Monday, July 8, 2019

Some stuff....

All praise to the American women's soccer team!!! My son, Josh, taught me to like soccer after he spent a year in England working at a pub near Chelsea's field.

And good for them for suing for equal pay with American men and for not wanting to go to the White House. (The women's team, by the way, has brought in more money to the American Soccer Association than the men's team in each of the last three years!)

The President gave a speech today about his environmental achievements. Give me a break! He has set us back a decade in leaving the Paris agreement and rescinding almost every regulation on the books.

He also (once again) pounded on one of our closest allies (Great Britain) because of leaked memos from the English ambassador calling him inept, unreliable and not up to the job. All of which are true.

The administration lied horribly over the weekend about how good the detention centers on the southern boarder were.

I told Bern tonight that 'nothing is REAL any more'.

She replied that she wanted to live to be a hundred to see if we ever got things 'back to normal'.

I think we will, though the President is doing better in head to head polls with Democrats that before now. But I'm an optimist. "Half Full" should be my middle name.


Sunday, July 7, 2019

Good dog, Bridget

Bridget is the best dog ever. So sweet and so good.

But she doesn't know the command 'come'.

She knows 'sit' and 'stay' but not 'come'.

We're going to try and teach her because the way we air condition our house requires it.

We have a huge air conditioner in my office by the back steps and a fan on a book shelf half way down the steps that keeps the downstairs cool beyond belief.

But the door to the hallway upstairs on my office has to stay shut.

When we try to get her to 'come' downstairs that way, she hesitates so long we shut the door.

There is an air conditioner in our TV room and there is a curtain over the door way--no door on the room. Bridget won't push through the curtain like previous dogs do. She thinks it's a door. And is often laying outside it. The air conditioner in our bed room has another door. So she can't always go lay on the bed--her favorite place. She will go with Bern who goes to be before I do.

The three barriers and her not knowing 'come' causes problems several times a day.

So, we'll try to teach her in spite of the 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks' adage.

We'll see.

But we have several leads and she always dutifully comes when on lead.

She is such a good, sweet, wondrous dog that it almost seems frivolous to worry about 'come'.

But if we can teach her to 'come' she will be a perfect dog.

No kidding.


Saturday, July 6, 2019

What's it all about

Every once in a while I feel the need to tell people what 'Under the Castor Oil Tree' means.

For some reason, unknown to me, tonight is one of those times. So, here it is, from 6 years ago.

Sunday, June 30, 2013

Under the Castor Oil Tree explained

I've been reading a lot of Ian Rankin's novels about a Scottish detective named John Rebus. One of the things I've noticed in all Rankin's novels is that Rebus' partner, whose name is Siobhan Clarke, always finds a way to tell someone how to pronounce her name. It is pronounced Shivon, but how would anyone know if she didn't find a way to tell them.

I recommend the series (and there are lots of them) because Rebus is tough and terribly ironic (and I love irony).

All that reminded me to tell people (maybe even some new readers) what "Under the Castor Oil Tree" means...how it's pronounced, so to speak.

My favorite book of the Bible is the book of Jonah. Jonah, you might remember, is called by God to go to Nineveh and convert the people there. He agrees to go but then takes a ship in the other direction. When the ship is about to sink, he tells the crew he has disobeyed his God, Yahweh, and the crew throws him overboard and he is swallowed by a big fish--or a whale, if you prefer, though whales are fishes--who vomits him up on the shore of Nineveh.

He argues with God throughout the book and tells him he knows God will save the people of Nineveh, so why did he drag him half-way around the known world to do it? Sure enough, God saves Nineveh and Jonah finds himself on a hill overlooking that great city 'so angry he could die'. Plus, it's getting hot.

So got causes a plant to grow to give Jonah shade. Then, that night, God sends a worm to kill the plant.

Which just gives Jonah one more thing to whine about. "Why did you kill my plant?" he cries out to God, once again 'so angry he could die'.

So God tells him something like this: "Jonah, why are you so worried about your shade tree--that you didn't plant--when you weren't worried about all those people in Nineveh who I saved through your calling them to repent?" And something about all the animals in the city too.

And that's where the story ends. With Jonah on the hillside, sweating, pondering God's words....

Well, it so happens, some Biblical scholars think that plant, which God caused to grow to shade Jonah and then sent a worm to kill was a castor oil tree. Who knows why they think that? But nevertheless they do.

In a sense, I identify with Jonah. I never, ever intended to be an Episcopal priest. The fish (or whale) that swallowed me was the Viet Nam war. If I had gone to the University of Virginia to get a PhD in American Literature and taught that for all the years of my life like I wanted to...I would have been drafted and perhaps died in some rice patty half a world away. But I was given a 'Trial Year in Seminary' from the Rockefeller Foundation, was exempt from the draft and got hooked on Theology.

So, like Jonah, I sit under my dead Castor Oil Tree and ponder the mystery and mischievousness of God's ways.

That's why this blog is called that. In case  you wondered.

Friday, July 5, 2019

fireflies

I've passed this along several times. Fireflies (lightening bugs) are in our yard each night. I regret how I caught them in our yard as a child and put them in a mayonnaise jar with holes punched in the top. They mostly died in there.

My fault, my own fault, my most grievous fault.

So here's a blog from long ago I've posted several times.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011


Yes, Virginia, there are lightening bugs in Connecticut

I've just been watching Lightening Bugs--fire flies--in our neighbor's yard. So I decided to reprise the fourth most viewed post of mine ever.

They are blinking, blinking, blinking.





They're out there tonight--the fireflies--in the mulberry tree just beyond our fence where the groundhogs come in the late summer to eat mulberries that have fermented and make them drunk. A drunk groundhog is a wonder to behold!

And the lightening bugs are in our yard as well. I sat and watched them blink for 20 minutes tonight.

My dear friend, Harriet, wrote me an email about lightening bugs after my blog about them. If I'm more adroit at technology than I think I am, I'm going to put that email here.
Jim, I just read your blog and have my own firefly story. Before we   went to Maine,
before 6/20, one of those nights of powerful   thunderstorms, I was awakened at 10PM
and then again at 2AM by flashes   of lightning followed by cracks of thunder - the
 kind that make me   shoot out of bed - and pounding rain. And then at 4:30AM there
was   just lightning, silent. The silence and light was profound. I kept   waiting
for sound. I couldn't quite believe in heat lightning in June,   so I got out of bed
and looked out the window. There I could see the   sky, filled with silent lightning
 bursts. And under it, our meadow,   filled with lightning bugs (as we call them) or
 fireflies, flashing in   response. I've never seen anything like it. I can't remember
 the last   time I saw a lightning bug. And then your blog. Is this, too, part of
 global warming? Are you and   I being transported back to the warmer climes of
 our youth, West   Virginia and Texas? Well, if it means lightning bugs, the future
 won't   be all bad.
I did do it, by gum....

So the lightening bugs are blinking, as we are, you and I.

Blinking and flashing and living. You and I.

Here's the thing, I've been thinking about a poem I wrote 4 years
ago or so. I used to leave St. John's and go visit folks in the hospital or nursing home or their own home
on my way to my home. Somehow the blinking of the fireflies has reminded me of that. So, I'll try, once more
to be more media savvy than I think I am and share it with you.
 
I DRIVE HOME
I drive home through pain, through suffering,
through death itself.
I drive home through Cat-scans and blood tests
and X-rays and Pet-scans (whatever they are)
and through consultations of surgeons and oncologists
and even more exotic flora with medical degrees.
I drive home through hospitals and houses
and the wondrous work of hospice nurses
and the confusion of dozens more educated than me.
Dressed in green scrubs and Transfiguration white coats,
they discuss the life or death of people I love.
And they hate, more than anything, to lose the hand
to the greatest Poker Player ever, the one with all the chips.
And, here’s the joke, they always lose in the end—
the River Card turns it all bad and Death wins.
So, while they consult and add artificial poison
to the Poison of Death—shots and pills and IV’s
of poison—I drive home and stop in vacant rooms
and wondrous houses full of memories
and dispense my meager, medieval medicine
of bread and wine and oil.
Sometimes I think…sometimes I think…
I should not drive home at all
since I stop in hospitals and houses to bring my pitiful offering
to those one step, one banana peel beneath their foot,
from meeting the Lover of Souls.
I do not hate Death. I hate dying, but not Death.
But it is often too much for me, stopping on the way home
to press the wafer into their quaking hands;
to lift the tiny, pewter cup of bad port wine to their trembling lips;
and to smear their foreheads with fragrant oil
while mumbling much rehearsed words and wishing them
whole and well and eternal.
I believe in God only around the edges.
But when I drive home, visiting the dying,
I’m the best they’ll get of all that.
And when they hold my hand with tears in their eyes
and thank me so profoundly, so solemnly, with such sweet terror
in their voices, then I know.
Driving home and stopping there is what I’m meant to do.
A little bread, a little wine and some sweet smelling oil
may be—if not enough—just what was missing.
I’m driving home, driving home, stopping to touch the hand of Death.
Perhaps that is all I can do.
I tell myself that, driving home, blinded by pain and tears,
having been with Holy Ones.
8/2007 jgb
Someone once told me, "We're all dying, you know. It's just a matter of timing...."
Fireflies, more the pity, live only a fraction of a second to the time that we humans live. They will be gone from the mulberry tree and my back yard in a few weeks, never to be seen again. But the years and years we live are, in a profound way, only a few blinks, a few flares, a few flashes in the economy of the universe. We should live them well and appreciate each moment. Really.

One of the unexpected blessings of having been a priest for so long is the moments, the flashes, I've gotten to spend with 'the holy ones', those about to pass on from this life.

Hey, if you woke up this morning you're ahead of a lot of folks. Don't waste the moment.

(I told Harriet and she agreed, that we would have been blessed beyond measure to have walked down in that meadow while the silent lightening lit the sky to be with the fire-flies, to have them hover around us, light on our arms, in our hair, on our clothes, be one with them....flashing, blinking, sharing their flares of light. Magic.)





The Revolutionary soldiers had airports!

I've learned that our president (who will not be named here) stated in his rain splattered address yesterday, that the revolutionary troops 'took over the airports'.

That was in 1776 and the Wright brothers were in 1913. Odd, don't you think.

He, of course, blamed the rain and the teleprompter that went off for that egregious remark.

Airports in the 18th century.

Most normal people wouldn't assume their were airports in the 18th century whether or not they had a teleprompter.

But he isn't a 'normal person'.

Has there ever been a president who you couldn't believe anything out of their mouth before?

I think not.

This is a totally new experience for those of us who celebrated the birth of our nation yesterday.

Uncharted and dangerous waters.

By the way, are you a citizen (Yes/No)?

Seems to really matter to him. Not so much to me. Do you live in this country? is my question.

Best wishes. Sleep well if you can....




Thursday, July 4, 2019

Happy Birthday, USA!

We had a great day--a tad hot, but not that bad.

We went to our friends Andrew and Jane's in New Haven. There only child is a late teen. Come to think of it, both Robbie, only son of our friend's Jack and Sherry, and I are also only children.

I get on swimmingly with Priscilla and Robbie and every other only child I've ever met.

We gravitate toward each other.

My usual line (oh, so true!) is whenever I feel sad at not having siblings I just have to someone who does....That works.

Our friend John was there--he lives in an apartment in Andrew and Jane's house. And two older women--even older than me--who I've met before. Plus Maureen who is in Bern and Sherry's women's group.

A good four hours, then back to Bridget and life in Cheshire--a few degrees warmer than New Haven by Long Island Sound.

Hope you had a good 4th and like me watched none of the president's nonsense in DC.

It felt so good to ignore all that.


Wednesday, July 3, 2019

OK, it's coming back

I had 152 views yesterday, so, in spite of my absence from the blog universe, people are finding me again.

I'm happy about that.

Though truth is, if no one read this, I'd keep writing.

It is a way I remain sane in an insane time and calm is a time of chaos.

Blogging is a form of prayer for me.

I just realized that.

You are reading my prayers.

Welcome to my spiritual life.

Glad to have  you here.

Pray with me.

We need it.


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About Me

some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.