There are no coincidences. During recent months, my wife Lucille has often commented that I have not been in some time to visit my parents' gravesite. In fact, many times I have driven past the cemetery, had time to venture in and pay respect in repose, but just haven't. In the past it seemed I had always, when in the area, driven in, parked my car, walked up the tiny hill, arrived at the burial spot, and peered at their names on the bronze marker, still in disbelief that both are gone, and then returned to my car. Occasionally a visit became fodder for my former (2009 - 2015) blog. However, recently I had been neglecting the brief trek. Lucille told me that, during a December drive through for her, she noticed that a holiday grave blanket had been laid atop the grave. Therefore, I felt it was time to make the time. I visited on a sunny but chilly Wednesday morning. A prior day's rain had soaked the ground, and the grass itself was a bit wet, but it didn't deter me. As I walked the tiny hill to my parent's plot, I was amazed at how crowded the area had become. When my Dad passed in 2000, there were very few newer graves in the area; now the hill was populated with not only newer stones, but also recently planted evergreen bushes. The changes, to me, were drastic. Had I really been away that long? Creature of habit, I reached my parents' marker and looked down. Both burials -- my Dad's in the heat of May, my Mom's during a freezing rain in February, the latter due to the very poor weather attended by only myself, my wife, my brother Gordon, a parish priest, and an undertaker -- seemed so long ago. I kept looking at both names, wondering what I would say if both were next to me at that moment. All was quiet, until I spoke: "Mom and Dad, please pray for us. You know right now how challenging our lives are. We have decisions to make, and we need help. Please pray for me, Lucille, Stefanie, and Lady, with Jesus." Silence. Then, I remembered our beloved dog, Jeffrey, who passed away in 2012. "Jeffrey, you pray for us, too. Sit with Grandma and Grandpa and pray for us with Jesus." Again, silence. Then I recalled the first child we never had, my wife's first pregnancy that ended in a miscarriage. "Born, miscarried child in Heaven with Jesus, join Jesus, Jeffrey, Grandma and Grandpa and pray for us as well." I stood and kept looking down at the grave, breathing calmly, ensuring satisfaction with my prayer, having included all whom I felt could intercede. I was oblivious to all roadway traffic behind me, and any other activity that may have been going on in the cemetery. A quick wind kicked up. Where moments ago all had been tranquil, now leaves rustled along the ground, and tree branches shook in a nearby tree. As the wind nipped my left eyeball, I turned my head immediately to my right, and I saw it. I'm not sure if someone had purposely crafted the two crisscross tree bark pieces for a neighboring grave or nature had created the tiny but perhaps not seen by anyone else masterpiece. It was there about 6" from my parents marker, at that moment, for me. There was a message in it for me. While many may scoff at its appearance, relating it to "coincidence" or elements of nature and weather, so be it.
Work of wind or whatever, I was appreciating the gift, no matter how delivered. I briefly considered taking the cross with me to my home, but instead opted to leave it where it could bless the resting spots of many. I had prayed, listened, and received. Steve
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I am a fan of little victories; accomplishing small successes on the way to, perhaps, an eventual grand peak.
However, "grand peak" seems so finite, so maybe I'll change that to "a specific, attained point, while still scaling the mountain, more height to claim." Confused? Instead of muddying the point here, let me backtrack to let you know what I mean -- even if you already "get it." I once wrote a 192-page novel. It was for my eyes only, I never showed it to anyone, nor did I attempt to pitch it to an agent. I wrote it for me, because it was something I needed and wanted to do at the time. I didn't embark in NaNoWritMo fashion, seeking to write 50,000 words in a month and complete a first draft. Published authors have done this -- written a book per month -- and many prospective novelists engaging in the annual November writefest have succeeded in the venture, and I applaud them. What I did was, for a good period, write 1 page per day which, after a while, grew to 2 pages per day. The first draft was completed in just about 3 months, "completed" a very key word here. As a writing coach, I have told people in workshops and individually that, to have true "feel good" you must complete something. If not, languishing in the back of your mind is "that book I never finished (or wrote)." How many times have I heard a statement like that? Well, I've run out of fingers and toes to count with. Carve it down into smaller writing sessions and you might finish the manuscript. Add in firm commitment and you will. This topic relates to my current life and health. Throughout 2017, I had embarked on a (for me) strenuous workout program. So challenging was it that, many times, I failed to complete workouts and, as a result, incomplete regimens and intake of junk and processed food partnered, lowering my esteem but increasing my midsection and cholesterol. So, I emailed my health coach, and told her, "when I switched from 3-set to 5-set strength training workouts, I found I was not only NOT completing a full workout, but that I was canceling the workout. However, when I performed 3-set workouts, 99% were completed with complete focus, and I didn't approach them with chagrin. So, I have reverted back to the 3-set regimen." She approved my method, adding that avoiding discouragement and making little gains makes sense. And, if the time was right, I could return to 5-sets Well, as part of my 2018 goals (I don't refer to them as "resolutions") I have embarked on the 3-set workouts, completing them and jotting down my thoughts, and at the same time eating smaller, healthier meals per day. The result has been focused and finished workouts, a thinner frame and a better outlook. An important element to all of this is evolution; growth. I can better ask myself, "Okay, mission accomplished. What's next?" Heavier weight per set, increased sets? And for writers of those novels, hopefully completed and perhaps awaiting transport: are you game to self-publish? Maybe query an agent (or two), or start another work that rests inside of you and "needs escape" and appearance on pages? Little victories lead to satisfaction, lessening fear, progression to greater challenges, and more little victories. Embracing all of that should be part of life, making existence more satisfying. And that's the BIG victory. Steve I'll be the first to claim that my mind is very often "here and there." By that I mean I am wracked with ponderings of due bills, client projects, keeping my family fed and house standing, and where our family will next eat out and where. All of this has its rightful place following my morning prayer and scripture reading, but it many times sneaks its way into the spiritual boundary that I thought I had rigidly set. There is one aspect of "spiritual", however, that cares and nuisances don't invade, and that is my early AM precious moments loading the tiny bird feeder at the corner of our yard. When I rise, get dressed, and prepare fresh water for the tiny birdbath that sits at ground level, and fill my palms with bread and seed for sparrows and other bird species, my mind is in no other place or spot than the currently leave-barren forsythia bush. Sometimes the many birds beat me there, chirping away in anticipation while I still slumber. Friday was one of those days, their song waking me at 7:35 AM and encouraging my descent to the kitchen and meal time. After I feed them, I sometimes pause for a minute or two and watch them attack the feeder, or take a drink and splash into the fresh water that now sits in their white bowl at the end of the fence. And what a difference compared to last week, when their "bath" had frozen over quite a few times, and I had to break the ice or provide warmer water that would not freeze. I'll also, during a period at my basement writer's desk, open the window and watch the birds at meal on my front lawn, not just noticing their manner of eating, but also wondering at how their tiny bodies stay moving. I consider the small size of their beating hearts, and most of all think of how they must depend on me. After an afternoon replenishment at around noontime Friday, I recalled something in a nearby bush that has been a "neighbor" to the sparrows for a few years: a 4" ceramic cardinal. A few years back, when I was cleaning out a box of "junk" in anxious fashion -- translated, I wanted to get it done and done quickly -- something fell from the box and crashed. The base of the statue was demolished, but the top, the red cardinal with wings spread, prepared for soaring, was miraculously intact. My wife Lucille was not pleased with what transpired, but was agreeable to my suggestion that the lifeless, beautiful piece, sans its footing, "find a new home" amid life, the red coated bird anchored properly and colorfully within a sea of green leaves. This morning, Saturday, empty branches supported it, its color even more noticeable. Prior to the Saturday sunshine, I once again performed my duties, and as I watched for a few moments from our deck, a bright red cardinal -- a living, breathing one who is my Guardian Angel -- flew down from a nearby tree, whizzed past my head, and joined the many sparrows for breakfast.
The birds hopped from branch to branch, joy filled. Steve "Never read a book through merely because you have begun it." -- John Witherspoon
I have embarked on an unusual path. Should the title of this post encourage you to think that I am doing something outlandish or painstaking, not true. This will be a short, side road trek, not a lengthy highway excursion. Last Tuesday, I prepped to return two books to Montclair State University's Sprague Library. One of those selections was Sun on the Night (1962), a book of poems by the late John Hazard Wildman, an English professor at Brown and Louisiana State universities in the mid 20th century. He also wrote biographical and fictional works, but this is the only known volume of his poetry to me. I started to follow Mr. Witherspoon's advice, had read two poems in the opening pages when, dare I say, boredom and, most of all, pressures of everyday living and a pile of other books on my nightstand called to me. Therefore, I decided to return the book. I drove to the university, parked my car in the parking deck and, prior to stepping out of the car and beginning the frigid, in 10 degree weather, on-campus walk, I said to myself -- and I DID say this, amid the desolation of the empty parking garage -- "Let me see what I am giving up here." I opened Sun on the Night to page 95, its last page, and read the last four lines of six page poem titled "Judas": A little way to walk, to stop, to find, And at the final point to stretch a hand, To feel the steady, faithful beating of a Heart, And name a Name. O Tenderness, at last. My opinion of poetry is twofold. When you read a selection, not all will speak to you in clarity. That is, unless you understand it or can decipher it well, you may be lost. However, sometimes it's the beauty of the words that induces reflections, of or to something, which is the other end of my opinion. These last four lines encouraged me to reflect on love, maybe on a college campus, a man and woman hugging in the snow -- certainly appropriate right now, or maybe a meeting of long lost lovers. Now, this may not be what Professor Wildman intended with his words, but does it matter? My perception of the book, which had probably sat on the library's shelf unopened and maybe even untouched for years prior to my "rising it from sleep," had changed. As I sat there in the cold car, the heat long turned off, something further awakened in me, a question. Would I be able to renew this book, and would I this time read it to completion, negating John Witherspoon's wisdom? Also, what could I do differently this time to ensure a full reading of this tiny offering? Then it came to me: I'll read it backwards, not each line of each poem, but an entire poem from beginning to end, starting with "Judas" and backtracking to page 15 (post-Preface and Table of Contents) and concluding with "To the Holy Trinity". Yes, the attraction of those last four lines in the book created an impression, but also doing something in an unusual manner, outside of a norm and comfort zone, no matter how wee, encourages new, inspired movement, different thoughts, and a challenge accepted. Steve |
Steve Sears is a New Jersey based freelance writer
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