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Before Winter’s Solstice
Early this morning, I dreamed I was standing at my mother’s grave, down there in the flat delta where the cotton fields stretch like bolts of corduroy for monotonous miles. In my dream, I wanted to say some words to Mother, because I knew that she would be able to hear and understand me, but I could not bring myself to speak. There were leaves blown against her little tombstone with the hummingbird carved into its sleek surface, and they seemed to be telling me that it was all gone, my life and difficult relationship with that haunted little woman, that no matter what I might say to her, none…
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Numbering The Stones
If you look carefully at the photo above, you will see a daddy longlegs in the upper left quadrant. I took this picture this past Saturday while Jinx and I were exploring in the little country cemetery near our farm. We were there explicitly to count the gravestones, something I had been meaning to do for some time. The gravestone itself is one of my favorites, the marker of a Jesse Lane, who served the Confederacy in a regiment from his home state. The stone is simple and dignified, like the ones at Arlington National Cemetery, and I usually touch it in passing. On this particular cool day, it radiated…
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Quickly Forgotten
“That is a blessing of bad dreams, they are quickly forgotten.” ― Joyce Carol Oates I was awakened this morning by my wife, who was calling to me and telling me to wake up. Her voice came to me as if from very far away, and I was fighting, kicking my way to the surface, out of the blackness of sleep and the frightening dream that was trying to pull me back down. I had been trying to awaken myself for what seemed like an hour, trying to yell and startle myself into the waking world, but only able to manage a thin whimper. As soon as my wife heard me,…
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Mystery, Life, Syllables
My dear friend Father James, the Trappist monk who lives at Our Lady of Gethsemani Abbey in Kentucky, has been much on my mind lately. I wrote him this morning and hope to hear back from him soon. He has been having some health problems lately, and at his age, his remaining time is speeding up, is precious, is like the dust on a butterfly’s wing: fine and invaluable. I watched a video about the abbey on Youtube and noticed near the end a series of photos taken in the woods surrounding the monastery. Some of the pictures were taken near Thomas Merton’s (Father Louis’s) hermitage on the grounds there.…
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Days Of Laze
Saturday’s weird dust-haze from the Sahara was gone Sunday morning, and in its place was a steady, soft curtain of rain. My wife and I deliberately chose to do nothing except rest. We felt somewhat battered by the week, by information we’re trying to process, by decisions we’re trying to reach, and by the time the first day of the week came around, we were more than ready to call “Time out!” and shrug the packs from our shoulders. I spent a large portion of the day with Jinx. Just wandering around, walking the road, exploring the woods and fields, sitting quietly, playing fetch. Jinx, for all his fine qualities,…
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Consummatum Est
In the last few years before her death, my mother talked to herself. Or rather, she talked to someone. Throughout my life, during her years on this earth, the kitchen was Mother’s place of abiding. She spent most of her waking hours within its warm, productive walls. In those last years before she passed from this life, whenever I was home with her, if I came into the kitchen quietly, I would often find her talking quietly as she worked. It seemed that she was talking to herself, but perhaps she was having a dialogue with God, or with an angel, or with a long-dead loved one. I do not…
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Perchance, Perchance
My questions never end, you know. And sometimes I am unprepared to even ask them, to form them into sensible words. I awaken sometimes and am so sure, so very sure, that someone...someone was talking with me just before I opened my eyes. I kick back to the surface of Here and when I lift my conscious face out of Wherever I Was, I am disoriented and off-balance, as if someone pulled a crutch from beneath my arm or a chair from under me. Perhaps my Father has sealed the answers to my questions in a scroll, in a book, and perhaps I am the only one worthy to break…