Suddenly Sunday

5:00 a.m.!!???  Sh*t! That is NOT enough time before going to school.  Hate when I oversleep like that. Quick to the bathroom. Quick to the kitchen–gotta take that allegra-D an hour before eating breakfast and this is cutting it close but...d*mn.  Chased the magic pill with a full big glass of water.  Filled the kettle.  Gotta get Bubbi up and out so he’ll eat.  Unbelievable.  5:10 already.  I just hate it, this is going to be a beast of a week as it is!...haven’t overslept like this in MONTHS!  Even fell asleep on the sofa, what, 7:30 last night?  Don’t even remember transitioning from sofa to bed.

Hold up.

As the kettle started to exhale more and more loudly, a nagging thought wailed more and more loudly until I plucked it ripe and juicy into coherent translation: it’s * only * Sunday.

Yeah baby.  Sometimes it’s soooo good to be wrong.  Just because it isn’t a surprise doesn’t mean it isn’t a surprise.

Still don’t like to oversleep—in some ways more so on the weekends...but...hey, the whole day suddenly unrolled before me like red carpet to royalty I’m in heaven and there’s no more rush hallelujah it’s Sunday come!

not all corn fields are alike...not all houses are home

the image (why has this popped up into my head? I have no idea) is of me as a young teenager—was I 13? Standing in a second story bedroom looking out the window across a lonely country road at miles and miles ... or should I say acres and acres of very flat treeless fields of ripe corn.  Standing and staring at it like that was so different from driving past it.  It was so different from walking the wavy golden path at my Aunt Jean’s house alongside the wavy fields of waving corn or whatever crop they were growing at the time.  How I loved the two giant trees (oak?) on either side of that path—such delicious cool shade and the rattling of leaves in a near constant lilting breeze--- just before the path turned to see the house shaded at one end by trees and flanked at the corner with an enchanting azalea and dogwood garden.  Loved it there so much.  Loved that you couldn’t see the house from the road and how the world changed from the drive out of town into a whole other world when you turned on the path (before the gate was put up) and then it changed again over the crest under the trees and the house was on that slope down to the lake with all the cypress.  The most enchanting lake ever.  So when I stood in that bedroom in house with a small yard and no trees and looked out over the hot, parched, flat corn field it wasn’t right, it wasn’t alluring, it wasn’t home.  But the realtor and mom and dad all misunderstood my gazing silence.  I vaguely remember mom or dad mentioning what a beautiful view and how much I would love that and the realtor, bless him, said he had to be honest.  That land over there would very likely be bought soon by developers and in a short time the view would be the construction of houses like these.  Dad said well that will definitely not work.  She has always wept over the cutting down of trees and the loss of landscapes like this.  I still said nothing because it was true and even though I didn’t particularly like that view, I also didn’t particularly like that house, and I didn’t particularly like that sometimes it seemed somehow some things were either up to me or blamed on me and neither was particularly fair.  I was glad not to move there, though.  Funny how that’s the only house ever that I remember touring...and we moved every two or three years all my life (until this last decade) and I’ve been in hundreds and hundreds of prospective houses.  But that is the only one I remember.

Morning thoughts

Golden morning sunlight paints
tummies of tiny oak leaves from under
its canopy

new day rises still
early
every green holds its breath
still in deep sleeping blanketed humidity

silent flash of summer lightning in the west
carries off the rest
of night

Tribute to Aunt Dot (Crisp) Ballard July 21, 1931 - August 6, 2015

I was privileged to give the scripture reading for my Aunt Dot's memorial service in Columbia, SC, August 9, 2015, in Boyce Chapel at the First Baptist Church of Columbia.  The theme that ran through the Rev. Humphries' introduction, comments made by Dot's grandchild Angela Ballard Adams, by me and by friends Diana and Jon Dando had such a fabulous singular core: Dot had a way of making you feel like you were her favorite and most prized person in her life. 

The comments I made in the service were far more brief in tapping on the three reasons for choosing the passage, but in writing, i wanted to develop it a little more....

Scripture Reading Mark 5:21-43

The scripture reading today is from Mark 5:21 and following.  I have chosen this passage for two reasons.  Aunt Dot and Jesus are so much alike.  As everyone has said in the service and anyone you talk to, Dot Ballard had a special gift for connecting with you in a way that convinced you—not just that she loved you and cared for you, which was definitely and sincerely true—but that you were her favorite.  Favorite child, favorite grandchild, favorite niece, favorite four-year-old, favorite friend, favorite person in the world.  Even if it was in the space of a five minute encounter in the line at the post office and you never learned her name, you became central to her attention and her love and her force of deep acceptance with that easy, infectious chuckle.  Just being in the room with her was uplifting, and dare I say “healing.”  There were always people gathered in her home on Sundays and holidays and birthdays and whatever day something might be celebrated with feast and family. She was always feeding people.  Jesus seemed to do a lot of that, too.  Notice the company he kept, his reference to “these are my brothers and mother” which were the crowds that gathered around him. 

You will hear people joke about how one might know or be related to Dot—and everyone wanted to be related.  Everyone is related.  But each of us knows secretly, deep down, I was her favorite.  People followed and gathered around Jesus and even without clamoring for his attention (wasn't necessary) you were caught up in that infectious love and force of belonging.  Jesus made it his business to connect, to heal, to engage, to embrace, to love.  Dot had that gift because she had Jesus.

The second reason for choosing this passage is harder to put into words—or maybe not, just that it’s painful.  It’s painful to suffer the loss of a loved one.  Especially such a one as Aunt Dot.  I can’t imagine life without her—and I hope to find that the magic and power of her love, just like Jesus’ love, remains in me, in each of us, giving and receiving, healing and holding, continuing to take care of each of us in the depths of our longing for her presence.  She did not fear death.  I kinda do.  Only because it is elusive and mysterious.  Only because my longing to be is so strong.  My longing to be conscious and aware and connected.  My longing to be reunited with family and friends—family I don’t even know because they left this earth before my time.  

This passage in Mark chapter 5 is among many of those that reassure me that death isn’t all that powerful or scary in the hands of Jesus.  I read these stories—in the Old and New Testaments—because they give me comfort and reassurance that death does not have the final word.  We are on this side of it so the stories address things on this side of death—people who are brought back to life are brought back on this side of it.  The metaphor they were just sleeping is proven by how they wake, are still here with us.  When Jesus died, he came back to us from the other side and so that was the only time we see that we will see.  We will recognize those we love by virtue of how we personally are connected to them, it seems to me.  This is ageless and timeless.  There will be the feel of her spirit, the appearance, if you will, of the one we saw.  To some at age 20, to others age 50 and so on.  But that’s beside the point, my point is that I read these stories for comfort, the reassurance of the hope that in Jesus’ hands, death is not the end, will not separate, is not so powerful.

I read these stories when I feel the pain of loss and fear I might not see my beloved Aunt Dot again and it gives me hope that I might not understand, but in Jesus’ hands, all things are possible. Not an easy choice to believe, but it is a choice.  I choose to believe it because Dot believed it.  First hand I was born and raised in her vicinity to watch the miracle of a life fully dedicated to embodying Christ.  If that is difficult to believe, that knowing Jesus makes a difference, then she is one of the rare ones to show how a life can be lived with faithful prayer and hope to be Jesus among all of us; her life shows this miracle is possible.  

The last letter I received from her was on July first of this year.  She was encouraging me and happened to mention her struggle sometimes with relationships and accepting people...  What?  Dot struggled to love and accept people?  Of course she did. She could be impatient. She could roll her eyes and say someone was driving her crazy. She was fully human. Yet her humility acknowledged the struggle.  In her letter she writes, “So much harder to live peacefully when working on relationships—I don’t always do well it seems.”  What? Even Dot!?!? ...But look at how we remember her!  Look at our favorite memories.  Our sincere gratitude for her is specifically rooted in this one characteristic that is spoken of by each person who knew her—she loved fiercely, personally, intimately, with great favor and great joy.  So in her struggle, she handed that over to Jesus as well in prayer that it would be healed, changed, reconciled.  We are the testament to her success in that prayer.  This gives me hope as well, that prayer can be and will be answered as we seek to embody Christ in namaste—honoring the holy, the “created in the image of God”ness in everyone we meet.  Everyone.  Even the one who is difficult for us personally to accept perhaps.  While on earth even Jesus himself struggled with relationships, and chose a few to do something specific here, sent others away who were disrupting the flow of life there, spoke to one person one way and to the other another way.  Always connecting, embracing, accepting where we are and loving us into the change we might need, no matter what other people might say or think about us...

Actually there’s a third bit to this passage that I find makes me chuckle—Jesus and Dot are so much alike—this last image has been mentioned time and time again as well.  The two of them are so much alike—related like brother and sister. I won’t give it away, but you can’t miss it. It comes in the last sentence.  

Mark 5:21-43 (NASB)

21 When Jesus had crossed over again in the boat to the other side, a large crowd gathered around Him; and so He [a]stayed by the seashore. 22 One of the synagogue [b]officials named Jairus *came up, and on seeing Him, *fell at His feet 23 and *implored Him earnestly, saying, “My little daughter is at the point of death; please come and lay Your hands on her, so that she will [c]get well and live.” 24 And He went off with him; and a large crowd was following Him and pressing in on Him.

25 A woman who had had a hemorrhage for twelve years, 26 and had endured much at the hands of many physicians, and had spent all that she had and was not helped at all, but rather had grown worse— 27 after hearing about Jesus, she came up in the crowd behind Him and touched His [d]cloak. 28 For she [e]thought, “If I just touch His garments, I will [f]get well.” 29 Immediately the flow of her blood was dried up; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her affliction. 30 Immediately Jesus, perceiving in Himself that the power proceeding from Him had gone forth, turned around in the crowd and said, “Who touched My garments?” 31 And His disciples said to Him, “You see the crowd pressing in on You, and You say, ‘Who touched Me?’” 32 And He looked around to see the woman who had done this. 33 But the woman fearing and trembling, aware of what had happened to her, came and fell down before Him and told Him the whole truth. 34 And He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has [g]made you well; go in peace and be healed of your affliction.”

35 While He was still speaking, they *came from the house of the synagogue official, saying, “Your daughter has died; why trouble the Teacher anymore?” 36 But Jesus, overhearing what was being spoken, *said to the synagogue official, “Do not be afraid any longer, only [h]believe.” 37 And He allowed no one to accompany Him, except Peter and [i]James and John the brother of [j]James. 38 They *came to the house of the synagogue official; and He *saw a commotion, and people loudly weeping and wailing. 39 And entering in, He *said to them, “Why make a commotion and weep? The child has not died, but is asleep.” 40 They began laughing at Him. But putting them all out, He *took along the child’s father and mother and His own companions, and *entered the room where the child was. 41 Taking the child by the hand, He *said to her, “Talitha kum!” (which translated means, “Little girl, I say to you, get up!”). 42 Immediately the girl got up and began to walk, for she was twelve years old. And immediately they were completely astounded. 43 And He gave them strict orders that no one should know about this, and He said that something should be given her to eat.

obituary The State newspaper Columbia SC

sign guest book Dunbar Funeral Home Dignity Memorial

unending tribute to Dad through cycles of grief, joy, gratitude...and hope

I remember the feel of the bark on the tree against my palms and against my cheek, the tricky slickness of the bottoms of my mary janes against the skirting of the trunk and roots.  I was five.  I could feel wisps of hair from the loose bun falling around my face and lilting across  my eyes as I blew kisses toward the camera at Dad’s beckoning. It was a pretty day and I felt pretty in my dress with the white top and dark blue skirt (were there polka dots?) And lacy socks and mary jane’s.  I felt pretty being photographed like a model and hanging out with my dad.  He was thin and his hair was still black, waved back with a beautiful hairline I see now when I look at photos.  He was cool.  He could sing beautifully.  He could take beautiful photographs.  He could tell wonderful stories.  He could write words to move you to tears or laughter.  He could take the big rabbit out of its cage behind Granny’s house and let me pet it.  He could drive fast through the mountains.  He could make up really good stories about people in restaurants eating at nearby tables. He could work all night. He could win writing, advertising and marketing awards. He could sell anything. He could only write when he had a deadline and a paycheck.  He could be gone for long stretches of time.  He could hurt my feelings faster than anyone.  He could make things that didn’t make sense make sense.  He could explain why people were the way they were.  He could pray with his eyes open. He could help millions of people get through national disasters or a political crisis.  He could negotiate the release of prisoners or a change in policy.  He could get splinters out of my finger.  He could pick out the best puppies.  He could bake a chicken that had cinnamon as a main seasoning ingredient.  He could order the best steaks.  He could help me map out a better plot sequence.  He could decorate a house—perfect compositions of wall hangings and furniture.  He could make things sound better.  Or worse.  He could move and uproot his family every two to three years.  He could make up the best words like disgustipating. He could make me feel like the most special and important person in the universe.  He could make me feel suffocated.  He could make me angry.  He could make me laugh.  He could make me cry.  He could NOT beat me at racquet ball once I turned 12.  Otherwise, he could do anything.  Except prevent vascular disease from taking over his life. He can still make me miss him and love him and forgive him for being human like the rest of us.  He can still be the best dad ever.  He can still speak to me.  He can still make me laugh and cry.  He can still make me feel special and loved.  He can still make me wish he were here to eat Calabash shrimp at the beach, or drink cherry ibc colas, or watch tennis.  He can still be here with me, for me, in my memory and in my ways.  I hope he can forgive me for not knowing a lot of things I wish I’d known...about how and how much he loved me...about misunderstandings that seem to linger...about how really really far death can separate you...about how impossible it is to know the story when it wasn’t told...  I put all of this into a pretty box of joy without sides, wrapped in paper of unlimited gratitude, and ribboned in swirls of grieving that will hopefully one day be untied...to find us all there—all the family for generations—together inside (and out) once again...

how weird was that? just streamed it all of a sudden...  and i might post it but I’d have to name it something like unending tribute to dad through cycles of grief and joy and gratitude...and hope...

i hope you have a great father's day and will celebrate your dad in a special way.  i'm grabbing moon pies and cherry ibc colas and going to the beach...

 

Insidious Subtle Paradise Mis*Taken

What if they’re right
Oedipus had no choice—I mean,
he had choices and made them (not knowing)
knowing full well the warning of the Oracle
not knowing well the implications, correlations beyond his imagination

that’s how they get you (whoever you are)
those who know but do not tell
and wait for you to learn as well
Experience can be the cruelest teacher
ready with bamboo stick to strike the unconscious one

and strike she does in traumatic swings
the unrelenting force of the blind spot revealed in hindsight (maybe)

the Oracle backs up, hands in the air
I tried to warn you, she says
but the grin flashes pointed opportunistic teeth of steel

but what if Oedipus had it easy

what if worse the boy were girl
who somehow in primordial mist mistook her emotional alignment
for providence (called her “my mother”)
and role as protector somehow not so maybe rightly friendship
(“mother?”)
wrongly understood and denied—no sexual predilection
but emotional gender somehow exchanged
beyond her imagination
(like a weed in a sidewalk crack
I will find a place to belong)
how could she have known one
defied the other
invited and accused
allured and rejected
told one thing seeing another
given life and death
a choice
beyond imagination
beyond control
flashing teeth and bamboo rattle
snakes around my memory

Oedipus had it easy

Eighteen Freedom flash non fiction practice under 100 word stories

Eighteen Freedom

Our cousin Pam was 18. I was 11, my sister 7. Two other cousins 12 and 10. Pam owned a mustard colored British MG.  Summer visit she put the top down and we flew along country roads, hair knot-twisting in the wind.
She bought us ice cream cones! We sat in a row across the back, bare feet in the leather seats. Don’t drip any of that on my car! she threatened.
She had streaked blond hair and an easy laugh.  Cold ice cream melted on my tongue in long hot sun.  Eighteen couldn’t come fast enough.