Whatever the Weather

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The robins wouldn’t stop their racket. I rolled over and pulled the coverlet over my head, pulled my pillow closer over my ears, and longed for winter’s snow-insulated quietude. The breeze snaking its way through the partly opened window was heavy with the scent of earth awakening, richly warmed. Spring had come again and I was not ready at all for its insistent, brilliant beauty. The exquisite unfolding of the new season felt painful. I dreaded its arrival, as I knew once more I would be doing battle with my emotions. Perhaps my life.

That scene arose from fifty years ago as I moseyed around my neighborhood. I was taking photographs, a happy outdoor activity, when the rain started. It had swept in from the east  but it wasn’t a concern. My waterproof parka accompanies me six months of the year in Oregon. I am a rain aficionado, one who counts its varieties of music as some of the best. And if my jeans get wet, they will dry. So I kept snapping away, noting three sets of boys playing basketball in their respective streets despite the downpour. They weren’t the least bit fazed, either.

More blossoms had begun showing off in January; there are some flowers year ’round but not so many fancy ones. The temperatures rose in the past month, and now have held steady in the fifties or higher. As I framed camellias, daffodils, tulips and their jewel-toned neighbors for pictures it struck me that I hadn’t hidden from spring in a few decades. The birds sing just as loudly here and now and I fling open windows wider to see what they’re up to. In March or April the sun, like a forgotten love returning home, brings excellent tidings. I line up my sandals. dig up t-shirts and turn off the heat for good.

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It has been decades since weather or season has really disappointed, daunted or weighed me down. I found my place and it fits me like custom-made attire. I know some folks move to the Northwest in sparkling blue summer and are dismayed when the rains arrive, but it wasn’t so for me. I first explored this corner of the country when I was eighteen, living with an older sister in a cabin on a lake just outside Seattle for a year. The moment I stepped off the plane it was as if my soul had found its earthly dwelling place so deeply did it speak to me. I was liberated. The topography and geology of mountains, ocean, lakes and rivers; the vast temperate rain forests; the active and inactive volcanoes that mightily redesigned landscape; the fecund valleys, high desert and seashore; greenness like a magic balm with its scintillating atmosphere…Well, it is easy for me to rhapsodize. The Northwest is where I returned twenty years later (and had longed for it all that time). I have stayed over twenty more, will die here if I have a say in it.

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For some of us, there is a land that moves us, and a time that is right to find it. As a youth I imagined the clouds on mid-Michigan’s horizon were actually mountains and I instantly felt better. Any time my family and I traveled into higher elevations with trees and sky galore my pulse quickened. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy the four seasons of the Midwest. Our lives were dictated by nature’s ways in autumn, winter, spring and summer. And I was attuned to them in some primeval way.

But spring. It was not welcome despite everyone else rejoicing when the last of dirty and ice snow melted in the gutters, when the lemon-yellow forsythia bloomed and robins again pecked the earth for fat worms. For me, it brought an up-welling of anxiety, lethargy, moodiness; being visited by loneliness and the specter of depression. Something inside me wanted to escape, to cry out, abandon sweetness and beauty, to seclude myself where no one could find me. But I went to school, I rode my bike, laughed and talked to friends, participated in after-school activities, studied the arts and academics–all the things a teenager might enjoy.

But I also looked over my shoulder fall day, even when I knew there was nothing to be concerned about. When I rode my biked over to a friend’s house, I rode hard to arrive faster. When I went to the little corner store where we all bought candy and soft drinks, I examined each car as it drove closer, then passed by. A walk in the woods alone meant taking a risk; fascination with nature was overshadowed by amorphous fears. And when back home I often retreated to my room and clung to all that kept me afloat–writing and reading, music, art, prayers memorized and created, fervent dreams of a safer, happier future.

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There was a reason for all this. In warmer weather I felt  the most vulnerable. For too long as a child I had been doggedly shadowed, picked up from the street, stolen from safety and comfort by a man who was my abuser until he finally was sent far away, never to return. But it didn’t matter that the past was gone. I lived a kind of double life as victims often do, a busy, engaged teen in public, withdrawn in private. Post traumatic stress disorder lingers and can turn poisonous without healing help. Thus, from spring until autumn I was on guard, unable to rest well, a long arm’s length away from sharing what I imagined could be a carefree life with others. The family doctor prescribed sedatives to relieve insomnia and nightmares, to soothe my daily life. And so, addiction’s subterranean lifestyle began. It did ultimately end–when I was ready and found the keys I needed. And as health and wholeness returned, spring came back to me in all its glory, like a creature who had blinders removed. It was surprising, a bonus.

This is not a sad story nor a tale of regret. I share a life that has turned and turned, has witnessed tiny and huge miracles, a life that has spun incandescence from the taut nerves of a rocky childhood and youth. I want others who may suffer from burdens to be assured there is relief, there is even the gift of laughter waiting. There is hope today in my living and being because there never was not hope. God still walks with me because God never detoured. I eagerly open my eyes to be shown Divinity in the most ordinary moments and within the lost and suffering. I am mesmerized by the solutions and creations of countless hands and hearts. And I step out each day without the old hyper-vigilance. I feel strong and sturdy within and without.

If you find spring temperamental or even a menace with its new beginnings, its softness and romance, its grace and charms like darkness upon your shoulders, hold on. We can make our internal weather fair or stormy. And times do change. Search for a way out of your cavern. Call out for a hand. Do not let the beauty of this world give way to the pressure of its pain. Find a place to start anew, to call your little spot of paradise. Make your country among the bravely living. Discover the constancy of wonderment as you lay down your fear. Let God’s love be your ballast and you will be steady throughout all seasons of your living.

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Channay’s Gifts

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It was nineteen ninety-six, late autumn, raining. The first day she joined our team at an adolescent residential treatment center, it was as if a wisp of a sweet breeze had entered the building. Channay was composed, a bit subdued but soft around the edges, as though she moved in a dream. Her Chinese (we speculated) beauty was startling but she seemed unaware of it, and dressed unobtrusively. Thick ebony hair swayed against her back. Her delicate hands with long tapered fingers and impeccable nails were like birds wafting through the air.

There was a modesty and simplicity about her that vividly contrasted with the raucous, rough teenagers (male and female, different floors) we aided, as well as our toughened team. Many worried she would not be strong enough for the work, that the clients would manipulate and bulldoze her within a week. We needn’t have been concerned; she watched and learned rapidly. She held firm but never raised her voice in response to their heckling of her slight accent or pushing of program limits.

She and I connected easily. Neither of us fit the profile of someone who would work with often violent, abused and abusing, drug addicted, homeless or gang-affiliated kids. Channay was in her late twenties–not so far from my oldest daughter’s age–and not so much older than some of our clients. She had no experience with substance abuse and was finishing her Bachelors degree. She lived with an aunt, uncle and cousins.

At forty-four, I was older than most of our teammates, and remnants of Midwestern suburbia clung to me despite my best efforts. I was working hard to adapt to the environment while deepening my compassion. I had become well defended emotionally and physically. In other words, I was on my way to being more seasoned and had decided to devote myself to counseling. Many people left before after a year. I wondered how long Channay would last.

The months passed. She and I worked together efficiently, updating each other during shift change, and when working together addressing charting, filing and crisis-management (among many more duties). In my groups or alternative school classes, she was a steady counter balance, and always dedicated to the goals shared. The youth came to respect her presence. I saw her self-possession and knew she was much older than her birth age. And wondered why.

Channay was mysterious but it was partly because she valued her privacy as well as others’, I believed. It was a relief. Well-established boundaries and a calm manner meant no high drama, no excuses or infighting with other staff. We had enough of that every moment with the kids. She noted she had worked with youth at a homeless shelter and that was reflected in her skills. Her quick intelligence was a balm. She showed a small smile when I joked a bit, the sort of black humor one adopts when working with daily trauma in others. In time, as things solidified in her job, she relaxed.

We soon worked several grave yard shifts together. There was time to chat as the building turned inward by midnight. For fifteen female clients we were the only two staff so stayed attuned to the dormitory.

“You have children, yes?” she asked me one night.

“Yes, five. My youngest, twelve, is at home. An older son lives here but is more or less on his own.”

“Oh, my, how lucky! Big families make life more, better. I have some cousins here, aunts, uncles.”

“My other three are back east but I hope to see them all together soon.”

“Ah, you miss them.”

“I do.”

Her eyes, dark and large, seemed reminiscent of a wild creature’s: alert, clear. But then they unfocused, closed suddenly.

I finished the last bit of filing, then studied her. The energy had shifted, as though something invisible had entered the room. She was staring at her hands, hair falling over her face, shoulders drooping.

“Channay?” I sat across from her.

She turned to me, lifted her head so that her hair parted a little, eyes searching somewhere else. “My own family–gone long ago.”

The sharpness of her voice stopped me.

“Your parents?”

She nodded. “They died Cambodia, under terror regime of Pol Pot. You know about him?”

I sat down across from her, my breath caught in my throat. The dreaded name flashed in my mind and I nodded.

“They were murdered, nineteen seventy-seven. And my brothers and sisters. The Khmer Rouge stormed our house. My father was a doctor. They didn’t leave professionals like my father alive. They were branded capitalists. This was Pol Pot’s communism. So his men killed them all. Families, too.”

Her face was defined by stillness, her eyes by the sort of agony that cannot be named. I felt myself caving inside. I wanted to touch her limp hands but did not.

“I am so terribly sad for your family, for you,” I mumbled, and begged my tears to recede. Out of respect, I prayed for calmness.

“I escaped. I cannot say how. Ran away so fast…” She took a breath that originated from the deepest regions of her being. “I was later brought here by aunt and uncle.” She picked up a pencil, smoothed it gnawed edges. “I wanted you to know. I trust you  with this.”

There was nothing I could offer. “Thank you.”

She nodded, her mournfulness a thing I could nearly hold in my hands like tears, like blood. Instead, I let my palm graze her shoulder when leaving the room to attend to a railing youth. Another soul with other kinds of nightmares.

One morning Channay came in earlier than usual. Her hair was still damp. I was surprised as she was always readied for work, and told her so.

“Oh, I usually take baths every morning, but usually have time to dry my hair. I slept in a little! Luxury but basic, my bath. I don’t think I could go into this world without a twenty minute bath. It calms me, makes me ready.” She smiled. “I burn candles. Sometimes there are flower petals in the water and I watch them float, smell their sweetness. Such peace. You must try it, Cynthia!”

I appreciated her quiet whimsical side as well as how she valued such simple things. How she smiled from a place of shyness. Her adeptness at handling angry, forlorn youths. We were now friends; the confession of such tragedy cemented our bond. We never spoke of it again but after that night she shared readily about her extended family, the American culture she couldn’t get fully accept but enjoyed after ten years, the traditions she and her family still practiced. Her loneliness and hopes. She did not have the freedom she wanted. She was bound by duty to do as her elders required. She gave much of her money to aunt and uncle. I listened and tried to understand, to accept her lifestyle and encourage her.

Soon after the bath conversation she told me she would be leaving her job. I knew she had been under pressure to marry a man in Seattle, an arranged marriage that her aunt and uncle felt was excellent. She had met him twice. Now the wedding had been arranged. She would marry and go to his home–“a lovely house, he has a great job; I am old to wed, Cynthia”–and there she would be his wife and care for his aging parents, who lived with him. It was a successful match for her family. It was the least she could do.

“It is our tradition. I must go.” Her eyes moistened. “But it will not be easy. Hard work lies ahead. I can do it.”

What about her education? What about her dream of being a youth counselor? I asked her. But she shook her head.

“Maybe one day,” she smiled, then turned back to her work.

I felt her unease in every breath, but her shoulders were squared, strong. I knew she would go, would smile, would do well.

The day Channay left I dreaded the end of her shift. We went outdoors for a few minutes. The sunshine was silky, warm on our faces; spring was ready to envelop our city. We spoke of the time we had spent getting to know one another. Our futures. We promised to write one another. I gave her a card with a poem I had written, which she read, then held close to her heart.

“I have a very small gift for you,” she said.

I opened the box. There were two small mugs with flowers on them. They were designated for the months of May and June, as noted on the bottoms. They were different than what I owned, graced with such delicate designs.

Moved, I murmured my thanks. How could she leave her dreams behind, take from us her generous spirit? But she had more to give elsewhere.

“Now you will remember me,” she said. “You have been a mother and friend to me. I have many good memories to keep with me. Thank you.”

We embraced a long moment and our tears, oh, how they came.

Channay left for Seattle and I stayed on at the treatment center for almost three more years. But I didn’t hear from her. Without her new address I couldn’t contact her. I searched for her name online but didn’t locate her. I wondered if in that other life–beyond what I could share–she had a far different name, something musical on the tongue. Complex. But I also wasn’t surprised she vanished. She went where I couldn’t follow: the way of the traditional Cambodian wife.

One of the mugs sadly was lost long ago but I treasure this remainder, keeping it safe at the back of the shelf. It has pink and white peonies and columbine and is framed in a vivid berry tone. It fits in my hands. It speaks to me of a woman’s courage, her love of others so less fortunate, her unrelenting respect for life. Her haunted soul was a symphony of grief and longing that imprinted my own. Her heart, a deep and shining bowl that held so much with room for more. Her good mind a beacon for others who admired its strength. I was honored, happy to be invited in.

It is almost twenty years since we said farewell. My dearest Channay: wherever you are, I will not ever forget.

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For more information on Pol Pot and the genocide in Cambodia, please see http://www.mtholyoke.edu/~amamendo/KhmerRouge.html

Eyes to See

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The morning was bleaker than it had been in weeks. Fog had arrived in a villainous blur, then crept through the blinds. I glanced a second time at the clock, then yanked the quilt over my head. Tiredness clogged my brain; it begged for a longer time out. I drifted and awakened, drifted, awakened. I was trying to get comfortable on the tightrope between waking and dreaming, to put off the inevitability of daylight and its requisites.

Then dangerous thoughts erupted: No reason to get up; dreams are preferable; besides, you are getting older every second and what do you have to do? In fact, what is there to show for all your efforts up to this moment?  I enumerated chores and errands as well as writing goals ahead of me. They seemed insignificant. Why even write? Who actually cares? What are you DOING with your life? The taunts brought forth an overpowering urge to do…as little as possible. I peered between the blinds and found the fog in communion with the black hole of my ruminations.

Well, almost. I looked again. Billions of chilled molecules of water gathered pallid light and illuminated air from inside out. The fog being hovered, mysterious. I opened the window a half inch and smelled the delicious cold. Then vacated the warmth entirely.

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Another day to greet if not welcome with open arms. Enter here but be forewarned. Remnants of negative energy trailed my footsteps. I thought briefly of ODAP, the acronym for “Our Devilish Alcoholic Personalities”, widely known to those familiar with AA. How ODAP can sit on one’s shoulder, dispensing sabotaging directives.

Not going to a job every day can be sweet but harbors pitfalls. I have to be mindful of booby traps, like those in old jungle movies: if I am not paying attention I can end up dangling upside down, on my way to a snake hole. Other than accepting that there is no paycheck for my toil and isolation is more familiar than it has been for years, I am supposed to be having fun. And awakening with a lovely sense of few-and-far-between pressures. A lack of critical usefulness to which, finally, I am entitled. But time has shown me that, to paraphrase Pogo the possum, “I have met the enemy, and the enemy is me.” I forgot I knew that before. But I had been too busy working, with family and managing a household for forty-five years to dissect who I was every single day.

There are times in our lives when we need a full inspection, to root out the weak spots and shore up the mightier ones. In early recovery I was instructed to take a personal inventory daily to become truly honest with myself and others. It wasn’t easy but not so taxing; I still practice it in some form. I’ve long been enamored of introspection and self-analysis. Raised to be responsible for my actions, I knew how to track the good, not-so-good and unacceptable aspects of my life and personhood. In fact, I thought too much for my own good, so my mother noted. It was a luxury people could ill afford if they were engaged in achieving something. She was right in that, though a dreamer at heart, action made me happier. But I didn’t quite get it as a youth. Many years of being introspective to the point of burn-out clarified her statement. What she really meant was self-analysis can border on self-obsession, which comes to no good. Such as selfishness, or narcissism in therapeutic language. I didn’t want that.

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I thought of these things as I struggled through the internal charcoal palette of the morning. “Blue” it was not; blue implies a tinge of bitter-sweetness. This was not that. By noon I had concluded I had little good to offer and nothing decent I might yet accomplish. How can one get to my age and not have blazed trails I envisioned at sixteen? All this, partly resultant of a year of mini failures added to unforeseen challenges. Dissatisfaction with little successes. But it also came with the transition into another stage of life. And having way too much time alone. My head was a neighborhood I needed to vacate more often.

So I went to the park. There is almost nothing a good walk cannot alleviate and I walk daily. I took my camera and started to shoot, as usual. I felt peace elbow out the dis-ease. Creatures both human and otherwise cavorted and chattered. Rested and worked. I watched sunlight melt away fog and reveal colors of the Northwest in winter. There were kids practicing for track and couples arm in arm. Trees presided over all with stolid strength. Green shoots broke through dirt. Everywhere were stories of earth’s old ways and lives being lived.

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It may seem rudimentary but suddenly it came to me that I have these eyes to see. Not just to record, but really see life. They are one of numerous gifts of the body that can create and bridge whole worlds. Sensory data enters the brain’s alchemical laboratory and informs me. But my eyes also are a bridge from my own internal world–my particular ways of observing and responding–to the greater world with its moving complexity. What if, I thought, we are also given vision–and our other senses–in order to profoundly align us with all that is is just outside our skin and, thus, to save us from scrappy egos that meddle? To keep us closely attached to the earth we share, this planet we call home. So we can more often stay out of our own way. We can then forget our aloneness, recall our universality. Remember the compelling qualities of life that we  often want to divide and compartmentalize. Try to control. Personalize and dramatize when it isn’t remotely necessary.

I speculated what it would be like to have eyes that looked only inward and shuddered. The walk lasted over an hour and gratitude for sight increased. I wondered what it would be like if my vision one day fails me. I suppose other senses will come forward more, to the rescue. Our bodies are made to fit our needs. At least I have been blessed with basic operational requirements, if they’ve sometimes sputtered and paused.

Taking action is what I can do to change my life daily. Once more my vision scanned the horizon, allowing healthy escape and refreshment. It was opening a window when spiritual suffocation was threatening. My walks take me out of a cramped habitation–this mind that can stir up trouble–so I discover conduits to finer wonders again. With these eyes, I can see but what and how I perceive is a choice. And without fail, there is God within and without, my sure compass wherever I go. The path again clears.

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Bound to Snow, Amelia

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No one else was out. It was his lucky break. All week he’d had something he’d tried to avoid. He’d felt a rumbling of imbalance before it grabbed him by the neck. He never got sick, mentally or  physically. Even if he had days, okay occasional weeks, of feeling stunned by the varieties of life’s misery, he called it a “rough patch.” Not “the blues” or “bad karma” or “the end of all good things” like his work buddy explained his depression. There was no end of things, period, or life, until it was over. And Billy was patient; if he kept enough around, almost anything got better. Or changed.

It had lasted four days, aches that made him wince and wicked tiredness that kept him home from work. Then he came back with a mind like a clear blue sky and strength returned full force. He saw on the television it had been snowing. The street view from his window confirmed it. He wasn’t surprised. The thick quietness of snow brought a smile to his pockmarked, angular face. It wasn’t blizzardy, but everyone kept to themselves when steps and car roofs were covered. Except for Billy. He’d grown up in snowdrifts and it was second nature to be right out in it. What was the town going to do, hibernate until a spring thaw?

He’d gotten dressed for a walk despite his wife, languishing in the chair as always, objecting.

“What’re you doing? You were sick yesterday and now I’m feeling it. I can’t have you relapsing and laid up again. Heavy snow.”

He’d glanced her way as he yanked on motorcycle boots. She was wrapped in the blanket he had just left, her slippered feet on the coffee table now that his empty mug and soup bowl were gone. Her hair wound down her shoulders, unkempt.  It had been unattended too long because he had been too ill to help her. Whereas she was always sick, with multiple sclerosis. Some days she could barely lift her arms, and brushing all that hair felt like trying to climb Mt. Hood, she admitted. Why not cut it?, he’d asked more than once, but she ignored him.

“I’m off to get some fresh air. I feel fine now. Anything you want?”

She’d shrugged. “More tea?”

He’d moved to the door, then paused.

“Chicken soup and tuna fish.” She sighed as though reciting the list was a chore.

He waited.

“Macaroni and cheese. Butter. More bread.”

Billy pulled his wool cap on when nothing else was noted and left.

That first step out was a swift slap in the face and he whooped loudly. The sweetness of the air was greater due to the cold. It’s whiteness illuminated the street. He felt everything got shined up when it snowed. He expected to feel even stronger after he walked the two blocks to the convenience store and back. Healing, the winter. Spring was a riot of newness that made him dizzy. Summer was too hot on his skin, but autumn was like a ride into paradise with a promise of the best to come. Winter.

Billy expected to see someone out with a dog, but the squeak of snow beneath his feet was unaccompanied. There were two snow people across the street, half-dressed, which he found funny. On the top of the hill was a snow fort about two feet tall. Abandoned snowballs. Kids were probably called in for dinner. He picked one up and threw it hard across the street. It hit a brick building, a soft thwap in the stillness. He scooped up more– it was good packing snow–and made a little ball, then tucked it in his pocket.

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The tree branches moaned and creaked. They were dressed up in white like ermine, as if to shield their bark from cutting wind. The twilit sky was hosting more galaxies. His breath singed his lungs on its way back in. Billy was glad he’d let his bread grow back, even if his wife didn’t love it. Where he came from, a man without a beard was not quite a man. He knew better but winter and beards were made for each other.

Icicles sprang out in a streetlamp’s glow like fine sharp teeth of the abominable snowman. He stood beneath a row that hung off a windowsill and had the impulse to break one off, brandish it like a sword. He reached up and couldn’t quite grab it, so jumped a couple times,  grazing the sharp tips. An old woman appeared from behind a curtain and shook her finger at him. Billy made like surrendering, hands raised palms up. She grinned at him, all six teeth showing. He slid across the street, boots slicker now. What he wouldn’t give for a sled. His beat-up old toboggan that was sold for ten bucks when his family sold the cabin twenty years ago. Or the cross country skis for distant mountain trails that he put away when his wife got sicker.

By the time he reached the second corner, Billy felt better, just as he expected. The Curb ‘n Corner was all lit up. He pushed open the door and heard the chime go off. He could see the back of the owner as she restocked down the first aisle. He found a basket and filled it with the things he needed. At the back of the store, he deliberated on root beer or ginger ale and took two bottles of the second. His wife might need these if she got sick. Before the refrigerator door slammed shut he got a root beer for himself.

“Well, well,” she said as he stood before her.

She was tall and thin like a strong reed, he thought, in that grass- green uniform. It made her eyes almost turquoise. She leaned forward, palms pressed on the beige, ink-marred surface. “Where you been lately, good-lookin’?”

He took out the groceries and passed them to her hands.

“In bed a few days. All better now.”

“I see that. You snugged up to trudge out in this? Like a polar bear, Billy. For soda and tuna? Just makes me long for a piece of that perfect Hawaiian sunshine. But I knew it would come to this mess.”

Billy chuckled. “I know, you’re too soft for it but you gotta look for the best, Amelia.”

“Your fault. You ordered it. You told me it was comin’ but I held onto hope.”

After she finished ringing him up she put hands on hips and flashed him that mile-wide smile. It had the effect of turning the grimy, dull surroundings into a place worth inhabiting. She counted his change slowly then put bills and coins into his hand with a slap.

He said nothing as he set down the money but then grabbed her fingers, pulled the snowball from his pocket and lay it in her hand. A foolish, freezing gift.

She looked aghast and then laughed, tossing it back at him, a little melting clod of white.

“You sneaky devil! I told everybody–that Billy Cook, he said last week, ‘Bound to snow, Amelia, bound to snow good‘ and they said ‘Billy Cook’s a wild man escaped from his true element and he sure knows signs of weather. Like you’re an expert.”

He made a horrified face. “They didn’t say I was a wild man, did they?”

She threw her head back and laughed, chest bouncing, florescent light bathing her face and neck as though it was tropical sun shining down on her alone.

“Yes, but Billy, they also said you was a good man, crazy good. Now get on out of here before your head swells and so I can work.”

He stood still and the words he never said wanted to come out, but he snatched a peppermint from glass ashtray and grabbed his bag.

“Say hey to Erin. And stay healthy.”

He left, chime going off, the light dimming. When he crossed to the corner and turned back she was still looking at him. He waved at her but she just stared out until he thought she couldn’t possibly see him in the thickening dark. But he felt her thoughts and his brush like wings in the night, then fly off.

The walk home was shorter, his strides longer. He didn’t have time to play. Tea had to be made. Then he’d wash Erin’s hair if she was up to it. Tomorrow, work, but he smelled new snow on the way.
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Between Earth and Heaven

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Tonight I am walking between ordinary daylight and incipient twilight, beneath billowing clouds against a sapphire sky. Faraway stars shun the darkness. As if on a tightrope, I am moving just above inconceivable grief and below the swell of vertigo where there is no return. I walk in limbo, in the wake of atrocities, adults and children taken from their golden times, of happiness robbed, peace vanquished. Oh, all the families, friends.

The walking takes me into a whorl of anguish and gradually out again.

My old companion, interminable hope, lies low. But how it breeds in the deep of heart despite sorrow or outrage, unable to surrender. It stakes a claim in the fields of abundance or paucity. It talks back when silenced. It yields not to cruelty or grave error, or the pressure to exit. This hope, how it disturbs tonight with its strong back and blameless grace. Hope, like a lion, rests when unnoticed, then raises itself up with stealth and might when called upon.

It is hope that makes us vulnerable. It makes this life break apart with tenderness and recreates itself. It unfurls from many small spaces when there is nothing found to praise. When its power is denied we lose half our selves to these damaging times. Without hope we succumb to woundedness, that anchor that drives us down into cold depths. Even a small bit of it, even a whisper of hope, despite disbelief, will keep us floating. Will keep us close to its lifegiving heat. And so I hold the hope where it matters most, in the rich sinew of heart and that mysterious guide, the soul.

The walking propels me into a torrent of sadness, then brings me back again. May I keep holy the softness of compassion. May I be strengthened with even a thread of hope rewoven into this humaness.

I envision a circle of angels, such a circle as has no beginning and no end, and they are gathered round the world as it heaves and spins,  as it barters and bleeds. They make a ring of light and everything is aflame, their radiant tears streaming.  They are with us now, between this life and the next. Between earth and heaven. May hope look up again.