Against the Wind

If I followed that dictum, I’d post nothing at all, because I am my own harshest critic. Blogging kind of gets me past the critic to do some writing… almost.

It’s a truism that small minds discuss people, larger minds chew on events and places, but the big guys deal in ideas.

Here’s the WSJ take on the assassination in Yemen. There’s a great short story, film or novel in this murder. It’s developing, and fascinating.

It was a little after 9 p.m. when a Palestine Liberation Organization official stepped out of the elevator into the lobby of Paris’s Le Meridien Montparnasse, a modern luxury hotel that caters to businessmen and well-heeled tourists. The PLO official was going to dinner with a friend, who was waiting by the front desk. As they pushed out the Meridien’s front door, they both noticed a man on a divan looking intently at them. It was odd enough that at dinner they called a contact in the French police. The policeman advised the PLO official to go directly back to the hotel after dinner and stay put. The police would look into it in the morning.

When the PLO official and his friend came back from dinner, the man on the divan was gone, and the Meridien’s lobby was full of Japanese tourists having coffee after a night on the town. From here the accounts differ; in one version, a taxi blocked off traffic at the end of the street that runs in front of the Meridien, apparently to hold up any police car on routine patrol. In another, the traffic on the street was light.

What is certain is that as soon as the PLO official stepped out of the passenger side of the car, two athletic men in track suits came walking down the street, fast. One of them had what looked like a gym bag. When the friend of the PLO official got out of the car to say goodbye, he noticed the two but didn’t think much of it. They looked French, but other than that it was too dark to see more.

One of the men abruptly lunged at the PLO official, pinning him down on the hood of the car. According to the PLO official’s friend, one of the men put his gym bag against the head of the PLO official and fired two quick rounds into the base of his neck, killing him instantly. There was a silencer on the weapon. The two fled down the street and disappeared into an underground garage, never to be seen again.

That was 1992. And the world of assassins has changed a lot in the intervening years.

Is that enough of a tease? This is quite a story.

The blogress here is clearly not among the sharpest knives in the drawer, so though I enjoy ideas, I’d be better off if I didn’t try to write about them. Great preamble there, no?

Dr. Sanity has connected some dots. She posits that the political left is most interested in a raw power play to get the current health care reform passed. But more than simple punditry, she claims that the fundamental difference between the liberal mind and the conservative is how they view humanity. Yeah buddy! That’s just up my alley. I truly believe its fundamentally a difference of our sets of assumptions. And if the good Dr has it right, then it’s clear (if not to you, then at least to me) that the conservatives are dealing from a better understanding of human nature and a better reading of history and the meaning of our place in it.

As for me, as for now, I’m low on sleep, and high on an irrational desire to go filler up with a fridge run. So I’ll post a pic and head to bed.

OH, bother. The photo of the heron is hiding somewhere, as is my photo processing on the simple software. I don’t care to go digging through programs to find it. GN.

Many thanks to the commentors on passing an anniversary. It’s important to mark and it’s done.

I aimed to post this photo last night, but I don’t always rarely manage to do as I aim. Today is to be a rather busy one. I’ve already been out taking photos of the church building for a new web site that is being constructed.

The new series of photos is from a swamp tour we, Tania’s, Tara’s, and I took on New Year’s Eve day. The swamp in winter is quite lovely. This scene rather sets the tone. Watery with lots of trees in winter grays. God paints with a palate we rarely stop to notice.

Mother died a year ago this Wednesday. I’m finding the clouds lifting. I’m enjoying the sense of spring coming more every day. I’m considering spending a chunk of my inheritance on a long arm quilting machine. But in her memory, I’ll copy some words from the last pages of LOMS 1941-1945.

Tribute to Mother

Mother wrote notes in her 5-year Line-a-Day books as long as she was able. They were for her information only, but she enjoyed reading them to us when she would come to visit after we were married. When eye problems left her nearly blind, she quit trying to make daily notes. Unfortunately she had also lost her hearing. Following their move to the Presbyterian Manor, she suffered a series of incapacitating strokes and became dependent upon Daddy to care for her in the unfamiliar surroundings. The woman who died on Feb. 21, 1981 had little resemblance to Mother. Her friends assured me that eventually I would be able to work past her infirmities and find the person I knew and loved, but it didn’t happen.

Following Daddy’s death on June 27, 1983, my sisters and I were offered condolences by numerous manor residents. Repeatedly we were told, “Your father was a wonderful man who devoted his life to caring for your poor invalid mother.” We assured them they were one-hundred percent wrong. Mother spent her life making Daddy’s life easy. Still I could not get beyond the woman who didn’t seem to remember me. When we cleaned out their quarters, I was given her diaries and Daddy’s journals. I brought them home, packed them away and never expected to look at them.

However our oldest granddaughter wanted to know about her mother’s childhood and mine. I told myself I would write something someday, but I was always too busy. Recuperation after heart surgery game me the time necessary for the project and I had no more excuses. I nearing the end of my handwritten document when I wanted to know how old Nita was when she severed the end of finger in the hinge side of our heavy front door. I got out Mother’s diaries and started reading to learn when that occurred. That event changed my life.

In her diaries, I found the woman I had lost years before. She has been with me in spirit as I have struggled to learn the intricacies of the computer and to produce books that would have made her proud.

Mother was very self-effacing. She never believed she had any talents and saw herself only as the person in the background who kept the household running on an even keel. She felt her job was to make it possible for Daddy to do his. The pages in my books are a testimony to the capable woman who provided a wonderful home for all of us. Mother was a remarkable woman and I found the person whose unfailing love, example and wisdom molded me.

Even though these books are formally dedicated to Tania, Marianne and Tara Castellano, in the truest sense all three volumes are dedicated to Mother. Without her diaries, they never would have been written. She lives on in these pages.

Grief was never marked or acknowledged in my family. Stern pilgrim stock all. I would say that my Grandfather’s unhealed grief for a lost son was one of the most formative tragedies in Mother’s life. The other was when her mother, not knowing her, sent her out on her last visit. “Ray,” Grandma said, “who is that woman? Send her away, I don’t like her.” That broke Mother’s heart. She worked on the Magnus Opus to the day she died trying to wend her way back on the only path she had found to heal those aches. She never complained about this, but about the current malfunction of her computer… which she wanted set up in her room the week before she died, she complained mightily!

Rest in peace, Mother. Your Father knows now your worth and you need no longer suffer by comparison to a ghost. Your Mother knows and remembers you and can comfort you. Fears have subsided. One day I’ll join a long line of strong women, and their menfolk in rest and finally resurrection. I love you.

NB My brother reports that Mother was deeply conflicted about this photo Josee took at her last Winfield. I think she prefered a more dignified formal sort of photo. But she could always turn on a megawatt grin. And we all love the photo that was her presence at her oldest granddaughter’s wedding.

Proverbs 11

1 The LORD abhors dishonest scales,
but accurate weights are his delight.

2 When pride comes, then comes disgrace,
but with humility comes wisdom.

3 The integrity of the upright guides them,
but the unfaithful are destroyed by their duplicity.

Dishonest scales… reminds me of the conflict between beliefs that trade is a zero sum game, and the contrasting belief that trade can constantly add wealth and benefit to all involved. But honest weight is required. God’s way is the one that benefits us all.

Pride, then the fall. That’s the picture of my bridge game. And I’m nothing if not an emotional instead of a logical player. But the more you know, the more you realize some of the things you know, just aren’t so. Humility… Pride, false pride reemerges very soon, or in my case this is so.

Integrity <—> Duplicity

How much are we “desensitized” by our own moral failings and rationalizations? By the perceived faults in those about us?

Is Tiger Woods’ womanizing going to make me less likely to be faithful? Is the late great apology tour going to win him back his commercial contracts? Why are we even interested in this train wreck. What says the first three verses of Proverbs to Tiger?

This is not his form of wisdom, but the beauty of the Judeo-Christian tradition is that if he truly turns to integrity, whether Elin forgives or not, God offers forgiveness.

The little temple on Avery Island

The 1000 year old Buddah within

And an explanatory plaque : This Buddha was build for the Shonfa Temple located (north?)west of Peking, by the Emperor Hwi Tsung  1101- 1158…

In other words the statue is very nearly 1000 years old.

Why do I write?

Why do I breathe? The impulse is there, and it’s tough to stop!
Why do I write?

To swat down stray bees bothering my bonnet.
Or to locate them for dissection.

Why do I write?
Someday I may have something to say. It would indeed be nice to have the pen sharpened and at the ready, should an idea come flitting by.

Why do I write?
What is the chief end of man? To Glorify God. As a shard made in His image, I can only hope to find what He intends by chasing my bees, swatting my butterflies. Any creative impulses have long been muted, if not squashed by denial. But somehow writing seems easier than actually doing creative work.

It’s not fair you know. #1 brother knew who he was…his compass was embedded and pointing to his true north from the time he could first express his will. My other brother and I are much less directed. #2 brother has found his path. He’s working hard at keeping the Air Force’s planes flying, properly repaired, and keeping Tinker AFB on track. I’ve raised my family, done what was needful so I could retire. But I still have no idea what God intended me to be. I’d say I was intended to analyze and reflect, but I’m really not that strong a thinker.

Why do I write?

Dunno. Maybe I should take up photography? Wait… that requires some work too. Sigh.

Quote of the day… source forgotten already. CREATIVITY: Giving yourself permission to make mistakes. ARTISTRY: Knowing which mistakes to toss in the can.

My artistry was all last night. Some design ideas came together. Today, I’ve just done some production work.

The structure of my days is imposed by Quentin’s school hours. No school this week. Sunday was St. Valentine’s day. (I apologize for the full throated whine here.) Monday was President’s day. I noticed when the mail truck didn’t materialize. Today is Shrove Tuesday, better known as Mardi Gras. The temps were near freezing this morning with a bright blue sky so it should have been a lovely celebration. Tara called to ask me to take photos of them for passports. I got paid for my “art” by them taking me out to eat at a little eatery here.

Carlo’s letters have said, “no one came, no one called.” Today, I did get one call. Tara called wondering if I’d accidentally picked up their debit card at the restaurant. They were at the movie theater, planning to take in Avatar, I beleive. I asked them to get in touch and let me know if they found it. (No, I didn’t pick up their debit card.) I’ve called and gotten answering machines several times.

It’s been a sewing and reading and following the stock market sort of day. None of my buy orders executed. The market went bounding upward. Probably tomorrow it’ll be down. I’m happy to have a good bit of my assets in cash with all the volatility now.

Enough piecing of fabric already! So tonight, I’ll just post photos.

First an iconic Christmas shot. This would work as a Christmas card or a gift tag, wouldn’t it? Taken Christmas morning, waiting for Tara’s to arrive.

A road trip to Avery Island after Christmas (Tabasco sause is manufactured by the McIllhenny family on Avery Island)
Our little Peppers, at the visitor’s center

Egret in the garden area

Valentine’s smaltziness I can usually ignore. But today One Cosmos had to rub my nose right in it.

If humans were not made to love, then there would be no downside to living as a self-absorbed narcissist. But since we are, failure to love results in a slow psychic death, either an arid desiccation of the heart, or an icy, almost reptilian use of others for sensory pleasure or infantile mirroring. Bereavement (for one’s own death) results if one is lucky, but by then it might be too late, as it is for the sad and haunted subject of this song.

Yesterday, the moon was blue,
And every crazy day brought something new to do,
I used my magic age as if it were a wand,
And never saw the waste and emptiness beyond

In order to grow emotionally, one must be an open system in love with other human beings. And in order to grow spiritually, one must be an open system in relation to God.

Failure in either is worse than a tragedy. It’s a cosmic blunder. And the waste of a life

Long ago I figured out that I had no interest in a reptilian use of others for sensory pleasure. So, I’ll live in hope that God’s mercy extends to relief of arid desiccation of the heart. Plenty of men are unable or unwilling to love, too damaged, too fearful. I will never again enter a relationship with a man I don’t respect. That did not turn out so well for me. I don’t imagine myself switching teams, and the male population is thinning and little interested in crones.

Anyway, most days I can trust that somewhere I’ll find some relief from the icy chill. Perhaps in trying to find what God would have me to be, and doing it. For today, I’ve had a pleasant day until I got whacked by the reminders.

Hope springs eternal. Frances found Harry. Mother found Godfrey. These are love stories worth retelling. But today, I’m in flat out pity party mode. Got one of those funny hats and a noise maker? Maybe you can join me?

N.B. It’s been a year since Mother died, and that seems to be about what it takes for me to work through grief. Inexorably slow, but that’s my emotional digestive system. Most days the sun shines brightly and I’m starting to regain some desire to live.

Proverbs 10:28 - 32
The hope of the righteous is gladness,
But the expectation of the wicked perishes.
The way of the LORD is a stronghold to the upright,
But ruin to the workers of iniquity.
The righteous will never be shaken,
But the wicked will not dwell in the land.
The mouth of the righteous flows with wisdom,
But the perverted tongue will be cut out.
The lips of the righteous bring forth what is acceptable,
But the mouth of the wicked what is perverted.

The first three seem to go together, walking the walk is rewarded; destruction to the wicked, workers injustice.

The last two focus on the tongue. Boy howdy did I do badly with my tongue this last week. And I never called and apologized either. I’d better get around to making amends.

This is totally appropriate, as we approach Shrove Tuesday, known locally as Mardi Gras.  The picture is from after we had finished the main courses of Christmas Eve dinner.  It’s not a particularly attractive table, nor a posed photo of the family, but a couple sons in law, and the remains as the table is in clearing mode.

I’m already in bed and there are 50 spam comments to delete. Howsomever, this post has been yelling in the background of my head ever since I read it.

Politics and world view alert. I find this very disturbing. Pete was telling me this ten years ago. The difference is that now I believe. I’ll fix the link in the morning should it be required. (It took me until afternoon to do the second fix… hopefully now the link points to the correct post.)