Radio Dreams

Every Friday morning, I trudge through the snow and ice over to Frye Street in Lewiston, Maine and host my own radio show with my friend Maddy.  The doorbell we ring to the basement studio signals a light to flash inside, and hosts of the 6-8am show know to let us in.  We cozy up in our removed little world, only reminded of the bitter winter howling outside by the snow-blocked basement windows.  It is a unique weekly escape, and sometimes a way to connect with far-away family members who loyally stream our voices into their houses all over.  Today's show wasn't heard beyond Lewiston due to website issues, so I figured I'd let listeners peek into our studio by way of the wonderful world of blogging.

same snowsuit, a few months later

Prayer

Strength and courage
for all who carry the weight of grief.

When bad news comes,
the illness or the death of someone we love,
something shifts; the world looks different.

We go through our daily routines
as if we are strangers in our own house;
the familiar landscape is forever altered.

Worst of all, the sky is blue; the sun seems so bright it is blinding.
Wouldn’t a rainy day be more fitting when every step forward is an effort?

Help us to learn the lessons that sadness can teach us,
for grief is a part of being human.
It is woven like a shiny metal thread into the fabric of our lives,
right next to love.

It is during times of deep sadness that we are most alive.
At times of loss, we touch the mystery that lurks in the shadows:
with death, we get to the heart of the matter.

As the wounds of loss begin to heal,
may we be strengthened by the memory of those we have loved.
They are not gone.
They live deep in our hearts; they travel with us.

For those in the midst of sorrow,
may you soon find stable ground.
May healing come with the passage of time, and
may sunlight soften to light your way.



Hi All. I was back in the pulpit at First Parish in Lincoln last Sunday leading the prayer time. Each week there is open time for silent and spoken prayers followed by the "pastoral prayer" which I wrote. The previous Sunday, many people shared aloud the hard things they were going through. I decided to write a prayer on grief. Here it is.

water matters

Wow! I had no idea my blog had such a wide readership. This is humbling.
See blog entries below for more info:
January 6, 2009: Thirst
January 27, 2009: Small Steps

Thanks to my man in the field, Don McLean, for this valuable information.
Put down that plastic bottle everyone!
Grab a glass and fill 'er up!

one year ago today

and last week.....



What a difference a year can make! I can even leave my shoes in the front hall and return to find laces in tact.
She hasn't chewed through a leash in months.
Sigh, I almost miss that little puppy. But not that much. Calley has turned into a great companion.

later today

I guess it went above freezing for a few minutes today, just as the ice was about to drop off the tree, it froze again.
Meanwhile inside, the forsythia is blooming. Hope you East Coasters stayed warm on this icy day.

Lewiston, Maine got the snow, Eliza tells us. Trees and branches down and mountains of plowed snow everywhere. It will take a long time for that to thaw! Slick ice on all the paths. It's beautiful she says. Four years in Lewiston will do that to you. A few weeks ago on a day that was below freezing, the Outing Club hosted the annual "puddle jump." Yup, they drilled a hole in the ice on the campus pond and hearty students jumped in. And you think you were cold today!

today

Red #2

The floor to ceiling windows in the field house building where I attended Nursery School ran along one wall.
They were arched at the top. Light streamed in. One was a door that opened out to the playground beyond.

I loved to skip. Having just mastered this feat of coordination, I was glad when Mrs. McMasters put a record on the record player and we would skip and run and hop around the table in the center of the room. I tried to stay ahead of everyone, taking big skipping strides, knees high.

One day as the music played, Eleanor Creston lost her balance and ran right into one of the tall windows.
There was shattered glass everywhere, blood, screaming. I was horrified to watch Mrs. McMasters hold my favorite cloth painting smock up to Eleanor's face.

Eleanor and I attended school together for the next seven years. A long thin line with eight, short, perpendicular lines through it was etched on her pale cheek starting at the outside corner of her right eye. Looking at her, the images flashed before me again and again. The broken glass, the horror on my teacher's face, my smock now red with blood.

Red

Mrs. MacMaster's nursery school was in the field house next to the brook at the park in Summit, NJ. There were floor to ceiling windows that looked out to the playground and Memorial Field. In the center of the room was a long table where we did art projects. We each brought a cloth smock from home. I remember flowers, pockets, frills. At least on mine. Every day, Mrs. MacMaster put on a record and we skipped around the table in a long line.

In the corner of the room was parked a large red wooden fire truck. The paint was glossy and smooth to the touch. It had a black wooden steering wheel. Sitting on it, you could make it move by walking along and if you got going fast enough, you could pick up your feet and glide. I often gazed at the red truck but I never rode on it. I knew it was only for boys.

Dishes

My mother did the shopping, planned the meals and cooked them. The rest of us set the table and cleared the dishes after dinner. The rules were strict. We weren’t allowed to stack them, but had to remove one plate at a time from each place at the long mahogany table in the dining room. Even now, I feel like I have broken one of the ten commandments when I stack dirty plates on top of each other when clearing the table after supper. I was even taught to remove from the right and serve on the left. If there was a guest, remove their plate first, otherwise the plates of parents first and then children. These things mattered.

My siblings and I did the dishes. One person stood at the sink filled with hot soapy water, another rinsed at the next sink. One person dried dishes and pots and pans and the last put dishes away. There was an order and we all shouted out for our preferred jobs. I think I liked the soapy water, I couldn’t reach the high shelves in the pantry where plates were stacked.

My father often took part in this dish washing ritual. I remember looking at his face reflected in the window as he stood at the sink at the end of a long day at the office; his tie loosened around his buttoned down collar, sleeves rolled up. There was easy conversation, laughter. Everyone was more relaxed at the sink.

I don’t know what year we got the “automatic dishwasher,” I think it was 1964. My father said he was going to miss doing the dishes with us. Miss it? How could he miss doing chores? I’d rather be talking on the phone with Gay Parker or doing my homework or listening to the radio in my room pretending to be doing my homework.

But now I understand his comment. I understand his desire to hold us all together. Standing side by side at the dark window, working at a common purpose before we all flew off in different directions. We were resigned to the job at hand and made the most of it, even if we argued over dishes not properly rinsed or a pokey drier holding everything up. We were part of a family. Deep down, despite frustrations, the message was clear.

The dishwashing routine was not the only thing that changed. One brother went to college, one to boarding school, my sister had a boyfriend and we moved. Moved far away from that kitchen sink, that mahogany table and that time in our lives. Although I still cleared the table after dinner, three plates now, I loaded the dishwasher by myself in the tiny Brookline kitchen.

February Light

The early morning sunlight is striking the walls of the house in places it hasn't touched for months. When I got up today, my eye was drawn to a doorknob that was lit up, surrounded by tree shadows on the wall. The earth has turned ever so slightly and has a different relationship with the sun. As I walked down the stairs, I noticed the pussy willows that David brought me for Valentine's Day were also lit up, a patch of sun had settled in our dark, north facing front hall. It didn't last long there, but that simple shaft of light told me better than any meteorologist's equipment that winter is on the wane, spring will come.

We are still surrounded by snow and ice. Every step I take is a potential down fall. But the air smells different. I've seen robins, squirrels, and a loud woodpecker hard at it, finding something to eat in the depths of a dead tree. Our chirping cardinal waits for the right moment to make a run for it, flying over to the feeder that hangs from the eave of the back porch. His ever loyal (and less flashy) mate, waits deeper in the rhododendrum for her moment.

I'm blinded now as the light comes into my eyes, creating shadows on my computer. Time to boil the water to make my tea. Songwriter Gordon Bok writes, "the earth is always turning toward the morning." I find that very reassuring.



For the eagle eyes among you, yes, forsythia is in with the pussy willows. Just hoping I can trick it into an early bloom of yellow!

tonight!

For SAM

The story behind the image.
Observing the glass topped table on our terrace is the way we measure snowfall, as in "look at the snow on the table, I'd say it's at least a foot!" It was above freezing yesterday, so as snow melted, the glass was revealed. Reflections! I wanted something abstract for my post.

Thanks for your interest. Our original intention was to post writing, but we've gone off in all directions. Now and then a piece of writing still appears. Newly inspired, we'll keep at it!

blessing

Praise for the winter.

For the snow that creaks under foot.

For the clarity of cold,
For the deep blue sky, the brilliant sun
and at night; the long full moon shadows.

For the thick ice on the cemetery pond,
where children skate and find a new kind of
balance.

May we be grateful for this time of contemplation and quiet.
A time to reevaluate and reflect.

In winter we learn to appreciate small things.
The warmth of a fire in the wood stove.

Guitar music and singing at Bemis Hall.
The company of friends as we stay closer to home.

The hoot of an owl somewhere in the dark.
Deep powder.

We Praise winter for what it can teach us.
To reach out to those who are less fortunate,
for the cold reminds us that the need is great.

To walk more slowly,
being conscious of each step we take.
For in these uncertain times, where good news is slow in coming,
We are challenged to keep our balance.

Winter reminds us that we can get along with less.

And winter teaches us to be patient, for nature insists on taking it’s time.

As the days grow longer and the seeds of new beginnings stir in the ground,
may we hold dear the deep lessons of the heart, learned in this quiet time.



I was up in the pulpit once again today. Leading the prayers this time. Here is my ode to winter. B.

Bates in the Huts

With such a high number of Bates students spending their summers in the huts (myself being one of them), the Bates Magazine decided to get up there last summer to do a story.  Here it is (check out the video!).

today

I can't capture the sparkle on the snow, but it is a beautiful, shimmering morning here in Lincoln. Cold, too. 10 degrees.