Appointment in Samarra

Somerset Maugham wrote about a fable entitiled Appointment in Samarra, in which an Arab servant, in a market in Baghdad, encounters the shrouded figure of Death. Death beckons to the servant, and he, terror-stricken, begs his master to lend him a fast horse so that he can ride to Samarra in order to escape his fate (death). The master agrees, the servant flees, and the master then goes down to the market himself. Encountering Death there, he asks, "My servant is young and healthy - why did you beckon him?" Death replies: "I did not beckon. Mine was a gesture of surprise. I did not expect to see him this afternoon in Baghdad, because he and I have an appointment tonight in Samarra."

*

Perhaps our days are measured; perhaps not. I have had a number of occasions in which I have dreamed of events that were to happen - usually this occurs when the event is traumatic. Shortly before my mother died I dreamed that a doctor put a stethoscope to (perhaps) my chest and said, "Oh my god, listen to this," as the heart beat erratically and was in danger of failing. My sister at the same time dreamed that a voice said to her, "Time is of the essence, cometh now." My nephew dreamed that he was standing at the graveside that he ended up standing at a week later.

*

I dreamed once that a terrible illness was to befall someone in my family and shortly thereafter it happened just as I dreamed. I also dreamed that two blonde headed boys dressed in long white sweaters came and took a man I knew by the hand to lead him somewhere. Shortly thereafter, the man died.

*

As Shakespeare reminded us, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Endings

It is a time of endings. My mother died on May 17.

-

To the place the steams come from, there they will return.

- Ecclesiastes 1:7

The daughter of the Last Southern Belle died on May 17, 2007. It is hard to say farewell to a dearly loved one. The following poem was read at both of her services.

Crossing the Bar

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar

When I put out to sea.
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam.

When that which drew from the boundless deep

Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell

When I embark.
For, though from out our bourne of time and place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crossed the bar.

**

This poem referenced a sandbar on the River Thames that ships had to pass over. They could not make the passage until high tide. The poem assures us that God will be there to guide us in death, as in life.

A Line of Mothers

On a day to honor mothers, here are some photos of maternal ancestors. I can trace my line back to the 1500's in Scotland/England, but I only have photos back to my great-grandmother, Georgia Ann. Here she is with her husband (my great-grandfather Alexander):

-this photo was given to me by my cousin Jack

Next in line is the last Southern Belle, Verna Claire, in whose honor this blog is titled. You can see her photo as a young woman at the beginning of the blog, but here she is as she looked about the time I was born. Young or old, she was always pretty.

And, here's my mother, a strong, intelligent , pretty, and larger than life woman - Maureen Claire (you can see photos of her at 13 and at 89 on the first page of my blog). This is a photo of her that was published in a Chicago newspaper.

-this image is from an old and yellowed newspaper article; I scanned the photo on my sister's computer and emailed it to myself and tried to remedy the damage by smoothing it with a photo editor

My mother has always been an eager and excellent storyteller. She could read a poem or story with such feeling that the characters came to life and filled the room. I can remember neighbor children pressing their faces against our screen door to listen when she was reading. This was one of my favorites (so here it is for you, Mother, with much love, on your day):

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIEby: James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)

INSCRIBED WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION

To all the little children: -- The happy ones; and sad ones;The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;The good ones -- Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.

LITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,--
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout:--
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

The Intelligence of Animals

For the last two weeks we have been visited by the huge black bear that winters on our land. We live in New York on 25 acres of land in a rural, mountainous area. Most of the time it is fairly peaceful here, but each spring the bear wakes up, heads down the mountain, and destroys all of the feeders that we have for birds. Our land is a bird haven and so we have numerous types of foods including sunflower seed, corn, suet, thistle, and a pond with fish for the migrating birds (herons, ducks, etc). The bear really likes the sunflower seed but will eat whatever is available. Several nights ago he ran off up the hill with a fairly large tin of corn. George, my husband, has strung some of the feeders on wires (hung between trees) so that the bear cannot reach them. A pulley system is used to haul the feeders in for reloading. What has to be weighed is the pleasure of seeing the birds vs. the destructiveness of the bear. He (could be a she but there aren't any cubs, so it is most likely a he) is quite bold, as he has been up on the porch tearing down porch feeders and leaving a big muddy footprint. My daughter and I watched him in front of the house several nights ago.

Our dog, Wegman, has learned to use tools. Over the winter he sleeps in our laundry/entry area which is adjacent to the kitchen. We put up a baby gate to keep him in the sleeping area at night. Using his nose, he quickly learned to take the gate down. Next we tried putting a bookcase in front of the gate, but he proceeded to remove the gate and use it as a lever to push aside the bookcase. What finally worked was putting a sack of salt (large, heavy sack for a water conditioner) against the bookcase to add more weight - that worked, but Wegman got his revenge by barking a good portion of each night.

Since the bear has been out and about, Wegman is in his glory (he is part hound) and he spends his nights out running about and barking at a high pitch. Unable to sleep last night, George finally put Wegman in the garage (he has a summer bed in the garage and has a doggie flap door that allows him to come and go as he pleases). Over the flap, George placed the metal door that is designed to cover it for the purpose of keeping the dog inside. George didn't lock the metal door because he thought that would not be necessary. Thinking we were finally all set for the night, we settled down (at 1:30 a.m.) to try to get some sleep. Bark - bark - bark - bark; Wegman used his nose to lift up the metal door and ran back outside to track the bear. Tonight the metal door is locked securely and so we are hoping for a good night's rest.

Believe this - animals are super smart. Another time I will relate how our rooster saved himself from a fox by flying up to the door and banging on it.

Sleep tight; sweet dreams.

Meetings

image from Commons Wikimedia (Crowds - 2005 Melbourne Show {{Fir0002 20D}})

Sometimes I imagine that each of us will spend a lifetime in a significant relationship (whether "good" or "bad") with every person with whom we come in contact. Contact can be defined as loosely as seeing or speaking to another person or glimpsing them as they pass you in a vehicle on the highway. Isn't it remarkable, after all, to be alive in the same span of years as another person? Given all of the years of human history, to be born in an overlapping time is, in and of itself, significant - is it not?

Pierre Theilhard DeChardin, the Jesuit priest and philosopher, in his book, On Love and Happiness, says something akin to this when he writes, "That, among some thousands of human beings, the eyes of two individuals should meet is in itself a remarkable and precious coincidence: what, then, can we say when it is two minds that meet?"

Seasons of Life

The Namesake was such a wonderful movie - don't miss it, but bring Kleenex. It is about the beauty and fragility of life as well as about our passage through the seasons of our lives.

The Seven Ages of Man

from As You Like It by William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier.
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

*****

Dust We Are

Creative Commons image Cc - by sa- 2.0

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

********

My sister brought the above poem to my attention recently after she read a poem I had written. Reading Ozymandias, I am reminded of how we are the earth, our galaxy, and our universe - our substance is one and the same - we and it are interchangeable. Over time we will be dust and blow about the galaxy. I read somewhere that if the last man were to die today, within a short span of time (relatively speaking) our presence as a species would disappear from the face of the earth. Our highways would fairly rapidly crumble under the encroaching weeds, and all would be covered in dust, dirt and sand.

*

Annie Dillard, in her book, For the Time Being, reminds us that, "Earth sifts over things. If you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not. The debris on the tops of your feet or shoes thickens, windblown dirt piles around it, and pretty soon your feet are underground."

*

I guess we had better keep moving.

Only the Shadow Knows

-Giorgio de Chirico, Melancholy and Mystery of a Street (oil on canvas, 1914); private owner

Some years ago, I spent quite a bit of time studying the psychology of Carl Jung. Of course, you have heard of the shadow, that unconscious powerful influence that ofttimes surfaces in our dreams (not to mention personal conflicts and societal/national wars).  Consider this quote from Jung's, Psychology and Religion,

"If you imagine someone who is brave enough to withdraw all his projections, then you get an individual who is conscious of a pretty thick shadow. Such a man has saddled himself with new problems and conflicts. He has become a serious problem to himself, as he is now unable to say that they do this or that, they are wrong, and they must be fought against. He lives in the "House of the Gathering." Such a man knows that whatever is wrong in the world is in himself, and if he only learns to deal with his own shadow he has done something real for the world. He has succeeded in shouldering at least an infinitesimal part of the gigantic, unsolved social problems of our day."

This was written in 1938, but it will be just as true in 2008; are we not all pointing fingers of blame and demonizing others? I am not guiltless; how about you?

Making Sense of It All

- image from Michelangelo's painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

In his book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, Harold Kushner posits that once we begin to take seriously the problems of innocent victims, our belief in an all powerful God is called into question. He asks us to consider that God may be a God of justice and not of power. Ah, sense at last.

Kushner suggests that if we can accept the justice rather than power hypothesis, then our question to God may shift from, "Why did you do this to me?", to "Can you help me?" We are invited to consider that creation is an ongoing process of transforming chaos into order, and that we are "in the middle of a Friday afternoon," with pockets of chaos still remaining. Chaos is explained as randomness, i.e., events happening at random. Chaos, therefore, is "evil" primarily because it results in keeping people from believing in God's goodness (rather than considering his malevolence).

John F. Kennedy alluded to the idea of God needing man when he closed his inaugural address on January 20, 1961, with the following words, "Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us here the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own."

http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/jfkinaugural.htm

Carried

Sometimes I go about in pity for myself and all the while a great wind carries me across the sky.

- Ojibwe

Time Long Past

Above is a photo of my mother when she was 13 years old - Maureen Claire. Wasn't she pretty? My father loved this pic of her - the girl in the blue dress! Below is a photo of her last October (2007) on her 89th birthday.

Here she is at 89 - the daughter of the last Southern Belle:

Time and our lives pass by so quickly. Just yesterday she was a young girl in Mississippi;

just yesterday...

- she was a young wife with a small daughter and a husband dead at a very young age

- she was in nurse's training and met a rakish, older man who was brought into the emergency room after a car accident

- she was a college student with two young daughters and a troubled marriage

- she was a mother again at 39 to a very very small girl

- she became weaker and largely confined to her home.

Here's a poem for you, Maureen Claire; I hope you have a wonderful day.

Time Long Past

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Like the ghost of a dear friend dead

Is Time long past.

A tone which is now forever fled,

A hope which is now forever past,

A love so sweet it could not last,

Was Time long past.

There were sweet dreams in the night

Of Time long past:

And, was it sadness or delight,

Each day a shadow onward cast

Which made us wish it yet might last,

That Time long past.

There is regret, almost remorse,

For Time long past.

'Tis like a child's belovèd corse

A father watches, till at last

Beauty is like remembrance, cast

From Time long past.

Searching for Mercy

I have been re-reading Annie Dillard's book, For the Time Being, and it seems to address the question of God's presence - or absence - in a suffering world. I've been thinking about that quite a bit myself lately. Riding to work this morning I passed through beautiful countryside and marveled at the cloud shrouded Berkshire Hills. As I passed a golf course I noted a man all decked out in his spring golf finery. He was apparently out for a day of leisure and total pleasure; it seemed to me almost hedonistic (although my training in human behavior informs me that all may not be as it seems). Nevertheless, I thought about how I, with all of my worries, have so much, and I wondered what the streets of Baghdad were like today and how many would die before dark. Where is God? Do prayers mean anything, anything at all? Karma makes sense; a God of mercy is elusive. What can we pray, we frail beings at the mercy of so very very much? For mercy, of course - for all of us, and for understanding.

A Seeker's Poem

The material things that you hold so dear will be dust and lost on the wind
Your body too, and the bodies of all you love, will likewise be dust
This civilization, this country, this home you claim, will fall, and even a memory of it will not remain.

Knowing this, can you be self-seeking
Knowing this, can you fail to act
Knowing this, accept yourself as you are rather than as you wish to be and step forward into the light.

Play your small part with the small life you were given
The light only will remain through the ages.

Be strong
Have courage
Give up childish things
Surrender, be.

- by Claire Devereaux Smith

Good Friday, 2007