The Raccoon
Beware the animal with blackened eyes
Though he be furry, child-like and small.
He is no friend, believe not his lies.

When he is nearby, be wise, oh be wise
His dear little hands slash and maul –
Beware the animal with blackened eyes.

Hear how he cries – but don’t sympathize,
If you feed him, he’ll dine in your hall.
He is no friend, believe not his lies.

He wears a mask and upon you he spies,
He smiles, but is eager for a brawl.
Beware the animal with blackened eyes.

He sleeps so sweetly, you’ll sing lullabies,
You’ll forget that he’s shot through with gall.
He is no friend, believe not his lies.

He’s ferocious for someone his size.
He’ll tear you apart, though you’re tall.
Beware the animal with blackened eyes.
He is no friend, believe not his lies.

This is my second attempt at a villanelle, inspired by my son’s discovery of a young raccoon wandering around in our yard. The little varmint was so appealing, that Sam even fed him some bacon. I took lots of photos, but was wary. He is no friend, believe not his lies.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Yesterday was the Grand Inauguration of my Grave Musings Summer Program (heretofore abbreviated to Grave Musings). As you may recall, I’ve decided to visit all our local cemeteries this summer with each visit containing the following elements: picnic, camera, notebook, watercolor supplies, and a book. Also, maybe a playlist of nice music to accompany all of this. You are no doubt familiar with the phrase that starts out “The best-laid plans of mice and men oft go astray…”

Here’s how it went. First of all, it was a really gusty day. I’ve tried picnicking on windy days and if you don’t mind chasing napkins around or keeping a tight grip on everything at all times, it’s not bad. But I was aiming for a pleasant experience, so I tossed the picnic out of the plan and ate lunch at home in the comfort of our gazebo, whist watching an episode of Stargate.

Next I assembled all of the essential ingredients for the rest of the plan and packed them in my sparkling new carry bag.

My husband had suggested bringing a little folding table we bought for camping, so that went in the car with the rest. I’m all set!

Upon arrival at the Maple Lawn cemetery, I took one crappy photo of the entrance sign and then drove in and around the perimeter to get a good feel for the layout.

I decided to establish my command center near the grave marker for Taopi, a Native American chieftain who converted to Christianity. More on him in another post.

I made my way back to Taopi’s marker and while parking the car, realized that I had forgotten the one item upon which all the other plans would rest: a chair. In addition, I had hoped for a cozy and private experience; the five-acre cemetery was empty except for one other person, also parked near Taopi’s grave, and enjoying a lunch inside her car. It shouldn’t have made a difference… it shouldn’t have, but it did.

Thwarted at every turn, I decided to drive on and pull over occasionally to get out and look at gravestones. I spoke aloud the names that I read; when I saw a particularly old marker I made a special effort to read the engravings that had become encrusted with lichen and were marred by age.

I keep an eye out for epitaphs: poems, Bible verses, etc. I saw one done in Braille and wondered what it said. Others were in German.

I took a few photos, but hadn’t been there long when nature began to call and I am, alas, at an age where that’s a call that can’t be ignored. Farewell, Maple Lawn!

Grave Musings shall return to this wonderful old cemetery…with a chair. And another post shall ensue.

Next: Grave Musings 2 Maple Lawn II

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

I had just taken a photo of this beautiful red protuberance on an evergreen tree when my husband pointed out that these release pollen. Say no more. My daughter and I lingered, taking photo after photo, me with camera in hand and her shaking the plump little pollen-stuffed pillows. It was harder than you might think to get a good photo of the phenomenon and the activity became quite addicting. The rest of our group wandered on without us, while we kept saying, “Let’s just take one more. Oh, that was a good one! Let’s do another!” The pollen even settled like glitter on a spider’s web. It was a good day.

Pollen Haiku
Billow’d pollen clouds
Catch the sun’s light, and ride on
Gossamer highways.

Could you bear to delete this in the morning?

P. S. It turns out that those are male cones that release pollen.

I actually have really bad vision and am legally blind without my glasses/contacts. I remember one time when I was 17 or 18, walking to work early in the morning. I had been out late with friends and didn’t wake up in time to put in my contacts, so rather than wear my glasses (oh, how vain!), I just brought them with me and walked without any visual aids whatsoever. I can see big things like cars, and streets, so it didn’t seem like it should be a problem. As I was walking, however, I saw ahead of me a large person standing on the corner and felt a little uneasy. It was around 6:30 a.m. and no one else was around. I wasn’t sure if I should feel threatened or not by this person. Evidently not, since by the time I got close enough, I realized it was a mailbox. When I first got glasses back in 3rd grade, I amazed to find that I could see actual leaves on trees instead of just seeing big blobs of green. Those of you with 20/20 vision probably can’t relate to that.

I like taking photos occasionally of things in focus and then out of focus, just to see the effect. It’s often quite interesting, especially if there’s sunlight involved. It’s like revisiting my childhood, those days of unfocused and blurry vision. I’m so thankful for the technology that enables me to see things with clarity.

The last one is of sunlight coming through tree branches. I’m especially fond of the unfocused owl – those eyes!!

I’d like to blather on some more about this, but a FaceTime visit with our granddaughter awaits!

I’ll probably delete this very unfocused blog post in the morning. After I put my glasses on, though.

Meet Lois, the hosta with a history. I have to use the female pronoun with her, which I know will pain the more practical among you.

My Grandma Lois was fond of gardening. She died when I was 11, so I was unable to tap into her gardening wisdom by the time I got interested, which wasn’t for another 20+ years.

When we moved to our current house, I discovered the magical properties of hostas. We had an assortment of these around our property and when we needed more, we simply divided some of the ones we had and replanted the halflings elsewhere. One year I didn’t have much time for the re-planting part and the hosta halflings sat in buckets for a few days. No matter – when I finally got them in the ground, they thrived in spite of my abuse and neglect.

So where does Lois come into this meandering tale? About five years ago or so, my cousin Mitch came down for a visit, bearing a garden gift: Lois. It turns out that Mitch’s mother (Lois’s daughter) had taken this hosta from Lois’s yard and now this historical hosta had come to me! I don’t have much in the way of heirlooms passed down, so this was quite a thrill. I found a place for Lois among some of her brethren.

Cue the unhappy music. Sadly, I forgot about her. She was always a bit of a runt and the more muscular hostas around her quickly grew into her space. And then came The Spreading Ferns. Poor Lois was overshadowed, outcompeted for space and seemed destined for obscurity.

But last weekend, we needed more hosta halflings to put around our apple trees. I almost didn’t see her, but a happy Providence intervened. She’s still a runt, but she’s got plenty of room now to grow. Interestingly, we have about 4-5 different kinds of hosta on our property, but only one of this variety. Good old Lois. Cue the happy music.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning after checking on Lois to make sure she’s not being bullied yet by her neighbors.

(By the way, I’ve been putting titles on all my blog posts going back to the beginning of the year and I really, really hope that you don’t get email notifications of that kind of activity because I did a lot of them.)

Last Friday I shared a photograph and challenged you to look at it for 5 minutes and think about it. I did that, too, and discovered that five minutes was a really long time. I spent my time thinking about the colors of the pansy and how I would paint it. You’ll see my unfinished effort below (if you promise not to laugh – it’s very….primitive). But aside from that, the interesting thing that happened as a result of my flower meditations was the dream that I had that night.

I dreamed that I was walking around with a young girl and we were looking for a particular kind of flower. As we looked, we spotted a bush filled with the most incredible flowers – each petal seemed to have an intricate design on it. I took a petal off of one of the flowers to look at it more closely and was stunned to see that each petal had an intricate drawing of a lighthouse on it. As we stood there marveling at it, a woman approached us. I showed her what we had found and she, too, was amazed. “How could that have happened?” she asked. “It was God!” I answered. She was uncomfortable with this answer and backed away.

Sometimes it seems that the whole world is an obvious parable that so many people do not have eyes to see and ears to hear. There, but for the grace of God, go I.

I told you it was primitive.

By the way, two of my faithful readers have contributed haikus in their comments. I asked them for permission to share the poems and they never responded, which I take to mean “Yes, you may share this.” So here we go.

From Julie (the fruit of her meditation on the pansy):
Dew dripping off leaves
Bright colors, contrasting veins
Joy in the morning.

From Cathy (in response to my “smitten” poem)
I am quite smitten
By your description; poets
ignite mental fires.

Bravo!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, all except the haiku.

I have an assignment for you. I can’t actually follow up and make sure you’ve done it, or give you a grade, but I’m counting on you to do it nevertheless.

In our modern lives, we don’t tend to linger on anything for long. So I’m asking you to linger on the photo below. Set a timer for 5 minutes and really give it a good look. Think about what you’re seeing – the detail, the precision, the beauty, the lighting, the contrast in colors, the textures, everything. Does five minutes seem too long?

I recently read a book written by Henri Nouwen. He had seen a painting by Rembrandt called “The Return of the Prodigal Son” and it struck him so forcibly that he got permission to stay in the museum for hours and hours just looking at it. He contemplated, he meditated, he paid attention to details, he thought about the clothing, the colors, the positioning of the characters, the light contrasted with darkness, the expressions on the faces, the emotions represented… I’ve been to museums – the longest I’ve ever given any particular painting is perhaps 2 minutes.

So here’s a painting that you might have given scant attention to, the kind of artwork that we see all the time, but never really SEE. Take a look. What do you see? What does it tell you? Take notes, write a poem, try drawing it, identify it, start your own nature journal… the possibilities are endless!

And then give glory to the Artist that made it.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

True story: a friend of mine recently witnessed two robins fluttering over a cardinal’s nest, which they then attacked and destroyed, eggs and all. Robins! All my fanciful ideas about them have been given a good dose in reality. As my husband said, “Red in tooth and claw.” That’s the truth about what happens out there in the animal world. It’s easy to anthropomorphize the creatures we see, attributing goodness and high moral character to some, while demonizing and attributing evil to others (killer sharks come to mind – we call them that as if the other sharks aren’t doing their share of killing). Animals always do precisely what they were created to do. And sometimes that isn’t pretty.

Well, I have been schooled. But restoring animals to their proper place in the universe, also means recognizing that they are not human in their response to these catastrophic events either. I might have painted an equally fanciful picture in my mind of the female cardinal going through the five stages of grieving, but in reality, she picked herself up and followed her mate to a different shrub in which to build her nest. Life goes on.

Her new location may be safe from robins, but there are squirrels that might find the nest and do the same thing. Red in tooth and claw.

“Are not two sparrows sold for a cent? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. Therefore do not fear. You are of more value than many sparrows.”

Therefore, do not fear.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning. But right now, I have to go make supper.

I don’t know what this delicate little flower is – do you? I saw it on our sidewalk by the front door and plucked it, immediately smitten. (As an aside, when I typed the word “smitten,” this emoji was suggested: 🥰. I always wondered what that emoji was supposed to be used for. Lots of love? Blushing love? I’m surprised that the emoji keyboard even knows the word smitten – it’s sort of antiquated, but never out of fashion for me. I am smitten by many things. Perhaps a poem is in order. End of aside. End of parenthetical thought.)

Smitten
Where is it written
That you can only be smitten
With love and romance,
Candlelight and a dance?

A flower delights me,
And easily smites me.
I’m conquered by clouds
(If that is allowed).

A glorious hymn
Can make my head spin;
Autumn leaves in the lane
Will have me quite slain.

And sunsets, I adore –
They lay me out on the floor!
While Schubert’s Unfinished,
Leaves me feeling quite ravished.

Oh yes, I’ve been bitten;
With many loves I’ve been smitten.
I dare say it’s true,
That you have been, too!

Well, you never know when a poem is going to just pop into existence. I certainly didn’t.

I’ll probably be smitten with something else in the morning. And maybe I’ll delete this.

I’m ashamed to say that I haven’t been walking as much lately. It’s been nice out and I’ve been outside a lot – does that count? We went on a 6.2-mile hike last week and my knees are still recovering. I’m good at making excuses.

This morning I went out to the cemetery down the road again. I never tire of this stand of trees, no matter what the season.

As I wandered along, I noticed a wilting pot of memorial flowers and scuttled over to the hose with great haste, as if the plant would die if I didn’t get water to it in the next 30 seconds. This particular cemetery has watering posts here and there with empty milk jugs hanging on the spigot for just this type of emergency. It was a very small good deed, but in a world full of troubles that cry out for waters of healing, this was one thirst I could satisfy. It was a glad moment.

I have a plan for this summer that I’ve been wanting to do for years. I’m going to visit all of our local cemeteries, bringing along a picnic lunch, my camera, my watercolors and maybe a book. I finally made a list and typed it up, so I’m all set. Naturally, I will be sharing these moments with you on my blog. I’m trying to come up with a nifty name for this project. I asked my husband and he came up with:

1. Feasting with the Dead
2. Bag Lunch and Bones

Hmmm…. I’ll have to think about that. Let me know your ideas. And if you’d like to join me on any of these excursions, I hereby invite you. You are officially invited. Have your people contact my people.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

I went outside last night before going to bed. There was a warm breeze blowing and the darkness was utterly peaceful and quiet. I looked up and saw the moon frisking about in the sky with the clouds as they went by. As usual, I grabbed my camera, and as usual, I discovered just how hard it is to get a good photo of the moon at night. I deleted most of them and kept the least hideous to share here.

This moon over my peaceful street was the same moon that was looking over the streets of havoc and destruction, of violence and looting just north of us in the city of my birth — streets that I know well. I cannot comprehend it. I felt uneasy, fearful, agitated. So I prayed and looked up at that luminous moon, remembering the Moon Maker. “Be still and know that I am God.”

Kyrie eleison.
Lord have mercy.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.