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Pages from Jan’s
Journal
“All the thoughts of a turtle
are turtle.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
I was drawn to the water again
on this walk. The sound, the constant movement. I walked to a
place in town beside a house which has the stream running directly behind
it, almost under it. The spot has some still water on the edges and
slowly moving water in the middle. The sound soothes and I think –
what are the thoughts of the water? Does it know its destination –
does it care? Does the still water envy its rushing relation or does
the constantly moving rush yearn to be still?
Looking up, I wonder of the
stars. Seeing the stars from our perspective, I imagine that they
look down on me. Perhaps, however, they have far better sights to
see than this spinning, thinking planet. This flip of perspective, and
the quote I chose to focus on tonight, make me think of my son’s hamster.
Poor thing. Night after
night she chews on the inescapable bars of her prison (or safe-haven,
depending on your point of view). This hamster, Speedy, can’t
escape. We learned from her predecessor, Hammy, about how to keep
her in there. But, no matter. She rarely runs on her wheel or
gnaws on the innumerable hamster chews we’ve tempted her with. Every
night, all night long, she grinds her teeth on the bars of her cage. She
has succeeded in chipping away at the coating on the bars, but it would
take longer than her short life span to actually make any real progress
through the metal. I feel for her, as she scurries from one spot to
the next, searching for the right place to chew. What can I
do? There are no free-range hamsters. It’s not like I can just
set her free. But she knows. Although she has only ever known
life in a cage – she knows. She knows that all creatures were meant
to be free. She knows that somewhere in this world there’s a niche
she was designed for that doesn’t include bars, a wheel, and fluffy pink
bedding. Her spirit yearns for China, or deserts, or Freedom where
she belongs.
Sadly, she can’t get there from
here. But, as all the thoughts of a hamster are hamster, she doesn’t
know that she’ll never reach her destination. So night after night
she tries – tries to find that freedom, the niche, that
no living creature can find inside a cage.
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March
3, 2006
Our garden is a work in progress
– as is the house – as are we ourselves. The people we bought the
house from three years ago were not gardeners. They kind of
liked to plant things, but they weren’t much for caring for what they
planted.
The first two years we lived
here, we spent pulling out the English ivy that persistently clung to the
house and crept into the basement through cracks in the window
frames. This same ivy was strangling an ancient quince
tree. One removed, we realized what elegance and character the constricting
ivy had caused. Underneath four inch thick vines that wrapped around
the branches, the bark and limbs were twisted and etched – like raffia,
tightly wound and strung to hand decorations for a party. As the
spring blossoms come, the picture is complete with bright green tender
leaves and swet small blossoms. The poor tree, as beautiful as it
is, is still struggling from its confinement. It’s still not always
full of leaves and blooms and the fruit it bears is inedible – even the
squirrels leave it alone. We fertilize it; we water it; and we hope.
Another vine had overtaken the
snowball bush. A bush like a tree. So many stalks and trunks
come from the ground that it would take two people to get their arms
around the base. Now that the vine is taken care of, the branches
bloom profusely in spring, so much that the ground and branches are both
covered, and the branches bend to nearly tap the ground. (The boys
and I have been known to have “snowball” fights in 80 degree weather).
Tending to the garden has
proven as good for me as it has been for our trees. I find that I am
not so very different from my garden. I thrive when free from
constriction. I have to believe that I can heal from old wounds,
slowly inflicted; that those hardships have given me character and strength. Just
as the garden needs tending with trimming, weeding, and love, so does my
soul need tending with prayer, mass, helping others, and caring for our
garden.
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March 12, 2006
At the African Meeting House
Museum
Sojourner Truth, Frederick
Douglass, Lewis Hayden. Their stories resonate in my soul and
overwhelm my eyes until both overflow. People so strong, so fearless,
so brilliant. The trials beyond my imagination. How could they
live through those struggles and continue to fight? How could they
live through it all and not fight? How could others not see
their humanity, not see their souls? My mind stretches and dives
and leaps but cannot get beyond my own experience. I’m left tired
and weepy and confused, yet filled with love and prayer. To feel
the souls – the energy – in these rooms; the passion and beauty with
which these people spoke, with which they lived.
Could I have lived through
their struggles? Could I have walked in their shoes? What
struggles are plaguing others now, as I live? Am I doing what I
should, what I could?
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March 13, 2006
“The hills are reared, the seas are scooped
in vain
If learnings’ altar vanish from the plain”
Inscribed in the mantel of Bronson Alcott’s study
I sit upon the wooded bench
and trod upon plank floors where all the Transcendental greats have
trod upon before me. To think that Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, and
all the Alcotts (who feel as close as friends) have left their energy
within these rooms for me to absorb and carry on. I want to touch
everything, walk barefoot upon the floors, stretch my body across the
beds, wear Roderigo's boots. I imagine the
sisters and their friends, myself among them, exploring through the
woods, tramping in the leaves and over the logs long rotten. Those
leaves and logs now make the soil on which I walk.
Too short! too short the time I have to write and soak,
meditate and pray. How can I leave so soon, not having seen the
garret, not having composed a masterpiece in some small writing nook,
not having breathed the air of genius long enough?
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March 14, 2006
From Walden Woods
I long for a kiss, some
loving words, someone to appreciate this beauty with. I stood
for a moment, caressing a young pine tree, wet with the rain –
supple and soft, like hair fresh from the shower – rubbing my
fingers gingerly, feeling the soft slickness of wet skin on wet
skin. The moss too, plush, deep and damp, moistens my
fingertips and lingers, not wanting to fade. The lichen of a
tree I pass crumbles and clings on my hands, sandy and rough, but
welcome – a contrast to the slippery rain.
When someone joins me,
embarrassed, I wipe my hands on my pants – still rubbing my
fingers, remembering the sensations left behind.
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