For My Sister Kim, February 18, 1960 - August 21, 2016

Afternoon Delight

 (for Kim)

When we were young, my sister Kimberly loved

Mrs. Strohschein’s pansies too…

And the big Magnolia tree in the front yard

And the swing off to the west side of the house

And the mimosa tree in the back yard,

Where you could sit in the bowl of the tree and twirl bright pink puffy mimosa flowers and tickle your nose.

I loved all of that too, and

Stripping the mimosa leaves off their stems,

Feeling the skeleton of the leaf and the bump, bump, bump of tiny little green leaves popping off, one by one

And sitting in the Lancaster’s tree next door and twirling mimosa flowers in my nose, and dreaming of the day I would rule the world with love and be free to roam wherever I pleased,

Especially through the bamboo forest between our house and the Andrews’

And into the tiny windows at the base of the Southwestern Bell building across the street, where the men came and went every day in their big mysterious trucks with all the tools and ladders and ropes,

And under our house, crawling in the vast expanse of cool, dark earth

And playing in the church’s gravel parking lots, next door and across the street, right after it had rained,

When the dirt smelled so fresh and rich and new, that we could feel the universe in every particle and see our history in every trace of sea creatures across the tiny pebbles.

We would walk through the live-oak and crepe myrtle lined streets,

Twirling mimosa flowers in our slender, young fingers,

Sucking sweet tender honeysuckle flowers through our teeth,

Singing childhood rhymes, church hymns of love to God, and pop songs of desire—they were all afternoon delight,

As we played games of make-believe and fun and chattered gaily among ourselves, like little birds. 

“His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches over me.”

The whole world sang to us and through us, and it was all love.

Late Sunday Afternoon On the Beach

Late Sunday afternoon on the beach
Blue skies
Light breeze
Warm for Southern California water
Families set up with shade, food, toys
All kinds of people in the water boogie boarding, swimming, playing in waves

And further up the beach from the crowds, these sightings:

A tiny little spiky-haired boy with blue floaters on his arms and waist, who moves as if he just learned to run, darting in and out of the surf, laughing and screaming with delight, surprise, and excitement at each lap of the waves, and running circles around his slightly bigger but still tiny sister who is sitting on the beach at the edge of the water in a muddy spot, her back turned away from the ocean, plopped down and unmoving, in her red and yellow and blue jumpsuit, a blank look on her face, her hair matted around her face.  Their older brother stands slightly back, watching with concern for both, looking for any sign that he might need to jump in, moving hesitantly around his little brother, like a lifeguard.  Two young women in their 20s stand fully clothed in the middle of the scene, arms folded, no particular expression on their faces, softly chatting to each other.

About 10 feet away, a gray and white seagull with a wet black sock in its beak, struggles along the sand for several minutes to carry the sock out to the ocean, and almost makes it--got the sock into the surf, which then took the sock from the bird and deposited it back on the sand as it receded.  The seagull picked up the sock again, trying for a few more seconds to drag it back to the water, but dropped it several times, and unlike Sisyphus, eventually left it where it dropped on the sand and walked on without looking back.

And then this carefully constructed creation, another 10 feet or so away and further up from the surf:

Happy Father's Day ( a bit late, but always relevant)

https://www.theadvocate.com/baton_rouge/news/communities/zachary/article_ace83704-9167-11e9-912b-a33df5dcaaa4.html?fbclid=IwAR1nE7yDKomEtLgrfyMmfOISVHy4eGgI8yOZAUwSX-gl-ZzLUTQstCnETZY

This is my father.  When I was 18 years old and starting college, he took me out of school for 2 weeks in the middle of the semester to take me to Israel and Istanbul with him.  I was concerned about missing that much school, but he wasn't.  He said I'd learn more on the trip.  I loved my classes, and still remember them and my teachers with great love.  But, yes, the trip.

We had a long wait in the JFK airport, so he put me in a cab with some of the adults on the tour, gave them a bunch of money, and said to drive me around the city in a cab and show me as much as they could in the time we had.  It was my first glimpse of the city that would one day become my home.  I loved the crowds and the busy-ness and wanted to experience that for myself.

We landed in Tel Aviv, and I was amazed at the beauty of the city and the green of the land.  On the way from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem we stopped at a Kibbutz.  I loved it and wanted to stay.  It seemed like a great way to organize life.  In Jerusalem we stayed in a downtown hotel that had been a YMCA and that still had bullet holes in the elevator door from the 6-Days War and that served us cold fish and onions for breakfast.  One evening we went to the shop of the family of the man who had bought the Dead Sea Scrolls from the Bedouins.  They greeted my dad with great love and affection and gave me an embroidered shirt.  We went to the Old City, the temple, the Dome of the Rock, and the wailing wall.  We posed for pictures on camels.  We went to the Holocaust museum.  I couldn't talk for a long time after.  We walked the old streets of Jerusalem and into the Garden of Gethsemane, such a respite.  But still it was all deeply sad and weighed heavily on me.  Our last night, we went to a nightclub in Jerusalem.  People were laughing and talking and having drinks.  The band was playing, and then the belly dancer took the stage, danced through the room, collected her tips, and I wanted to stay there all night.

In Israel I was seeing the history that I knew and stories I had been raised on brought to life. 

Istanbul, though, was a whole other world, one that I had only glimpsed in William Butler Yeats' poem "Sailing to Byzantium." We had read the poem in my freshman English class that I was skipping out on, and I had written a paper analyzing it to the best of my ability, given that I knew nothing, and was completely mystified by it, but I loved it, and here I was, and now the poem made sense. 

The city did not appear to have any stop signs or traffic signals--just cars, buses, and trucks in a frenzied, hair-raising, death-defying free-for-all.  The Sheraton we were in had a Thanksgiving display with a live turkey strutting around in it.  The people were all gorgeous and impeccably dressed, and did not look anything like American tourists from Louisiana. Then we stepped into the Hagia Sophia.  It knocked me into another world.  The immensity, the grandeur--I could feel God everywhere, and I was humbled.  I was reluctantly led out and into the museum of the sultans' palace.  Bedazzled by the jewels on display in the Topkapi Palace Museum, I came blinking out into the street.  We boarded our bus and headed to a rug salesroom, where they served coffee and Turkish delights.  I wanted to buy all the rugs. 

Reluctantly I was shepherded out and onto a bus taking us to the Grand Bazaar, the biggest shopping center under one roof in the world, I was told.  Hordes of shabbily dressed kids ran after us, calling, "Turkish Delights, Turkish Delights!"  My heart hurt. 

Inside the bazaar, I was overwhelmed by the immensity, the darkness, the noise, the insistent energy. 

But there was a very cute young blond guy, about my age, hawking sweaters, and I liked the sweaters, and I liked his smile, and I could actually afford them.  He spoke maybe 10 words of English--enough to haggle--and my super-shy self enjoyed being free to flirt and haggle in this place that was made for it, and I bought 2 sweaters for $10--the sky blue one with white llamas for me and the white one with sky blue llamas for my sister Kim  I still have mine.  It is the warmest sweater I have ever had.

Thank you, Dad, for introducing me to a whole new world, and setting me on my path.

Baby Butterflies

San Diego has butterflies.  Lots and lots of butterflies.  More than I've ever seen in my whole life.  They just began appearing a few days ago.  According to the news reports, they are called painted ladies, and look like small versions of monarchs, but with different patterning on their wings, and they have come forth because of the rains, which have brought a super-bloom of wildflowers, creating places to lay eggs and food for the emerging caterpillars, which spin themselves into cocoons and metamorphose into butterflies.

Painted Ladies live for about 2 weeks, during which time they lay their eggs.  When they fly out into the world, they are brand new.  They are babies.  And they are exuberant.  They fly all over the place, and fast!  They can fly up to 20 miles per hour.

They're on their way from Mexico to the Pacific Northwest.  But they do not fly in straight lines.

They flit. They zoom.  They spin.  They swarm.  Clouds of flitting, spinning, zooming butterflies.

I first noticed them the other day standing outside with a friend in his yard.  We observed them affectionately, and I felt very tender towards them.  Then I got in my car and drove off.  That's when it became clear that I was killing many of them, and so was everyone else who was driving along the Coast Highway.  As fast as the painted ladies could fly, they couldn't avoid all the cars, and no matter how tenderly I felt for them, I couldn't avoid killing them unless I quit driving all together until the swarms pass in a few weeks.

We're born with more synapses than we need--it's called synaptic exuberancy--and I hoped that the exuberant forces of nature were working in favor of the butterflies, and that there would still be plenty of butterflies who fulfilled their purposes.

Yet, I felt so heavy and crude in my metal car on the asphalt road, following it to my destination in a steady predictable way, with this profuse and abundant wild, light, effusive, ephemeral life flying all around me, so erratic it felt ecstatic.  The bright blue sky filled with light, the ocean shimmering with light all around, butterflies everywhere the eye could see, and here I was sitting in my metal bubble killing butterflies when all I wanted was to watch them and marvel.

But in a few seconds, I realized that they were also a danger to me.  I've driven in fog, rain, wind, hail, and snow, but I've never driven through clouds of butterflies.

This is the way worlds collide.  This is the way we hurt one another, even when we didn't mean to.  In different vehicles, on different paths, going different directions in different ways, at different speeds, some with protective bubbles, some as vulnerable as a newly born butterfly.  Sometimes I've been the butterfly.  Sometimes the heavy metal machine that mowed it down.  Sometimes the swarm so thick and mesmerizing it blinds oncoming traffic.  Sometimes the driver trying to peer through the swarm and keep eyes on the road. That's the way it goes. It's not personal.

The painted ladies are here, the rains have come, the wildflowers are blooming, and we are all here together flitting about.  May we all become lighter and brighter for it.

Video Tribute to Fr. Walter J. Ong, S.J.

I am deeply grateful that I was able to study with Fr. Walter Ong at St. Louis University (SLU) for my doctorate.  He was both a great writer and scholar, person, and mentor.  In 2017 I was invited by Professor Jim Scott of SLU to participate in a video honoring Fr. Ong.  I was thrilled and honored to do so.

Professor Scott made a wonderful video that shows the essence of who Fr. Ong is and the continuing value of his work.  I have much more to  say, but for now

From Storyteller to Cyberspace:

https://youtu.be/voR7aJITu0E  

Hands

When I was a little girl, I wanted hands like my grandmother’s.  My Grandma Cecil, aka Eloise Beyette, my mother’s mother, had hands that worked.  

Hands that dug in the red East Texas dirt and planted acres and acres of beans, cucumbers, okra, squash, eggplant, tomatoes, corn, peas, beets, greens.  Hands that picked all those vegetables, out in the hot summer sun, with no hat, no gloves. Hands that canned a year’s worth of fruit and vegetables in just under a week.  

Hands that hung tons of wet laundry on the line.  Hands that took the stiff, dried pine-and red-dirt-and-fresh-air scented clothes, towels, and linens off the line, and folded, hung, and put them away, over and over.  Hands that made beds, cleaned bathrooms, vacuumed and dusted.

Hands that upholstered furniture finer than any store-bought upholstery.  Hands that made beautiful satin curtains that lasted for years and fancy evening wear dresses that made my sister Kim the belle of the ball in Houston high society.  

Hands that painted every inch of her house inside and out, ceilings and cabinets included, over and over.  Hands that built a chair with a 2-man cross-saw all by themselves, when she was just 16 years old and wanted a chair and was tired of waiting on my grandpa to get her one.

Hands that hauled firewood off the carport and into the fireplace.  Hands that tended the fire.

Hands that pushed a hand mower through lowland boggy grass on the other side of the creek and across acres of pine-tree dotted lawn.  Hands that raked and picked up all the pine straw and pine cones on that lawn, piling them up in huge bundles to be burned. Hands that burned trash and yard debris.  

Hands that rolled out dough and cut and baked thousands, possibly millions of buttermilk biscuits, and then served them to the men working with her husband and friends and family.  Hands that made the best hamburgers and chicken fried steak and pot roast ever. Hands that cooked 3 hot meals a day for her whole life, except those days she drove into Houston to work.  

Fried eggs, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and biscuits for breakfast.  Sandwiches for lunch. Fried fish, fried chicken, fried steak, fried okra, fried squash, french fries for dinner.  Pot roast for Sundays. German Chocolate Cake for special occasions. Barbequed chicken out in her big cast-iron cauldron out past the carport for really special occasions.  And hands that cranked and cranked and cranked the best homemade peach ice cream ever, out back of the house.

Hands that washed dishes, pots, and pans for all that food, in scalding hot soapy water--without gloves--every day of her long life. Hands that never touched a dishwasher. Hands that chopped ice blocks into chips with a hand-held ice pick, because it tasted better that way--she didn't believe in refrigerator ice-makers. Hands that used towels and pot holders to handle hot pans when they no longer had handles.

Hands that scaled and beheaded and boned thousands of fish that my grandpa caught on his lakes. Hands that helped him build those lakes and stock the minnow ponds and catfish ponds.

Hands that killed many a snake.  Copperheads and rattlesnakes, mostly.  Often right out the back door on the carport, while she was getting in the car.  “Hand me that hoe,” she’d say in her calm voice, motioning to the utility closet, “there’s a copperhead right by my foot,” one hand on the open car door and one foot on the floor board already, the other foot still as it could be on the concrete floor.  I’d hand her the hoe, and chop, there goes the head, the snake is dead, and she’d hop in the car, and off we’d go.

Hands that drove her beat up old boat of a Chevrolet Impala even when her legs barely worked anymore.

Hands that ran the Sears home kitchen goods department in the fanciest Sears store in Houston, back when there was such a thing.  Hands that drove her and her best friend there every morning, off at 6 am or so.

Hands that could control dogs that we were afraid of, dogs that sent men to the hospital, dogs that we approached with great caution and treats.

When I was in my 20s, I saw her lift a hot cast iron dutch oven with a pot roast out of the oven and put it on the stovetop like it was a book of matches.  I tried to pick up the pot, and I could barely budge it. She was at least in her 80s by then.

She was probably in her 80s before her hands ever even touched a remote control.  She had hands that dialed heavy metal phones and changed channels on the tv by turning knobs.

When my grandpa and my cousin died within months of each other, she turned her hands to making arrangements and taking them to their graves.  Her hands cleaned the headstones, scrubbing them with clorox and soap. Her hands gathered greenery from the woods and flowers from the florist and turned them into arrangements that were pure art of the heart.  Pure love. Her hands began to take photos of her creations and collected the photos in a portfolio.

My mother was a creator too, of children and food and clothes and homes, an artist of the beautiful, but her hands were not like her mother’s.  They were softer and whiter. They got gnarled a bit with age and arthritis, like my grandmother’s, but they were not as strong, not as spotted by sun, not as wrinkled, ever.

My hands are still forming. At first I tried to make them wrinkled like my grandmother’s by not wearing moisturizer or sunscreen and by doing lots of things with them.  But my hands will never look like her’s. Mine were formed by softballs, bats, gloves, footballs, basketballs, pianos, typewriters, pens, pencils, colors, marbles, monkey bars, jungle gyms, swings, slides, see saws, jacks, and light household chores.

What will touch screens, remote controls, voice-activated technology, and smart phones do to my hands?  I hardly use any pressure or fine motor skills using these devices. Sometimes I don’t use my hands at all.  I never cook a pot roast in a cast iron dutch oven and haul it to the stove top. I can just cook it by pressing a button on InstaPot.

I notice the hands of people under 30.  Their fingertips are insubstantial, thin, wispy, and tapered--not designed for work--but lightning fast on screens of all sizes.  I have to mash down to get the “p” on my curved screen Android smartphone. They have no problem with their “p’s,” or anything else, on the screen; their thin, wispy fingers just barely graze the screen and letters magically appear.  

I feel stupid touching screens.  Hundreds of years of print and writing culture tell me that symbols on the page are not the thing itself and that touching the page does not affect the page, is not like pushing a button.  Yet, now I am supposed to touch a screen--smooth and slick--no buttons, no keys , and the screen is alive and is the thing. For me, raised on manual and then electric typewriters, where I had to make solid contact with a key, which made another key move and leave a mark on a page to create one letter and then another, and the words were clearly not the thing, and the typewriter was clearly not the thing, but a tool in a process, where all the boundaries were clear, like skin, muscles, and bones; like ligaments and tendons, nerves and blood vessels, organs and joints--one object in relation to another object--each distinct and with a purpose--for me the world of smartphones and touchscreens is unreal in some essential way.  Boundaryless.

Yes, the pressure of my touch causes ones and zeros to flash and codes are spoken and move in the ether beyond, behind, underneath the screen, but where are they, what are they, and what exactly is happening?  Symbols create symbols in a world of codes. No wonder it’s hard to know what’s real.

My fingertips were formed by pens and pencils, typewriters, and brushes.  My mind was formed by knowing how objects related in space and time to one another.  My emotions were formed by watching my parents and their parents and my brothers and sisters and other people and observing and reacting to their emotions and my own stimulated by theirs, and on and on in continuous, spiralling loops of connection.

The young ones with their slender fingertips that never had to push a key to make a letter and may have never held a hammer or driven a nail or operated a sewing machine, but fly lightning fast over screens, what are their sources of emotion and connection?  How are their minds and emotions and bodies being formed? What is happening to their hands?

My cat reaches his paw out over my hand.  A quiet plea to pet him with my hands. Hands that were formed by me, and by my grandmothers on both sides, my mother, my father, my grandfathers, and all those before us, and all we have ever done. Hands that are still forming. May they always work.