O Death, Where is Thy Sting?

(Holy Saturday, St. John Chrysostom Byzantine Catholic Church in Columbus, Ohio)

The Paschal Homily of St. John Chrysostom (Read Each Year at Pascha)

Is there anyone who is a devout lover of God? Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival! Is there anyone who is a grateful servant? Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!

Are there any weary with fasting? Let them now receive their wages! If any have toiled from the first hour, let them receive their due reward; If any have come after the third hour, let him with gratitude join in the Feast! And he that arrived after the sixth hour, let him not doubt; for he too shall sustain no loss. And if any delayed until the ninth hour, let him not hesitate; but let him come too. And he who arrived only at the eleventh hour, let him not be afraid by reason of his delay.

For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first. He gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour, as well as to him that toiled from the first. To this one He gives, and upon another He bestows. He accepts the works as He greets the endeavor. The deed He honors and the intention He commends.

Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord! First and last alike receive your reward; rich and poor, rejoice together! Sober and slothful, celebrate the day!

You that have kept the fast, and you that have not, rejoice today for the Table is richly laden! Feast royally on it, the calf is a fatted one. Let no one go away hungry. Partake, all, of the cup of faith. Enjoy all the riches of His goodness!

Let no one grieve at his poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one mourn that he has fallen again and again; for forgiveness has risen from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the Death of our Savior has set us free.

He has destroyed it by enduring it. He destroyed Hades when He descended into it. He put it into an uproar even as it tasted of His flesh. Isaiah foretold this when he said, "You, O Hell, have been troubled by encountering Him below." 

Hell was in an uproar because it was done away with. It was in an uproar because it is mocked. It was in an uproar, for it is destroyed. It is in an uproar, for it is annihilated. It is in an uproar, for it is now made captive. Hell took a body, and discovered God. It took earth, and encountered Heaven. It took what it saw, and was overcome by what it did not see.

O death, where is thy sting? O Hades, where is thy victory? Christ is Risen, and you, O death, are annihilated! Christ is Risen, and the evil ones are cast down! Christ is Risen, and the angels rejoice! Christ is Risen, and life is liberated! Christ is Risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead; for Christ having risen from the dead, is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep. 

To Him be Glory and Power forever and ever! Amen!

(Video Excerpts: St. John Chrysostom Byzantine Catholic Church
Columbus, Ohio; Easter 2009)

He is Not There...

Mark 16: 1 - 7
1	And when the sabbath was past, Mary Mag'dalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salo'me, bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him.
2	And very early on the first day of the week they went to the tomb when the sun had risen.
3	And they were saying to one another, "Who will roll away the stone for us from the door of the tomb?"
4	And looking up, they saw that the stone was rolled back; -- it was very large.
5	And entering the tomb, they saw a young man sitting on the right side, dressed in a white robe; and they were amazed.
6	And he said to them, "Do not be amazed; you seek Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has risen, he is not here; see the place where they laid him.
7	But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him, as he told you."

Today when I awoke, I sat in complete silence, a cup of hot coffee, my little dog by my side, and enjoying the cool freshness of a new day. Usually, I need some kind of "noise", and so the television goes on as soon as I awake, even if I am not watching. But on this Holy Saturday, I needed only the silence. I needed only to hear the birds twittering as they flew from tree to tree, the mourning dove sing her solemn song. I needed only to watch the yet-bare branches waving in the early morning breeze outside my window, and the sun emerge from a clouded sky. I needed only to contemplate Him who made all these things, and the historic and world-shaking events which had transpired over a mere few days some 2000 years ago.

Holy Saturday has always been this way for me, even as a child; and we followed this same tradition with our children. I remember being taught to do "quiet things" from Good Friday afternoon until Easter, as we (even in our youthful minds) prepared for the Resurrection, as we gave due respect and honor to God. We may not have understood fully--lack of understanding does not  imply untruth--but there was no need. There is no need. Such is the way with matters of the heart.

Tonight, we will attend the Resurrection services, Liturgy and blessing of Easter baskets as is our tradition (in the Byzantine Catholic Faith), as I have done every Holy Saturday of my life. The services will continue into the small hours of Easter Sunday morning, after which we will share the blessed foods from which we have fasted with our family, in Celebration of the Resurrection. It is these practices which keep me sane in an insane world. It is these celebrations that give my life meaning where, otherwise, I am at a loss to find meaning. It is these traditions that make me whole, bring to me the peace I cannot find elsewhere. It is this faith and this belief in a loving God which makes life beautiful and worth living, as we await the eternal glory promised by God, in Christ Jesus who prepared the way for us to follow .

May Christ crucified touch each of you in a most special way this day, this Easter season; and May God bless us all with an increased faith, wisdom to know Truth and the desire and courage to live it.

(photos: St. John Chrysostom Byzantine Catholic Church; Columbus, Ohio; Good Friday April 2, 2010)

Comfort Food

Top, My Brother and Sister and I

Bottom Left, My Mother (coming to call us in for hot chocolate!)

Tired of the snow yet? I can recall lying in bed as a child, in the early morning hours, waiting with butterflies in my stomach for that announcement of the news I already knew: "Schools will be closed today!".  And they were, usually  for the next two days as well. Snow in Cleveland meant instant vacation back then. The type of snow we have experienced these past few days in much of the country was the usual winter fare in Cleveland "back in the day".

The excitement would build as I curled up in a warm bed, planning my day. My sister and brother and I would wake up to a good, hot breakfast—which usually included cream of wheat, our favorite on such a cold, snowy day. We would force our mother to promise not to stir it so that soft, chewy lumps of grain would form and then eat it with butter, sugar and lots of milk, something I do to this day. After breakfast we bundled in our snowsuits, leggings (what ever happened to leggings?), boots, scarves and gloves, and somewhat resembling robots, headed outside for most of the day. Once outside we began making a snow fort out of the entire back yard. We would each focus on a particular corner of the yard and built our forts as high as we could with ice "bricks" which were broken off of mountains of snow, and then tunneling through the crusty drifts to prepare for the snowball war to soon follow. 

We never needed to be told to "find something to do". There was a whole world of things to do, given birth by our imaginations. Winter, summer, spring, fall, we were outside all day until supper, interacting with each other and our friends, enjoying the world around us, simply being children. As children we didn't need "love lives" then, we didn't have an unhealthy obsession with sex or interest in drugs or  experience anxiety from societal pressures constantly bombarding us with "be more". Perhaps it is our self-complacency as adults which is ever-increasingly manifested in our children. We didn't need to hear TV commercials focused on telling us to "Get up, get up, get up, be a player" or "Play an hour a day". Does it not seem odd and unnatural to hear social advertisements telling children to play? It does to me and it makes me sad. What has happened to childhood? What has happened to us, that we would allow such destruction of childhood?

After the war ended, frozen and wet, we headed back into the house to change into dry clothes and drink the hot chocolate that was keeping warm on the stove, waiting for us. The house was always warm, even in winter. The love and security we felt as children warmed us as no blanket ever could. And, perhaps, this is what I remember most about my childhood. We would rest easily at night, ready for sleep after a full day, knowing we were loved for who we were, that nothing we might do could change that, never doubting that we were the priority in our parents' lives. It was never something that had to be verbalized. It just was.

My father would come home after work, and supper was soon to follow. On every Saturday, and especially on snowy, winter days, supper would consist of a huge pot of beef soup. It was my father's favorite meal. And when I cook that same soup today, the wafting fragrance serves up a feast of warm and satisfying memories which nourish me and keep me grounded.

Perhaps the word that best describes my childhood is "comfort". I did not know the pain or anxiety of having to take on adult roles. I was a child and concerned with those things befitting a child. My parents knew how to love, each other and us. Neither was overly concerned about place in life, and both were concerned more with their children's well-being than the views of the world. There were no power struggles, within the family or society. The focus was on our welfare and happiness and our growth as individuals. There was love. And there was consolation and solace in knowing it would always be that way.

And as we drifted off, sleep—and peace—came to us sweet and warm. It drifted down from the rafters with the love and laughter which protected us when we were children.  And as I sleep each night, the memories, sweet and warm,  ring from distant rafters, drifting down to comfort me, ground me, slow me down when this world begins to move a little too fast. 


Comfort Food

We always laughed
As daddy ate his soup
From a large serving bowl
Filled to the brim
With hot savory beef broth,
A mountain of thin noodles
And a dash of Tabasco,
Pausing every now and then
To wipe his perspiration-covered face
And sit back, gratified, proclaiming
"I like soup no matter what flavor it is!"

We would race to drain
Our bowls in order to be first
To claim the prize—the juicy bones
Layered with chunks of soft beef,
Chewy gristle and mouth-watering
Beefy marrow which we would
Spread on our heavily salted meat

This was Saturday supper
Every week, every month,
All the years of our childhood
And the contentment
Of those early years was not only
From young, full bellies
But the love and security
That seemed to hover
Around our table, cloaking us
From the elements
Of change, floating

Like the rich, golden bubbles
Swirling in our Saturday soup

-->

Cocoon

Laughter rose

And rang from the rafters

Drifting down softly

To comfort at night.

Sleep was sweet and warm

Within the cocoon of family

In my youth.

Laughter rose

And rang from the rafters

Drifting down softly

To comfort at night.

Sleep was sweet and warm

Within the cocoon of family

When my children were young.

Long-ago laughter echoes

And rings from distant rafters

Drifting down softly

To comfort at night.

Memories are sweet and warm

Within the cocoon of family

As I sleep.

Thank you for reading; and keep warm...

Go Forth and Create--New Recipe from the Expresso Cafe Kitchen

art form: noun 

An activity or a piece of artistic work that can be regarded as a medium of artistic expression. (The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language)

 

Cooking—as sure as painting, sculpture, writing, music—is most certainly an art form! The experience is not only in the creation itself, but in the reward of sharing and enjoyment in eating with another.

I have always loved those desserts made with  phyllo (filo) dough. You know filo. Those papery thin layers upon layers upon layers of dough used in making baklava. while I love eating foods created with filo, I absolutely hate working with it. It's so "fussy". You have to carefully thaw it forever, keep the flimsy stack moist with a towel while you work very gingerly preparing each delicate layer for your creation; and still some of it dries out, cracks and tears. Your high hopes for a special dessert are dashed to the floor with tidbits of friable filo. 

I was watching the "Contessa" on the food channel yesterday; she was making the most delectable-looking puff pastry dessert with pecans and cinnamon. Impressionable as I am, I had to have it right then. I was going over the ingredients in my head and thought I had everything I needed to create this gods' delight. Butter and cinnamon I always have. Nuts? Yes—in the freezer left over from my Christmas cookie baking. Puff pastry? Yes, I remembered the box in the deep freezer! Oh, no—it's F I L O!

Not to be denied, and because my mouth was already watering for this buttery dessert, I bravely proceeded to create. However, I did not have the time or the patience to "properly" bake something with filo dough. So, throwing caution—and everything I know about filo—out the window, I began. (As in writing, once you have learned and know the rules, feel free to break them.)

I took the filo out of the box—and because I did not have at least two hours to let it thaw—ignoring everything I knew about properly thawing it, I stuck it in the microwave for about a minute. It was not pretty, but it was usable. After laying it out on the butcher block, I stared at it for a minute or two and decided I was going to cut the entire stack in hunks. I made two incisions down the length and two more crosswise, giving me nine little stacks of filo. While doing this, 1 1/4 sticks of butter were melting away in the microwave. I then threw the little sections of filo into the bowl of melted butter—and this is where it gets down and dirty and downright fun, akin to a kid playing in the sandbox—with my hands, I tossed them around, making sure they were all pretty well saturated with the butter, and somewhat separated. I then added some brown sugar, cinnamon, a little salt and the pecans and tossed again, making sure it was all evenly distributed. I buttered a shallow pan, emptied the filo mixture into the pan lightly patted it in and baked it. What came out was the most delightful, buttery, "crunchewy", satisfying dessert I had made in a long time, and took only about 45 minutes from oven to mouth. It was actually a great success. Barefoot or not, the Contessa had nothing over me!

Lesson: DO NOT BE AFRAID TO COOK! It's fun, relaxing, very rewarding and very artistic; and gives you a wonderful sense of accomplishment I hope you try this recipe—and, add something to make it your own. As I'm sitting here, I have already thought to add apple slices, other fresh or dried fruits, flavorings, jam, coconut. The possibilities are as endless as one's imagination. So, go forth and create! I'd love to hear how your creations turn out.

Buttery Pecan Phyllo Cake

1 16-oz box filo dough

1 1/4 - 1 1/2 sticks butter (I like I Can't Believe It's Not Butter or Smart Balance) 
dash of salt
1 tsp cinnamon (or more, to your taste)

1/2 cup brown sugar (light or dark; more or less to your taste; I used light brown sugar, about 1/2 cup)

1 1/2 cups pecan pieces (could be made with other nuts; I used pecans)

juice of one orange (optional)  

Remove filo from box. Keeping wrapped in inner paper, microwave on high for approximately one minute, just long enough to unfold. Unfold stack of filo and place flat on counter. Cut two equal lengthwise and 2 equal crosswise slices, making nine separate stacks of dough.

Melt butter and drop in stacks of filo, mixing to equally distribute butter. Add remaining ingredients and using hands, mix and distribute, breaking up and separating some of the filo stacks.

Pour into buttered, shallow baking pan, approximately 9 X 10 (this was the size of my baking pan; however, any similar-sized shallow pan will work. The important thing is to shape the mixture into a square/rectangle of about 1/2" thickness) 

Bake in center of oven on 350 degrees, for approximately 20 - 25 minutes, or until the bottom is golden brown and the top begins to brown.

Remove from oven and, while cooling, sprinkle the juice of one orange over the top. Serve by cutting into squares/pieces with vanilla ice cream or frozen cool whip.  

Keeps well overnight; no need to refrigerate; just cover and set on counter. I know this because I am eating a big slab as I write this, and IT IS HEAVENLY!

Happy Eating!

(see this recipe and more at the(Expresso Cafe Kitchen)

Lip Service

The question is, are all the toasts we make,  promises we utter, the resolutions we list year after year after year simply pretty words? Is it just the scripted thing to do because we've always done it, because this is what one does on New Year's Eve? Do our vows simply fall from our mouths like confetti to decorate our New Year celebrations, or rise in the night air, only to burst when the clock strikes midnight? I think the power of a truly new, joyful, prosperous and meaningful future lies in contrition for past misdeeds and the desire and heart, wisdom, spirit, truth and determination with which we speak these words. Anything less is simply lip service.      

           Lip Service

(Thoughts upon a New Year's Eve)

After all is said and done

And the last toast is uttered,

After the final resolution

We are no better, no worse than before

This ceremonious passing of time

Stubbornly entrenched in old ways,

We cheer on the new

While our hearts remain unchanged,

Our minds unyielding,

Our souls secluded

In prisons of self-complacency.

And together we go our separate ways

With cups raised high in celebration,

Looking toward a new mediocrity.

Reclamation

(Music: "Silent Night" by Tim Janis, piano)

My husband, Scott, and I were recently watching the 1951 version of A Christmas Carol, which is actually entitled, simply, Scrooge. We love how there are subtle differences in each of the versions of this beloved story. For instance, in the 1951 version, when Jacob Marley and the other spirits conversed with Ebenezer Scrooge, they spoke of his "reclamation". We smiled, enjoying the variance of another era, and loved the sound of the word, talking about how that word is never used anymore. I've been thinking about the word ever since.

For the first time this year, it snowed that same night; I couldn't sleep and headed outside to watch the falling snow. I could feel my spirits lift, my heart sore as I watched in excitement like a child, the silvery flecks in the bright light at the back door of our house; the snow was soft and brilliant and fluttered so gently to the gelid ground below. And as the snow collected on the grass, the light reclaimed it as stars sparkling from the heavens, even in the place where my feet disturbed its purity. I could not get the melody of Silent Night out of my head, but sang instead "silent night, snowy night...". It was absolutely beautiful: the snow, the profound quietude and the sweet melody of a silent night. I wondered if the composer might have known that his creation would resound forever, as the Composer of the song of life knew that His creation would forever live...

I can't imagine Christmas without singing Silent Night. There are few songs that can dispel the darkness and elevate as it does; and I pray the world awakens before there truly are no more silent nights—in song or in life.

Christmas, as any earthly joy, is fleeting. So let us all, with Ebenezer Scrooge, keep Christmas in our hearts, and promise to "live in the Past, the Present and the Future", allowing the spirits of all three to "strive within us!". My Christmas wish is that all hearts remain open to the love born this silent, holy night. May we all know the true joy and peace of the season, as we become increasingly aware that our reclamation can be solely found swaddled, in the sweet, soft hay of a lowly manger.

("Reclamation" to be recited, or sung to the melody of "Silent Night")

Reclamation
(by Monica E. Smith)

Silent night, snowy night
All is still, soft and white
Round the world people gather with smiles
Accepting God's love in the gift of a child
Waiting for crying to cease
Longing for heavenly peace

Silent night, snowy night
Heaven's love, shining bright
In the darkness a single star
Leading His people from near and far
Jesus be our guide
While with you we ever abide

Silent night, snowy night
God's own child, in our sight
All the world glows with heavenly grace
Dispelling the darkness of this lowly place
Christ has come to earth
Reclaiming our lives by His birth

Merry Christmas! And may God bless us all. Every one!

All is Not Calm...

Wouldn't it be nice if that night for which we wait each year was truly a silent, holy night? What would it take to make it so?

For so many, Christmas has been diminished to getting the best sale on Black Friday, and now, Cyber Monday. How sad. How meaningless and empty. And at the same time, we're so caught up in the wrongs of others, offended that we have been wished "Happy Holidays!" rather than "Merry Christmas!". In the scheme of things, does it really matter? If you feel moved to wish someone "Merry Christmas!" do it. Why be so concerned, certain that the person who wishes you "Happy Holidays!" in return is using the wrong words? Does that, somehow, take away from your Christmas celebration? Can you honestly say you know what is in that person's heart? I think it a bit self-righteous to assume a person who greets you with "Happy Holidays" is attacking Christianity. People have been saying it for years with the simple and kind intent of spreading holiday cheer, and now, suddenly it becomes anathema. We seem to be missing the forest for the Christmas trees. I believe Jesus Christ seems to be more concerned with a person's heart rather than his choice of words. Is the person who greets another with "Merry Christmas" somehow a better Christian than one who does not? Wouldn't actually living the Gospel in our own lives be a much more productive and magnetic defense of Christ?

There are so many opportunities during the Christmas season for us to do this, so many ways to enhance our own Christmas traditions and activities, and give them life again. There are so many opportunities to stand in solidarity with those who hunger and thirst, or are in need in any way, and that do not take away from our celebrations, but in fact, enrich them.  There are so many ways to embrace those less fortunate than we are and include them in our lives, so many opportunities for us to "be" Christ. Ebenezer Scrooge learned this before it  was too late. Will we? Here are just two of which I have recently become aware.

Seven-year-old Nathan Elfrink has been fighting brain cancer for about five years. He is losing his battle. His Christmas wish is to receive one million Christmas cards before he dies. What an enormous wish for a little boy. What a small wish to grant. I intend to send Nathan a card and, perhaps, a little gift. If anyone else wishes to do so, you may reach Nathan at 2415 Taylor Blair Road; West Jefferson, Ohio 43162. And while you're at it, please, pass the word.

Linda Gibbons languishes in a Canadian prison for the unspeakable crime of standing outside of an abortion clinic and praying for the people who come and go there. She is witnessing to the Gospel in opposition to the Canadian *"bubble zone" law. St. Paul entreats us to encourage one another and build each other up (1 Thessalonians 5:11). How much would a simple Christmas card and greeting encourage Linda Gibbons and make her Christmas more joyful! Cards can be sent to her at:

Attention: Linda Gibbons

Vanier Center for Women

655 Martin Street, Box 1040

Milton, Ontario

L9T 5E6, CANADA

(This prison normally incarcerates those who are convicted of drug-related crimes, so the following requirements are in place for correspondence):

Do not use stickers of any kind on envelope or card

Do not send laminated materials

Do not ask direct questions about daily activities at the detention center

Put your address also directly in the card or letter, because sometimes the mail sorter keeps the envelopes and Linda cannot write back if she chooses to do so

Monetary gifts to Linda must be a money order made out to "Linda Gibbons". The detention center deposits the money directly into her account. She uses any donations she might receive for envelopes and stamps.

Linda cannot receive books or pro-life materials that show post-abortion photos

I certainly do not condemn our respective Christmas traditions; I love the sound of carols, the snow and ornaments on a tree, the brightly colored lights and the personal traditions I grew up with, and still continue to this day with my family. It simply would not be Christmas without them! These are all beautiful and joyful ways to keep Christmas in our hearts. I don't believe it matters that Jesus was not actually born on December 25, nor does it matter how the celebration of His birth came about. It does not matter whether someone wishes you "Merry Christmas!" or "Happy Holidays!" or "Peace". What matters is that "it is", that He is. What matters is that we celebrate His birth with joy and love, compassion and benevolence, as He lived. After all the shopping, the baking, the decorating, it is good to keep in mind that all our preparation and celebration is centered, and should focus around the birth of Jesus Christ. So, "What ought we to do?" Let joy and gladness show forth in you. You are called to be the presence of Jesus. (Luke 3:10-18).

Peace, and Merry Christmas!


(*about bubble zone laws)

Sustenance

I've known Molly for about seven years. We met through a pen-pal organization online. We became friends, but I've never actually met her. I did call her once out of the blue just to surprise her. It was fun and quite enjoyable, hearing her gasp and laugh and yell "Monica!" in disbelief over the phone line. She was not one to hide emotion. It made my day; and I think it made hers, too. Over the years I've often thought of planning a short visit to "Moonshine Road" in  Pennsylvania, where she lives, to have a girls' weekend and really get to know each other better. Molly died on Thanksgiving Day.

Molly loved her son. And she loved her cats. And her garden, from which emerged some fine, down-home Pennsylvania cookin'. I could almost smell her creations when she described them in letters. She loved to cook and camp and was a great organizer, always in charge of some event or another, like the yearly dinners to make money for the Jonestown fire department. Such a kind soul, she was.

She had her share—maybe more—of heartache, suffering many physical and emotional illnesses, struggles of one kind or another.  Through our letters, we allowed each other to rant and rave and cry, to be human, to be ourselves. And she loved my poetry. She trusted me with her most personal demons, and though  I cried over her letters many times, I always looked forward to them, because they gave me an opportunity to pray with her and for her, to encourage her, to help her know God, laugh with her, to think about and examine the angels and demons in my own life, and let Molly know she was a person of worth, that I considered her a gift in my life.

No, we never met, but she called me "friend", and my life has been richer for the knowing  of Molly. Her unexpected passing has left a void in my life. And much sadness. But there are no "I wish I would have..." moments—except for, maybe, having a chance to answer her last letter—no being sorry I did not respond to her or become more involved. There are no thoughts of "if only...". We do not know the day nor the hour (Matthew 25:13), and I am thankful I did not hesitate to engage her, to get to know her, to express love and friendship. 

Eternal repose and blessed memory, my friend. May you now know the peace you craved during your life on earth.

I had a friend once. Her name was Molly.

Sustenance

Our daily bread

Is not food alone

But that which nourishes the soul.

It is the very manna that falls from heaven

And seasons our lives, filling the hungry

With the sweetness of an embrace,

The richness of a kind gesture,

A hearty smile.

It is the cool, clear water

Flowing from the heart no longer a rock,

Quenching our thirst for love,

Giving us purpose

And a reason to believe.

Throwing out the Baby with the Bath Water

Actually, I don't normally "rant" here. But I heard what I thought to be a disturbing news story the other day, one that, I believe, goes deeper than the incident itself, one that doesn't bode well for the moral direction of our country.

It seems a college student at the University of New Hampshire had hung a United States flag on the wall outside his dorm room window. He wanted to support and honor his father, who had served in the military for 20 years.  No, that is not disturbing to me (had I been that young man's parent, I would have been extremely proud). What is disturbing is that the university forced him to take it down. It seems their policy prohibits "television or radio antennae and any other objects which are placed outside the room window or anywhere on the exterior of the building or adjacent grounds." Comforting to know, especially in these dark days of terrorism, that our American flag has now been put into the category of miscellaneous objects which obstruct. I certainly believe in authority, guidance and ethical behavior.  But there is an element of "the greater good" here that is being sorely overlooked.

It seems that this policy is in place because the university can't have all sorts of inappropriate things being hung everywhere, not that that United States flag is inappropriate of course, as the UNH administrators say; but if they allowed one object, they'd have to allow everything.

This morning I heard of the Chester City, Pennsylvania firefighter who has been suspended without pay because he refused to take down the American flag decal from his locker. This is the new policy because of a recent racially offensive cartoon posted by a colleague.

The fire commisioner stated the policy remains in effect because "How do we know what offends who?" he said. "I have to play Solomon here." I see two things wrong with this:

One, there is an inherent danger in blanket policies such as these. They are made without much thought and out of fear and our need to control. Are we to refrain from speaking truth, or displaying or expressing what is righteous and good in fear that those who oppose might become offended? Are we no longer "allowed" to express positive and encouraging thoughts? Do we not encourage evil when we are afraid to speak of truth and fidelity and integrity?

Two, Solomon spoke with wisdom.

Holdout

Honoring Nature

Our connection with nature is a strong one. Henry David Thoreau felt that we can never have enough of nature. I agree! We take comfort in her coolness, warm ourselves in the heat of her sun, are awed by her beauty and amazed and frightened by her power and anger; and we respect her wisdom. What person has not longed to "get away from it all" when life's pressures become too demanding? And what are our first thoughts in the search to escape life's burdens: to the woods, the lake, the beach, the mountains and the sea—to nature! It's like coming home.

In his book, My First Summer in the Sierra (1911), John Muir states "We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us. Our flesh-and-bone tabernacle seems transparent as glass to the beauty about us, as if truly an inseparable part of it, thrilling with the air and trees, streams and rocks, in the waves of sun—a part of all nature...".

I believe, as the physicist, philosopher, G.C. Lichtenberg once remarked, that when we look at nature, we are observing ourselves. I also believe that there is but one Architect of the entire natural world, that when we honor nature, we honor ourselves, and ultimately, we honor our God. It was from the earth we came, and when our lives here end, it is to the earth our physical bodies will return, for we are kindred...

"Honoring Nature", a Video by Monica E. Smith
(music: "Night Rain" by Jim Brickman)


Oh, To Be a Noble Tree

Oh, to be a noble tree
And never have to bend a knee
In the bonds of slavery
Or know the pain of poverty

Regarded as a thing of beauty
Lovely for the eye to see
Not concerned with vanity
Each accepted as he would be

Oh, to be a noble tree
Akin to sun and stars and sea
No fear of inequality
For such royal pedigree

With difference each one’s majesty
And color, just variety
To live a life forever free
Oh, to be a noble tree



Come October

Copper and gold, these riches I treasure
More than any earthly pleasure
Come October they shimmer in fields of grain
A harvest of color, in nature they reign
Behold their beauty, store the memory, look fast
But the blink of an eye and the season has passed



Her Majesty

In the midst
Of her evergreen entourage
Stood the Maple
Majestic brilliance
Glowing as if ablaze
Yet not consumed
By her radiance
Nor could October’s hoarfrost
Cool the intensity
Of such perfection
And I, how blessed
To have gazed upon
Such royal pedigree



Consecration

a solitary leaf,
lovely in death
as it was in life,
tinged with tears
from an early autumn
frost flutters, featherlike
to it's resting place
on the gelid ground,
unaware
it has given its life
that winter might once
again draw breath



Reason and Rhyme

Where is the reason, the rhyme
in a world that honors force?
Look to the wind.

in a world that glorifies might?
Look to the mountains.

in a world that praises power?
Look to the sea.

in a world still seeking beauty?
Look to the flowers of the field.

in a world struggling to be free?
Look to the birds of the air.

Where is the reason, the rhyme
in a world desperately in need of love?
Seek God within yourself.

(poems and some text excerpted from Kindred: A Family Portrait by Monica E. Smith)

Haiku for You and Tanka, Too

I love shorter poems for their ability to tell a story, or set a scene (that furthers one's imagination) with just a few words. So it is only natural that I would be drawn to Haiku and Tanka. These ancient Japanese poems have been around for hundreds and hundreds of years, and I find the forms can be brought into the present without any difficulty at all.

Haiku are an ancient form of Japanese unrhymed poetry. They usually will contain a season word ("kigo"), and capture the essence of a moment; they deal with nature itself, or human nature. Older than Haiku, Tanka are similar in nature in that they evoke a moment or mark an occasion, and do so with brevity and musicality. They are always written about nature, the seasons, love, sadness or other strong emotions. There are many specifications for writing these little verses, which I won't go into here. (if you would like to know more about them, there is a wealth of information online).

Autumn has always been my favorite season, and it seems to be so with many writers. There is a seemingly endless supply of writings when googling "autumn". I'd like to mark the passing of yet another summer with a few verses of my own.

Here in Ohio, we're experiencing an early autumn this year. And I couldn't be happier! It seems like we always are in a hurry to get to the next new thing around the corner. But by doing that, we lose sight of what's happening now, and miss so many gifts given by the present. I will not rush autumn away this year with expectation of other good things to come. I intend to enjoy each new colorful day as it unfolds before me.

I have always loved the preparation, the anticipation of things to come almost more than the actual happenings themselves; and it is no less so than with the changing of seasons. Autumn is a death of what was, yes, but also a new birth. Actually, autumn, more than any other season, is a preparation for new life (as is death, I believe). I see it in the changing colors, the dying off of vegetation, the birds and other animals flying or scurrying here and there seemingly planning, organizing, preparing for what is to come.

On a recent camera shoot, I was in awe of what I heard and saw when I actually focused on what was going on around me. I felt I was in another world. Rather than simply walking through nature, taking it for granted, almost ignoring the life around me, I put myself into the picture and became a part of it, celebrated life with all my senses. Leaves were falling, and I enjoyed their smooth windings and turnings and the whoosh as they floated to the earth below. Rain was ever so lightly patting down the drying grasses; and rather than trying to escape it, as we so often do, I welcomed and enjoyed each cool droplet on my skin. Birds and other animals were in a rhythm of busy-ness, calling out to each other and the wind seemed to speak to all of nature, telling it to hurry, hurry, prepare, prepare...

Seemingly, nature gave the call to change course, and all responded. This is remarkable to witness, and no less exciting year after year. I hope your autumn will be as joyful and joy-filled as mine this year.

Two Tanka

I wipe away drops

of moisture from my forehead

the heat of August

steadily fades into fall

as I slowly age with time

the cicada's song

shortens with each passing day

the cycle completes

as his days come to an end

in the waning August heat

Four Haiku

autumn comes calling

mother nature cleans her house...

scattered maple leaves

the tree frogs call out,

serenading each other—

summer is over

gray clouds break apart

cold wind blows in from the north

autumn has arrived


flower petals fade
as autumn approaches—
little by little

(music excerpt in this video: The Song of the Japanese Autumn
(Yasuo Kawahara) from The Concert at the Church of Villamediana (Spain)
recorded August 25, 2005

Early Autumn in West Liberty, Ohio

Diehard

 

("Diehard" from the photo series Yesterday by Monica E. Smith)

Sweet Oleander

Oleander, also called rose bay (Nerium Oleander), assbane and in Persian, kahrzarah, is a lovely and sweet-smelling white, purple or pink flower. The bush on which it grows has leathery lance-shaped leaves and long seed pods. Oleander is a native of India, but is now naturalized in many warm countries. It grows wild along the sides and hollows of ravines in Afghanistan. Ironically, despite its beauty and sweet smell, it is among the most poisonous and deadly of plants.

Lament of a Soldier Son
(for Patrick)

Sadly, it is not the aromatic lavender I remember
That suspends me in this mystifying languor,
But only the sweet, deceptive oleander —
As deadly as it is fragrant —
That cunningly deceives me into believing
I walk among the flowers of my mother's garden.
Oh, to know such blissful tranquility again!
Here, when I lie, I lie in fear
In parched and withered deserts.
No verdant fields gracefully swaying in the breeze
No mellifluous birdsong awakening me from sleep
No dulcet tones of wind through pine
No misty rains to cool my heated brow
Only longing and ephemeral dreams of home,
And that wicked perfume of wild oleander
Wafting through the unsettling sands of Afghanistan.

Ballerina

In the spring
When she was a child
I wanted her to be a ballerina
So she put on a tutu                                                                             
And toe shoes
And danced for me

As the heat of summer rose
With light of day
She feverishly wanted to grow up
To be like me
And I wanted her
To be like me

When it was autumn
And the winds blew strong
She dressed in jeans and sweatshirts
And a Superman hat
And I told her
Not to fly so fast

Now, with winter near
I bid the passing of days
Alone to freeze
For she is, at long last,
Becoming who she was created to be
And I want her, simply, to be

("Ballerina" adapted from Days of Fine Gray Ash, by Monica E. Smith)

"Henements"

(from the Photo Series "Yesterday", by Monica E. Smith)

Tumbling (into the Vale of Years)

Forty years ago this year I was a senior in high school, with my whole life ahead of me. As I look back on those days, the events seem almost like a play. There were times I played the part my way, and times I simply followed the "director", but never knowing how the story might end. It was such an exciting time, filled with endless possibilities. Mostly, I had no idea what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go, let alone who I was.

One would think, though, I might have learned those things through the years.Today at 58 years old—a senior yet again—I like to believe (when my darker side is hibernating) that I still have my whole life ahead of me. But I still do not know what I want to do, where I want to go; and, sometimes, I'm not so sure of who I am. There are the obvious descriptions of course: sister, wife, mother, grandmother. But those are just labels. Memories are flooding back these days, and I look back over all the experiences in my life and wonder if they are simply disjointed occurrences, or if they are connected in some way. People tend to believe that with age comes wisdom, that everything is clearer and more understood. Not me. It seems I have more questions now than I did when I was in high school.

These days, everything seems to spark a memory. This year, especially, I have experienced births, reunions, marriage, the passing of people I seem to have known for a lifetime—new life beginning, all. The stories are familiar, but I remember playing a different part in the original. And that's kind of bittersweet. We all enjoy being the "star" now and then, don't we? But there is something to be said for character actors. There would be no story without them. They give the story a sense of reality and familiarity (and, perhaps, a bit of spice!) without distracting from it. That takes experience. And as we get older, that is one thing we certainly have.

I think, for the most part, memories are, perhaps, the gifts of a life well-lived, even though they can be painful at times. If so, then I have lived a good life (so far), because the memories just seem to come tumbling back without end, casting their recollections, their tears, their smiles. And I'm definitely ready to make more. Quiet on the set...and, ACTION!

Tumbling

They come tumbling

stumbling

on a beggars night

rumbling

like the thunder in my head

memories

jumbling my thoughts

into confusion

Quiet!

But they will not hear

they cast their recollections

near

(and leave me

with a borrowed tear)

unrepentant

for their intrusion

Peace,
Monica

* "Tumbling" from Days of Fine Gray Ash