Wedding Among the Clouds

The day after daughter Katherine married Andy Lewis, atop Mt. Magazine, dawned sunny, blue-skied, cloudless.

The clouds had floated quietly away the evening before, shortly after the ceremony, expecting no thanks for the part they had played.  Exchanging swirling hugs and wispy high-fives, these wedding crashers beamed with pride.  After all, not just every couple, who marry on the top of a mountain, attract their attention. . . much less their attendance.

Word circulated throughout the Arkansas cloud community for days before the February 21st event, that an extraordinary couple was to be married on one of Mt. Magazine's Cameron Bluff overlooks.  Gossipy cirrus sisters spread details of the sunset wedding, as they flitted high above the Arkansas River Valley.  It was to be an intimate gathering of 16 ~ parents, grandmothers, brothers, sister, spouses, nieces and nephews, forming a semicircle behind the couple, a visible sign of love and support.  Respecting the beauty of the natural rock cliffs and evergreens,  Katherine and Andy planned no other decorations except white candles flickering inside glass vases and two bunches of white roses, hydrangeas and tulips mingled with stems of red holly berries.

The clouds offered a simple gift to the couple, a gift to match the quiet simplicity of their ceremony and the depth of their commitment to each other. . . a pure white blanket to surround and encase them, to "honor and keep" them in an everlasting symbol of Nature's blessing.

  

As son, Jason, pronounced his blessing, "May the peace of the Lord be always with you," and we responded, "And, also, with you,"

the clouds stepped aside allowing the setting sun to peek over the mountain, just in time. . .

to see Katherine and Andy introduced as wife and husband

 kiss 

and beam with happiness.

    

Happiness, as the clouds whispered before leaving, that will last a lifetime.

        

With Gratitude

Early morning is my favorite time of day.  It's become as predictable as the newspaper carrier who deposits the Log Cabin Democrat in our box every morning before dawn.  As the sky brightens, I head out the front door for a 2-mile walk along the rural neighborhood roads, pull the paper out of the box on  my way back up the driveway, then sit back in the rocking chair on the front porch, breathing in the solitude and conversing with the oak trees.  Breakfast follows with a bowl of Wheat Chex, topped with frozen blueberries, a piece of toast covered with butter and drizzled with honey, and a cup of steaming chai tea.

 I'm never alone, even though on most mornings there's no one in the house but me. Mr. Emerson joined me each morning for a couple of months, as I shared in an earlier posting.  Mr. Thoreau heard about my chai tea and came knocking, but kindly said that he would return, seeing that I already had morning company.

Joanna Seibert  has been my invited guest for the last 150 days as I have read a psalm and meditation in her book,   The Call of the Psalms, A Spiritual Companion for Busy People.

 It was not the psalms that drew me to this book, but Joanna's responses to them, based on my respect for her as a deeply spiritual person and a writer.  I had read psalms responsively for years, growing up in the Methodist church, and memorized the 100th Psalm when I was in first or second grade Sunday School.  Lines I can still recite "by heart" today...

Make a joyful noise to the Lord,
All ye lands.
Enter his gates with Thanksgiving
and his courts with praise.
Give thanks to him; bless his name.

Beyond that, I spent little time reading them, treating them simply as words heard and memorized but never analyzed or experienced. Even in Joanna's book, I often skip the scripture and move directly to her reflection, eager to learn from her life.   And what I find, without frills and without fail each day is. . . honesty.  Honestly, which I've learned from Joanna, is at the core of the pslamists' writings.

If I had read Joanna's bio before meeting her, I would have been too intimated to shake her hand -- the Superwoman of all Superwomen.  A doctor (professor of radiology and pediatrics at Arkansas Children's Hospital and the University of Arkansas Medical Sciences), deacon in the Episcopal church, published author, harpist, wife, mother of three and grandmother of six, with more distinctions and awards to her name than she's willing to admit.  Thankfully, her genuine kindness and tender care touched my life before word of her resume.  Her book reflects her humanness.

Joanna's struggle with addiction and a variety of "character defects," as she terms them, along with her search for balance, peace, and healing, pour out through her writing.  I respond to her thoughts by writing in my journal, as if she and I were having a conversation as we sit across the table, blowing steam from our tea cups.   I listen to her, I learn, take a step back, a step forward, connecting her words to my life, reflecting, striving to grow with the same illusive balance and peace.

"Peace comes with gratitude." Joanna writes in response to Psalm 148, and repeats the belief, the epiphany, on the final page of the book.
"Listening and living a life of praise and gratitude is a new life for me.  It is a road less traveled."

I finished psalm #150 today, closed the book and put down my pen.  I will miss Joanna's presence in my morning routine, the companionship through her writing.  As I continue the journey with her on that less-traveled road, I'm grateful that I can pick up the phone, hear her voice and invite her to join me for a real cup of tea.    

            



  

Mother and Daughters

The youngest of our three children, daughter Katherine, gets married in less than two weeks.   As I visualize her at 24, it takes only a second for memories of Toddler Katherine to arise with wild, staticy hair, dancing in circles and clapping those tiny hands to her brother, Jason's, blaring boom box music.  Tears creep to the surface as the haunting violin refrain from "Fiddler on the Roof's" Sunrise, Sunset gets louder in my mind, as if someone were gradually turning up the volume, determined to make this Mother-of-the-Bride sob into her freshly prepared Tomato-Basil Soup.

Stop!  Put down the fiddle.  No need for sobbing.  Too much to celebrate.

And to begin the celebration, I invited Katherine and older daughter, Elizabeth, to join me for a Mother/Daughter outing last weekend.  Twenty-four hours alone with my two daughters hasn't happened since. . .  Who can remember that far back?  We decided on Hot Springs, an hour's drive away, or 45 minutes, if Elizabeth is driving.  I researched accommodations, Elizabeth googled spas, and Katherine emerged from her pile of Thank You notes long enough to say, "Sure, whatever, I trust you guys."

Hot Springs is known for, well, it's hot springs.  Bathhouses line one side of Central Avenue, where bathers can relax in soothingly warm to 104-degree, "get-me-out-of-here!" waters.  Native Americans called the area the Valley of the Vapors, and tribes such as the Caddo, Quapaw and Choctaw shared the natural baths in a spirit of peace.  Seeking peace, a healthy lunch, a few spa treatments and an overall good time, we registered at The Quapaw, donned our fashionable white robes, ready for the afternoon.

Signing a pact that none of our bathing suit pictures would ever be publicly aired, you'll have to take our collective word for it that the thermal baths were as visually stunning and bodily calming as if they were located in the heart of Istanbul.  A picture of the ceiling is all we're prepared to show. . .

The evening was predictable --- checking into the 1890 Williams House Inn, taking a driving tour around town, eating out, watching "The American President" for the 15th time, then heading to bed --- except for the unpredictable parts, the ones that caused all the laughter!

"Mom, you backed into a tree!"  Katherine shouted.
(Turned out to just be a retaining wall.  No observable damage.)

*******

"Mom, you're in the wrong lane."  Katherine shouted.
"Mom, you're not in any lane at all. "  Elizabeth shouted.
(Did they really need to shout?)

*******

Three women on the lookout for a liquor store, in a questionable part of town, lighted only by an occasional street lamp.

"There, there's one. It's a drive-though," said Elizabeth. "Turn the car around, Mom, park by the front  door."

"Looks safe enough.  We'll go inside.  It'll be faster. You stay in the car," Katherine instructed, with the authority of  Buzz Lightyear planning an attack on the dreaded Zurg. 

"Right, I'll keep the car running in case you need to make a quick escape," I replied, with my hands gripping the steering wheel.  

They scurried in; I scanned the parking lot.  Minutes passed.  More minutes passed.

They appeared, dashed into the car, Katherine carrying a paper-sack wrapped bottle of wine.
"Anyone need hand sanitizer?" Elizabeth asked.

*******

"That window looks strange, the one right by our entrance."  Elizabeth whispered as we drove up to the bed and breakfast after dinner.  "Something's moving.  Maybe the place is haunted."
"It's not a window, just a light on the wall.  It's flickering, see?"  Katherine explained, pointing to the exact location through the windshield.
"No, I'm sure it's a window.  This is really frea.. .ky," Elizabeth's voice sounded in a high-pitched, ghost-story kind of way.
Suddenly a car rounded the corner, flashing its lights on the side of the building, revealing. . .
a round white head, with a black iron ring tightened around it's neck like a prisoner.  We all SCREAMED!!!
Upon closer examination, a light.

                                                          What fun.

                                          What amazing young women!
                                               What a lucky mother. J
                                                  
                                                      

    

Chickens on the Loose!

Help!  We're being overrun by chickens.  Yes, chickens!  There are four of them parading across our front yard, pecking and pooping as if they own the place.

I grab the yellow-handled broom and dash out the door like a mad woman, raising it over my head shouting, "Shoo, Shoo, you trespassing chickens!"  "Cluck, Cluck, Cluck Squawk, Cluck, Cluck Cluck, Squawk!" they reply in chicken language, which fortunately for my sensitive nature, I don't understand.  With feathers flying, they scatter in every direction,  as if the sky has just fallen smack on their heads, leaving them totally discombobulated.  The white one, with a poofy-feathered coiffure topped by a bright red comb, speeds towards the neighbor's fence, as the rest of the gang hurries to catch up.  They reach the gaping barbed wire right before the monster (me) sweeps them back into their own territory.

This scene took place a few weeks ago, when the poultry gang first set chicken feet on our property.  Since then I've mellowed.  "What's the harm?" I ask myself.  They're just out for a good time, tired of being cooped up in the same yard day after day. I've even started spying on them.

They sneak through the fence mid-morning, tentatively edging their way across our grass, cocking heads left and right, scanning for the woman with the broom.

Unable to see my face in the kitchen window, they venture further towards the house, led by their red-combed leader, whom I've named Lucy. Granted, Lucy is probably a rooster with the striking redness atop his head, but I still like to think of him as a her. . . the "I Love Lucy" of chickens.  With growing confidence, she scurries across the driveway into my flowerbeds, all the while glancing over her shoulder, ordering Ethel, Fred, and Ricky to hurry up.

Leaving "the boys," she and Ethel retreat to the birdbath for a gossip session .  The lyrics, "Pick-a-little, Talk-a-little,  Pick-a-little, Talk-a-little,  Cheep-Cheep-Cheep, Talk-a-lot, Pick-a-little more" from "The Music Man," come to mind and make me giggle.

I can't resist trying to take a few pictures and slowly crack the front door.  Inching my way across the porch, I hide behind a column, waiting to see if I've been noticed.  So far, so good.  One foot at a time, I creep down the steps, freeze on the sidewalk, zoom in on the unsuspecting friends, and press the button. Zeroing in on the camera's clicks, Lucy looks around, strikes a runway pose, then sounds the alarm.

                                

Off they run, on what looks like toothpick legs, over rocks, through piles of brown leaves, between trunks of oak trees, around the swimming pool, across the fire pit and safely to the fence.

They'll be back, and I'll be waiting for my morning entertainment, tea cup in hand, for the next episode of "I Love Lucy Chicken."