Are We Paying Attention to All This?

Its late summer now and the daylight here is growing shorter.  Past is the 54th anniversary of my arrival on this planet.  Lately, over the course of this summer, I have been reflecting on how much of this life I am really understanding.  Or appreciating. Or celebrating.  And I don't blog here as much as I did during my late 40s - I should change that.  Maybe that could become an exercise in more frequent reflection and celebration.

How much do I grasp of this journey and the remarkable relationships I have been given?  And as we all move from day to day, how often am I missing the presence Divine in the midst of the everyday?  I might be missing a lot, and I would like to change that.

Now deep in middle age, and passing more milestones in life, do I even have something close to a sense of wonder and mystery about it all?    Is there, deep within me, a glimpse of a vague understanding of my part in this relentless, remarkable, enchanting, mysterious gift I have been given in the form of friends and family?

Older Daughter is back beginning her final year in college at DePaul in Chicago, after a great summer at the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center, helping to lead the Sting Rays Swim Team.  Younger Daughter is weeks away from starting her own remarkable journey at the University of Washington.  As the seasons of adulthood change, am I really taking in all of this amazing ride?  Do I get it; do I really understand?

It seems we hold these moments of life with our children like some kind of impossible net made of gossamer threads.  We can never get a complete or permanent grip.  And, it seems, this is the way it is meant to be.


Kevin Kling is a storyteller, and I recently heard him interviewed.  He said this, that completely struck me; it was an epiphany of sorts:

"As children, we are closer in time to the Creator.  I realized who I connected with.  As a kid, I connected with my grandparents.  We were in the same light. I was in the dawn, and they were in the twilight, but we were in the same light.  They were heading to the Creator, and I was coming from the Creator.  And, because of that, we spoke a very similar language.  I wondered as I was getting older and as I looked back, where that goes.  Because it does go.  We become entrenched in this world.  As time goes on, and we come to the end of our lives, we return to that point."

"Because it does go".  My goodness!  Where has it gone for me?  In the busy-ness of running my own business?  In the blur of the everyday? Sometimes, we just get lost in the immediate, don't we?  We become entrenched in this world.  I love that phrasing.  Heading off to work each day, dealing with the immediacy of life. We are like the people in the Rockwell painting"Lift Up Thine Eyes".  Although its too small to see, the print on the sign reads, of course, "Lift up Thine Eyes".  Beneath it, the hoards of the city trudge onward to work, heads downcast.

As this new chapter of life in the form of "empty nest" comes into focus, I want to pay attention, to make a difference in the lives of others, and to remember and celebrate it. 

Your Work Has Purpose

To me, this is a wonderful example of ordinary people working together to do extraordinary things.  That we all might be so inspired by the work we do.....

Mars Curiosity - Amazing!

On August 5th, Mars Curiosity will land.  Cross your fingers.  This is stunning!

This Marriage - Eric Whitacre

Heard this today for the first time.  So sweet and sublime.....

May these vows and this marriage be blessed.
May it be sweet milk,
like wine and halvah.
May this marriage offer fruit and shade
like the date palm.
May this marriage be full of laughter,
our every day a day in paradise.
May this marriage be a sign of compassion,
a seal of happiness here and hereafter.
May this marriage have a fair face and a good name, an omen as welcomes the moon in a clear blue sky.
I am out of words to describe how spirit mingles in this marriage.

Lindbergh's Grave and Memorial Day

Earlier this week, I experienced a small epiphany of sorts at 37,000 feet over the Midwest. 

I was returning home from a 4 day business trip to Washington DC.  Before I departed, I downloaded several pages of one of my favorite blogs, Flight Level 390, to read on the plane.  It seemed fitting to read about the adventures and musings of an airline pilot while flying home myself.  I simply love the periodic reflections of Captain Dave, and heartily recommend them.

One of Captain Dave's posts was a reflection and a poem on Charles Lindbergh.  This recent May 20th was the 85th anniversary of Lindbergh's courageous and record breaking transatlantic flight, a flight that forever changed the world.  And here I was, with 120 or so other souls, 7-plus miles in the air over an unmarked Midwestern state, traveling at 0.83 times the speed of sound, in a metal tube with wings.  How far we have come since that single man dared the odds and transformed history.

And tomorrow is Memorial Day, the day we set aside for the first trip of the spring to the beach, or barbeque's, or pool parties.  But the meaning of Memorial Day is so much more. 

Lindbergh's grave near Hana, Maui.

I remember about 35 years ago my parents and I made the drive to Hana, Maui; a picturesque and winding road that ends at the small clifftop Hawaiian village of Hana, a place directly out of Heaven on Earth.  My Dad kept talking about Lindbergh owning a small home there, and having recently been buried someplace nearby.  My Dad thought Charles Lindbergh was an amazing American icon.  He was right.  At the end of his life, Lindbergh chose to be flown from a hospital in New York, where he was being treated for lymphoma, back to Hana and the place he loved so much.   His grave is simple, and not marked on maps.  Those who wish to honor him find the grave site on their own.  

And there I was reading this poem, speeding through the sky with ease, tears in my eyes, reflecting upon many things; the amazing advance of technology, the courage of a man to go it alone, the character of this generation that preceded ours that took risks like Lindbergh, and the service of my own Dad to his country as a B17 pilot in World War II.  Many things in this poem struck me as deeply meaningful, I share it with you, in the hopes it might have meaning for you as well.

Lindbergh's Grave

That long green swell that sears my eyes

As I lie in this bed of black stone,

Is it the Irish coast rising in the dawn

Beyond the brushed silver of my blind cowling

Where, throughout the night,

I trusted Not in some desert God's directions,

But in the calibrated compasses of man?

That rushing sound,

is it the hordes at Orly,

Swarming past the barriers and lights

To scavenge my Spirit,

and lift me up

Into the air that only heroes breath?

Or is it the age-old sigh of sea on stones,

Known to those who pace the shingle

And the swirled black sands that seep

Up from the sea's loom to wrap

Impossible islands in a shawl of waves?

That painting daubed on the chapel's window-

Not the roselined mandala at Chartres

Where flame in glass misprisoned sings-

But a cruder Savior, bearded, browned and popular,

An icon obtainable to plain sight,

a trim God Flat upon the glass in dull gesso limned,
And, when light moves behind it, looking down....

Is this the sign in which, at last, we conquer?

Conquer? I'd laugh the laugh of stones

Had I but eyes to see and lips to breathe.

No, I am content here where man and apes

Together waltzing lie, having done at last

With all horizons, having done at last with sky.

If you would see me now pass by

The small green church where ancient

Banyans looming shade and guard

The tower and the bell which you

May toll for me, or you, or all those

Not yet delivered to the stars and sea.

And then, retreating, mark the trees

Whose tendrilled branches hold but air,

And shadow both the church and stones

Beneath which wait both apes and men,

Who, foolish with their hunger for the air,

Swung branch to branch up all the years

Until, letting go at last, they learned

Through my night's leap, at last, to rise.

Sea, stone, tree, ape and Savior.

These now my long companions are.

Better here, I think, in this dank green

Cartoon of Paradise, this slight-of-hand Eden;

Better here beneath the pumice stones

Where strangers drop a wreathe from time to time;

Better in here deep than out there wide --
Hovering over the pillaring waves alone,
Suspended between the old world and the new,
Trusting in man's compass to guide me home;
Descending down the sharp cold blade of dawn.
Better, much better, in here at last to wait
In here where the shawl of the waves below
Enfolds that fire they could never snare.

Gerard Vanderleun

American Digest

Palapalo Ho'omau Church Cemetery, Kipahulu, Southeast Maui

Sigh No More - Mumford & Sons

This is the reason this song was written.  This is the reason we were born.  This is the reason I love Young Life.




[sigh no more | a reflection of beauty] from JJ Starr on Vimeo.

Lay My Burden Down - Aoife O'Donovan

Just discovered today that this touching song was penned by a relatively new artist, who I have been seeing quite a lot of these days.  Aoife O'Donovan of Boston.  When you get discovered by Alison Kraus, you are doing quite fine, thank you.

My Father's Father / The Civil Wars

This is completely haunting and beautiful to me, and speaks of the mystery of our past.  As I continue to research the history of my own family, 11 generations now in America, with members on opposite sides of the Civil War, these words have new meaning.

My Father's Father

I hear something hanging on the wind
I see black smoke up around the bend
I got my ticket and
I'm going to go home

The leaves have changed a time or two
Since the last time the train came through
I got my ticket and I'm going to go home

My father's father's blood is on the track
A sweet refrain drifts in from the past
I got my ticket and I'm going to go home

The winding roads they led me here
burn like coal and dry like tears
So here's my hope
My tired soul
So here's my ticket
I want to go home
Home
Home

My Friend Molly

Someday, I hope I get to meet Angela, who has written this beautiful piece about our family friend, Molly.....
 

Molly
She is the first reason
in 23 years
that I've ever had to wake up with the sun.
And her magic number is 21.

Born with an extra chromosome,
Molly is a miracle.

She loves musicals, math problems,
and literally refers to EVERY book she sees as her 'favorite'

Molly colors the world.

On ordinary days,
She reminds me to sing songs that aren't playing
And see things that aren't there.

At least, that is... to jaded eyes and ears like ours.

See, Molly has a gift:
She lives as if no one is watching.

A true freedom.

She lacks an ego,
Operates solely on love,
and doesn't respond well to anger.

She is hello hugs,
goodbye smiles,
and occasional slaps on the butt.

She is random questions
no; I mean REALLY random
(She once asked me what time Jesus was born)

She is beautiful compliments and peculiar observations.

Molly is bright purple boots, knee high socks, and umbrellas when its not raining.

She is cafeteria salads topped with,
of all things,
sweet relish.

She is chocolate milk.

Together, we are anything but 'disabled'
We are silly.
and it is not uncommon for both of us to laugh uncontrollably
when someone makes fart noises in the classroom.

I try to be an adult;
But it is hard when she makes the musings of childhood
seem so much more appealing.

We chase 'bad guys' around the track during gym,
and break into show tunes in the hallway,
and whenever she decides to
I let that girl dance.

because she is preserving my silly...
AND developing my patience.

Not every day is a bowl of cherries,
See, Molly likes to sass me from time to time.

She has an attitude that rivals my own,
and is not afraid to tell me,
straight up,
to "Get out of her face"

She is charming,
but some days she gets frustrated.

Not because she cannot communicate her thoughts,
but because we don't always speak her language.

I guess the only "down" to the syndrome
is that everyone else can't seem to catch up.

There is nothing 'disabled' about her.

The problem is with us;
see, the world likes to taint the beautiful with its "normal"

But Molly is a musical when the world is silent.

One of the goals of her education plan,
Is to become more "well-adjusted"

And I can't help but ask "...to what?"

To boring?
To egotistical?
To vain?

Molly is so many things that 'normal' is not
and because of that
I've yet to watch her interact with someone
who doesn't immediately fall in love.

She makes every day happenings anything but.

Once, at fifth period,
Molly was working on her times tables,
and I was taking notes...when in her loudest voice, with a smile on her face,
completely out of nowhere,
she yelled:
"Teach me how to fly!!"

..and after we laughed it off,

I picked her pencil up off the floor and said:

"ME teach YOU..?! Girl please,
you're the one with the wings...

now get back to work."
 
Angela Aguirre