Seasons of Loss

"Life changes fast.  Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends… Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant."  ~Joan Didion

They say things come in threes, but three deaths within one year is arduous. Last May when Grandpa Crawford passed away at 96, I wrote this in my journal:

May 2014, a major stroke, Newton the first, lying in a hospital bed, unable to swallow, breaths slowing, in out, in out, body shutting down. So many advances in medicine, in technology; still, nothing to do but say goodbye. Family swarms the hospital room, surrounding him, pressing in to voice all the words bubbling up, to show him, somehow, how much his life matters, to release him with all the love he shared.

Son, daughter-in-law, grandchildren shattered, like seeing a hundreds-year-old forest gutted.

Without him, who are we?

Without him, how will we hold anything together? How will we continue to build?

Body laid to rest, but Newton the first lives on in hearts, minds, a million memories.

From him, how much we learned. 

Halfway across the country at the time, I said goodbye over the phone and mourned alone. Though expected, that death was a blow to our family; however, we knew he had lived a long, full life, and he left a legacy of land, loving kindness, hard work, gardening, positive attitude, service, and family. Life changes, and his passing brought about much change to our family and lives. For instance, my girls and I traveled to Missouri together to see family for the first time in five years that August for Crawford Camp, and I began to reevaluate everything in my life. 

Our extended family had barely begun to process this loss and adjust to the changes when we discovered that my dad, Newton Jr. had lung cancer and was suddenly on hospice. Although we had known his health was declining from being a heavy smoker for forty plus years, we had no idea that things would take such a dramatic turn for the worst. I decided to return to the family farm for the winter holidays and for a semester. Although we weren’t ready when Dad passed away on January 4^th, at least we had a chance to heal any wounds, tell him in person what he meant to our lives, and say goodbye.

It was difficult. Once again, we were grieving and processing and reexamining our lives. Once again, our lives had changed, including our roles in the family circle. Additionally, he was the most intelligent man that I had ever met, and it was hard to imagine such a brilliant mind and creative spirit lost to us and this world. Nevertheless, we trudged onward, doing what we could, some of us handling it better than others, all of us trying to help each other through it.

In The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion quotes from a letter a friend wrote saying, “The death of a parent, he wrote, ‘despite our preparation, indeed, despite our age, dislodges things deep in us, sets off reactions that surprise us and that may cut free memories and feelings that we had thought gone to ground long ago. We might, in that indeterminate period they call mourning, be in a submarine, silent on the ocean's bed, aware of the depth charges, now near and now far, buffeting us with recollections’."

Just a few months later, we were still in the middle of dismantling my dad’s collections and belongings, still in the middle of mending our hearts and rebuilding our lives when we received word that our mother’s youngest brother David died unexpectedly.

This time, there were no goodbyes. No last words. No sharing of how much he touched our lives. This time, he was simply gone, and we are eviscerated.

On Tuesday, April 28^th, I was in the middle of grading the first of ten essays that I had been putting off when the phone rang and Mom told me the news. I screamed NO and have continued that silent scream inside. My whole world stopped, and all I could do was wail and write. After I posted David’s eulogy, I forced myself to finish grading the papers about Faulkner’s A Rose for Emily before we drove to Uncle David’s house where I slept in his bed with his three dogs, Harley, O. B. (Otter Bear), and Lucky. Harley and O. B. are large dogs with completely different personalities, Harley frisky and friendly with O. B., David’s silent shadow, sensitive and scared. Lucky is a small terrier mix that had joined David’s pack along the way. These dogs had been spoiled by David, and they lamented with us. Already, his home, without him in it, felt empty, hollow, and we struggled with seeing his shoes and clothes he would no longer wear, his uneaten food, and the games he would no longer play with us.

I had the most difficulty with this funeral, partly because of three in a row and partly because it didn’t look like him in the casket and also because of how close I was to him. And I think many family members can relate.

The relatives who spoke at the funeral ended up sharing a common theme: that David had a hospitable, kind, and generous heart, that he was creative, talented, and brilliant, and that we honor him by continuing his heritage. My mom said that God gave her brother a special spirit of love, and that is so true. David had a heart that blessed others. 

And the last song at the funeral, “Wind Beneath My Wings” by Bette Midler, was beautiful and perfect for many reasons, and the lyrics spoke to our hearts:

Did you ever know that you're my hero
And everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle
For you are the wind beneath my wings

It might have appeared to go unnoticed
But I've got it all here in my heart
I want you to know, I know the truth, of course
I know it
I would be nothing without you

After the graveside visit, a local church prepared a lunch for our extended family. Then, we returned to David’s home to clean and pack. One of the last things UD did was prepare two decks of cards per family so that we would be ready to play Dragon Joust, the game he invented. Always, he was thinking of others.

That evening, back in Texas County, we watched Laina perform in the Cinderella ballet, and it was both good and hard to have a positive focus that evening.

Lexi had flown up for the funeral and was staying with us for a few days, so we went to church with my mom on Sunday morning. As part of the preacher’s message, he repeatedly mentioned the will of God, and tears coursed down my cheeks because I cannot believe that it’s God’s will to take UD so soon. A third time within a year that we have lost such a kindhearted, original, and clever man, and as we are left with even more to adjust to and process, we wonder how we will go on and who will remember the family stories of old and the fundamentals of the English language. The only way that I can understand this is that we live in a broken world and sometimes bad things happen; it doesn’t necessarily mean that it IS God’s will; however, God WILL work good from it and already is.

I am reminded of what UD used to tell me when I asked what path I should take when I faced a choice. He would say, “Wherever you go, there God is.” So, whether or not people want to view it at God’s will (and I don’t), God IS here and will bring good out of this loss. This I believe.

Now that it’s the next week and back to regular programing, it feels like the funeral ceremony was rushed. It’s over, and we’re supposed to be okay now and supposed to “move on,” but I’m not ready.

Joan Didion also wrote, ““We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy…”

Still, we are eviscerated.

I feel like the world is muted, dimmed, and I am weighted down with sadness, sick to my stomach that such a sweet soul, gifted mind, and creative man is gone, and constantly on the verge of breaking down. My head aches, and my chest is heavy. And the thought of facing the future hurts my heart and all I can do is mindlessly play Candy Crush, clicking on colored blocks to demolish them until I reach a prescribed goal, nothing that I have to choose or care about.

Joan Didion wrote, “Visible mourning reminds us of death, which is construed as unnatural, a failure to manage the situation. ‘A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty,’ Philippe Ariès wrote to the point of this aversion in Western Attitudes toward Death. ‘But one no longer has the right to say so aloud’.” 

Now it’s time, society tells us, to resume “normal life,” except our normal life is gone because that life included the ability to pick up the phone at any time and call UD. It included uploading photos to Facebook that I knew my uncle would love and that he would save on his computer for our yearly family calendar. It included family events like our annual Crawford Camp where UD would join us as well as the possibility that he would publish his plays, that he would see Lexi dance professionally, that he would celebrate with me when I find a full-time job. It included my daughters and nieces able to look forward to UD arranging the flowers for their weddings one day. It included hour-long phone conversations about lesson plans or life and movie marathons of Broadway musicals or old movies like Bringing Up Baby or Court Jester. It included Bridge tournaments with UD always rushing straight to three no trump and Scrabble games where he played all seven letters for a Bingo. It included David having a chance to read a new book and watch the recent movie, The Last Five Years. It included a future with UD in it.

I perceive all the things he left undone, and I am paralyzed.

So many things in the course of a day remind us of UD. Every time we glance at the family calendars around the house. Whenever I take a photo that I know he would have loved. Every time we reach for the phone to tell him about something or to ask for his advice. Whenever we plan the upcoming family gatherings, even ones like my nephew’s graduation from high school this weekend. Every time I start to send him an email to share my writing. Whenever we look at our parents who have lost their younger brother and can’t imagine how they endure it.

Ultimately, we all appreciated David, but I don’t think we realized what a huge part of our lives he was.

So “moving on” includes more than picking up where we left off when we got the phone call that shattered our world last Tuesday. It means picking up the pieces of our broken world and being strong enough to reshape them into something new. Yes, it can be good, but it will be different and it will be without him. And that hurts. And that will take time to process and reconcile. It will take time to heal.

In the meantime, we need to be there for each other like he was for us. This heartbreak is a reminder to enjoy our moments and each other, to tell our loved ones how much they matter and how glad we are to share our lives with them. It is a reminder to laugh and love more, to put down the screens and connect.

The past two days with family and friends have been full.

And maybe it seems like I'm being repetitive, belaboring the point, but the fact is that I am still in shock and disbelief. I am still mourning. I don't want it to be true, and I have to process this. To make matters worse, UD IS the one who I would normally turn to when processing something of this magnitude in my life.

I have, perhaps, been guilty in the past of lack of compassion and empathy towards a grief-stricken person, if only to wonder how and why. Now I know. I am reminded of Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem, “Kindness”:

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

I know that I have to “move on” and that good will come from this and that I WILL be okay. I know that UD would want that for us. I know in my head and heart that UD would want us to "move on" and to “live and love as hard as you know how and make this moment last," but it still FEELS wrong. He won’t hear about this hurt or that birth. We are making new memories, which is good, but we are making new memories without him, and this hurts. It feels wrong. Like I should feel remorse for laughing so hard when playing Spades with Sonny, Sarah, Lexi, and Laina during the past two days. Guilt for enjoying the sunshine with my family, the long country drive with my mom, and the BBQ dinner that Jill, Sarah, and Christin prepared for us Sunday night. Repentance for posting photos on Facebook that UD can no longer see. 

I know it doesn't make sense, and I know he wouldn't want me to feel that way and that he would help me through it. But, it doesn't change HOW it feels.

At the same time, those moments with my family, friends, and loved ones over the past two days have brought some healing with the laughter. Lucky has a new home with Jill’s family, and it was bittersweet to snap photos of Lucky with his new pack. I still feel ill. I still want to weep. My heart still hurts. But I am loving and living. The Broadway song “Seasons of Love” from Rent discusses measuring our “five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes” each year by moments of love, and UD mastered that. We will “remember the love,” always.

Grandpa Crawford, Dad, and Uncle David all taught us so much. Part of our healing will come by carrying on their lessons, love, values, and traditions. Part of it will come with time, and another part through our connection to each other. However, we need to be allowed to get there in our own way and time. Finally, Joan Didion wrote about the death of her spouse that “There was a level on which I believed that what had happened remained reversible.” It’s okay that we are not yet ready to let go, that we are still devastated, inconsolable. There are seasons of loss that shape us. In the end, we choose how, though to build something meaningful takes work, and to do something well, which is what UD taught us, we must give all that we are and not settle for less. However, in the midst of loss and after, we can remember to see and embrace love. 

A LIFE WELL LIVED: David Lee Cunningham

I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you.
…So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you.
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart….
Because I knew you...
I have been changed for good.

(From “For Good” in Wicked)

          In 1954, Dwight D. Eisenhower was president. America was experiencing economic growth as well as unrest. The American public enjoyed the first color broadcast of the World Series and the first episode of NBC’s “The Tonight Show.” It was the year of Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock,” Hitchcock’s Rear Window, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, White Christmas, Lord of the Rings, Lord of the Flies, Marilyn Monroe’s marriage to Joe DiMaggio, and Elvis Presley. That year also saw the first mass vaccination of children against polio as well as Brown v Board of Education, which made segregation in US public schools unconstitutional. Along with the boom came the scare of communism and the threat of nuclear war. In the midst of the chaos and prosperity, David Lee Cunningham was born on March 15 in El Dorado, Kansas, to Robert Bruce Cunningham and Bonnie Jean Volesky. David grew up on the family farm with two siblings, Barbara Ann who was the oldest and Robert the II aka Bob, but David was the baby of the family. 

His mother was part Bohemian and part German. Her ancestors migrated to Kansas in the latter part of the seventeenth-century for land and opportunities unavailable in the Old Country. First and second generation homesteaders, they bought land cheaply when America expanded in the “go West” mentality. His father’s clan originated from Scotland and fought in the American Revolution, starting a longstanding family trend of military service. Grandma Bonnie often joked that the difference between her family, the Volesky’s, and her husband’s, the Cunninghams, was that if it looked like rain, the Cunninghams would pull the farm equipment into the barn to oil the gears and sharpen the blades, while the Voleskys would jump into the wagon and hurry to town for the Friday night dance before the roads muddied. But in truth, both families had a devotion to hard work, learning, farming, and the importance of serving one's family, community, church, country, and they passed all of these down to David and his siblings.

The family later moved to Missouri, and David graduated from Clinton High School as valedictorian of his class. He went on to study theater at UMKC and received reviews via letters from his mother who referenced herself by signing Bea A. Critic. When he returned home to the Midwest to visit and stage manage at a local dinner theater, she wrote reviews that the Kansas City Star published. After graduation, David decided to follow his dreams of being on Broadway and gravitated to New York City where he found acceptance and community. His stage name was David Cane, and he acted in plays like Samuel Beckett’s Endgame.

Eventually, David became a stage manager on Broadway and worked at Palace Theater on Crimes of the Heart as well as with Linda Haverman on La Cage Aux Folles Musical. Furthermore, he often worked behind the scenes, helping actors and actresses as well as his own nieces and nephews interpret and understand scripts and songs or helping them search for and find the perfect audition piece. For instance, he coached Bradley Whitford who later starred in the TV hit series West Wing.

David went on to earn a Masters of Clinical Psychology at Columbia College in New York City, and he even completed the required courses for his doctorate degree in clinical psychology at Syracuse University. For a short time, he was a counselor, but he decided to move in another direction. He was vice president of Pearson Communications in New York City as well as Communications Director of Information Systems Technology.

During that time, he rented an apartment on 85^th street in West Manhattan near Central Park where he walked his big, loveable dogs every day.

After living away from the family for twenty-five years, David retired from his job and moved back to Missouri. With him, he brought his German Shepherd-Chow Lola and some pressed autumn leaves from Central Park. His varied professions, adventures, and education served him well for the last phase of his life, the time where he was available for everyone in the family. He bought a house on a plot of land fertile with tall cedars and scenic meadows and on Highway 13, almost halfway between Bob’s family farm in Higginsville and the city of Warrensburg, rescued some mix breed dogs, and began hosting family events. He could have won the best host of the year award, and everyone took advantage of his pampering to eat the delicious ham, tomato, and green pepper omelets that he made to order for breakfast and to enjoy pasta parties or grilled dinners. Often, the celebrations lasted all

weekend with plenty of time for playing bridge tournaments, Scrabble, or various games such as the Broadway board and Dragon Joust card games he created. Through it all, laughter and squeals echoed throughout the walls of his home. His place was where we congregated after the fun and work of Apple Butter Day, for birthday parties, and just because.

In the introduction to my thesis for my MFA program, I wrote, “Special thanks to my Uncle David for inviting me to his home, sacrificing his time and reading through the manuscript with me on numerous occasions. Those hours spent at his country house amidst the backdrop of the tall, old cedar grove away from my daily life and duties allowed me to focus on this thesis. From our conversations, my exhaustive notes, and the valuable input and guidance of my writing instructors, I added and cut scenes, reworked passages, revised exposition and organized the essays. The entire process gave me further insight into my own life; it was like collecting quilt squares of differing textures, colors, and sizes and weaving them into a beautiful tapestry. Thank you, Uncle David.” I am positive that each individual in our enormous family has a similar story of appreciation and love for this special person.

In March, he once again hosted his 61^st birthday party, and we stayed up late on the 14^th, playing bridge and laughing until after midnight to bring in his new year. Although his year was tragically cut short, I’m grateful for that memory together and for all the others like it.

A tall man with an infectious, hearty chuckle, David was not only educated, intelligent, insightful, artistic, and talented, but he was also tremendously creative, highly knowledgeable, and extremely generous. Over the years, he drew plans for houses, bookshelves, and jungle gyms that he also often helped build. Several years ago, my daughter was a budding gymnast, so he constructed and helped build uneven bars in our backyard for her tenth birthday. Every December, he put together a family calendar for the Crawfords and Cunninghams and later also for the Johnson, Gaines, and Adams families. He collected, typed, and printed recipes so we could each have a family cookbook. He played online video games with his nephews. He wrote plays and critiqued our writing.

He created the flower arrangements for all of our weddings. Daily, he fed the birds and hummingbirds on his land. He was even active in the Johnson County Adult Literacy Program. So many things, so many times, he helped his 17 nieces and nephews, 30 great-nieces and nephews, his community, and even many animals. 

And he was there, every day, every time, when we needed someone to talk to on the phone. He was loving and good at listening, and he facilitated us with processing all the trials and mysteries that life threw at us. Now, I don’t know how we are going to process a world without him in it.

Thich Nhat Than said, “If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people.” So I will look to see Uncle David in the wit of one relative and the heart of another. 

UD, you are literally one of the best people I have ever known. We love you. We cherish you. We will miss you. You will be in our hearts and memories forever.

David Lee Cunningham has left the world a better place because he was here, because he shared so much with so many, and because he knew how to live and love. In the words of one of his favorite Broadway musicals, La Cage Aux Folles:

Because the best of times is now,
Is now, is now.
Now, not some forgotten yesterday.
Now, tomorrow is too far away.
So hold this moment fast,
And live and love
As hard as you know how.
And make this moment last,
Because the best of times is now,
Is now, is now. 

David is a beloved brother, a treasured uncle, and a unique and gifted man. We are so blessed to have known him.

Steve Maraboli said, “I am always saddened by the death of a good person. It is from this sadness that a feeling of gratitude emerges. I feel honored to have known them and blessed that their passing serves as a reminder to me that my time on this beautiful earth is limited and that I should seize the opportunity I have to forgive, share, explore, and love. I can think of no greater way to honor the deceased than to live this way.” 

I encourage each person who hears or reads this to be kind, to use your gifts, and “live and love as hard as you know how and make this moment last.” We honor David and all that he did and all that he taught us by passing it along. Goodbye, our much-loved Uncle David. 

*********************************

We want to celebrate David, his life, and the ways that he moved us, so if friends or family have a memory and/or photo that you want to share, feel free to email it to me to add to this blog or any of you can add your memory in the comments below. 

Remembering UD

Amanda: I am so glad that we were able to visit UD last weekend. When he found out we were coming, he emailed me ahead of time and asked what snacks, drinks, and food we would like to eat while at his house. When we arrived he showed us the new game he created: Dragon Quest. Both Brett and Cale loved it, but particularly Cale who declared it his new favorite game and played the entire time we were there. I know the boys will always remember this last weekend with UD. As we were leaving, he said he was so glad we were able to come and wished we could stay longer. As we walked out the door, we all said "I love you" and hugged him. I am so thankful that we had this last visit, and I will not forget it or the many others that we shared. I will never play Scrabble, eat an omelet, or look at a family calendar without thinking of UD. We all loved him very much and will miss him always.

Jill: So many memories of such an amazing man. After his knee surgery, I stayed with him for a few days to help out. He sent me on a grocery trip with a list of what he needed, and when I arrived at the store, I realized that the list was in perfect order of where the items were located. He even had notes that told me to turn down this aisle or that to find what I needed. His memory astounded me. I helped him with the calendar every single year as well as spent hours editing the cookbook. We always had great laughs in our delirious state of tiredness in the wee hours of the night. At the end of our projects, we always had to bind them with a spiral plastic that you twist through the holes in the paper. We “never raced,” but he always ended up furiously twisting, finishing first, and then stating, "It wasn't a race!" with a little bit of gloat in his smile. I remember spending hours on the phone discussing the wonderful world of Harry Potter, planning my wedding, or just getting advice for this or that. His omelettes were the best, his hospitality was incomparable, and his counsel was irreplaceable. I have learned so much from this amazing man who always seemed to have expertise in every area. His wisdom, wit, and servant's heart are things that I will treasure in my memory forever.

Rachel: At Crawford Camp one hot summer day, we were all preparing lunch, but we couldn’t open the huge jar of artichokes. We had already opened the jar of dill pickles (in our family, you’ve got to have pickles) and everyone had tried to open the stubborn jar of artichokes. I tried. Sarah tried. Jill tried. Sarah and Jill tried together. Adam tried. Jill and Adam tried together. Uncle Bob tried. Sarah, Jill, Adam, and Uncle Bob all tried at the same time, but nothing worked! It wouldn’t open! Frustrated, we all walked away. A few moments later, UD walked up and popped open the lid on his first try! Uncle Bob said that we’d loosened it up for him, and we all laughed for days. 

That Moment

          When your foundation is shaken and nothing will ever be the same. When grief reaches in and stretches you, tears you up both inside and out, and all you can see is heartbreak. When you hurt for yourself and just as much for the rest of your family. When you see how frail and precious each person in your life is. When all you can write are fragments, bits and pieces of thought, strung together, half incoherent because all you can do is wail. When you shout NO, NO, NO! It can’t be true. But no matter what you do, what you pray, what you wish, the fact cannot be unheard. Forever, it will reside in the deepest parts of your soul and you will never be the same.

          He’s my person. And now he’s gone. I can’t. I just can’t.

Never again. All of the small details that you can never do again. Never again call and talk to the person who has always been there for you, the person who has known you since you were growing inside a womb, the person who gets you and loves you unconditionally. Never again stay the night at his house and play games, Scrabble or bridge or the Broadway game he created, until late in the night, laughing so hard at nothing at all, and then wake up to the smell of UD’s cooking. Omelets, made to perfection and prepared specially for each person. Never again brainstorm life, writing, lesson plans, anything and everything. Never again take a photo of him. And the new camera, bought during spring break, will never snap a picture of Uncle David. Never again ask for his advice or give him a hug. Never again talk music and movies to the person who always knew what you meant, even if no one else understood.

I don’t even… I don’t know how to do this.

He was my person. And he was that person to so many of us.

Someday, maybe, all the tears, shakes, screams will be gone. For now, we are left with raw throats, puffy eyes, and so many questions. For now, we are in shock, numb.

Today, we planted a tree for Grandpa Crawford, lost last May, and one for Dad, lost in January. Tomorrow, or soon, we will plant a tree for Uncle David. Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day or the next year, we will breathe again.

~Written in loving memory of Uncle David who was so much to so many. 

God's Country

“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m breathless with awe at the springtime beauty of the Missouri Ozarks as I drive along the winding country roads. Every time, the visual feast startles me, shakes the foundation of my life, digs deep. I am rooted.

I glimpse golden fields against the fresh green of the rolling hills, the flash of sunlight hitting the pond, and brown or black cows meander, stopping for a bite of the spring bounty or a sip of water. I wonder if we should envy their simple lives with nothing to do but “drink the wild air” and commune with each other, with nature. 

I drive over a rippling river that is fed by a crystal cold spring. Below, a child searches for skipping rocks, flat and smooth enough to make all the way across the river. A box turtle, just up from its hibernation hole and covered in mud, approaches the road, and a fox nurses her newborn cubs in their den.

100-year-old Evergreens line the road, but in the woods, a man hunts for morel mushrooms. Look under the Ash trees. Starting at the riverbed, he climbs a hill that is covered with Oak, Walnut, and Elm trees, old and young, just budding. He steps over fallen limbs, slides on moss-covered rocks, passes between Tarzan-vines, and pushes through thickets. Sticker bushes grab his clothes and skin, leaving scratches, and a brief shock of fear slams into him as a black snake slithers by; however, as he spies the spongy brown top of the morel, he forgets every pain and knows only the joy of the present moment.

A farmer steers his John Deer tractor through the open gate. Every evening, he fishes for perch and catfish with huge nightcrawlers he digs out of the ground. In a hidden corner of the red barn that is filled with bales of alfalfa hay, a cat delivers her kittens safe from the barking dogs.

Behind a farmhouse, a woman hangs clothes on the line to dry while she plants the garden. The freshly tilled dirt tamed by a hoe, shovel, and strong will. Two rows of new potatoes, corn, and onions. A row of carrots, radishes, kohlrabi, peas, lettuce, and spinach. She wipes the sweat from her brow, leaving steaks of dirt. Any morning now, the asparagus will be up. She can already taste it. Children run, coatless and barefoot, on the freshly mown green grass. One climbs the fence to chase wild turkeys and tumbles over the dogs lapping at his feet. Another picks young “helicopters” off of the Maple tree and throws them in the air. The woman hollers at the teens jumping on the trampoline: Gather the eggs. Pick up the yard.

On the side of the road, an armadillo lies on its back, feet in the air, playing dead next to some roadkill. All along the road, huge buzzards peck at squirrels, opossum, an occasional deer as hawks, eagles, and owls soar over the hills and around the church steeples.

A splash of color catches my eye. The purples, reds, and yellows of the wildflowers and the pink of the redbuds as well as white of the cherry blossoms bring promise of happiness.

I drive to the top of a steep hill where I can see for miles. Hills and forests meet white-silver clouds, the blue of the sky so clear that tears run down my cheeks, unbidden. Here in the Missouri Ozarks, earth touches heaven and is reborn. 

          The earth sings, Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! And as I drive, I find that I am weeping with perpetual astonishment at this thing called life. 

Corybantic Enervation*

God sidetracked by damn internet. And on Lent, too.

All those lost souls searching, crying out for help. For His strength.
40 days is forever. Hell, day one is an eternity all its own.
Ohhhh, look at that recipe for Southern Strawberry Shortcake on Pinterest. Gotta try it.
Shit. Today’s Ash Wednesday.
Day One: No sugar. No grains.
What the hell was I thinking?
No Facebook for some, but God’s updating His cover photo
while some student, “idiot” as Chris would say, texts while skateboarding on campus,
crashing into another student, a tangle of falling limbs and bodies. Bruised. Bloody.
Maybe the guardian angels are all on MySpace. Took it over when humanity abandoned it.
The teens transferred to Instagram. All image, less words, less connection, less thinking.
Sounds like my student essays minus the images, the imagination;
I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve written “lack of depth, details, drive”
in the past few years. “I wanna be a billionaire, so freaking bad.”
Loving my new smart phone and all the cool apps.
Gross! Why the hell do people post pictures of broken bones, open wounds, swollen feet?
Maybe posting is prayer in the 21^st century. Government, God watching over us.
Never alone. Yet always lonely.
Ping. Jessica already has roast simmering in the crock pot for tonight’s meal.
Wish I’d have thought of that. Hmmm…what to cook for dinner.
Wow! Beautiful picture of the beach—blue skies, blue-green waves, roaring against sand—
definitely not like those crazy superstorm waves that obliterated buildings, land, people.

Emerson, I think we've forgotten how to

"Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air." Or perhaps it’s too dangerous now.

Franklin cautioned us against trading our liberty for security,
but he never watched an airplane fly into the twin towers—
collapsing skyscrapers, crumbling faith of a nation—
or imagined bodies dropping down 100 stories on American soil
or dreamed of mass school shootings.
Do we deserve to sacrifice both freedom and safety, Mr. Franklin?
Maybe that’s why we rush to the doctor, begging for more, pleading for pills—
pills for our sleep and for our kids, pills for our anxiety, pills for perfection or peace—
rather than fall on our knees for answers, for hope, rather than sacrifice this for that.
Another crazy gunman. My daughter’s school locked down. Third bomb threat on news this week.
I wonder if God would accept my friend request. Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret.
The world is at my fingertips; everything only a quick touch away, and yet. And yet. And yet.
Nostalgic for a past that I don’t know, for a time I have not met—a time where food was food and chemicals were poison and books were books and options were not numerous.
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I will meet you there.” Rumi
Cyberspace is so happening. Never shuts down, never stops, always running, always, always.
Oops. Class starts in ten minutes. Gotta run.

 

Written on March 5, 2014

 

*Corybantic: frenzied; agitated; unrestrained.

*Enervation: to deprive of force or strength; destroy the vigor of; weaken. Synonyms: enfeeble, debilitate, sap, exhaust.