Holy Ground for Sale, Sunday morning off.

A church for sale in Maryland - something about God's house as common real estate amuses me - another intersection between the ethereal and the corporeal. How much is God's house worth on the open market? If no congregation is currently using it, has God vacated? Is He a tenant, awaiting the next landlord? What if Hindus buy the place? Will He be a room-mate? Vishnu stays up late and plays the radio loud. There's no cross on that steeple, so they're obviously ready for anything.

This morning the bald woman with the bandanna who delivers our paper has not arrived. We're sitting together, Robyn and I, she with her tea and me with my coffee, enjoying the cool quiet of early morning after a long soaking rain last night. Tye is at our feet. The kids were out late, Caitlin at prom with a friend and Walker up the street with a couple pals (no bonfire last night - only a muddy party in someone's shed, and she's "annoying") and they're sleeping in, looking more innocent than they tend to when awake. As long as we don't disturb them they'll remain children for a while, without the smirks and witticisms that remind us they're approaching the front door of adulthood. The paper woman has many vehicles, most of which idle badly, so we can assume that she'll show up in a while, late, with someone else's vehicle, hurriedly lurching down the street from box to box, making up for lost time while the rest of us sit in our comfy chairs and note the disturbance in our routine. Paper's late. Damn! More coffee. There she is. Same car - maybe she just decided to sleep in a little, too. It'd be a real treat for her. Have one on me, bandanna lady!

On this, the one day that I have no appointments or obligations, I give thanks, primarily for this peaceful feeling I have, this feeling of rested alertness, of transient well being, of right things being in right places, of the world in a certain order. By now a potential congregation has occupied the church, placed an appropriate representative symbol atop the steeple, filled the cupboards of the church school with Tang and Nilla Wafers, and settled it's cumulative rear end in the long dark polished pews which once sat lonely in the sanctuary. God's unpacking his eternally omniscient suitcases in the Upper Room, relieved that the new owner isn't a cult or a hippie co-op. Let the right living commence! We're all ready.

Emotional memory

The photo here may imply a darker mood than I'm really experiencing. I'm finishing up editing the graveyard photos I took the other day. I jacked up the contrast on this one and now I'm trying to decide if I've gone too far.

Going too far and reeling it back in is a pattern with which I have some familiarity.

It's early Spring and I found myself surprised by the seasonal depression that surprises me every year. Dad died the first week in May. Our good friend Diana died at the end of April. It seems that I conspire with myself to ignore these dates every year. What I notice is that I'm getting angry about things. My attitude becomes more negative. Many of you become more irritating. I don't suppose you'd notice that, being the way you all are, but I lack the patience to tolerate you that I might ordinarily have. So, I ask myself, in some moment of reflection, why I'm so grumpy and a little voice says "It's April, the cruelest month, the season of people wasting away." I realize that I'm dancing familiar steps in a dance that always seems to include a little surprise. Insight and self-delusion doing a tango in the new grass.

I had a physical this week and my doctor helps me manage my depression (actually she manages the treatment - I manage the depression). She went over the challenges in my life that she well knows contribute. How's your mother? How's family life? How much are you working? I tolerate this litany and for a moment realize that my "not that bad, really" approach falls short of the mark. All in all, things are going well. Along the line, though, we pick up a load of grief and loss, sadness that begs to be recognized even though we don't want to give up the time, ruin an otherwise beautiful day by giving in to sorrow.

It's Sunday, my day off. I go to see Mom in a few minutes in her comfortable Memory Care unit to bear witness to her entropy and titrate a little sorrow in what feels like a manageable dose, regular and small in the way that we build up immunity to bee stings or snake bites. It's not that bad. It's the end of a productive life, inevitable as . . . taxes.

I learned at my physical that I'm a little more than an inch shorter than I was before my accident. Now I'm just a little over 6 feet tall. My friend Chris cheerfully announced that we're all getting smaller from here on out "so it's just going to get worse." I was drinking his beer and so I allowed this impertinence. I would have been a lot shorter in a wheelchair.

I read recently that people with Alzheimer's Disease who can't remember anything from minute to minute still benefit from regular visits from loved ones. I know this is true. I still benefit as well. I remember things about Mom and about our lives together. I remember things about myself. The idea, I think, is that emotional memory is longer lasting than conscious memory. I know that when I was injured I didn't see Mom for quite a while. When I saw her again, she couldn't put her finger on it, but she seemed a little hurt . . . or perhaps not hurt, but aware that I had been gone. It could be my imagination, but she seems to be on a more even keel when I go regularly to see her, even though she forgets I'm there each time she closes her eyes.

After I visit Mom, I will work in the sun, in the yard, and bathe in some vitamin D. The answer to the emotional memory of long held sorrow is the sunny morning. Ah.

Sacred Ground

There's a little old graveyard on my way to work in Vinton, just off Highway 30. Because I pass there every day, and because I love its scraggly tree, I stopped yesterday to take some shots that I've been meaning to take. I think black and white is best for cemeteries.





I just had a little time so I didn't stay long, but these missed opportunities chafe at me, and I've looked at this cemetery all Winter, thinking about how old and lonely it is. A farmer was out in his tractor, plowing the surrounding field. I wonder if he comes and mows. All the graves are old, from the late 1800's, and some have pretty expensive granite stones. This one was more economical.

My Mom and I used to go do grave rubbings. You place a sheet of newsprint against the stone and rub with crayon or charcoal. The result is a negative of what was written on the stone. Another way to read them is to go after dark and shine a light straight down the length of the stone, enhancing contrast.






My love of signs continues. Sacred is where you say it is. A kid asked me one time, "Mr. Thompson, where do you worship?"

"Everywhere I go," I told him. Everywhere I go.