs and three sausages and Daan with jelly, go get Puli dog from kennel, come home.

All is finally well.

That was my week so far.

How was yours?

Happy Birthday to me!

At 2:17 in the morning on 4/17/1947, I was born to Marion Cleo Jones Bradley and Virgil Hoyt Bradley at the hospital in Welch, West Virginia, 20 miles from Anawalt, where I would live for 18 years before going off to college.

Welch, West Virginia's only claim to fame is that Jack Kennedy came there when he was campaigning for President. He pronounced it "Welsh" but won WV in a landslide in both the primary and general election.

Anawalt, West Virginia has no claim to fame whatsoever. A town of 500 (probably 200 now) in the midst of the Appalachian mountains in Coal Country. It was in McDowell County. Anyone from there pronounced it MACK-dowell.

My mother was 38 and my father was 40 when I was born. No big deal today. My grand-daughter to be, Ellie, will be born to my daughter when she is either 37 or 38 and Tim, her father, will be 40 or so. But back then, deep in those mountains, having parents of that age was strange, to say the least. My parents were friends with my friends grandparents!

I was the first, last and only child of Virgil and Cleo.

An only child was weird and strange back then and back there as well. I don't remember a single other 'only child' from growing up. Just didn't happen.

Being an only child cannot be imagined, I think, by someone with siblings. But, over all, if I had had a choice, I would have chosen it.

Couple of things: only children are never bored--we learned from the womb to entertain ourselves; and only children are annoying because they don't get the boundaries very well...for example, if I come to you house and have to use the bathroom, I'll think nothing of looking in your medicine chest. I'll go through your refrigerator and kitchen cabinets as well. Only children think everything is fair game since they're the only one.

From time to time I lament my solitariness. But all I have to do is talk to someone with siblings for a few minutes to return to being glad I'm an 'only'.

When Cleo and then Virgil died, I longed for a brother to support me or a sister to let me cry. And there was none. Only children learn from the beginning that there is no one to play that role, like a sibling would. So, I supported myself and let myself cry. Worked for me.

One thing for sure, only children know how to be alone. Lots of people, I've learned as a person and a priest, don't know how to 'be alone'. I'm an extrovert, but my 'only' status means I have no problem 'being alone'. I just don't. Sometimes I prefer it.

Plus, 'only children' don't have anyone to argue with about memories. I've heard siblings, over and again, disagree about 'what happened' at some point. My memories are solitary and unchallenged. Mine alone.

And now I've lived longer than I ever imagined. I wasn't feeling too bad about being 69 until Bern said to me, "you're starting your 70th year." Gracious girl, you didn't need to say that.

69 is kind of cool since it isn't 70 and since that number has such rich and erotic meaning.

My Junior year of college I lived at 69 Richwood Avenue with Mike and Mike and Doc. We were delighted with our address. It could get you a beer from a stranger.

So, being 69--though I hate how old that is--is cool in an odd way. But Bern reminding me I'm in my 70th year was a downer.

And I never dreamed of living this long. I was going, as the song said, "live fast, love hard, die young and leave a beautiful memory".

Didn't happen. And I'm thankful.

69 for heaven's sake. Who imagined it?

Not me, for sure.

But I'll take it, thank you, Lord, and I'll take, with joy, whatever comes next.

Happy birthday to me!!!!