Rest beside the weary road

I stand amazed in the Presence . . .  (Charles Gabriel)

On this crisp fall day, I am sitting by my fire, watching the wind send leaves swirling around and around.  Refrains from different old hymns frequently float through my mind in much the same way as the autumn leaves that I am watching drift to the ground.  I wonder from what brain cell or unseen Presence they come.

And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings . . . 

All I have needed Thy hand hath provided . . .

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn . . .

God is not dead nor does He sleep.  The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men . . .

When peace like a river attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll . . .  No matter my lot, thou has taught me to say, It is well, It is well, With my soul.

Angels from the realms of glory, wing their flight o’er all the earth . . .

Oh, God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home . . .

I come to the garden alone, While the dew is still on the roses . . .

Shall we gather at the river, Where bright angel feet have trod, With its crystal tide forever, Flowing by the throne of God . . .

The wind and the waves shall obey my will.  Peace, be still . . .  

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love . . .

Here I raise mine Ebenezer, Hither by thy help I’ve come . . .  

Lift up the fallen . . .  

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide . . .  

‘Til I reach the golden strand, just beyond the river . . .  

Thou art all compassion, pure unbounded love thou art . . .

Then sings my soul . . .

I am so very grateful that the rich imagery of these old hymns, and so many, many more, are written on the pages of my psyche.  Over the years, we each forge our faith out of a myriad of experiences, facts, imaginings, teachings . . . As a child, I believed these words literally, and still, the Child who lives within me believes these images all the way down to her core.  The adult sometimes has trouble.

But always, always, when I can hear and feel these words inside of me . . .  then I Know.

I try to take one day at a time, but somehow several days attack me at once.  (Jennifer Yane)

Have you ever felt like this kitten, hopelessly entangled in whatever in your lives this mass of yarn might representative?  I sure have.  Only difference being that in this case my kitty, Pickles, is having a wonderful time, and we usually aren’t when we’re all “tangled up.”  I wonder what it would be like to relax into the rhythm of the waves, (or in this case yarn!) instead of trying to swim against the current . . . We might not totally enjoy it, but we just might find ourselves gently carried to shore.

I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge.  That myth is more potent than history.  That dreams are more important than facts.  That hope always triumphs over experience.  (Robert Fulghum)

Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were.  But without it we go nowhere.  (Carl Sagan)

Logic will get you from A to B.  Imagination will take you everywhere.  (Albert Einstein)

The motto of our high school graduating class was a quote from Henry David Thoreau:  If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost. That is where they should be.  Now put the foundations under them.

As you sit there reading this on your computer or tablet or smart phone, think for a moment of all the changes you’ve seen in your lifetime, no matter how old you might be.  Now think of your mother or father and all the changes they saw in theirs.  Now your grandparents — and in your imagination, bring them forward to today, and see the absolute astonishment as they behold the world you live in!  Things they couldn’t have conceived of are commonplace to you.

Now think of all the things for which you long, those things you dream of, the things that the world desperately needs.  Peace.  Cures for horrible disease.  An end to poverty. The discovery of different worlds, different galaxies, different forms of life.  Love, whether personal or transcendent.  Or maybe just flying cars!  (I think those might already exist.)  One of the things that has always fascinated me is the physics of telepathy — imagine the research that is already being done in that field, and what kind of application possibilities might emerge in everything from healing to spying!

It’s all possible!  Things are changing so fast.  What seemed wildly improbable yesterday is reality today.  Allow yourself to imagine:  what kind of “castles in the air” have you built, and what foundations might you build under them?

Imagine . . .

Time was gettin’ on as I walked into the store on this fall afternoon.  Mam was lickin’ her pencil lead and  figurin’ up on a brown paper poke how much ole Doc Moses owed her.  Doc Moses wasn’t really a doctor, but he came in every month and stocked up on doctorin’ supplies for the people that lived up on the mountain near him.  We don’t really have a doctor, leastwise not one with proper education — the real doctor down Rocktown way only comes through when he’s sent for, and that’s only as a last resort.  Anyways I noticed ole Doc Moses was gettin’ some castor oil, some paragoric (some of the babes must have colic up that way), some croup medicine, some Epsom salts, and and some camphor — some opium and some snakeroot, too. I shouldn’t oughta be so nosy, but I’m kinda interested in doctorin’ myself.

But what I started tellin’ you all this for is because just as Mam was finishin’ totalin’ up, in comes a stranger.  Now we don’t get too many strangers comin’ to these here parts, ‘specially seein’ as how times are gettin’ so hard up. And this stranger was a whooo-whee.  It was a woman, and she was dressed in skintight leather britches and a red vest lined with some kinda fur.  She was tall, mebbe six feet, and she had a knapsack flung over her shoulder, and let me tell you, she was a fine figger of a woman.  None of us had heard her ride up, and didn’t rightly know where she came from even.

She stood just inside the door, and looked around, and let me tell you, you coulda heard a pin drop as all eyes fixed on her.  She just looked at us, kinda cool-like, and walked over to the post office counter, and stood there waitin’ until finally Grandpap Ed gets himself together enough to scurry over and asks if he can help her.  We were all just shamelessly listenin’ since we don’t get this kinda excitement every day.  She just gives Grandpap Ed a slow smile, and asks him does he have any mail for a Suze Campbell.  Grandpap, he gives her a kinda silly grin, and I hear Mam snort “Ole fool,” under her breath before she goes back to figurin’ and announcin’ loudly to Doc Moses,  “You owe me $4.27.”  He don’t pay her no mind, just chews his straw and looks on at Grandpap and the woman.

Grandpap collects hisself enough to say no, he doesn’t, and she asks him to be on the lookout for some, that she’s expectin’ an important letter and she’ll be back. Before any of us could get ourselves together enough to introduce ourselves, or at least say howdy, she up and leaves, walkin’ down the road at quite a clip, in the direction of the mines, I notice.

And oh, the buzz of conversation when she was gone.  Some disapproval from the women there and a lotta curiosity from everyone. But since nobody knew nothin’, it didn’t go very far, and folks got back to their own concerns.

It’s pretty crowded, and altho’ folks seem like they want to stand around and gossip on who the stranger is, there’s some need to get their buyin’ done and get on home against the chill of an early autumn evening.  People are pretty superstitious around these parts, and a lot of ’em don’t like to be out after dark. Too many men have died in those mines, and there’s a lot of talk about how the roads hereabouts are spooked.

I follow the Miller brothers out onto the porch, and smile as they punch each other and do some off-color joshin’ about the stranger.  But as they move off, and their laughter drifts away on the evening air, my smile fades as I look off towards the mines.  I have one of my feelins’ about this here stranger, and it ain’t a good one.

The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.  (Douglas MacArthur)

Last year on Veterans’ Day, my husband and I were privileged to attend a moving ceremony in which family members of veterans were able to burn an old “retired” American flag in that person’s memory, and to honor their sacrifice.  While bagpipes solemnly played the notes to “Day is done . . .,” we remembered, with gratitude.

It made me think about what makes a hero or heroine.  My husband is a veteran of the early days of the Vietnam War, and still deals with some of the unique scars that conflict left. But I think no matter how much I respect him for that service, I respect and admire him even more for an attitude he demonstrates that is reflected in the following:  Anyone can slay a dragon, but waking up every morning and loving the world all over again is what makes a real hero.

Maybe that’s something to which we can all aspire.

Believe you can, and you’re halfway there.  (T.Roosevelt)

Since I was a little girl, I’ve believed that each of us have a tiny piece of God within us, a spark that makes us each who we uniquely are.  It is that spark, always there, that makes us so capable of being a co-creator with God.  It is that spark that I always looked for and attempted to draw forth in counseling and in teaching counselors-to-be.

And so many of us forget, we lose sight of that spark. Rather than being awed and humbled by its potential, we look for the right way, or the perfect way to be, or to do.

Today, rather than looking for the best or right way to do something, start now, and do it your way.  Live your life with the intention to bring forth into the world your piece of the Mystery that is God — otherwise, that piece of God will not be expressed, and the world needs it.  It waits for you, the unique creativity that only you were born with!

Use discomfort as an opportunity for awakening, rather than trying to make it disappear.  (Pema Chodron)

My sister’s cat, of whom I’ve written before in Cat’s Britches, is a bonified curmudgeon.  I say this with absolutely no malice, since I am quite fond of Toby.  But there ain’t no doubt about it.  Upon entering her home, you are greeted with a friendly snarl, and you wanna be real careful to stay outa reach of his prodigious claws.  Keeping one wary eye on him at all times is not a bad idea.  Since I probably reek of other animals to his sensitive cat nose, I am particularly on his “piece-of-crap list.”

Toby’s been around the block a time or two, and he’s gettin’ on toward 20 years, so we figure he’s earned the right to his curmudgeonly attitude.  In fact, it’s not just Toby; I notice a lot of my older friends are a tad curmudgeonly themselves.

I looked the word curmudgeon up, and all the synonyms  — bear, bellyacher, complainer, crab, crank, fusser, griper, grouch, growler, grumbler, grump, murmurer, mutterer, sourpuss, whiner — made me smile.  I like curmudgeons!  They always make me laugh since I always have trouble believing they’re really serious.  Or maybe it’s because they’re saying things I think, but don’t wanna say — now there’s a thought!

And maybe in reality, curmudgeons are actually just disillusioned or disappointed idealists.  So “curmudgeon on,” dear Toby!  We know you’re really just a visionary and idealist at heart.

Our task must be to free ourselves by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures.  (Albert Einstein)

Every living thing is important — has a role to play — matters.  (Paraphrase, Jane Goodall)

It’s getting colder, with more freezing temperatures at night, and it’s my fervent hope that this means tick season is over.  Here along the mountain and creek, we’ve been blessed with our fair share of the little blood-sucking rascals.  Although I must admit that this summer we have had fewer problems with them than we have ever had, perhaps due to a new flock of guineas, all but one of whom have unfortunately fallen victim to foxes and/or hawks.

OR, as I have recently learned, maybe our scarcity of ticks this summer has been due to our ever-present opossums — they actually limit the spread of Lyme disease by eating ticks.  Who knew they could be such valuable critters??  Up until now, I’d known them primarily for their quirky “playing dead” when alarmed, the way they tote their young about (in pouches, like kangaroos), and their proclivity for cat food.

You’re probably all familiar with “possums,” but in case you aren’t here’s a great description from the writings of famed explorer Captain John Smith in 1608:  An opossum hath an head like a Swine, and a taile like a Rat, and is of the bignes of a Cat.  Under her belly she hath a bagge, wherein she lodgeth, carrieth, and sucketh her young.  (From Appalachian Magazine, 2017)

So the next time I look out the window at night, and see one contentedly munching on cat food, I won’t be so quick to shoo her away.  Bon appetit, my friend!  Go have some dessert of tick-on-the-hoof.

On a summer day in the month of May
A burly bum came a hiking
Down a shady lane through the sugar cane
He was looking for his liking
As he strolled along he sang a song of the land of milk and honey
Where a bum can stay for many a day
And he won’t need any money . . . 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountain
The cops have wooden legs
The bulldogs all have rubber teeth
And the hens lay soft-boiled eggs
The farmers’ trees are full of fruit
The barns are full of hay
I want to go where there ain’t no snow
Where the sleet don’t fall and the wind don’t blow
In that Big Rock Candy Mountain . . . (Burl Ives)

This wonderful old song from the early 1900s, made even more famous in that great movie O Brother, Where Art Thou, was one of my grandmother’s favorites.  And my mom used to tell stories of her own early married life in the late 1930s, when those whom she would refer to as hobos would come to our house looking for a “cup of coffee.”  She would always give them a plate of food that they would eat out by the old lilac bush and cistern.  I later learned that the custom in the lives of these traveling men was to leave a mark at these houses for others coming after them which meant, in essence, “good grub, nice folks, good place to stop and set a spell.”

In these days of the Great Depression, that kind of hospitality was simple and straightforward.  Even if you were dirt poor, you gave what you had.  It always surprised me that my mother, who was a cautious type, would be that brave when she was so young.  I think she enacted those Bible stories about “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares” without even thinking about it.

Because that’s what you did.

In future generations, may our descendants look back on our time today with similar admiration and respect for our willingness to “entertain strangers.”