Fred

The man next door has lost his mind.
I see him every day in his back yard
Walking slowly around his house
And looking for it upon the ground
As if it was a dropped quarter.

He does not recall me, or my name
Even though we have lived as neighbors
For over twenty years.
He does not realize that his mind is merely mislaid
Upon the mantle of his life,
Right next to his last moment of lucidity,
And behind his most comforting years.

When I was a child, his wife saved me
From certain, inescapable doom
By convincing me she did not have a stamp
That I could place upon the letter to my parents
Explaining, in my limited vocabulary,
My grievances that made me want to run away.

Instead, she offered me hot cocoa
And took my rucksack from me,
And gave me a cushion on her sofa
Where I could rest and share my troubles with her.
After we spent the afternoon in earnest conversation
Interspersed with tears and reassurances,
I forgot about the stamp, and my rucksack,
And made my way home, unburdened.

And again she is the caretaker –
Now looking after her husband.
With gentle discipline, as she would with a child;
Reminding him to come inside from his ceaseless searching
For his lost mind; something, which to others,
Might strongly resemble a quarter.

Spring Has Sprung

Every Spring, I make time to venture into the wilds of my mother's yard to take photographs of her azaleas. As far as landscaping flowers go, I'm not a big fan of azaleas (I find them to be size-challenged, temperamental, and short-lived in our region), but I have an affection for hers as they seem to be determined enough to survive in our muddy terrain, and besides, I basically grew up with them.

The pinks always bloom before the whites. I've never been quick enough to capture the smaller pink blooms on film before they expire; however, I have learned over the years that I have a small window of opportunity in which to capture images of the whites. That window falls between the first wave of new blooms and the first rain. During this time, the blooms are full and clean. Yet once the first rain falls after the initial blooming, the petals shrink, "burn", and are no longer as appealing in appearance. One or two more rains, or one good frost, and the blooms will be lost for the season.

Whenever I travel, I try to photograph the local flora. Though I am not a huge supporter of the cut-flower trade, the beauty I find in any wildflower (or, heaven forbid, an entire field of them) brings to me a sense of indescribable joy. Upon reflection, though I may not have more images of flowers from different places in my photo boxes than of people or landmarks, I'll concede they probably run a close second.

When I photograph flowers, I seek what my mind perceives to be a perfect image. This entails visually evaluating almost every bloom, every cluster and arrangement, every blank; however, I feel that I should clarify that I am not searching for a conventionally "perfect" flower. I take many pictures throughout this process, knowing I will discard over half, possibly even two-thirds of them once I see them on a bigger screen. I usually end up with between six and twelve keepers, images that I feel are a good representation of my efforts and the flowers themselves. Sometimes, I will be rewarded with a single image that surpasses all the others I've taken during that session; this image will be one that literally takes my breath away.

It's this split second of disbelief and awe that prompts me to make this sojourn every Spring. I search for a split second of unity with nature in exchange for a fifty foot stroll into the back yard and thirty minutes' worth of discarded images. What I find instead is a split second of humility after looking up Nature's skirt and realizing what a clumsy, overcomplicated human being I am. Even so, it seems a pretty sweet deal to me.

With full knowledge and appreciation that everyone's perception of beauty is different, I'd like to show you what took my breath away this year.

Until next Spring, then.

The Art of Communication

A nod of thanks to J for sharing this.

Miles of Thunder

Usually, it takes between 48 and 72 hours for bad weather to travel from the Midwest to the southern states. The storm that T mentions in her last blog seems to have broken the land speed record, however; it arrived in less than 24 hours, on its way to meet the Atlantic for a hot date. We were alerted to this nasty storm's approach by T's blog and the inclement weather announcements that were interrupting the television shows that were on.

I ventured from home to get a bite to eat a little while ago, and I was astounded by the feeling of electricity coursing through the air, obviously a result of the repeated lightning strikes I was witnessing. Each barrage of strikes was punctuated by the sound of crisp, impatient thunder rolling across what sounded like five or ten miles. Though it had rained softly earlier in the evening, during my brief trip out it was not raining. Instead, the atmosphere was oppressive and I sensed the sky bearing down on the earth, pregnant with water and very angry about it.

After dinner, the sky decided it had carried its burden long enough, and poured its contents down on the earth as if from a bucket. The lightning and thunder abated. The interruptions on the television continued, though not as frequently. Thirty minutes later, the deluge ceased and the world resumed the quiet, damp stance it held prior the storm.

After a storm like this, I always make a point to call T and personally thank her for sending crappy weather my way. She's usually torn between telling me that despite her goddess status, she really doesn't have that kind of power, or simply saying "You're welcome. It's the least I can do." She's such a giver.

The Return of Artemis

No, I wasn't abducted. No, I wasn't in traction. No, I didn't impose a moratorium on blogging.

I was on a really big boat in the Western Caribbean for eight days. Time came to a halt, and I felt as if I had dropped off the face of the earth save a fragile thread of reality provided by my traveling companion and a sporadic cell phone signal. I wondered if it was possible to surpass the quality of the four days I recently spent with my dearest T, but I found this cruise to be just as satisfying, albeit on different levels. For those who noticed my absence, I truly appreciate your comments and concern.

I was invited to go by my closest hometown girlfriend, who received the all-expenses-paid, seven night cruise as a gift from her employers. We haven't traveled together in years, so I was very excited about the opportunity to spend time with her and visit a new place together.

This wasn't my first cruise, but it was so much more fun than my first. In 1996 I traveled across the Atlantic from London to New York on the Queen Elizabeth II for eight days. Actually, it ended up being nine days, because of a pesky Nor'Eastern that traveled tenaciously with our ship. The ship itself was a masterpiece; the food was exquisite, the wine selection impressive, and the service impeccable. Those were the only things that made me suppress my seasickness long enough to leave my cabin. I recall spending only fifteen minutes on deck during nine days.

I would like to sum up that experience by sharing a story about beautiful bone-china bowls of lovely, apricot-colored, sugary candies that I observed had been placed throughout the boat. The candies were so enticing that one evening after dinner, I picked up a few and popped them in my mouth as a post-dessert dessert, if you will. As my mouth exploded into flames, tears welled in my eyes, and my exquisite dinner and impressive wine reconsidered their positions, a steward approached my companion to inform him I had just consumed a large amount of candied ginger (which, unbeknownst to me, was placed about the ship as an anti-seasickness remedy). As the two men stifled their giggles, I croaked with my seared vocal cords to ask yon steward if it would have been too much trouble to put a card in front of the bowl to identify its contents. I immediately retired to my cabin and refused to re-emerge for twenty-four hours.

This cruise, however, was everything it should have been. I ate three or four full meals a day (unheard of for me in the States); I enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine; I slept ten to twelve hours a night (also unheard of), and basked in the sun as I melded with the universe adrift on the open sea. I forgot about every little thing at home that made me tense, and acquired no new stresses (or stressors) during my trip.

Did I commune with nature? Absolutely. Belize afforded me an unforgettable underwater experience, during which I was entranced by dragons and stars, spiders and lace. The sun warmed my body and my soul. The winds caressed and cooled my skin. The waters were crystalline blues and greens, and the travelers and natives alike were warm and welcoming.

Did I exercise? I visited the ship's gymnasium every day. We used it as a shortcut to our favorite sunning deck. Other than walking through the shopping districts, we deliberately restricted our physical activity.

Frankly, we intentionally didn't do a doggone thing on this cruise (save the snuba excursion in Belize and a brief cab ride downtown in Cozumel). We didn't see any shows on the boat. We didn't go to any parties. We didn't set alarms and the only schedule we followed was breakfast by 10:00, lunch by 2:00, and dinner at 6:00. Like two little old ladies, we were usually in bed and asleep by 8:30 or 9:00 at night. And (I know T will be aghast), we didn't even read. We just relaxed and bonded in a tropical paradise.

But what I found to be the most pleasing about this trip, and most moving, was something completely unexpected. I wrote previously about how T and I spent so much of our visit talking and waxing poetic and philosophical, until we had analyzed the universe down to a subatomic level using enough words to fill a small library. Well, S and I barely exchanged a newspaper's worth of words during this entire trip. It was really an amazing thing. We didn't talk but a smidgen at meals, though we did converse with our dinner mates frequently; we didn't talk while we sunbathed; we talked a little while we explored the shopping districts, and we held brief but thoughtful conversations before retiring for the day. By spending only a few hours of the trip apart from one another, we reminded ourselves how much we enjoy each other's company, which is merely one reason we've been girlfriends for so long.

Now deposited once again on the shores of real life, I look back on the days at sea and am grateful. Where T helped to heal my soul and spirit, S helped to heal my body and mind.

Without a doubt, I have the best friends in the whole world, and that makes me the luckiest girl in the world.