I Talk to Dead People

Catholic girl speaks to the dead. Not all that unusual actually considering my youth when I spent hours kneeling under a man nailed to a cross. A man who, we were told, died for us. I found the guilt about his death unbearable. Inventing sins as I waited my turn for the confessional was far easier than accepting blame over a brutal crucifixion. When I hit sixth grade, the whole class was escorted two blocks to the neighborhood funeral home where I witnessed the boy, who I was crushing on hard, all puffy and red-faced, his dead dad laid out in satin and mahogany. It was then that I turned my attention away from the harsh cross. I stared into this father’s placid face and gently folded hands and thought, maybe this guy would listen to my pleas, even those about his son falling for me. Connection seemed possible with a real man. No guilt. I talked to this dead guy for years longer than I remembered his son’s name with no care if he ever heard me.

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there is plenty that I have been thinking about this week but as I was got writing all that news-worthy news it made more and more heat in my brain, so I thought I’d stop that train wreck of thought and take a walk… there is promise bursting in my neighborhood and that makes this just a moment worth my observation and possibly your time too

strolling a mile or two down my road and you come to a large but shallow lake where the ducks take control from Spring to Autumn and my boy Mr. Blue has just arrived and that really made me smile even if he was skittish and hightailed it as soon as I spotted him

these are two news items worth my time and energy and maybe yours too tonight…

summer lessons

There are always days which stay with you long after a season has been folded and packed away. Moments when you felt joy or purpose or transcendence or connection, when nothing stood in your way, blocked your view, held you back or caused doubt or fear to creep in. Summer, for me, allowed for a multitude of such glimpses into splendor. Perhaps you are nodding in agreement because of your freedom days: vacation time to dive in, soar above, or just sway on a porch swing. However you got there, I do hope you felt the divine. Sweet euphoria. And perhaps have garnered a few lessons of your own to remember when the cold wind strikes. Here are mine.

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