April's Fool

It’s the first day of April and who knows what mischief is afoot.  We clever humans never seem to lack imagination for new and improved ways to trick our fellows into all kinds of silliness (Hoaxes) on this spring day memorable for nothing save its place of first on an imaginary chronology (the modern-day calendar).

All kinds of theories abound online as to its origins, but my own favorite traces back to ancient Persia and Zoroastrianism.  Nowruz, or new year, is upon us in certain parts of the world and in Iran today is still celebrated the ancient Persian rite of Sizdah Bedar typically falls near the first of April.  Sizdah Bedar celebrates family and the promise of a good harvest.

The Zoroastrians believed that

laughter and joy symbolize the throwing away of all bad thoughts. According to Zoroastrianism, the bad thoughts are coming from the Devil Angra Mainyu (in Middle Persian: Ahriman) and the celebrations of New Year and Sizdah Bedar will cleanse all bad thoughts. Avesta, the holy scripture of the Zoroastrian faith, recalls that all those who love purity were responsible for celebrating Sizdah Bedar to help the Angel of Goodness prevail over the earth in the struggle against the Evil and the Devil.  Wikipedia

The object, then, is not who is the most clever, but rather the evocation of laughter and joy.

Having, hopefully, left behind our last snow of the year in these parts, the dawning of April finds us almost

Photo by Mariam Foster 

giddy with relief as we emerge from our winter cocoons and observe the tiny evidences of spring abounding in the greening of the land and find ourselves laughing for no apparent reason save the joy of the moment.

Laughter and joy as an antidote against bad thoughts and evil – now there’s a blessing to get behind.  

Being Friends with Jenny & Steve: Adventures from Robocall Land

I live in Highland County, Virginia, a predominantly Republican county in the western mountains of Virginia.  There are only about 2,300 of us in the whole county.  Maybe 1,000 of us will vote.

And thus it is with some amusement as well as bemusement that I answer my phone only to find that it is Jenny calling me – again – from the RNC.

Jenny sounds nice.  From her voice, I would say she is young.  I feel I am getting to know Jenny pretty well, as she’s called me about 5 times in the last week or so.  Sometimes we have dinner together over the phone.  Sometimes she catches me in the middle of work so I don’t have much time to give her.  Sometimes I’m out and Jenny just leaves me a message.  But more and more I wonder about Jenny and how she’s doing.

I admit I haven’t been a very good friend to Jenny – as soon as I hear her voice these days, I just hang up the phone.  Of course, I comfort myself that Jenny doesn’t know how rude I am – after all, it’s just a voice-recorded robocall.

But I do worry about Jenny – they’re working her pretty hard at the RNC with all those phone calls.  I hope her voice is okay.

And I wonder why Steve from the DNC hasn’t called.  Does he not like the mountains?  Does he think my friendship with Jenny means we can’t be friends too?  I hope not.

Maybe Jenny and Steve will meet some day.  Maybe they’ll fall in love like James Carville and Mary Matalin.  Maybe they’ll come to dinner and we’ll talk – really talk.

I’d like that.

Time Out

I am back in Virginia, back in the county where I live, back in the village where I work, back in the house I call home.  I had forgotten how lovely it is – not in a general way, but in the specific beholding-with-your-own-eyes-in-the-moment way . . . the mountains covered with trees . . . the forest canopy that shields most of the road home . . . the church grounds . . . the home I’ve decorated and adorned with the trinkets and colors and comfort that are uniquely me – I love them all.

Sundial at Culzean Castle, Scotland

But I also love the very rare – unique in my own life, actually – gift I was given – the ability to spend 7 weeks of my life in Scotland, doing whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, having to be nowhere at any particular time, having to answer to no one about what I would do or not do or when I would do or not do it.

It was, it is, the liberation of the disconnect.

It wouldn’t do for a lifetime, but for a wee while, it was . . . heaven – the essence of the practice of being made easy.

We don’t get time outs very often, if ever, we grown ups.

Being so precious, so rare, perhaps something spectacular should come out of them.

But that’s the thing about just being.  It isn’t about the spectacular.  I’m not sure what it is about, but it’s not about that.

I am back in Virginia.

And the lessons, if any there are, will come.

But for now, I have had my time out and it was glorious.

And that is
enough
more
than

Where Bald Eagles Fly

Yesterday late afternoon I sat in the car with Laura in my driveway, chatting away about this and that.  We had just come from serving communion to a lovely woman in our congregation who is now very sick.

In mid-sentence, Laura exclaimed, Is that an eagle?

Where?


Over there, she pointed.

And there she was.

In this land of a trillion birds we call home, there was a lone bald eagle, brown-bodied with the telltale white tail feathers and white head, languorously flying up and down the path below made by Crab Run just before it empties into Bullpasture River.

For a few moments that stretched into eternity, Laura and I sat transfixed, trying to spot her among the trees behind which she sought her prey.

Finally she flew past the church and beyond our sightline.

Still we sat in quiet, each marveling at the great good gift we had just received.

Even when our silence was broken, she left her stamp as we spoke of eagles and other birds we had seen before, along with the usual tales of the rapscallion squirrels and racoons who would destroy the many bird feeders put out to lure our flying friends into our orbit, if only for a while.

To anthropomorphize just a bit, squirrels and racoons are the humans of the natural world in these parts, taking what isn’t intended for them, hogging more than their share, and destroying what doesn’t satisfy them in fits of pique, as when they find the bird larders empty, apparently forgetting that they themselves had eaten the last lot of seeds placed for another.

Above it all, at a remove from such mundanities, flies the lone eagle, looking for what only she can see, seeking the prey peculiarly suited to her, so ungainly in posture when land-bound but so amazing when in flight, balancing nature in such purposeful glory.

Changing Landscapes

When you’re a visitor to a place, you see changing landscapes.

When you’re from the place, you see the same landscape changing.

That’s what it was like at the Maple Festival here in Highland County today.  The sun shone warmly on each face taking its turn through the kaliedescope of my narrow vision and I was blessed by each one . . . town and country coming together in the joy of the stroll through the countryside in springtime. . . sidewalk chalk provided to entertain two girls as their dads worked the hot dog grill drawing child visitors to them and the magic a little splash of color on warm cement invariably creates . . . women tired from working the yard sale taking a moment to stand on the stoop outside the kitchen door and enjoy the warmth of the sun on their faces replaced as if in a well-choreographed dance by young adult women happy to find a squat to simply sit and visit . . . the well-oiled machine that is the women’s fundraiser inside the church moving in tandem with the seeming chaos of the men’s event outside, both working together for the best of all . . .the people circling the tiny church fellowship hall resembling not so much yard-sale bargain hunters as the gentrified promenaders of ages past . . .

Oh how I love this life.

Maple Festival Time in Highland County, Virginia

Highland County Chamber of Commerce

It’s maple syrup time in these mountains I call home.  The sap is running and taps capture the maple fluid to boil it and boil it and boil it down into something that eventually becomes maple syrup.

People around here speak about maple syrup the way folks in France and Napa speak of wines:  Now 2009, that was a good year!  Just look at that color!  Smell this!

For two weekends, we engage in a maple frenzy of flavor – tea bags, popcorn, sausage, donuts, assorted nuts, not to mention pancakes and buckwheat cakes (my own favorite) – you name it, we put maple syrup on it and proclaim it good.

Maple Festival time (the 2nd & 3rd weekends of March) here in the Virginia Highlands is what community looks like to me.

Teachers and students at the school get their assignments early – there’s no asking for volunteers; the assumption is that if you’re at the school, you’ll be working to help raise monies for on-going school projects by putting in your time at Maple Festival, with school closed for students both Mondays after, as much, I suspect to give students and teachers a day of rest as to allow for in-service.

Folks near and far take time off from work to come and help.

People who don’t belong to the service clubs like the Ruritans and Lions sign up to work to help in the massive fundraising efforts of making thousands of pancakes and sausage patties for the hungry hordes.

And then there’s the insider stuff, which I love (who doesn’t love the feeling of being an insider?): calling in your donut order so you don’t have to stand in line for hours, or even better, getting the first donuts Friday night, hot and fresh, calling around to neighbors to see who wants you to pick up a dozen for them too . . . coming early to shop the yard sale because you’ll be working when it’s officially open for business . . . going in the back door to the kitchens to say hello to fellow workers and maybe sneak a bite of some tasty offering . . . getting to know your neighbors better while standing side-by-side up to your elbows in dishwater . . . sighing in collective satisfaction with feet up when it’s all over but the counting . . .

It’s kind of quiet in Highland County just now . . . the calm before the storm of tens of thousands of people descending on a place that usually boasts 2,400 inhabitants.

Come Sunday, I’ll be exhausted, but for now, I’m just looking forward to seeing my neighbors.

Hearing the Wind You Cannot See

Thursday the airwaves around these parts

were full of dire predictions

tornadoes

freezing rain

snow

and wind

such wind

You learn to take these things with

more than a pinch of salt

while still looking skyward

ever seeking to read the 

signs of the times

And so it was

Thursday evening

that I stood outside

gazing up

into the dark clouds

feeling the cold of

plummeting temperatures

skating along my skin

No freezing rain

no snow

no tornadoes

only stillness

not a leaf rustling 

not a breeze stirring

But the sound

so loud

I turned all around

seeking its origins

I think I’ll never grow accustomed

in these mountain valleys

to the harbinger of wind

the sound of the locomotive

crashing all around

while everything,

everything

is stillness

Hearing it 

before you see it

even in the high trees

Wind so fierce 

it makes the still air

below it carry the harmony

to its perpetual melody

The only visible clue

the racing of the clouds

across the skyline

Not the calm before the storm

nor even the calm amidst the storm

(eye of the hurricane sort of thing)

but the calm in spite of the storm

The weather here is positively biblical

Where I Live

Where I live . . .
     You can buy your eggs (fresh from the chicken) at the Post Office
     Your fried chicken (really the best around) from the gas station
     And drop off your dry cleaning at the Court House . . .                 Or the bank . . .

Where I live . . .
     Until recently . . .
     There were no stop lights . . .
     Only one blinking light in the whole county . . .
Then we got a temporary light during some bridge work . . .
     It’s so unusual, that a deputy sheriff actually had to tell someone yesterday . . .
     Yes, it’s a stop light.
     When it’s red, it means you have to stop.

Where I live . . .
     A one-finger salute by a motorist is not an insult . . .
     It’s a friendly, laconic wave to passers-by . . .

Where I live . . .
     The trees are turning color . . .
     The fawns too . . .

Where I live . . .
     Candidates for Sheriff come together to help out and judge the cooking contest . . .
     And raise money for the local Food Bank . . .
     And everybody (well, almost) wins a ribbon at the fair . . .

Where I live . . .
     People work hard, many just to get by . . .
     Enemies as well as friends help out those in need . . .
     Firefighters and Rescue Squad folk are volunteers . . .
And when you’re sick . . .
     Or dying . . .
     Or your house is burning down . . .
     You know the people carrying you . . .
     Calling out your name . . .
     Saving you and all you value . . .

I suspect it’s much the same where you live . . .
     Except, maybe, for the eggs . . . and the fried chicken . . . and the dry cleaning . . .