All That Is Hidden

Yesterday afternoon found me with twenty-or-so empty minutes, which chagrined me at first, since I'm more of a do-er rather than a waiter, but once I made up my mind that I would make the best of these twenty minutes by taking a walk - who knew, I thought, I might even find something to photograph (but doubting it a little since the sun was so bright, and I didn't think I'd find anything particularly new or interesting in that familiar neck of the woods) - I settled into the perfect September afternoon that it was.

The first treasure I happened upon was the group of bicyclists that had stopped to snack on the wild grapes that were growing alongside the bike path. As I stopped to chat, the tallest member of the group, the only one who could reach the high vines, generously handed me a small, perfectly shaped cluster of the dark purple fruit; another day and they'd be over-ripe, but today they were as sweet as sugar. Pleasantries were exchanged - they were from Chicago; city folk who were delighted to be on the island for the first time and partaking of nature's bounty, as well as being somewhat intrigued by having met an authentic native - after which I set out once again on my merry way.

Within another five minutes I noticed a narrow, almost-hidden path that led into the woods. I was curious because in all my years of bicycling this route - almost every day in the summer; or driving the nearby road - almost every day in the winter - I never saw this path. I thought at first that it might have been an impromptu "rest station," and that it would end abruptly in a smelly pile of human waste, but was instead intrigued to find a small bridge over a stream (where we used to catch frogs, as kids, I realized), that led to a path that meandered in twists and turns; up hill and down, through the sunny woods. It was a pathway that was neither heavily trampled; nor, apparently, was it a deep, dark secret, as the trail was well-defined, and some of the trees bore a white paint marker.

I couldn't help but be amazed by this find - not because it was one of the Seven Wonders of the World - but because it was something that had been there for quite some time, in a neighborhood I thought I knew fairly well. But until yesterday, I never saw it; it was hidden from my sight.

Which makes me wonder: how much more am I missing because of my break-neck pace through this life?







September light.

Conversation Stopper

Here's how to stop a conversation at a party:

While standing amidst a small circle of conversation (at a party comprised mostly of aging Vineyard hippies along with their children and an assortment of grand-babies and grandchildren) it was noted that orange seemed to be a dominant color in the guests' attire.

"Orange is the color of life according to Buddhist tradition," I offered.

He: "Really? Well, yes, I suppose so, what with the saffron robes and all." The gentleman went on to ask (while either ignoring, or somehow completely missing the large purple wampum cross prominently dangling against my white tee-shirt background), "Are you of the Buddhist tradition?"

Me: "No. I'm Catholic. And proudly so." At which point she walked away while he stammered out a few words, including something about "a new pope," before disappearing into the crowd.

Checking In

So sorry to be so far behind in my writing. All I want to say, one year and three months later is, I am so happy to be home, and so happy to be Catholic. I mean, really - every time I'm at Mass, which is every day, I think to myself, Why would anyone bother with anything besides this: the absolute straight story. I mean, we're talking pure drop, here: forgiveness, the Bible, the sacrifice at the altar, and the Real Presence in the Eucharist. The rest is commentary.

St. Jude

A couple of days ago my head was spinning with a seemingly overwhelming number of problems that I couldn't see an end to or solutions for. I was seriously down for the count. Beaten. Later that evening an ad appeared in the margin of my Facebook page, an ad for St. Jude. My mother loved St. Jude, swore by St. Jude, so, out of curiosity - or maybe desperation, after all, St. Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes - I clicked the link and ended up at an option to post a prayer to St. Jude. I typed out my prayer, donated $10, and went on my way.

Yesterday, the answer to my prayer came. Not as thunderbolts, not as the mighty arm of God parting the sea and knocking people into place, but as a still, strong voice; the answer to a conundrum that has plagued me and my family for some time now, an answer that will be implemented as the coming months unfold but in the meantime gives me peace and strength.

I honestly don't know how this stuff works - and I certainly could never prove, scientifically, that it does - but I do know that it works.

Thank you, St. Jude. I definitely got my 10-bucks worth, and what's more, you have a new devotee.



The little St. Jude medal my mother once wore that has been in my jewelry case for the past twenty-one years is now sharing space with my once-lost Miraculous Medal (related story, here).

Pope John Paul II

Today is the 8th anniversary of Pope John Paul II's death. On the day of his funeral, I was driving along Beach Road and saw this sight, and even had the presence of mind to grab a quick shot of it with the little S50 I was carrying in my bag in those days. By some miracle, I was able to find the file in the archives (by miracle, I mean, eight years ago I had no clue as to how to organize my photos, so I had to wade through quite a mish-mosh. And yes, I do hope to live long enough to organize and import all of my photos into Lightroom).

Easter Tuesday

A couple from the chapel from this morning. The chapel will be undergoing a few changes, I understand, and will not look like this for much longer.

Surprised at the Cross

I had quite an unexpected reaction yesterday at the Good Friday service. Most of my attention was focused on getting the music right (with some anxiety, due to my prep time for this service having been usurped by my having taken on - last minute - the Holy Thursday Mass; also discovering that the other singers had not received my e-mail with the music), and paying close attention to the order and choreography of the service, since I had not attended a Good Friday service in twelve years. The music ministers went up first to venerate the cross, and what surprised me were the tears that began welling up, from the deepest part of me (what? it's a wooden thing, it's a ritual, it's a symbol, I'm surrounded by hundreds of people: I absolutely never cry in public!). I watched the ones who went before me (carefully, because I couldn't remember the exact ritual) bend in and kiss the cross as the Deacon tenderly cleaned it after each kiss with a cloth. I was last in the line of musicians, and what I really wanted to do was not simply kiss the cross, but to throw myself at its feet in a heap, wrap my arms around it, and bawl like a baby. I didn't, of course. Not actually. But that's where I am today, truly - in a heap, at the foot of the cross, holding on for dear life, overflowing with tears of sorrow and gratitude.