One of the littlest granddaughters met a lamb at her Aunt's farm with a damaged shoulder. The farm where it came from was going to put it down but her Aunt took it in. The little girl spent time with the lamb and at dinner was still thinking about it. She asked its name. 'Dinner' one of her wiseguy uncles replied.
There were chuckles around the table, and admonishments, but she didn't hear the literal joke or understand the bleaker aspects of life in the country. She accepted Dinner as its real name.
The next day, she returned to school and wrote a story about the lamb. For a little girl with Cerebral Palsy, it's impossible not to make the connection, and she wrote of her aunt was caring for the little lamb the way her mother cared for her.
The story so touched her teacher that she was asked to read it for the class, and then for the faculty, who listened with amusement and warmth to this tender-hearted little girl telling the story of compassion and hope about her friend, Dinner the Lamb.
Sometimes real life doesn't need sweetener.
Feb 24, 2009
Feb 10, 2009
What are Friends by Alice Weers
Friends are forever:
they laugh, they love, they share
Each other's thoughts and words
and, most of all, they care
Friends can come and go
and never be apart
Because they keep each other's smiles
deep within their heart
Friends can laugh and talk and cry
and think of lovely times gone by
But - most of all -
they love until they die.
they laugh, they love, they share
Each other's thoughts and words
and, most of all, they care
Friends can come and go
and never be apart
Because they keep each other's smiles
deep within their heart
Friends can laugh and talk and cry
and think of lovely times gone by
But - most of all -
they love until they die.
Feb 7, 2009
Every Single Drop
A college professor used to assign us immitation essays. We would take a passage from Thomas Carlysle, or Keats, or a sonnet of Shakespeare, dissect the structure, pick a topic and write something of our own. I always loved doing that, trying to get in the head of someone who was a master craftsman. Definitely my kind of fun.
I read a lot. The interactive and personal experience of a book, the slow, savory read, the ownership of connecting with its characters, it -- cliche coming! -- transports me. And so when an exceptional piece of writing comes along, I've got to know how they teach their thoughts to breathe.
A book written by Sue Monk Kidd has prose so intricately crafted and fluid, it draws me back. When I'm in the mood for a Monkfest, it's a full scale date -- a cup of tea, a pad of paper and throw blanket, a jug of water, a cozy spot -- because I'm in for the duration. There will be re-read paragraphs and notetaking and I barely accomplish more than a chapter a night, but come away as satisfied as if I had enjoyed a rich dessert.
Anita Shreve is another extraordinary read. Have you read her? She constructs her paragraphs so melodious, I read them aloud. Hers have a zinger at the end, so unexpected and enjoyable that I long to see how she does it. Even with uncomfortable subjects, Anita is a master of language, and carries the reader along on a personalized journey. Oh, and Barbara Kingsolver! It's impossible not to finish a book that is Kingsolver compelling.
Last week, I came upon an article in the February issue of Redbook written by someone unknown to me, Catherine Newman. The bio said she had written Waiting for Birdie and I have since found a humorous blog of hers, too. But as I sat there under the hair dryer in my favorite salon, the words pulled me into an unexpected swirl of emotion. The strong scents of beauty faded, and the chatter of women and the whirr of the hair dryer disappeared. It was me in that hospital room, watching her with her husband during the moments just before receiving the reassurring diagnosis that he would recover. It was me listening to the heartbeat of their connection, knowing the intimate and first person language of love: joyous, triumphant, soulful, and frightened. It was me nodding, yes, I can imagine it.
There is great allure in words, their humility and ability to heal, and the pain and power of them. Love expresses itself in these ways -- words spoken, written, and by touch. I want to catch what life pours out: every single drop.
I read a lot. The interactive and personal experience of a book, the slow, savory read, the ownership of connecting with its characters, it -- cliche coming! -- transports me. And so when an exceptional piece of writing comes along, I've got to know how they teach their thoughts to breathe.
A book written by Sue Monk Kidd has prose so intricately crafted and fluid, it draws me back. When I'm in the mood for a Monkfest, it's a full scale date -- a cup of tea, a pad of paper and throw blanket, a jug of water, a cozy spot -- because I'm in for the duration. There will be re-read paragraphs and notetaking and I barely accomplish more than a chapter a night, but come away as satisfied as if I had enjoyed a rich dessert.
Anita Shreve is another extraordinary read. Have you read her? She constructs her paragraphs so melodious, I read them aloud. Hers have a zinger at the end, so unexpected and enjoyable that I long to see how she does it. Even with uncomfortable subjects, Anita is a master of language, and carries the reader along on a personalized journey. Oh, and Barbara Kingsolver! It's impossible not to finish a book that is Kingsolver compelling.
Last week, I came upon an article in the February issue of Redbook written by someone unknown to me, Catherine Newman. The bio said she had written Waiting for Birdie and I have since found a humorous blog of hers, too. But as I sat there under the hair dryer in my favorite salon, the words pulled me into an unexpected swirl of emotion. The strong scents of beauty faded, and the chatter of women and the whirr of the hair dryer disappeared. It was me in that hospital room, watching her with her husband during the moments just before receiving the reassurring diagnosis that he would recover. It was me listening to the heartbeat of their connection, knowing the intimate and first person language of love: joyous, triumphant, soulful, and frightened. It was me nodding, yes, I can imagine it.
There is great allure in words, their humility and ability to heal, and the pain and power of them. Love expresses itself in these ways -- words spoken, written, and by touch. I want to catch what life pours out: every single drop.
Feb 2, 2009
Postcards in Acts
I've been pawing through boxes of family files. A postcard from the Red Cross in 1914 reassured my grandfather's family that he had survived the long voyage. A Lincoln centennial postcard announced the birth of a child with the simple words: 'We have a 7 lb baby girl at home. Come see it when you can.'
Photos grab hold. Here my mother and dad, with arms linked around people with unfamiliar faces, so treasured the memories captured that they kept them all of their lives. Young and strong, my father held me in his arms before I could hold myself, his tanned forearms reaching across another frame to light my first birthday candle and sing. My mother stands by his side, immersed in happiness and peace, knowing life only as a simple flowered dress and sensible shoes.
I never lay on the carved mahogany bed with creaky slat side rails without thinking of what it knows, times before electricity, indoor plumbing, automobiles, and basic medical miracles, refrigeration, and phones. I stare at a 1920s photo of the bed, marble top dressers, hand carved mirror which is virtually unchanged. The craftsman from 1856 is gone, as is my Great Uncle Don who had saw it new and had it sent by covered wagon from New York to Chicago Heights to provide life its comfort and continuity.
Who has lived and loved in this bed, and how did they spend their lives? In a hundred years, maybe it will it be on display somewhere, in one of my children's children's homes, and pictures will be discovered in a box somewhere with a smiling me in old fashioned clothes. They might lay on it and wonder about the tender moments spent discovering love for the first time, cradling babies or crying themselves to sleep. I hope my sons as fathers will wrap their arms around their children and tell them about me and the early years, when life for them was playful and noisy and new.
Life feels amazingly gradual: neverending days and hours and moments offer ample time to do and think and wonder and play. We won't come up short, we think: there will be time to fit it all in. But as gravity takes hold, and we are astonished to learn we, too, are transitory, what matters is that we passed this way at all. What we hand off to future generations is our indellible mark: how we spent the time we had and what that says about the people we were.
Photos grab hold. Here my mother and dad, with arms linked around people with unfamiliar faces, so treasured the memories captured that they kept them all of their lives. Young and strong, my father held me in his arms before I could hold myself, his tanned forearms reaching across another frame to light my first birthday candle and sing. My mother stands by his side, immersed in happiness and peace, knowing life only as a simple flowered dress and sensible shoes.
I never lay on the carved mahogany bed with creaky slat side rails without thinking of what it knows, times before electricity, indoor plumbing, automobiles, and basic medical miracles, refrigeration, and phones. I stare at a 1920s photo of the bed, marble top dressers, hand carved mirror which is virtually unchanged. The craftsman from 1856 is gone, as is my Great Uncle Don who had saw it new and had it sent by covered wagon from New York to Chicago Heights to provide life its comfort and continuity.
Who has lived and loved in this bed, and how did they spend their lives? In a hundred years, maybe it will it be on display somewhere, in one of my children's children's homes, and pictures will be discovered in a box somewhere with a smiling me in old fashioned clothes. They might lay on it and wonder about the tender moments spent discovering love for the first time, cradling babies or crying themselves to sleep. I hope my sons as fathers will wrap their arms around their children and tell them about me and the early years, when life for them was playful and noisy and new.
Life feels amazingly gradual: neverending days and hours and moments offer ample time to do and think and wonder and play. We won't come up short, we think: there will be time to fit it all in. But as gravity takes hold, and we are astonished to learn we, too, are transitory, what matters is that we passed this way at all. What we hand off to future generations is our indellible mark: how we spent the time we had and what that says about the people we were.
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