Some Words About Color

Right now the tangelos, satsumas and lemons on the fruit trees in our backyard are ripe and beautiful, golden hued citrus baubles with every glance out the window, providing visual warmth as winter sets in, and yet another example of how God provides natural gifts for what we need during the season we need it most. The color in my landscape brought to mind a post I wrote years ago in response to a writing prompt.

A photo from the Daily Post.

The photograph: a wall of color in the sunshine, the building unknown, someplace in Texas or Mexico, maybe. A painted man in a painted window, ribbons of color flowing from his two dimensional hands. The photo, captioned “Creativity” was the one that drew me in. Why was I drawn to this photo?

Maybe it’s because, like the painted man, I don’t have a “favorite” color. There was a favorite aqua refrigerator, once, from the house I lived in with my college roommates on Ross Boulevard in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. A favorite bright blue radiator that warmed my apartment on W. 107th in Manhattan. A favorite orange sorority t-shirt now long gone, that I only wore because my boyfriend at the time hated it. It’s so…orange, he would say. There were favorite photos taken for a photography class assignment of crimson tulips shot in macro, and a street portrait I took of a stranger carrying a hot pink umbrella.

Maybe I’m drawn to this photograph because its bright mural reminds me of the colors of my travels, of the photos never snapped with my camera that are tucked away in my mind: pieces of orange rind scattered on the concrete outside the Tate Modern on a cloudy day in London, a splash of yellow flowers being carried along a crowded sidewalk in Paris, the bright red poppies of Tuscany, a soft pink sky at dawn outlining sleepy fishing boats off the coast of Barcelona as our plane prepared for landing, or the way the sunlight illuminated the yellow stripes of tropical fish during a snorkeling trip in Mexico. Just last night I read through an old travel journal, written when I was eighteen during a road trip from Alabama to California with my parents, and came across an entry written from the backseat, in the desert of Arizona, where I wrote that I missed the pale green grass and pink flowers we had seen scattered along interstate 10 in eastern Texas. I had forgotten that, of course. Kind of amazing to me now, when I consider that my wedding china pattern is a band of pale green etched with a delicate pink flower or two.

Isn’t it funny, then, that for a long time, I didn’t even consider myself a fan of color? Tasteful was, for me, a Holly Golightly black shift dress or something J Crew in an unobtrusive shade. Maybe that’s why my mother was surprised and disappointed when I showed her all of the bridal bouquets I’d pinned to my inspiration board on The Knot.com. Lots of yellows and oranges and some greens, when she’d pictured lots of creamy white petals and baby’s breath. Planning a wedding in less than three months, I hadn’t had time to think before hand about what color my flowers “should be”. I was just pinning pictures of what I liked.

Ms. Judi, who baked our wedding cake, was the one who shed some light on the subject. When we went to meet her, I had no idea what kind of cake I wanted. My future husband and I sat looking through pages and pages of beautiful cakes and she told me to point out the ones that spoke to me. It was overwhelming at first, not as easy as I had thought. But the first thing I said was “I don’t want a white cake. More like a creamy yellow.” I have no idea where those words came from, only that they excited Ms. Judi, who said as much as she loves her job, she gets tired of making white cakes.

I pointed out pictures that spoke to me, mostly cakes with fresh flowers and some with bands of ribbon around them. Finally, Ms. Judi turned to my future husband and said “This girl LOVES color.”

It felt good to hear. Finally I gave myself permission! To embrace yellow for my bridesmaid’s dress, to place an order for a bridal bouquet of yellow freesias, coral roses and pale green hydrangea, to register for a china pattern that was anything but classic. Our cake was decorated with creamy yellow buttercream frosting topped with fresh flowers matching my bouquet and trimmed with pale yellow ribbon. And it was delicious.

I should have known my husband was “the one” the day he texted me a picture he’d taken on his smartphone, about a month after we met. The picture was a rainbow and the text read “saw this today and thought you might like it.” He already knew I was a girl who loved color, and he’s been coloring my world ever since.

Veterans Day

Veteran’s day.  Daddy is buried in the Garden of Honor at the cemetery.  The folded flag that draped his coffin is on the living room shelf.  Local veterans organizations put up flags throughout the cemetery grounds. Someone will place a penny on the plaque marking his grave to show that they came and paid their respects to a fellow veteran.  The plaque says he was a dedicated husband and father and recipient of a Vietnam Service Medal.  I have always been proud of my dad’s service.  Proud to be the daughter of a Vietnam Veteran.  

Mom found his dog tags a couple of weeks ago.  I hadn’t touched them in decades.  Presbyterian it said.  He converted to Catholicism when I was in elementary school.  At his funeral the flag was removed and I placed a white pall over his casket.  A sign of his baptism and Christian dignity.  

At the cemetery, three rifle shots, taps played, the flag folded with care.  Thank you to all our veterans, and those who honor them.

Letter to My Goddaughter on her Confirmation Day

Your confirmation day is here!  You are now a full adult member of the church that was started by Jesus Himself and you have received the gifts of the Holy Spirit, the same spirit that overshadowed the Virgin Mary when she conceived our Lord, the same Spirit that appeared as tongues of fire over the apostles at Pentecost, the same Spirit that changes bread into the body of Christ at every mass.  So this is a beautiful thing for you and I am glad I could be at your confirmation.

Isn’t it interesting that the word “inspired” comes from the word spirit?   I have been inspired recently by another Elisabeth, who not only spelled her name differently than you but who lived long ago. The book about her is called The Secret Diary of Elisabeth Leseur: The Woman whose Goodness Turned her Husband from Atheist to Priest. She and her husband Felix lived in France in the early 1900’s.  Elisabeth died in 1914 and her cause for canonization is underway.  Her book is beautiful, meant to be digested in little bits, (it took me seven months to read! Mostly I would read a little bit on Sundays as part of my “spiritual reading.).  One thing she did was write letters to her nieces and nephews and godchildren at the time of their first communion, confirmation, etc.  So I was inspired to write a letter to you.

Elisabeth LeSeur had some beautiful things to say about what it means to be a Catholic and about Christian womanhood.  So from one Elisabeth to another, across the decades, here are her thoughts and feelings about our Catholic faith and liturgy:

“Catholic Liturgy has a great charm for me; I love to live, in the course of a year, the great collective life of the Church, uniting  myself with its joys and sorrows, joining my feeble prayers, my weak voice with its powerful voice.  It is sweet to me to go through the liturgical cycle, reliving our Savior’s life, from his Incarnation to His death and Ascension; through the mouths of prophets, fathers and saints of all ages to tell Him my faith and my love; to adore Him in company with those who have adored Him through through the centuries; to offer myself to Him with shepherds, disciples and martyrs, with souls of all times; to feel myself a living cell in the great Catholic union; and to come, after so many others, and before so many who will follow me, with my homage to the Infant God, the suffering Christ, the risen Lord.”

One thing I love about that is it makes me think of all the people in our family who have come before us and passed down this great gift of faith, especially Tee Dee and Paw Paw, Grammy and Grampy (Grampy, who took your mom and me to mass on Sundays at Perdido, we couldn’t get out of it and all we wanted to do was go swimming but I am so thankful for it now), and of course your grandmommy Linda and your mom, my sweet cousin.  We have this great gift of being able to go to mass and receive Jesus and be as close to heaven as we will ever get on this earth.  Because of their faith and love and care for our souls. And I pray that you will pass it on your to your own children and grandchildren.  

As you know, I pray for you daily. I pray for your safety and protection and that God always keeps you close to Him.  And I pray that you will grow in faith and in your prayer life.  Remember that your prayers are the most powerful during the consecration of the bread and wine at mass because you are kneeling at the foot of the cross at that moment.  How awesome is that?

I love you very much and I hope you have an amazing rest of 11th grade!  Looking forward to all the good things coming your way!

Love,

Your Godmother

Something Is Missing

Wednesday afternoon I witnessed two big  fights at my school.  Administrators and our school resource officer sprang into action quickly and no one was seriously injured but it was scary and disturbing and cast a pall over the rest of the week.  I don’t know the students involved or what caused the fights.  The only thing I know is that something must be missing in the lives of those young people.  It’s disheartening.

Wednesday night our local independent bookstore was hosting an author event and I went.  The author’s latest book is on my “Want to Read” list on Goodreads.  He mentioned that his father was an English teacher and that is where he got his love of books and reading and writing. When I went up to get my copy signed I told him I enjoyed not only the excerpts he read aloud, but the way he read them.  He thanked me, then smiled and said “My father was not only an English teacher, he also was a speech teacher and helped me learn the skills to speak and read to a crowd.”  No doubt that is true.  A lovely testament to a man most of the world will never know but who passed on something beautiful to his son who shares his gifts with the rest of us.

Friday night my husband’s high school had a ceremony to honor the man who had been principal and coach back in the 80’s. So many people turned out for this man. They all love him and talk about how he was a hands-on principal, who walked the halls and connected with students and to this day remembers all of their names.  Not only that, he  demanded they do what was right.. His influence is  immeasurable:  two sons became educators themselves and countless others were inspired to “do what was right”.  I know he was a father figure to my husband whose dad left when he was in 3rd grade.  The crowd on Friday night was there because they wanted to do something to honor their coach, their teacher, their mentor and father figure.

Saturday I finally finished “Without a Paddle” by Warren Richey, his account of paddling by sea kayak around the entire state of Florida as part of a race called The Florida Challenge.

Throughout the voyage, he often thought of his son, Jason, following the journey on his computer at school, telling friends “that’s my dad.”    His dad, who completed the Florida Challenge in 19 days, 6 hours and 48 minutes and wrote a book about it in order to tell the world the secret he learned: “It’s not about the glory of winning (although he did win).  It’s about something more.  Humility, not strength.  Submission, not force of will. Listening for those voices.That was a secret it took me 50 years and 1200 miles to discover.  That’s what I’m chasing out there on the water – the possibility that if I push harder and faster and longer, I might get a glimpse of something real, something eternal.”

Something.

 Something is missing with so many of our young people today.

Lightness

I don’t think it can be said too many times that teaching in a public school is hard. There is no tired like teacher tired. And yet, those small, ordinary moments of wonder that happen after a struggle, when you see growth in a student, or when you get a glimpse of who they might be one day and it makes you smile to be a witness to it -that makes it all okay, that makes it something to be thankful for.

There were a lot of those moments, this past week – and a positive note home written in purple ink for a 10th grader. I found myself just feeling thankful. Thankful for the people in my life and for people I’ve never met – including the parents of my students, and the writer of one of the books I’m currently reading whose spiritual message is reaching me more than a century after her death, and so many of you out there on Word Press and Substack who are writing such great and inspiring things and contributing to the overall well-being of humanity 🙂

A recent post in one of my favorite blogs “Spinning Visions” proclaimed that “caring is cool.” Would that we could make those words into a million coffee mugs or bumper stickers. It’s why I wrote that note home, because that particular student, rather than trying to be cool, cared about doing his very best. Caring is cool!

On Substack, Laura Kelly Fanucci’s latest post is called “We Are Stars Unaware.” She says the best we can do is a shine a light for each other, to be sources of light for each other. And isn’t that what we were made for? I like to think I can be a source of light for my students but they are also a source of light for me.

And there is beauty in the struggle of living this modern busy life, there is beauty in overcoming adversity because in the end, maybe it makes me a little bit better of a teacher, better wife, better friend. My husband is someone whose light can allow me to see myself as I really am, including my weaknesses and failings but also as someone who is loved.

So thank you to all of you who write and who care and who go to work and try your best and love others. Keep doing what you are doing. You are someone’s light.

Without a Paddle

An update on my current stack of books, to which I’ve barely made a dent. Currently on page 189 of Without a Paddle by Warren Richey, his account of paddling around the state of Florida by sea kayak. He is on the east coast of Florida now, a part of the state I don’t have any experience in apart from being a flower girl, aged four, at a wedding that included a visit to Orlando and St. Augustine.

This book is about more than daily the ins and outs of his trip, finding trees just the right width apart to string his hammock after 18 hours of paddling, for example. He replays for us the things that are going through his mind and the memories that pop up along the way, the introspection that comes with spending hours alone doing anything, and the sense of foreboding that can come, under certain conditions, when night approaches – “that confrontation with all that is unknowable” .

I have never been to Daytona and have no desire to go there – sorry Daytona – but I loved his description. He said that one of the treasures of his childhood wasbeing with his grandfather, who lived there. “I didn’t scan every bridge or scout out every spot along the shore, but I looked, searched. I like to think he was up there on the bank somewhere standing in the shade of a coconut palm cheering me on.”

After passing under the last of Daytona’s six bridges, nearing the point of exhaustion and the coming night, he realized the likelihood of finding a camping spot was very remote, as nothing but concrete bulkheads were ahead for miles. He pushed himself to keep going, not sure how much longer he could last. Then somewhere came the thought: “maybe there’ll be something on the radio.” He immediately found 99.7n FM The Hog, and miracle of miracles, it proved to be “pretty much the best classic rock radio station anywhere in the Western Hemisphere.” The sounds of the Allman Brothers, Queen, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and The Band helped propel him through the night with new vigor.

“The music moved through my headphones and into my ears and from my head down to my back, shoulders and arms. It radiated through me like the warmth of a hot shower. It was as if the miles I had paddled that day and all the day before were being wiped away. I could feel my strength returning. I could feel my spirit building. I felt I could paddle all the way to Tampa non-stop.”

I do believe in the power of music – maybe I could be a sea kayaker after all, as long as I had Sirius XM or Pandora.

One blog that I always enjoy reading, “My Gen-X Playlist”, perfectly captures the evocative nature of certain songs in our lives and often includes some history about the artist and/or the song. Always a pleasure to read. Here is the link for you to check it out yourself: https://mygenxerlife.com/

Have a great week!

What is Home?

I read post on Haley Stewart’s substack today that addressed whether it’s more important to be where you feel at “home” or to bloom where you’re planted. Or, as she put it “is building contentment just settling?” That is a good question. There is so much to see and experience in the world but then again, there’s no place like home.

As EB White wrote in one of his essays about traveling back to his adopted hometown in Maine in the 1930’s: “What happens to me when I cross the Piscataqua and plunge rapidly into Maine at a cost of seventy-five cents in tolls? I cannot describe it. I do not ordinarily spy a partridge in a pear tree or three French hens, but I do have the sensation of having received a gift from a true love. And when, five hours later, I dip down across the Narramissic and look back at the tiny town of Orland, the white spire church against the pale red sky stirs me in a way that Chartres could never do.” And yet…what is home?

I was born in California, went to elementary school in Indiana, middle school and high school on the Gulf Coast, lived in New York City in my twenties and early thirties, and am now back in my “hometown” on the Gulf Coast. The city where I live is in no way ideal, and in fact I probably wouldn’t choose to live here were it not for my family being here and being very close to beautiful beaches. It’s way too hot for far too long, no real change of seasons, not a lot of cultural activities.

Like most people, I don’t have the time or money to have my house impeccably decorated or even to keep it impeccably spotless. And for those of us who love and appreciate beauty for beauty’s sake, that can be distressing at times. But it’s life. and then we watch those Hallmark movies with those idyllic towns, or watch those HGTV shows with the amazing houses and yards…

So what do we do? Chase the dream of finding that perfect house, that job where we can move to the perfect city in the perfect neighborhood? Or be mindful of the positive things where we are and do our best to bloom in a pot that may be constricting our roots or full of imperfect soil?

As I wrote in recent post, The Beauty of Ordinary Time, I’m a big believer in finding beauty in the little, ordinary things of life. E.B. White was a master at this. (which is why I recommend reading Essay’s of E.B. White – seriously, do it!) And as I always end up writing about the wisdom found in my favorite books here I go again – remember how in the Little House books, the Ingalls family lived in many imperfect places over the course of a few short years? The log cabin in Wisconsin to the log cabin on the prairie, a dugout under a hill in Plum Creek, a drafty shanty house on the plains of the Dakota Territory… what did Ma Ingalls do? She carefully wrapped that little china shepherdess and took it with

them everywhere they went. Once everything was unloaded and the beds made and curtains hung, Ma put the china shepherdess on the mantle. It was time to start going about the everyday chores of living together under that roof, doing ordinary things. They were home. (And I’m sure the next order of business would be Pa playing the fiddle).

Another great book, the gospel of Matthew, offers advice about blooming, too (so to speak). Cultivate good soil around you, pull the weeds and uproot the thorns that are trying to drive you down, get enough sunlight. Easier said than done, often. But I think if we are happy with who we are and who we are with, if we believe in what we are doing in this life, if we surround ourselves with what is good, true and beautiful, we will feel “this is home” wherever we are, until we find our true home in the next life. After all, this isn’t paradise.

Remember the Mustard Seed

A new school year has started. The first morning that I reported back for teacher professional development, I opened my Magnificat to read the morning prayer and the daily mass readings. Well, what do you know – that day’s gospel was the parable of the mustard seed:

The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field.  Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.

Matthew 13: 31-32

I took great comfort in this, because ill-equipped as I feel facing the mountain I am expected to conquer as a teacher in a public school, it is true that the tiniest of seeds still can do much good. We all need to remember that – parents, teachers, and students – as we begin this new school year.

I mentioned in an earlier post that teaching gets harder every year. The challenges increase and the resources and support decrease. Yesterday was a Saturday and I spent three hours of it in my classroom, finishing things that I could not get done after four straight days of meetings. It was the first time I had ever gone to my classroom on a Saturday. I felt overwhelmed and inadequate. The first thing I did was sit at my desk and say a prayer, asking God to send me His help for this coming school year and laying out all of the uphill battles I will surely face. It was a good, cleansing prayer. Then I did the work I came to do.

Afterwards, I stopped at the grocery store on the way home. In the produce section I ran into a student who I taught in 2014. She was there with her husband and her three year old child. She was so excited to see me and said I was one of her very favorite teachers and how much I had helped her.

How I needed to hear that, especially that day! Of course I’m thankful to that sweet girl. But I know it was God who arranged our meeting by the heads of iceberg lettuce. He heard my prayer and He let me know it’s going to be ok. He is with me and you in all of this.

When you feel like what you’re doing doesn’t matter and you’re looking at what seems insurmountable or unsustainable: lift your head high, knowing your a child of God and He is with you. Give what you can, do what you can, no matter how small, and He will help you nurture those tiny seeds so that they will become something fruitful. Remember the mustard seed.

Visit to an Art Gallery

One thing I’m so happy I did this summer was take myself on a date to an art museum. That is something I have not done in a long time. It was glorious. The pure white walls with gorgeously arranged frames holding intriguing paintings from the early modern art period. My eye traveled over the first wall, seeing which ones would draw me in: a pencil sketch of a reclining woman, a colorful modernist scene of nature and people, a small painting in a big frame of a girl in a pink dress. The artists, some of my favorites: Cezanne, Bonnard, Picasso. Memories of how I found them, how their visions and beauty and the world through their lens has left an imprint on my life.

Bonnard! One of his prints hangs over my dining room table. I never would have known about him had I not gone by myself to the Museum of Modern Art in New York – one of the first things I did after moving to the city and learning how to navigate the subway.

Alice Neel at the Whitney….

Picasso at a gallery in Chelsea… paintings of his muse, Marie Therese. Pieces of her, fragments – all mashed together – and yet he didn’t want to leave out one eye, one nostril, one breast. Was it love or objectification?

Her head, “Tete de Marie Therese”, in a red beret (and without), in color and black and white, realistic and in fragments. Nude. Shades of green. Blue. White. Wearing a garland in her hair. Paintings of “la plage” – deep blue water and deep blue sky barely divided by the horizon. The eyeballs of Marie Therese slipping out of their sockets in frame after frame.

Go see the art, wherever it is.

(What museums are on your must see list?)

The Beauty of Ordinary Time

In the spring of 2022, I rescued  two books from the dumpster. I don’t know if it was before or after the day my dad died.   The librarians at the high school where I teach were spring cleaning.   I happened to walk through one afternoon and saw that two of my students were helping with the task, each carrying a stack of books that had not earned their keep.   I have no idea what came over me but when I spied The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Essays of E.B. White I exclaimed that oh, no, you can’t take those to the DUMPSTER, and quickly grabbed the two hard cover books with their crinkly book jackets and took them downstairs to my classroom. 

Without opening a page, I set them down on top of a filing cabinet where they stayed for the rest of the school year.  At the end of May I brought them home. One day in early June I cracked open the Essays. According to the card in the front pocket stamped with the name of our school media center, it had been checked out one time by someone named Candi. The date due was stamped February 24 ‘83.

E.B. White’s novel, STUART LITTLE, had been one of my favorite books as a child, but I can’t tell you why I felt the need to rescue E.B.’s essays from the dumpster or why I decided to take a peek inside the book at that particular moment on that particular day.  All I know is that, after essay number four: “Death of a Pig”, I was in love, and had a standing date with E.B. every day on the back porch for the rest of the summer.

Now this summer I read a lot of Ann Patchett’s books. By a lot I mean two of her novels and a book of essays. Back to back. I don’t normally read an author back to back to back but I learned so much from her and wanted to learn more so I immersed myself in her writing by living with her for a while. (I always wanted to do a study abroad immersion program to learn a foreign language, but that’s… a non-story.) In Ann’s essay, “Three Fathers”, I was happy to discover that as a child, Ann loved E.B. White’s most well known children’s classic.

“And then there is (her step-father) Mike, taking me to a nearby farm to pick out a pig for my ninth birthday. I had read Charlotte’s Web a dozen times and begged to have a pig of my own.” Coincidence? I think not.

I did revisit a couple of E.B.’s essay this summer, just for their sheer beauty and the comfort of them. I find myself trying to put my finger on what it is about his words that are so appealing.  For one thing, his joy and appreciation of the little things. My dad also imparted to me a love of the little things and simple pleasures of life which, the older I get, I realize are the keys to the deeper things, the true things. My dad loved to sit outside on his porch in the evening, listen to the birds. Watch his pets do funny things. He loved looking at the stars and watching baseball. He loved just being with us, doing nothing special at all. For E.B. White, from what I gather, the little things he loved included his dachshund, his pig, the racoons in the tree outside his bedroom window, the changing seasons, including his wife’s idiosyncrasies. Overall, his essays are about a man’s love for his wife, his home, his dog and the freedom he has to make a life that suits him. And I’m amazed at the timelessness of so many of the things he writes. There is comfort in the fact that no matter how crazy the world may get, some things will never change. I think what I love about E.B.’s essays is he let us know so beautifully that when we love our people and our cats and dogs, our hummingbirds and cardinals, osprey and pelicans and vintage fish platters and iron cookstoves, our salt boxes and wedding platters, our manual typewriters and old album covers, the campfires and fire pits, hammocks, bird sounds and owl hoots, summer cicada sounds, rainfall and sunsets, wet earth and flower smells and the taste of Wisconsin cheese, that is exactly what we should be doing.  But  before we can love and appreciate these things, we have to experience them.  E.B. White may have the antidote for the meta-verse:  pay attention to the people and things around you, pay attention to what is real – all that is good, true and beautiful – and there you will find the beauty of Ordinary Time.

Soon a new school year will start. Time, for me, will no longer be a wide playing field that I can fill however I choose. Everything will be scheduled, mostly with things I would rather put off or avoid altogether. I will be busy, busy, busy – just doing ordinary things – working, cooking, cleaning, going to the grocery store. I will be tired. This isn’t to say that I hate my job. After 16 years I still find fulfillment and joy in teaching and really can’t imagine doing anything else to earn a regular paycheck. But it is difficult, and gets more difficult every year. It takes a toll. Summer represents so much of the beauty of Ordinary Time. Slow but satisfying. I often go to a weekday mass in my parish. I love the bare bones of a weekday mass. It’s quiet, simple. No choir, no recitation of the Creed, no Gloria, very short sermon (if at all). Nothing but the essentials. Maybe that’s the key to thriving during busy seasons or during the monotonous and mundane activity that we call daily life. Simplify as much as possible. Focus on what is necessary. Show up. Go to work. Go to mass on Sunday even though it’s not Christmas or Easter and there are a million other things to do. I will be like the willow tree that E.B. White describes in his 1949 essay “This is New York”:

 “there is an old willow tree that presides over an interior garden.  It is a battered tree, long-suffering and much-climbed, held together by strands of wire but beloved of those who know it.  In a way it symbolizes the city: life under difficulties, growth against odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete, and the steady reaching for the sun.”