9/20/2013

reflect again

Into the garden now means noting a portrayal of decay -- the settling of this bit of land past its prime for another season.

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It is quiet. There are no house finches, and the honeybees make short days of it if at all. A wasp lingers on the peppermint James planted beside the standard mint near the deck. Snakes who used the shade and the sunny little paths no longer show their tails in quick retreat.

Spiders of bulging abdomens wait. I come too close, blind to one until it scurries upward in my periphery. Imagining shards of web, I shrink back, hating their cling.

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I seek orange mini tomatoes, pop two, and delight in juicy eruptions on my tongue. Before my mouth opened, I made the sign of the cross.

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Thirty years ago this summer I became a Christian.

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That is to say, the mercy of God blindsided me, so the faith I had more or less absorbed from my parents up to that point (having been "sanctified" til then, if you will, by their belief) became front and center, no longer avoidable: I had to make a decision. This is not, necessarily, I have no doubt, what happens to everyone. I know only my experience.

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I only knew it was a yea or nay; do or die; will I carry the Ring into Mordor sort of moment. And I answered yes. Not that that makes me anything.

To some people, I imagine, I am steeped in folk religion. In fantasy. I get that, better than they might understand.

It started when I first carried my Bible on a Sunday, looking like someone clinging to a crutch, resorting to playing a role, or needing a lucky charm. For me this wasn't the situation. I desired to study the writings contained in the book I cradled -- I had nothing else of substance to carry with me. The words in the Bible fit my experience of the love of God.

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How grateful I remain for their continuing, shining treasure. Like the season's final buds on our unquenchable rosebush. The writings of the people shaped and visited by God, sheaths of them. They are pure and holy.

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I will wander through the garden til after the rains earnestly begin.

9/13/2013

the orange moon waves

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Recently came that day when you stood again, this time facing east, committing yourselves.

Then it made sense to take a honeymoon, a short one, and one of you got a cold just beforehand, but still it became that kind of moment when you can decide, sniffles and all, to follow this guy you're committed to out into darkness to find the beach, maybe to plunge off a cliff if you misstep. But he brings a tiny flashlight and you creep down the cliff behind him and find the darkling sand and there behind you is the moon (no camera, of course, in your hand), an orange waxing crescent above the waves, which are chanting "Alle" (on the upswing) and "Luia" after the crest.

Next day, while warmth of summer's end lingers, the two of you visit the little store his grandparents ran in the 1970s,

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the store you visited in early puberty, romantic pop tunes skimming your heart, tugging you to long for someone to tell you his sailor's story in all its ragin' glory.


You knew him then only as that older kid from the Hershiser family. He tried to sell you canned Oregon air. You bought a ceramic dog instead and named her Brandy.

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You couldn't yet dream he would become a sailor, someday tell you his stories, and cherish you more than all the sand along the seashore. But today you know, and you're glad to follow. (And then to take a nap in the car, because you have a cold, while he skims the coastal town's antiques establishment.)

9/03/2013

ride write

Upon her move to New York, my daughter bequeathed me her bicycle. It's a sturdy blue cruiser, and I have to say I've wished more than once I had a metal steed like hers. Now I do. The bike and I set off yesterday in search of possible writing haunts.

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I was quite pleased to come upon a garden variety work bench.

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I arranged myself and wrote. Nearby the highway whisper-chanted. Close up, a honeybee disappeared inside bedraggled rose petals. People passed, holidaying. Tim was at work, so I didn't mind using some thought-power, testing the hard bench for possible future dry days (how many are left to this year, I wonder).

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At last I decided I was thirsty. My bike and I took the side street that led to the street my dad grew up on. Maybe it's the time of year, the sort of late-summer day when we used to visit. Nostalgia broke over me rounding the corner at Clark and Madison. Though much looks different, I know that sidewalk; I remember those trees. And there, in front of the house where such weighty things, it seems, happened, was a realtor's red and white sign. I had to stop.

Craning my neck before the cyclone fence and walking up the alley to peek at the "little house" where Grandma Edna lived her final years didn't bring anyone out to ask if I might like to look inside, so I dug out my cell phone and called the realtor's number. Though it was Labor Day, a man said hello.

"Uh, oh. I've been meaning to update that sign," he said. "There's a pending sale. It's going for $____." As if that should quell all possible inquiry.

"I just --" I fumbled, not knowing why I called. "My dad was born in that house."

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"Oh!" A different story. We chatted about some facts: the present owners did well by the place; they cared about it, the neighborhood is becoming more "upscale", and the new buyers should improve the place greatly.

"One of the earliest places around," the realtor said. "It's really two houses."

"Yeah. I know."

I wandered on to The Goat, an actual coffee shop, where people sit inside and (on these kinds of days) outside. I ordered hot water, my beverage of choice. The mug was comfy, and I could write in there, too, even with music playing, though I fretted about my bike locked out front. No one stole it; with people all around I don't think anyone would, but you never know, so next time I'll be sure to get a seat near the window.

I also ought to bring change next time, at least for a tip, since I felt badly leaving without paying anything after my water was gone. Nobody seemed to mind.

The way home, through neighborhoods and along the river, rolled past at a thoughtful pace.

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