2016.08.14 Sum, Sum, Summertime/Plumbertime

The plumber knocked on the screen door—thrice. It must be some bishop wanting into the sanctuary I thought with a grin. Well, that's the kind of thing you think when you're sitting half-naked under a ceiling fan, slurping a juicy peach whose juices are dripping down your cleavage.

Knock, knock knock.  "Plumber, here, someone called about a leaky faucet."

It was too late to rush in and don a less transparent garment, and besides I'd have to run past the screen door in full view of said plumber anyway, so I just opened the door and let him in, crossing my arms over my chest and thinking that this could be one of life's most embarrassing moments, or simply a summer vacation moment —weather steamy, living easy, surf salty, plumbers on call.

"You called about a faucet on your porch," the plumber said his eyes straight ahead and with a smile. "I work Saturdays in the summer here."

Enter very smart husband, Dick: "Oh, that outdoor shower faucet's been leaking for years."

"Well, a former tenant must have called, finally," the plumber said as we showed him where the errant dripper was. Sure enough it was dripping. "This will take no more than 10 minutes," he said as he came back inside and turned on the tap in the bathtub. "This will run dry so don't use any water for a few minutes while I fix this little leak."

Damn, he knew what he was doing. I followed him outside to gawk, by now in thrall but aware enough to keep my arms crossed over my chest. "Sure enough, only a gasket," he said. "You're all set now. Have a great day."

"Thanks," we said. I smiled and gave him a Namasté bow. He returned the bow, chuckled and left.

Namasté means: "The divine in me salutes the divine in you."

Plumbers are indeed the best people in the world—full of divinity.

2015.08.16 Lassitude, Spirituality Thereof

We are on a two-week vacation at our cottage on Nantucket.  We own six weeks of it, two in prime time summer and four in winter months. It is our big claim to real estate fame, after having lived in church-owned housing for years. We bought it the summer before we were married—hardly the Ritz but it's ours—along with 12 other part-time owners. We believe in community, holding everything in common like the early Christians. Well, not quite!

The word that fits my mood of the day is lassitude. Oh, I stretch my dear old body, take a walk, eat chocolate for breakfast, read the paper to keep up with the latest horrors, whip through e-mails, do my share of political angsting, keep in touch with my children and theirs, and a once-a-year Nantucket friend, obsess about upcoming sermon, write some words, and then fall into vacation lassitude—a comforter.

I intend to read something meaningful and I don't. Lassitude. I go to the beach when afternoon sun isn't too scorchy. I pick a spot apart from families and children—too noisy and occasionally loud with abusive parental ways I just don't want to confront, not now. Lassitude. All I do is gaze and drift mentally. I feel the soft velvety warmth of white, white sand between my toes. I indulge in the natural introversion that is mine. I love to watch children play and laugh as I used to watch my children. It's more than nostalgia, it's re-living and re-loving.

I miss all the activity and I value my solitude. Never did figure out how to balance these two. 

Still, life intervenes: love and grief always mingled. A friend's colonoscopy showed no cancer, thank Godde.  A granddaughter is getting her first car, such delight. Jill, the younger of my two daughters, texted family that her pug, Louie, beloved companion, always at her side for years, had to be euthanized— too painful for him to live on. Don't anyone call yet, she requested. She's having a "hard time." Jill has no children, save her animals. Louie was her baby. My tears welled up and spilled out. God, bless her in her grief for Louie whose soul is received into your expansive sacred heart. 

When I look out at the vastness of the ocean, I think that it's endlessness is divine—eternal. I feel  reverent, small and humble, oddly comforted that it's way too deep, vast and mysterious for me to comprehend or apprehend.

If the divine soul is far greater than this natural phenomenon, then there must be ample room in God's grace and glory for all living things.  Why the hell, then, are we humans having so much trouble making room for each other, not to mention our critters?

Today the Atlantic Ocean is lassitudinous—pulsating deep down.