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My great-niece leaps above the in-coming tide of the Atlantic Ocean, Ogunquit, Maine, June 2022
Such joy touches mine!
Reflection upon the in-betweenness of things produces unexpected results—A critical time that warrants the closest scrutiny. Yet, so strapped for beginnings, so obsessed for shortcuts, so impatient for outcomes, I’ve often lost untold riches that could have broadened my vision even further.
Only within the end of my senior years have I deepened the unwrapping of the layers of my birthright: I call this transition time. No longer in a hurry about anything, I stop in my tracks and poke around, much like a tree sparrow examining a seed outside my study window. Especially is this true of a striking metaphor in a poem, more to stash away for future use. Such experiences evoke deep sighing, laughter, even exclamation, “Would you look at that!”
At times, I feel as though I were being turned upside down. Life has a way of doing precisely that—whatever it takes to keep going, with the full engagement of the senses and the ongoing search for words to scratch the surface of reality.
Yesterday’s sole blooming of the gold crocus in my front garden evidenced this imperative to stop and look: How the dull grey/brown mulch framed this first sign of new life, as if a wink from Creator God, for that was what it was. Later today, it will snow – another wink.
This is the Ultimate who we seek, hiding out in the in-betweenness of things.
The bell rang for recess, my heart thumping like a flat tire, my fingers twisting my uniform navy tie, my brunette braids still throbbing my temples from mother’s earlier styling. “No stray hairs,” this morning,” she always said, between puffs on her cigarette.
It was time. All week, it had sat in the corner of the classroom, a large box covered with several thicknesses of white tissue paper, with red velvet bows, cut-out hearts, and silver cupids; in the front was a slit for our Valentines. Each morning, my classmates dropped in handfuls, some appearing to have cherry lollypops. Mine were cheap store-bought ones with little adornment, addressed only to the few that I knew.
And now the cards would be distributed by Sister’s pets as we sat at our desks, our geography books still open to the lesson on South America. Up and down the rows, the gifted ones tossed all sizes of cards toward the recipients, often dislodging red-hots from their staples, splattering them over the hardwood floor. In no time, a flurry of hands scooped up each one, their red-stained tongues whooping with laughter. A bacchanal frenzy seemed to infest everyone, while I sat in the last seat of the aisle row, wincing as I was repeatedly by-passed, stewing over receiving no Valentines from those I had remembered last year. My head lowered, I studied the two cards I had received, then stuffed them in my geography book.
Another bell ended the clamor of recess as Sister restored order in the classroom. I was sorely grateful for the resumption of the lesson on Peru.
But the shame of many Valentine’s Day boxes only deepened, together with other experiences that intensified my invisibility and voicelessness in my development.
Only decades later did I learn the true source of love, present within my own heart, thanks to many humble coaches who knew such things.
Heart Whisperings 