Resurrection

There is a pond

in a field on State Route 287 that I love. A few years ago, it wasn't there, but a small corn field grew in its place. The land was very low in this area, and during one very wet summer it flooded, killing all the corn. I remember going by each day and watching the corn plants hanging lower and lower, dying a little bit more each time I passed, and thinking how terrible this loss was.

Eventually, the corn succumbed totally, and could hardly be seen for the pool of water that enveloped it. The summer was an unusually wet one, so the little pond never actually drained completely; in fact, it grew wider with each new rainfall. I wondered if the people who owned this property would end up filling it with more soil, and build it up again so they would be able to plant more crops. But that never happened. It was left to nature.

Strangely enough, the little pond never completely drained, and remained even throughout the autumn and winter months and into the following spring. And each time I passed I wondered what would become of that once green field. I missed seeing the corn plants swaying in the breeze. Oh, there is plenty more corn around these parts, but it was just the thought of a living thing dying that made me sad. Little by little, though, the pond seemed to become prettier, with all types of marshy plants growing around it. It looked natural, like it belonged there, as if, maybe, this is what it was meant to be all along.

Over the course of another year or two, the little pond continued to grow and become deeper. I watched with more and more curiosity each subsequent year. Eventually I began to see a few birds stop by, and then some families of ducks. It was certainly not unusual to see the Canadian geese stop to rest on their way from here to there in spring and autumn, either. The ducks are regulars now, some of the geese stay year-round and in the past couple years I have even seen some blue heron and a snowy egret wading at the water's edge. I saw the egret only once; perhaps the little lake was a convenient stopover on his journey. But the blue heron have been there a few times.

I look forward to each new spring, watching the increasing families of ducks and geese move in, wondering what other new birds and animals might adopt this place as home. It's funny, but I rarely think about that corn field anymore. I missed it at first. But the lake has grown into a beautiful natural surrounding, the perfect home for a lot of creatures. I love looking at it on bright sunny days, the water sparkling, the ducks and geese floating along, young ones trailing in their wake. And I'm hoping that snowy egret decides to stop by again one of these days. I haven't been able to catch him on film yet, but if he returns I will.

Odd, something seems vaguely familiar to me. I can't shake the feeling that I have heard this story before. Something about being dried and withered, diseased and suffering, dying, changing, living again in a new form... 

Happy Easter everyone.

Where Once a Lowland Corn Field Stood

There is a limpid pool
Where once
A lowland corn field
Stood languishing
In marshy soil,
Drained of its sweetness
And finally succumbing
Under a midsummer
Jasmine sun.

It is said that life
Must run its course,
That out of death
Will come new life.
And so it is
Where once
A lowland corn field
Stood, another now
Draws breath.

'Twas washed away
What could not flower,
But the land was not
Left barren.
Life is sustained
Through nature's wisdom,
Change its only order, for
Where once
A lowland corn field
Stood, the snowy egret
Now is boarder.

 

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow...

Spring has sprung, but someone forgot to notify Mother Nature! Here it is, not a week before Easter, we are well into April and this was outside when I awoke this morning. Living in Ohio, you just have to laugh sometimes.

With my woodfire stoked, my wee warm dog by my side and the hot coffee percolating in the pot, I am good to go; but in an attempt to awaken spring, or, perhaps, scare off winter, I offer the following few words as a nudge.

Sanguine Expectation

He waited, imagining
In breathless anticipation
As each silken layer
Was slowly,
Almost painfully
Peeled away
To reveal
The delicate gift
Flowering within.  
As if to sense
He could take no more,
The tiny green bud
Finally, mercifully burst
Into a profusion of color

Spring had sprung!

("Sanguine Expectation" from Kindred: A Family Portrait)
 

The King of Glory Enters...

Immaculate Conception Parish; North Lewisburg, Ohio (Diocese of Cincinnati)

A Lenten Journey

(with permission)

by Paula D. Oshinski

We walk beside our Blessed Lord Jesus as He makes His entrance into Jerusalem amid the waving palms and pussy willows, hearing the shouts of "Hosanna!". 
 
Our Journey takes us to the Last Supper in the Upper Room where Jesus will give us the Greatest Gift, the Holy Eucharist, the Gift of Himself.
 
We once again journey to the Garden of Gethsemane to comfort Our Lord as He waits for what He knows will happen--where He asks His Father, as we all have asked at moments in our own lives, to take this Cup from Him...The tramping of the soldiers' feet startle us and make us realize that we are on the Way of the Cross . . .
 

The blows of His scourging make our souls cry out for mercy for Him. We stand with Our Lord at the trial. We weep and whisper, "Ecce Homo" (Behold the Man!) And as Barrabas is given his freedom and the crowd shouts, "Crucify Him", our tears speak silent volumes...
 
We walk with Our Lord as He stumbles under the weight of the Cross and falls three times, and our hearts yearn to help Him carry It, as did Simon of Cyrene. 
 
We run to Him, as Veronica did, and wipe His Precious Face with the Veil, imprinting the Icon of His Divine Humanity on our hearts.  
 
We hear Our Lord consoling the weeping women--the Great Consoler Comforts us in the midst of His unspeakable suffering. And then, we see the anguished face of His Blessed Mother as she beholds her Son and Our Lord, and Her Heart is broken. She weeps, for Him and for us . . . 
 
Suddenly, we are where we would never desire to be, on the hill of Golgotha, shaken by the deafening strikes of the hammers driving the nails into the Hands of Our Lord--the Hands of Healing, the Hands of Love. The Cry of Love pierces the air as the nails are driven into the Feet of the Master. . .
 
Time stops. We feel the excruciating Crown of Thorns as it causes Our Lord to endure indescribable pain. We feel great sorrow and pain piercing the Heart of the Blessed Mother as we stand beside her and John at the foot of the Cross. Jesus Forgives Us! We see the gathering darkness and hear the Seven Last Words of Our Lord on the Cross. Then, Jesus speaks: "It Is Finished." The earth trembles. . . 
 
We walk with Joseph of Arimathea to take down the Body of Our Lord. Jesus is anointed with sweet-smelling fragrance, wrapped in fine linen, and is laid in the Tomb. How can this be, that the Creator of All, Our God, is buried?!
 
In the midst of our great grief, we are wrapped in a shroud of peace. We remember Our Lord's Promises. Sunday morning dawns, and we walk to the Tomb with the women. The Tomb is bathed in Holy Light. The stone has been rolled away. The Angel exclaims, "Behold! He Is Not Here! He Is Risen! Alleluia!" The Resurrection of Our Lord is accomplished, and we shall rise with Him at the end of our Journey to Eternal Life. Christos Voskrese! Voistinnu Voskrese! Christ Is Risen! Indeed He Is Risen!

(for Byzantine Catholic Easter references, see also Byzantine Catholic Church

I Am Your Child

Mother's Day is yet two months away. But March, unbelievably, marks the fourth anniversary of my mother's death, and I have been thinking of her a great deal these last few days. Be that as it may, what mother should only be remembered on one day? I dedicate this entry to her.

My mother never made a mistake, though she thought otherwise. I know this because everything she did, or said, or felt was genuine, from the heart and born from love. I think I even knew this as a child. Even then, I did not want to let her down. She just seemed to have a goodness about her that is seldom found. She was an exceedingly kind and loving woman who truly loved people and enjoyed their company. She loved fully and without limit, even though we, her children, may not have always made the wisest choices in our lives. In fact, those were the times I felt her love even more strongly. It never cooled, never wavered. I admired her so for her constancy, her quiet courage.

I think what is sometimes mistakenly believed to be "playing favorites" is simply a mother who is in touch with her children, and knowing instinctively, intuitively—by guess and by God—when a particular child needs more. My mother was such a woman.

And when I was sad and she would hold me, the touch of her hands was so warm and comforting. I think I miss that most of all. It was a safe place to be when I was a child, and even more so as an adult, facing the many challenges of life. She (along with my father) instilled in her children the mettle to succeed, and planted the seeds of faith so necessary in living a life of meaning and purpose. Somehow just to be with her gave me the strength and courage and desire to go on even when it seemed too hard, or when things made no sense. I wanted to please her, to be like her. Her strength of character was amazing and I don't remember ever hearing her say a negative thing about anyone, except herself. Often, especially in her later days, when my mother felt she failed at something or did or said something she believed was "stupid", or she became forgetful, she would severely chastise herself. She saw those moments as weakness; I saw them as simply human.

It's very difficult to lose someone who has such an impact on your life, and not a day goes by that I don't think of her, say a prayer for her, remember her, miss her. She will always be my mother, my friend, and though I fall far short, my role model. And my dearest mother, always and forever, I Am Your Child...

Silent March

Top to Bottom: Maple Farm and Mad River on State Route 287 in West Liberty, Ohio (Logan County)

No time of year presents a more certain dose of reality, or reminds us more strongly that nature does not abide by our timetable, than March. This morning, with warm thoughts and dreams of spring still in my head (despite needing the extra down quilt on my bed last night), I awoke to frozen pipes in the bathroom and Bernie's cable (with which we chain her outside) snapped completely in half from the cold. Apparently, much to my dismay, March has decided to forgo the "in like a lamb" scenario this year.

The Mad River still has patches of ice where the river seems only to be a little trickle of water left over from a late winter rainfall. Local weather reports still talk of wind chills, and the choicest logs from a recent truckload of wood are burning furiously in the wood stove. But living in the country, and with an open mind, one begins to notice the early heralds of spring around this time of year, assuring that, indeed, spring is just around the corner.

I love driving down State Route 287 through West Liberty, Ohio. Though it can be tricky to maneuver the hills and winding curves after a fresh snow, beauty is nonetheless lurking, even in winter. This stretch of road is a buffet for the eyes, at times wooded areas or fields and wide-open spaces, at times artistically spaced farmhouses—sometimes new and impeccable, sometimes in need of repair (and offering a certain beauty of their own). In autumn the trees here are especially bright and colorful and I find it hard to keep my eyes on the winding roads when driving. Even in winter after a new snow, the hills and valleys are lambent in the sun or moonlight, evidence of the simple shimmering purity which remains in nature. Depending on whether you're traveling through this area in mid-summer or early October, also on the menu are rows and rows of corn, alternating from emerald green to a deep coppery, almost incandescent glow in the shining sun. The daylillies and little clumps of multi-colored wild flowers in spring and summer are quite profuse, fragrant and especially lovely.

As in all of life, one thing you can always count on in nature is change, and while I don't like change, I always look forward to and am excited by the change of seasons. It signals a new beginning fertile with possibility, and adds a little spice to my routine. But I always seem to be caught off guard by one particular presentiment of spring, which, after living here for 20 years I should well expect: the bright red pails which suddenly appear in a large grove of maple trees on Route 287. They are a surprising and welcome burst of color in the otherwise dull gray-brown of winter's coup de grâce. It's time for maple syrup again, and all things warm and sweet. It's March, sweetest of months, flowing like syrup into our midst, allowing us to savor life's fullness once again.



Silent March

Though she may arrive
Silently, lamb-like
March cannot hide

Her bright red pails
Handily hung
Give her away,

Announce her arrival
With the pomp and ceremony
Of a royal entourage,
Signaling the time
For mapling once again

March, sweetest of months,
Flows like syrup into our midst
Allowing us to savor life’s fullness

All That Remains...

I recently watched one of my favorite movies, The Remains of the Day, for the third time. I remember seeing it for the first time with my mother in 1993 in the theatre. As the final music played on and the credits rolled, we each sat silently in our seats in the dark for the longest time unable to emit anything vocal except a sigh, virtually paralyzed from the emotional impact. The feeling was not watered down, seeing this movie for the third time.

The story is about a man who lives his life quite perfunctorily, sadly devoid of anything but his day-to-day routine. "Stevens" is head butler at the estate of the politically engaged Lord Darlington during pre-WWII England. So rigid is he (Stevens) that he is not moved by a request for friendship, the tragic death of his father, his master's misguided Nazi sympathies or the pleadings of his own heart. Unfortunately, in his attempt to avoid pain, he has also avoided life. The movie ends, many years later, with Stevens regretting his life as a "spectator", and his attempt to amend, perhaps counteract what his actions--or lack thereof--had wrought. Through Stevens (and his determination to bring justice to the world by simply serving his master and humanity) we are nudged into thoughts of our own moral responsibility. Is it enough to just do our duty, to follow rules, to do what is expected of us? Is this what life is about?

This is the story of us all, in that we can sometimes go through life without any enjoyment, any involvement or connection with what truly matters, leaving us to ask "Is that all there is?". Are we afraid to even say "hello" to another person, to make eye contact, to let people into our lives? Do we take the time to actually engage another person, to listen and respond, or do we say "Hi, how are you" as if it was part of a script and simply walk away without expecting or wanting an answer? Sometimes all it takes is one word, one smile, one gesture to change someone's life--and maybe your own.

Too often we let our preconceived notions about people dictate whether we will acknowledge them. And we certainly don't like to become involved in anything if there is the slightest chance we will be inconvenienced, or might get hurt. It's sad, really, because we can miss out on so much because of our fears and misguided judgments.

Some years ago, one of my sons had attended a concert and was outside mingling with people afterward. A woman came up to him and began rattling on about nothing really discernible. She smelled odd and looked dirty and went on and on about nothing in particular. But he listened, nodded, smiled and talked with her. This went on for a few minutes and then she left. But before walking away, she turned to him and said "Thank you for saving my life.".

If, indeed "all the world's a stage" as Shakespeare said, (As You Like It) I, for one, certainly always walk on stage heart in hand. This does not always bring about applause immediately--maybe not at all. And sometimes my role causes more pain than anything else. Suffice it to say that I may never win the award for best actress, but I can honestly say that being a player is much more gratifying than just watching the show.


So Cold the Winter

so cold the winter
so cold
the hearts of some
afraid
the ice will melt

so cold are some
so frightened
to offer love
cautious
of giving too much

so protected are they
so sad
the hearts of some
safe
and empty without love

Thoughts on the First Day of Lent

I Am Here

And who comforts you?
Who reaches to grasp your hand,
I wonder, when your tears appear

Rife as rain, falling
From the tortured sky
Into which we blindly gaze
With prayerful pleas.

What more can you offer,
What signs strategically placed
Along the paths we travel
Can make us even begin

To understand the wind
Is your gasp of pain,
Your heart-rending cry,
The thunder its distant echo.

When the rocks we aim
At each other strike your heart,
When the pain becomes unbearable,
Who comforts you, my Lord,
Who comforts you?

(c) Monica Ellen Smith
(Inspired by Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ")

Review of Kindred: A Family Portrait

Kindred: A Family Portrait (available from: amazon.com; barnesandnoble.com and iuniverse.com)
by Laurel Johnson (artist, writer and book reviewer for Midwest Book Review

Poetry by Monica E. Smith
iUniverse
1663 Liberty Drive, Bloomington IN 47403
9781440104299 $11.95

"…home is that sacred place we feel we belong." For Monica E. Smith, and in fact for most of us, that place is nature. Forests, lakes, oceans, mountains, flora and fauna are our family, our kindred. Ms. Smith's poetry and Sam Rusztyn's illustrations accent that belief beautifully throughout this comforting book.

Nature provides order, harmony, purity, and grace to humans forced frequently to live in chaos and uncertainty. This excerpt from "(Un)like the Bird" is a perfect example:

But, unlike the bird
Which takes wing
On flights of fancy
In a moment's notice,
I am grounded
By my own uncertainty

"Passage" is an exceptional commentary on the past, present, and future of trees, and a touching metaphor for life itself:

Among the fallen
Lay the ancient ones,
Beautiful in death
As they were in life
Petrified, they remain still
Where once they stood tall
Nodding their delight
In the evening breeze
And yet, as in testimony
To resurrection
They shine in splendor,
Vivid and brilliant, gilded
In morning sunlight

Nature teaches us patience, fortitude, and how to stand through trying times. Humans flounder through minutes and hours where Nature counts time in eons. This excerpt from "Telegraphy" is a haunting reminder of the lessons to be learned from observing the effect of changing times and seasons:

…if you could see beyond
The physical, see beyond
Human perception, perhaps
You could envision the connection
Between life and death, understand
That they are two halves
Of the same whole, perhaps

Monica E. Smith takes readers to "those shallow shoals of Heaven's amaranthine shores…" and beyond in this poetic paean to Nature. Kindred is an encouraging, uplifting joy.

Life with a Jack-a-Bee

Excerpt from Dog-matized: The Comical Truth of Life with a Jack-a-Bee
(available from blurb)

Bernie does not like baths. On one particular occasion I attempted this apparently insulting activity and she was nowhere to be found...I finally found her under our bed, flat as a pancake—as if that would make her invisible—holding on to the floor with her claws like she was going to fall off.

There would be no bath that day. I did not want to traumatize her further, softy that I am. I may be soft, but I am getting smarter. She seems to be able to differentiate whether I'm taking a shower or it's time for her bath, so I do not turn on the water until I have her safely in hand and in the bathroom...I then close the door so she cannot escape and proceed with the bath. Hey, it works. Although, I almost feel guilty when I see her standing there shivering in the tub, ears drooping, big eyes looking at me like I have just tortured her. Almost.

The Dead of Winter

January 23, 5:49 pm

The dead of winter has passed, the days beginning to last longer again, with spring surely just around the corner. But the weather doesn’t seem to realize that. There is some relief today, with the frigid temperatures which kept us company most of this month on the wane. However, it is not to last long. Below zero temperatures and more snow is on the way in the next few days.

I have always loved these days of wood fires, blankets and hot cocoa. It seems that, as I age, they are more oppressive­­­­­­­—the cold is painful, the darkness darker, the nights longer and empty.

I received an unexpected uplifting of spirit today. A co-worker, who had bought both of my poetry books recently, told me she had read them both feverishly one night. She wanted to tell me how “good” I am, what wonderful books they are, how amazing it is that “I know” what people feel. She just wanted me to know that. She is not someone I work with often, but we know each other fairly well because of the number of years we have worked together. So it was quite a generous and heady compliment, to know that my writing “touched” her, as she repeatedly told me. I am still reeling from the high. This is what I have always said was important in the writing of (my) poetry, to touch someone, that poetry creates a bond with another in this knowing, touching, feeling. And yet, as I always feel the need to do, I felt myself wanting to apologize that the writing wasn’t better, tell her that I know it isn’t selling, that it won’t sell, feeling the need to justify my work in some way. But we were both in a hurry to get to our respective assignments and so, the compliment was left shining in my head, as some precious gem glinting in sunlight, from which I have to shield my eyes.

It is always so hard for me to accept praise, though this is what, admittedly, I need, to hear that someone feels my writing is good, that it moved him or her, that it had merit. I wish I could believe that it does. Though, even in this state of unworthiness, I continue to write, to want to create, to do more.

Friday, February 13, 2009

I was thinking today about how I sometimes feel so lonely--so lonely to the point of tears. But all loneliness is not equal. There can be happiness, or maybe contentment, in some loneliness, in that a person might miss someone terribly; but when there is a connection there, and reciprocal love and caring, the loneliness is more tolerable. You will see the person again at some point, and in the meantime, there are the wonderful memories of times together, and the looking forward to the next time together. And that makes all the difference. I am so blessed. My children, all grown to adulthood now, live here and there. And I miss them terribly, not only their childhood, but the adults they have now become. The wonderful thing is that they continue to want to spend time with us, entertaining and doing things together; and that fills my heart so full. They have become, somewhat, peers; and so my children have gone, but I have gained, through them, friends.

One Man's Trash...

A lovely Sunday evening without much to do. I was going to complain about the heat and humidity, but I thought it better to thank God that I am alive to feel it. I could complain, too, that I am not wealthy. But I thought it better to thank God for the splendid roof over my head, the good food on my table and my ability to cook it. I suppose we always want for more. Human nature. But today, I am happy and content. I have a wonderful husband and 4 beautiful (grown) children I love very much, and of whom I am extremely proud. Today, I do not want for more, but thank God for His blessings and His grace when it is needed. I am very rich indeed...

One Man’s Trash...

A flower blossoms
Near a weed.
Could it be
They are of one seed?
One seems flawless,
Pleases the eyes,
The other a beggar,
It’s worth disguised.

One is fragile,
Requiring much care,
The other resilient
But when choosing, beware.
One will be picked
To grace our lives,
The other forgotten,
But who is deprived?

Who is to tell?
Who knows, indeed,
Which is the flower
And which, a weed?
The eye of the beholder
Can truly see
Which is a flower,
Which the weed.

Peace All,
Monica Ellen