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My neighborhood meeting last night disturbed me, and I sat on my front step this morning and prayed a lot and cried a little over it. Crime is up in our neighborhood and city. One man has had his house broken into twice in the last year, his car broken into twice, too. Wrong. Bad. Air conditioning units are being destroyed left and right for the copper. Four houses/buildings (all vacant) across from me have had their units destroyed. The church fellowship hall in which we sat was uncomfortably warm because they were hit by the copper thieves the other day.
Police were on hand to exchange information, defend and explain their work, listen sympathetically. Anger escalated with each account of being victimized and afraid and pretty soon, the question that always gets asked at this moment was asked of the officers:
“What’s the law about me protecting my property? Can I shoot someone?” and we began to smile and laugh in our discomfort, in our relief at the thought of taking control, fighting back. Some murmured “shoot to disable,” others “shoot to kill.”
We talked of absentee landlords, too, a problem on my block that leads to bigger problems from vandalism to falling property values to rats (the worst of the three in my mind!). And how landlords rent to convicted sex offenders and other felons. Not good. But I asked myself, for Christ’s sake, where is mercy for these offenders? Are they to be denied a place to lay their heads? Denied a fresh start? Do I want to live next door to a sex offender? Not particularly. But I ask, for Christ’s sake…
In broad daylight in Chicago c. 1967 I was attacked, rape was attempted, and my purse stolen. The perpetrator had my address and the keys to my apartment. I’m pretty sure he tried to get in before the locks were changed but was stopped by the safety chain. Which is to say I know fear and violation and outrage. But still I ask, what is the best response, for Christ’s sake? WWJD? Seriously, what would he do? What did he do? What has he told us, time and again in the Scriptures, to do? Be not afraid. Trust in God. Show mercy.
Like Renee Splichal Larson said in her sermon just now at the churchwide assembly of my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America /ELCA (I attended the closing communion service virtually), “I just can’t get my mind around how different the world’s idea of justice is from God’s justice.” She said something close to that, and my head was spinning with that same confusion in the meeting last night, when we were laughing about killing someone. We are good, decent people, not killers, and yet we laughed at the prospect, even the satisfaction, of ending another human life. Pastor Larson’s passionate sermon was precisely relevant to our community meeting and to living out God’s justice even when it’s hard and risky. But last night, I felt alone sitting on my molded plastic chair in that hall, and I felt weak that I could not speak for mercy and a reasoned approach to the problem, couldn’t seem to live out my convictions at that exact moment, even when I was pretty sure that there would be others who would share my perspective.
In my prayers this morning, I heard words of grace: 1) Stop bemoaning your presumed guilt for not being a super-hero of faith in a complicated situation; you’re not the point, and, more importantly, you’re baptized. Live in grace, for crying out loud. 2) There are always more chances to behold God’s light in the world and witness to it. “Don’t worry what you have to say; don’t worry because on that day, God’s Spirit will speak in your heart…” 3) Call Margaret. So I called my friend Margaret, steeped in the African-American church and that style of preaching so that sanctified, encouraging Bible verses and faith slogans roll off her tongue like honey. She talked me down—or up, actually, as in lifted my spirits, reminded me of what we believe and what God promises. Sweet words, sweet as honey.
I’m not alone at all, I realize once again. Seems strange, now, how often I forget that.
I took communion in front of my computer with the ELCA crowd in assembly. And I prayed for Earlewood, my neighborhood; and for all victims of crime, including crimes of oppression and economic injustice; and for those who would shoot to kill and those who would shoot to disable and those who would rather die than shoot; and for sex offenders and law-breaking citizens, that they might find enough mercy to repent and heal; and for irresponsible landlords, that the same might happen to them.
Whew. I’m better now. Thank you, God.
“Kyrie eleison, on our world and on our way, kryie elieson everyday…”
Friday, August 19, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Rainbows
Last week I mentioned on Facebook a little rainbow hunting excursion that ended rather precipitously. I put the account in the form of a (lengthy) sentence poem (I’m getting quite a collection of those). Here it is: I woke from a lazy Saturday afternoon nap to find a gentle rain falling as the sun shone and put on flip-flops so my good sandals wouldn’t get wet and headed out the front door and carefully down the slippery steps but fell on my keister anyway, and there was, unaccountably, no rainbow, so I just went and took down the wet clothes from the line.
Today was quite a different story. I hit the jackpot with a double! The sun was blinding me as I neared home at the end of a Sunday evening walk. To my right was the community garden, 20 or so beds of lush plants in an expanse of very green grass. When a steady rain started up, I stopped and paused before turning around, thinking, “There just has to be a rainbow out of this; it’s purely a law of physics—light shining into water.” Sure enough, as I gazed into the heavens I saw pale colors taking shape on the left, and second by second—absolutely as if by magic (yeah, and physics)—the arc of pastels appeared, perfectly spanning the gardens. Each end of the rainbow disappeared into tree tops.
By now, the curved stripes were as vivid in color as any I’ve ever seen. Roy G Biv, I began, starting at the top and identifying distinct red, orange, yellow, and green stripes. I was trying to break down Biv—the blue, indigo and violet were pretty indistinguishable —when something above it all caught my eye. Another pale, multicolored patch! As I watched in amazement, the process repeated itself exactly, the same celestial magic, faint colors deepening and shaping into another perfect curve in the dome of heaven, two of them hanging over my community and the verdant vegetation in silent blessing. God, it was gorgeous.
The gentle shower waned and the fading began, but I didn’t want to leave them hanging there in the sky without me, so I determined to stay until they disappeared. How gracefully the process reversed itself. First, the higher one dulled but was still fully visible. Then, sections began to get so light that I wondered if I was still seeing color or just seeing where it been a moment before. I could still see parts of it, barely, and it naturally came to the point that when I looked away and looked back it was gone, utterly gone.
The lower won was still quite sharp. In fact, it outlasted me. Some clouds covered part of it and gradually, only a faint half was still visible. Turning my back on it, I walked the half block to my street and looked around one last time before I hung a hard right for home. Still there, still magical.
What privileged moments for me, and I have no profound reflections to add to what the Creator has already reflected in these and all rainbows!
Today was quite a different story. I hit the jackpot with a double! The sun was blinding me as I neared home at the end of a Sunday evening walk. To my right was the community garden, 20 or so beds of lush plants in an expanse of very green grass. When a steady rain started up, I stopped and paused before turning around, thinking, “There just has to be a rainbow out of this; it’s purely a law of physics—light shining into water.” Sure enough, as I gazed into the heavens I saw pale colors taking shape on the left, and second by second—absolutely as if by magic (yeah, and physics)—the arc of pastels appeared, perfectly spanning the gardens. Each end of the rainbow disappeared into tree tops.
By now, the curved stripes were as vivid in color as any I’ve ever seen. Roy G Biv, I began, starting at the top and identifying distinct red, orange, yellow, and green stripes. I was trying to break down Biv—the blue, indigo and violet were pretty indistinguishable —when something above it all caught my eye. Another pale, multicolored patch! As I watched in amazement, the process repeated itself exactly, the same celestial magic, faint colors deepening and shaping into another perfect curve in the dome of heaven, two of them hanging over my community and the verdant vegetation in silent blessing. God, it was gorgeous.
The gentle shower waned and the fading began, but I didn’t want to leave them hanging there in the sky without me, so I determined to stay until they disappeared. How gracefully the process reversed itself. First, the higher one dulled but was still fully visible. Then, sections began to get so light that I wondered if I was still seeing color or just seeing where it been a moment before. I could still see parts of it, barely, and it naturally came to the point that when I looked away and looked back it was gone, utterly gone.
The lower won was still quite sharp. In fact, it outlasted me. Some clouds covered part of it and gradually, only a faint half was still visible. Turning my back on it, I walked the half block to my street and looked around one last time before I hung a hard right for home. Still there, still magical.
What privileged moments for me, and I have no profound reflections to add to what the Creator has already reflected in these and all rainbows!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
After the family reunion...
After the family reunion, my head and heart are busy with fresh memories—like of the oldest and the youngest arriving together, the 87-year-old matriarch (Generation 1) and her 9-month-old great-grandchild (Generation 4). Very cool moment. We gather on the shores of beautiful Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. The family is large, ten Gen 2ers, my siblings and myself. Grand total of the Fossum generations who made the trip this year was 47—and we sorely missed the other 16. With one exception, we’ve come together every other summer since 1987. There was an important reason that year: the desire of our mother to see all of her children and grandchildren upon her return from two years of Peace Corps service in the Philippines. The 11 reunions since then have happened on the general familial principles of staying in touch and having lots and lots of fun.
One of the funnest aspects for me is KP duty. We do our own cooking and each meal crew is headed by a Gen 2 and staffed by in-laws, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. The littlest team members take pride in rolling silverware, decorating napkins, and fixing plates of cookies. Kitchen conversation is lively and informative—and you never know when there might be a rubber mouse in the sink to send a certain aunt into conniptions!
And the games are fun. One year a cutthroat Sungka tournament went on day and night, through blistered knuckles, until there was a winner. My one sister and I treated our match-up like afternoon tea, totally non-competitive, just to calm things down a little. The spectator crowd soon dissipated. Water balloon volleyball is a staple and always a hoot. Refreshing, too. Email me if you want instructions. The last few years, Apples to Apples, an adjective game, is a strong draw and sometimes continues into the wee hours of the morning. Favorite quotes from one of those sessions: “Taking from my own life, ‘Going to the gym’ is nerdy.” “Chimpanzees are so idiotic. I hate them.” Another hit this year was Minute to Win It. All ages participated and the older we were the bigger fools we made of ourselves; fools for fun. Then, there’s the Fossum trivia game. “Whose favorite food is potato chips?” “Which Fossum has lived on three continents?” We’re ready for an updated version of that. The talent show seems to have gone steadily downhill since the astonishing tap dance of our 60-something mother a couple decades ago. But we’ve got talent; we definitely need to revive that event.
Family is dynamic by nature and many changes always occur in the intervening two years. For starters, everybody’s two years older and now the kids we used to take to the candy store on the lake trail are taking littler ones. At any given gathering people are making geographical moves or changing jobs or starting kindergarten or graduating from college. We’ve lost several participants to divorce, something I didn’t expect in my family, but now we Gen 2s are at the national average in that regard. (I’ve had to come to terms with being typical; I don’t know why being above average used to seem so important.) There are always babies on the way or recently born as well as significant others we’re meeting for the first time. Shockingly, one of us is mobile in a wheelchair since the last get-together, and we rally round in sorrow and caring, marveling at that one’s determination and courage. Other changes, too, cause pain and confusion, but Don Henley got it right. It’s about forgiveness. Fortunately, we seem to be blessed with plenty of that.
Time always runs out too soon. People begin arriving on Thursday afternoon, everybody’s present by Friday night, and then we gradually leave after Sunday breakfast, out by 11am to make room for the next guests. And whoever sits down next to me is just who I want to be near. But the gala was over before I found out about that nephew’s job search or caught up very well with brothers-in-law or had enough time with little ones or swam or remembered to give Mom the book I brought along which I’ll now have to mail or...
But even though our brief time together seems incomplete in some ways, the reunion is a privileged, precious piece of life, a time of roots and wings. “Roots hold me close; wings set me free…” (from Spirit of Life by Carolyn McDade)
Thank you, gracious Creator, for life and for the gift of family.
One of the funnest aspects for me is KP duty. We do our own cooking and each meal crew is headed by a Gen 2 and staffed by in-laws, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. The littlest team members take pride in rolling silverware, decorating napkins, and fixing plates of cookies. Kitchen conversation is lively and informative—and you never know when there might be a rubber mouse in the sink to send a certain aunt into conniptions!
And the games are fun. One year a cutthroat Sungka tournament went on day and night, through blistered knuckles, until there was a winner. My one sister and I treated our match-up like afternoon tea, totally non-competitive, just to calm things down a little. The spectator crowd soon dissipated. Water balloon volleyball is a staple and always a hoot. Refreshing, too. Email me if you want instructions. The last few years, Apples to Apples, an adjective game, is a strong draw and sometimes continues into the wee hours of the morning. Favorite quotes from one of those sessions: “Taking from my own life, ‘Going to the gym’ is nerdy.” “Chimpanzees are so idiotic. I hate them.” Another hit this year was Minute to Win It. All ages participated and the older we were the bigger fools we made of ourselves; fools for fun. Then, there’s the Fossum trivia game. “Whose favorite food is potato chips?” “Which Fossum has lived on three continents?” We’re ready for an updated version of that. The talent show seems to have gone steadily downhill since the astonishing tap dance of our 60-something mother a couple decades ago. But we’ve got talent; we definitely need to revive that event.
Family is dynamic by nature and many changes always occur in the intervening two years. For starters, everybody’s two years older and now the kids we used to take to the candy store on the lake trail are taking littler ones. At any given gathering people are making geographical moves or changing jobs or starting kindergarten or graduating from college. We’ve lost several participants to divorce, something I didn’t expect in my family, but now we Gen 2s are at the national average in that regard. (I’ve had to come to terms with being typical; I don’t know why being above average used to seem so important.) There are always babies on the way or recently born as well as significant others we’re meeting for the first time. Shockingly, one of us is mobile in a wheelchair since the last get-together, and we rally round in sorrow and caring, marveling at that one’s determination and courage. Other changes, too, cause pain and confusion, but Don Henley got it right. It’s about forgiveness. Fortunately, we seem to be blessed with plenty of that.
Time always runs out too soon. People begin arriving on Thursday afternoon, everybody’s present by Friday night, and then we gradually leave after Sunday breakfast, out by 11am to make room for the next guests. And whoever sits down next to me is just who I want to be near. But the gala was over before I found out about that nephew’s job search or caught up very well with brothers-in-law or had enough time with little ones or swam or remembered to give Mom the book I brought along which I’ll now have to mail or...
But even though our brief time together seems incomplete in some ways, the reunion is a privileged, precious piece of life, a time of roots and wings. “Roots hold me close; wings set me free…” (from Spirit of Life by Carolyn McDade)
Thank you, gracious Creator, for life and for the gift of family.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Taming the urban jungle some more
By 8 o’clock this morning, I had cut down two trees. Real trees with trunks over two inches in diameter. I got outside early before the h and h (heat and humidity) were insufferable. A lovely breeze was breezing and I was totally up for continuing my crusade against an overgrown, unsightly yard. Plenty of elbow grease was required to make the cuts with my modest hand saw (an electric knife might have made the job easier!), and as my physical strength reached its height, I became keenly aware of power surging through me. Power. Over trees, over nature.
Was I using my power well? We are charged by almighty God with caring for the creation. Aren’t we supposed to be saving trees? I didn’t get into serious reflection or self-recrimination, for my action was intended exactly as good stewardship. These trees—I don’t even know what kind they are—come up volunteer and there are now 11 of them along the fence in about a 12-foot stretch. Too many to grow well and be manageable. Even so, as I sawed through that young trunk, there was a keen sense of ending a beautiful, miraculous life.
And as I cleared the space behind my tool house of invasive vines and shrubs and a big pile of yard garbage accumulated for the last couple months, a foot-long skink slithered out. Undoubtedly, the creature was every bit as startled as I, but only one of us yelped. So, predictably, I thought of vanishing habitats for our animal co-habitors and how I was taking away hers. But it’s my place, space, yard, house—property.
Which made me think of native Americans who, I’ve heard, had no concept of private property. How can anyone own the ground, the sky, the water?! I really like their outlook. How many less problems would there be in the world, how many fewer wars and conflicts if everyone ascribed to that notion and held the land as a sacred gift from the Creator to be managed and shared and handled for the common good? BTW, I am not a communist. And I am a homeowner, so I speak confessionally as well as judgmentally on this topic.
Quite a morning of reflection in my back yard on this holiday! Thank you, great God, for all of it—the trees, the saw, the strength, the skink, the property, the reflective spirit. On this Fourth of July when we celebrate freedom, may you guide me to exercise the great gift of it in accordance with your good purposes and in the knowledge of your sweet and amazing grace. Amen!
Was I using my power well? We are charged by almighty God with caring for the creation. Aren’t we supposed to be saving trees? I didn’t get into serious reflection or self-recrimination, for my action was intended exactly as good stewardship. These trees—I don’t even know what kind they are—come up volunteer and there are now 11 of them along the fence in about a 12-foot stretch. Too many to grow well and be manageable. Even so, as I sawed through that young trunk, there was a keen sense of ending a beautiful, miraculous life.
And as I cleared the space behind my tool house of invasive vines and shrubs and a big pile of yard garbage accumulated for the last couple months, a foot-long skink slithered out. Undoubtedly, the creature was every bit as startled as I, but only one of us yelped. So, predictably, I thought of vanishing habitats for our animal co-habitors and how I was taking away hers. But it’s my place, space, yard, house—property.
Which made me think of native Americans who, I’ve heard, had no concept of private property. How can anyone own the ground, the sky, the water?! I really like their outlook. How many less problems would there be in the world, how many fewer wars and conflicts if everyone ascribed to that notion and held the land as a sacred gift from the Creator to be managed and shared and handled for the common good? BTW, I am not a communist. And I am a homeowner, so I speak confessionally as well as judgmentally on this topic.
Quite a morning of reflection in my back yard on this holiday! Thank you, great God, for all of it—the trees, the saw, the strength, the skink, the property, the reflective spirit. On this Fourth of July when we celebrate freedom, may you guide me to exercise the great gift of it in accordance with your good purposes and in the knowledge of your sweet and amazing grace. Amen!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Elvis and other interruptions
Carol and I had agreed that I would stop by for a visit around 4 on a Saturday afternoon. She wasn’t in her apartment when I got there, though, so I followed my ears to the packed activities room where a good crowd, including her, was rocking and rolling with an Elvis impersonator. Foiled again, I groused inwardly, wondering how long I would have to wait.
I am routinely irritated by interruptions, and I guess that’s not unusual. Like many of us, I’m more often than not in a “people to see, places to go” mode. On the other hand, in my maturity, I have realized that what I perceive as an interruption, an undesired stop action, is often quite the opposite.
Wow, I hope Jesus wasn’t the personality type who found interruptions irritating. A quick read of Biblical accounts recording the days of his life can give the impression that he is just strolling around looking to see whassup, utterly available to whomever and whatever appears in his pathway. So, if he was trying to get to the synagogue on time or late for a dinner date, there might have been high stress. Ha! High stress in Jesus’ life? Ya’ think?
In a similar vein, I think of clergy who have to deal with the unplanned when trying to prepare for a funeral, get to the hospital, write a sermon, be on time for a meeting, etc. Out of nowhere, a needy person stands before them. Their vocation, their profession is geared toward serving people just like this one, but…
I was about to begin my writing day a while back when the phone rang and I was needed, if possible, to care for a grandbaby who was not feeling so hot. Oh no, oh dear, my day was interrupted! I wouldn’t meet my goal—but the deadline was unchanged. Boy, did we have fun! He was well enough that we would play for a while, and then he’d stretch out his arms for me to pick him up and nestle on my chest with a sigh. Joy. Peace. And he took an extra long nap, so I did okay with my work, probably even more efficient, seizing the opportunity.
Oh, and the Elvis event worked out fine, too. Of course, I slipped in with the crowd, reveling in the campiness of the moment. The guy really sounded like Elvis, voice as low as you can go and smooth as velvet. I laughed a lot on the fast ones; he really got us swinging! Then, after lovely time with Carol, I moved on wondering why I had even thought that the show was an inconvenient nuisance. After all, I didn’t even have to go to Vegas.
I’ll bet each of us could give a long list of initially irritating interruptions that turned out to be the very stuff of life.
I am routinely irritated by interruptions, and I guess that’s not unusual. Like many of us, I’m more often than not in a “people to see, places to go” mode. On the other hand, in my maturity, I have realized that what I perceive as an interruption, an undesired stop action, is often quite the opposite.
Wow, I hope Jesus wasn’t the personality type who found interruptions irritating. A quick read of Biblical accounts recording the days of his life can give the impression that he is just strolling around looking to see whassup, utterly available to whomever and whatever appears in his pathway. So, if he was trying to get to the synagogue on time or late for a dinner date, there might have been high stress. Ha! High stress in Jesus’ life? Ya’ think?
In a similar vein, I think of clergy who have to deal with the unplanned when trying to prepare for a funeral, get to the hospital, write a sermon, be on time for a meeting, etc. Out of nowhere, a needy person stands before them. Their vocation, their profession is geared toward serving people just like this one, but…
I was about to begin my writing day a while back when the phone rang and I was needed, if possible, to care for a grandbaby who was not feeling so hot. Oh no, oh dear, my day was interrupted! I wouldn’t meet my goal—but the deadline was unchanged. Boy, did we have fun! He was well enough that we would play for a while, and then he’d stretch out his arms for me to pick him up and nestle on my chest with a sigh. Joy. Peace. And he took an extra long nap, so I did okay with my work, probably even more efficient, seizing the opportunity.
Oh, and the Elvis event worked out fine, too. Of course, I slipped in with the crowd, reveling in the campiness of the moment. The guy really sounded like Elvis, voice as low as you can go and smooth as velvet. I laughed a lot on the fast ones; he really got us swinging! Then, after lovely time with Carol, I moved on wondering why I had even thought that the show was an inconvenient nuisance. After all, I didn’t even have to go to Vegas.
I’ll bet each of us could give a long list of initially irritating interruptions that turned out to be the very stuff of life.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Taming the urban jungle
Taming the urban jungle
A friend of mine is an extreme gardener and asked me to save vines for a rustic weaving project in her ornately interesting yard. Vines? Not a problem, unfortunately. Got plenty of ‘em.
Wisteria vines, magnificently wicked, like clotheslines with knots or fistulas every so often that send out smaller roots in a circle. I used to love wisteria high in the trees with its clusters of purple blossoms, sweet smelling like lilacs. After battling it in my yard for a few years, I see it as a tree-killing, out-of-control monster, one of the woody-vined, invasive exotic plants causing problems in cities as well as undomesticated forests. “My” wisteria comes through my cyclone fence from a mother vine around a big pine tree in the next yard. I take a clippers to the new vines, reaching out like long, lacey tongues, and a few weeks later they’re “eating” my house again, twining into the vinyl siding.
Virginia Creeper vines, much more polite, thin and red and easy to pull up, also climb high into the trees, decorating them with their five-leaved, um, leaves.
And then there are the vines of the Evil Plant, my name since I don’t know the botanical name for this insidious, thorned monstrosity which also moves along under the ground in ropes, popping up in the middle of the grass, the edge of the grass, everywhere! Indiscriminately climbs up fences and trees and garbage cans and poles, making bushy formations with its shiny green leaves. Its vines are big and strong enough for Tarzan to swing on. Oo, ouch, except for the thorn issue.
English Ivy vines, my favorite, a lovely ground cover, but also something to control. Maintenance trimming year by year is important or this vine, too, will cover and destroy. But English Ivy vines behave, they respond to trimming and can be shaped and add beauty and class to flower beds and yard corners.
Poison ivy vines, which I will not pass on for the craft project! Again, these come into my yard from a neighbor’s, and I’ve already had an unpleasant bout with their poison when pulling the new, young ones up early in the spring. Now, I spray them with a vinegar-salt-detergent mixture, which dries up the visible plant but doesn’t seem to eradicate them down to the roots.
Think of all this in my yard when I live a pleasant walk from the state capital building! Good grief. The four yards that adjoin mine are not well-attended, hence…
I’m gaining a great deal as I try to solve the problem: getting to know my neighbors better, talking to “the city” and enlisting their services in the battle, discovering great online resources (controlling wisteria) and learning lots about plant pests. All advice welcome!
A friend of mine is an extreme gardener and asked me to save vines for a rustic weaving project in her ornately interesting yard. Vines? Not a problem, unfortunately. Got plenty of ‘em.
Wisteria vines, magnificently wicked, like clotheslines with knots or fistulas every so often that send out smaller roots in a circle. I used to love wisteria high in the trees with its clusters of purple blossoms, sweet smelling like lilacs. After battling it in my yard for a few years, I see it as a tree-killing, out-of-control monster, one of the woody-vined, invasive exotic plants causing problems in cities as well as undomesticated forests. “My” wisteria comes through my cyclone fence from a mother vine around a big pine tree in the next yard. I take a clippers to the new vines, reaching out like long, lacey tongues, and a few weeks later they’re “eating” my house again, twining into the vinyl siding.
Virginia Creeper vines, much more polite, thin and red and easy to pull up, also climb high into the trees, decorating them with their five-leaved, um, leaves.
And then there are the vines of the Evil Plant, my name since I don’t know the botanical name for this insidious, thorned monstrosity which also moves along under the ground in ropes, popping up in the middle of the grass, the edge of the grass, everywhere! Indiscriminately climbs up fences and trees and garbage cans and poles, making bushy formations with its shiny green leaves. Its vines are big and strong enough for Tarzan to swing on. Oo, ouch, except for the thorn issue.
English Ivy vines, my favorite, a lovely ground cover, but also something to control. Maintenance trimming year by year is important or this vine, too, will cover and destroy. But English Ivy vines behave, they respond to trimming and can be shaped and add beauty and class to flower beds and yard corners.
Poison ivy vines, which I will not pass on for the craft project! Again, these come into my yard from a neighbor’s, and I’ve already had an unpleasant bout with their poison when pulling the new, young ones up early in the spring. Now, I spray them with a vinegar-salt-detergent mixture, which dries up the visible plant but doesn’t seem to eradicate them down to the roots.
Think of all this in my yard when I live a pleasant walk from the state capital building! Good grief. The four yards that adjoin mine are not well-attended, hence…
I’m gaining a great deal as I try to solve the problem: getting to know my neighbors better, talking to “the city” and enlisting their services in the battle, discovering great online resources (controlling wisteria) and learning lots about plant pests. All advice welcome!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Missing Madeleine L'Engle
Madeleine L’Engle died in September of 2007. I still miss her. She has enrichened my spiritual life immeasurably. She was the main presenter at a symposium I attended at Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis c. 1997. Being with her and actually meeting her was a thrill. When she was near the end of her life, I checked the obituaries regularly and, on this one day, there she was, gone. Even though expectant, I missed her immediately, with a sense that the universe was changed. But recently, I had something of a reunion with her that was ever so fun and rich. Here’s what happened:
At the end of the Lenten season several weeks ago, an appeal went out a few days prior to my women’s monthly circle meeting for someone to present the program. If nobody responded, the hostess for the evening, a high school math teacher, might have us doing arithmetic. Some responded they’d rather do math than give a program, but I always have a program up my sleeve. Shoot, I was “born in the briar patch” of giving programs. “Sure,” I said. “Be glad to,” confident in the knowledge that the facilitator is only part of what happens; between me and my circle sisters, I knew we’d have something unique and meaningful.
A couple hours before meeting time, I grabbed Madeleine’s The Irrational Season, a treasure of spiritual reflections, original poetry, and rich anecdotes framed by the liturgical church year. I turned to Lent; actually, I think Lent fell out in my hands. The book is my second bible, worn and tattered from using it for studies and classes and personal devotions for over 30 years. Ah, yes, I remembered as I perused the chapter. For Lent, Madeleine used the Beatitudes.
So we started the program by me reading the “Blessed are the…” part, and the group completing, “…for they shall be…” That worked beautifully. Next, we listened to the verses set to music by Sweet Honey in the Rock. Perfect touch. Then, I read a brief excerpt of what Madeleine had written about each one, pausing each time for responses from the group. Great participation, from our hearts, from the day. The final quotation from Madeleine was, “There is the power of life and death in his mercy, and it is good to remember this each time we receive the power of his mercy in the bread and wine.” A short poem by Ann Weems, “Communion,” from Kneeling in Jerusalem, wrapped things up beautifully. Many thanks to all these women for a very cool program!
At the end of the Lenten season several weeks ago, an appeal went out a few days prior to my women’s monthly circle meeting for someone to present the program. If nobody responded, the hostess for the evening, a high school math teacher, might have us doing arithmetic. Some responded they’d rather do math than give a program, but I always have a program up my sleeve. Shoot, I was “born in the briar patch” of giving programs. “Sure,” I said. “Be glad to,” confident in the knowledge that the facilitator is only part of what happens; between me and my circle sisters, I knew we’d have something unique and meaningful.
A couple hours before meeting time, I grabbed Madeleine’s The Irrational Season, a treasure of spiritual reflections, original poetry, and rich anecdotes framed by the liturgical church year. I turned to Lent; actually, I think Lent fell out in my hands. The book is my second bible, worn and tattered from using it for studies and classes and personal devotions for over 30 years. Ah, yes, I remembered as I perused the chapter. For Lent, Madeleine used the Beatitudes.
So we started the program by me reading the “Blessed are the…” part, and the group completing, “…for they shall be…” That worked beautifully. Next, we listened to the verses set to music by Sweet Honey in the Rock. Perfect touch. Then, I read a brief excerpt of what Madeleine had written about each one, pausing each time for responses from the group. Great participation, from our hearts, from the day. The final quotation from Madeleine was, “There is the power of life and death in his mercy, and it is good to remember this each time we receive the power of his mercy in the bread and wine.” A short poem by Ann Weems, “Communion,” from Kneeling in Jerusalem, wrapped things up beautifully. Many thanks to all these women for a very cool program!
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