My Life Song

My Life Song

Betty Badgett

You were my life’s song.

Each day, when I opened my eyes,

Whispered good morning and

Leaned in for a hug.

You smiled at me with a crooked

Boyish grin.

I smiled back, drinking in the

Essence of being your wife,

Your beloved.

Your open arms, warm, comfortable, familiar

The beating of your heart, in sync with

Mine, caused my spirit to soar, 

and my love to

Overflow.

Three years have passed since you went home.

I hear your voice, I feel your touch.

I can never forget, nor do I ever want to

You were, and always will be, my life song.

Sliding Down the Yak

SLIDING  DOWN  THE  YAK

Tibet, The Himalayas, Mt Kailas

by Pat Crosby

          Public Domain Photo Credit: http://www.urltarget.com/nepal-yak-tibetan-ox-last-animal-bear-transport-1.html

After five freezing days crossing the boulder-strewn Tibetan plateau - a once-upon-a-time ocean floor - now 15,000 feet above the current ocean floor - known as “The Roof of the World”, jostling with our caravan of Chinese drivers, jeeps, overloaded supply trucks carrying two weeks of supplies for 40 some people (including food, portable kitchen, tents, sleeping bags, oxygen, fuel for cooking and driving, spare truck and jeep parts (sure glad we had plenty of those), Sherpa porters and guides, we finally reached the sacred mountain - Mt Kailas - high in the Himalayas of western Tibet. 7 days journey so far out of rather tropical Kathmandu. 11,000 feet rise in altitude.

The five day holy ritual walk around the summit of the mountain - or ritual crawl if you are a Tibetan Buddhist - known as the  parikrama (circling the sacred mountain) is a climb from 15000 to 18,000 feet.

 

Public Domain Photo Credit: nepalguidetreks.com

The path rises at a 45 degree angle. It is rocky and steep. Pilgrims throw clothes, chunks of their hair - and occasionally their own bodies - overboard on this climb. These rituals represent leaving behind - letting die - some old aspect of oneself that one cannot keep if one intends to reach the summit of spiritual experience.

Already weakened and exhausted by the oxygen-starved altitude, the unrelenting bone-penetrating cold, nausea, dizziness and throwing up any attempted food in the last five days of the Tibetan plateau crossing (we can call this the Tibetan Plateau Crossing Diet - lose 20 pounds in 2 weeks), and the boulder strewn “path” -  actually ruts over shifting sand dunes with numerous jeep breakdowns - I hired a yak with driver - to ride up the 45 degree incline. Although not long, the rise was intense.

Yaks are big furry warm survival animal of the Himalayas - somewhat a mix of huge shaggy buffalo, don’t-tell-me-what-to-do donkey, and heavy-duty-survival-capable camel.

The yak can provide the human clan with fur, yurt (their round portable nomad house) covers, meat, milk, butter, transportation and copious excrement for cooking and fuel in the frigid treeless Tibetan terrain. These miracles of eco-efficiently manage to turn few and far-between stray tufts of dried grass scattered among the sand dunes and boulders -  amazingly - into all of the above.

And yaks provide essential milk and butter for the famous Butter Tea of the bitter cold wind-chilled Himalayas. Famously drunk by the Dalai Lama, served in monasteries, and the daily cultural survival beverage, tourists find it to be an acquired taste.. I found it to be like bone-heating substantial soup broth and grew to love it.

Public Domain Photo Credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bos_grunniens.JPG

Back to yak transportation.        

My translator/attendant negotiated the deal. He could speak five human languages (Mandarin, Tibetan, Nepalese, Hindi, and something else. Not sure if he was yak fluent.). And what a deal it was! A fortune in local currency - not so much in our money. I got hoisted onto the furry animal’s warm back. Did I mention there was no saddle - bareback! Nothing to hang on to. I clung to the shaggy mane as best I could - gripping as though my life depended on it. I was slumped prone along the beast's spine.

Getty yup! Well, not exactly. More like plod, plot. Hump bump. Plod plod. Oh no - I began to slide backwards. Slowly. Insurmountably. Definitely. Half inch by half inch. Gradually losing my grip. Trying denial first. Slip slip. Inch by inch. Gripping the hair of the beast harder - intensifying my will. Grip grip. Slip slip. Inches by inches. Going backward. Beast going forward.

Yak driver was nonchalantly talking to his fellow yak driver - both oblivious to we passengers sliding off the rump of their beasts. Slowly. Immeasurably. Definitely. Inch by inch. No grip to cinch.

Finally, a true spiritual experience. SURRENDER! I had to surrender that I was losing my grip, unceremoniously slipping backwards over the rump of the beast. No dignity. Who cared. No one. Just me and my soul - giving up any pretense that anything was under my control.

Inch by inch. Slip by slip. Over the tail.

Trying to grab the tail now. Animal beast could care less. Plod plod. Hump bump. Forward. Upward. Me backward. Backsliding. Rump hump.

Humpty dumpty. Over the edge. Losing the tail. Falling to the ground. HOLY ground it was.

I watched the rump of the ass slowly plod away from me. Plod, plod - up the sacred mountain path. Leaving me to look at the strewn belongings of the recently or

sometime-to-be departed.

Public domain photo credit: http://www.asia-insider-photos.com/tibetan-pictures.html

Death has no meaning here on Kailas. The most pious consider it the most auspicious place to lose one’s body. Just go over the edge. Lose your grip… drip drip…everyday concerns fall away ... down the mountain side into the sea of garbage of cast-off belongings. All this so the soul can fly free. Unencumbered. In the arms of grace, Lord Shiva, Mt Kailas - home of the Gods. Center of the universe. The Most Holy Place.

Creep creep. Hands and knees. Inch by Inch. Get a grip. Creep creep. Huffing and puffing. Panting. Inch by inch. Creep creep. Up the stony path. Ascending… inch by inch. I put my face down in exhaustion on the cold ice. More inch by inch. Get a grip. Creep creep. Up the path of the sacred mountain. What will greet me at the top?

Will I get to the top? Inch by inch. Creep creep. Hands and knees. Pant pant. Heard one of our party - a portly Indian man from tropical Mumbai (Bombay) - had a heart attack and Sherpa porters carried all of his heart attack heavy weight backward - retracing the path back to the starting place.

Maybe another lifetime before he can continue up the sacred mountain….?

Head hanging down. No energy to look up. Inch by inch. Hands and knees. Creep creep. Huff puff.

With extreme effort, I raise my head ever so slightly. What! The top! Pilgrims joyfully singing, waving prayer banners. Incense sticks circling in arati - the ancient waving of candles in celebration and love. Celebration of the light and achieving communion with the supreme.

In daze-ment, I see our tour guru - sitting on a boulder. His immaculate orange sanyasi monk robes pristine - as though they just came from the dry cleaners - neat and pressed.

He sat on the rock - like a beacon of “Yes You Can”. Big smile, Tender smile. Loving eyes.

My energy came flooding in. I arose, planted my earth legs firmly on top of my earth feet. Upright! At last! Hands waved in celebration! Joy! I can stand! At the top!

Having attained the summit of the sacred mountain,

prasad - blessed sweets - for everyone. How divine. God’s own celebration party.

Summiting was a grand adventure. What will the descent hold? Will it be anti-climatic?

~~~

Footnote: Since this Tibetan plateau travel adventure, the new government has built a paved road. The formerly 5 day caravan trek across rutted sand dunes is now an  8 hour  or less drive on paved road - according to a slew of youtube videos. So many adventures to miss! Sort of like if they build a chair lift to the top of Mt Everest.

LISTEN to a READING of this story by the author

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlD-WTY0Fqw

Copyright 2018 Pat Crosby. Creative Commons - non commercial

May be shared non-commercially with no fees or any form of remuneration charged

if reprinted in full with all credits and authorship given.

Contact author for any other uses and permissions.

More from author Pat Crosby’s blog

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Sunset in Virginia

Betty Badgett

It’s four PM on a cold day in December. I’m sitting in my daughter’s dining room, surrounded by seven ceiling-to-floor windows. And a sliding glass door leading out to the upper deck, overlooking an acre of grass and barren trees.

The soft, warm, inviting yellow walls and the hardwood floors invite my muse to come in and take a seat at the long, black dining room table and get about the business of telling this story.

Having been recently widowed, my daughter and son-in-law urged me to come and be with them during this holiday season. I didn’t object. The thought of being alone in my home for the holiday with no family around made the decision an easy one.

This morning, I got up, showered, and sat down to enjoy a cup of decaffeinated coffee, brewed in their new Keurig. I heard a slight scratching sound at the door leading to the garage. I shuffled across the beautiful hardwood floors, with my soft, fluffy J C Penney slippers to find Dash, the family dog, standing at attention and looking me straight in the eye as though to say, “I’m ready to go out now.” I bent down and patted his furry head, and walked over to the side door and watched as he scurried out and headed in a hurried pace to the backyard to claim his favorite spot in the sun. Hence the name Dash!

I slowly shuffled back to my chair in the dining room, feeling relaxed and content as I watch Dash wander around in the grass and even lay on his back and kick up his legs as he found happiness for that moment in the sun. I let the warm coffee slowly ease it’s was to the back of my mouth and slide down my throat. Only coffee lovers can enjoy the experience of the taste of that first sip of favorite coffee as it touches the taste buds and then makes room for the next sip. I bask in the sun rays as they pour in through the windows that surround me. I feel God! I’m thankful for another day, and for being here at my daughter’s to enjoy family, even if just for the holidays.

My mother always said, “Be thankful for each day, no matter what it brings. Because tomorrow is not promised to you.” I filed that thought away in a corner of my mind and I try to remember it as often as I can, especially on days when I’m feeling low.

The day went quickly and now it’s evening. I’m back in my seat at the dining room table, and I’m watching the sun go down here in Virginia. I stare through the barren trees and I have a ringside seat to watch the day come to an end and nightfall descend. The final rays of sun are streaming straight through to where I am sitting. At this moment, I’m thankful for the gift of sight. A blind person cannot behold this miracle of God that I get to see every day. I just sit still in my black, leather, high back chair, and I take it all in.

My husband passed two years ago, and I placed my house on the market. Once it sells, I think Virginia is where I’ll make my new home. My family is here. I feel at home here, at peace with my surroundings.

My daughter and son-in-law have been filling me in on the history of Virginia. I don’t let them know, but they had me at “Mom, we want you to move here when the house sells.” One thing I’m enjoying is the weather. It’s winter, but it just started to get cold. There’s no sign of snow in the forecast and the sun has made an appearance every day since I’ve been here.

It’s overwhelming to think of packing up and moving from New York, where I’ve spent all of my life so far. Finding a new place and then putting down roots in another state scares me, yet there’s something exciting about getting a chance to start over and begin a new life in a new state. New places to go, new people to meet, new experiences to encounter.

As I sit here and stare out the window, watching the sun until it’s out of view, I reflect on the years that have gone by. I remember my wedding day, the birth of my daughter, and then seven years later, the birth of my son. I recall when we first got the news that my husband had colon cancer. I remember the long, hard, year-and-a-half we spent battling in the fight of our lives against this silent enemy. Two years ago the battle came to an end. I won’t say cancer won. To say that cancer won would give it too much power. We prayed day and night for a miracle, for healing, and that’s exactly what we got. God took his spirit home to be in paradise with him. He’s totally and wonderfully healed! Now I’m in the process of healing.

A longtime friend once said to me, “Betty, you’re not okay yet, but you are on your way to okay. And someday, you’ll look around and you’ll be there.” I believe those words, and as I sit here looking out the window, watching the orange hues left in the sky as the sun slowly leaves, and glancing at Dash, who’s again frolicking in the backyard, I know that I am on my way to okay as I sit here watching the sunset in Virginia.

The Work of Linda Bonney Olin

A Tale of Two Cornfields

Linda Bonney Olin

Green mendicants

acres of them huddle

thin, sharp arms raised

straight to heaven

begging alms from passing clouds.

One fat drop splashes and slides

to the cracking soil, only to be

snatched by hoodlum weeds.

Half a mile down the road

the ten percent

who always get the soaking rain

from a ten percent chance of showers

shrug supple green shoulders.

Arms drooping—not exhausted or weak

but relaxed, complacent—they pray,

“There but for the grace of God . . . ”

- - -

1. How long is the longest night?

How distant is the dawn?

It seems that time has ceased its flight

and hope for change is gone.

But wait! My God’s strong hand

rules over time and space!

At just the moment God has planned,

all things move into place!

2. How dark is the darkest day,

how black the shadow's gloom?

The richest colors fade to gray

when joy gives way to doom.

But wait! My God is light!

More vivid than the sun,

the face of Jesus Christ shines bright

with love for everyone!

3. How deep is the deepest fear?

How far can one soul fall?

The chasm’s edge is oh, so near,

so close to claiming all!

But wait! My God has wings!

The Spirit lifts me high

above the pit of fearsome things

to soar beyond the sky!

Note: "How Long Is The Longest Night" is a hymn by Bonney Olin in the musical setting DIADEMATA, which might be familiar to churchgoers as the tune of "Crown Him with Many Crowns."

- - -

These Thy Gifts

by Frank Di Giovanni

    John Budget dipped his finger into the bowl of holy water and ran it quickly over his forehead. The coolness of his crossing finger contrasted with the warmth of his thinking the blessed liquid would somehow improve his mind, keep it from having any bizarre thoughts, maybe even improve it so it would reach heights never before attained.

He gazed at the dimly lit altar, a familiar and comforting sight, always a place of reassurance and calm. He sat, then knelt in a pew.

He bowed his head, prayed, and tried to recall the sins of the past week. Looking at the altar, he asked for guidance in preparing a meaningful and truthful confession.

He really didn’t commit any horrible sins. He wasn’t a murderer. A thief. It wasn’t as if he led a double life, banker during the light of day, embezzler the dark of night.

After a while he rose and took his place in line just outside the confessional box. Several people were waiting there. He folded his hands in a contemplative manner and stared at the empty pews. The dark spacious church gave him a peaceful feeling and he sighed, thinking how wonderful it must be to live in such a place, where everything was good and pure, tranquil and proper, so different from the outside world. He occupied his mind with these somber thoughts and said an occasional prayer as he waited.

When his turn came he entered the box. The place was so dark he stumbled as he knelt before the small window, behind which sat the priest. As the window opened with a gentle sliding thud he made the sign of the cross and said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The priest spoke rapidly saying prayers, then asked him what his sins were.

"I used bad language during the week," he whispered.

"How many times?" said the priest.

"Not many, Father. Only two or three times."

“What else?''

“I was discourteous to my wife and kids”

“How many times?"

“Not many. Only a couple.”

"What else ?”

“I was envious of my neighbor’s goods.”

“How many times?

“Only once, Father."

“What else?"

"Nothing else, Father"

"Did you eat meat on Friday?" the priest asked.

“Oh no, Father," he said loudly. “I never do that Never. "

"All right my son. You must remember not to use bad language. Try to control yourself. You must be kind to your wife. She is the mother of your children, the one God has chosen you to live with and to love. Be kind also to your children. Remember how much Our Lord loved children. Love them as he does Do not covet your neighbor's goods. They are only material things that will pass as this world will. Desire only the love of God. It is only with him that we shall find happiness and live forever. Remember these things my son and for the coming week try to lead a holy and good life. For your penance say five Hail Mary's and five Our Father's. And now ask God to forgive you by making a sincere Act of Contrition.”

He humbled himself and prayed and the priest whispered along with him.

Soon the priest said, "God bless you, my son," and closed the window.

John stepped from the box and headed for the altar where he said his penance for the sins he had committed. When he left the church he experienced a singular sense of well being. His heart felt strong and pure and he enjoyed the cold December wind as it whipped across his face.

"I'm in a state of grace," he thought. "If I were to die now, I'd go straight to heaven. Yes Sir. Straight to Heaven."

 

Ice Cold Orange Soda

Ice Cold Orange Soda – Summer 1953

by Susan King

            They’re coming around 3 or 4 in the afternoon. It will be hot this end of July day with the cottonwood trees dropping those fuzzy balls of white all over the lake.

            The small boy and girl planned to take their guests over to the shade by the boathouse where it’s cool and there’s a breeze off the lake.

            The children filled their toy pails with water and rocks then left them there along the beach. It’s time to concentrate on the adults who are coming to the lake.

            They checked the soda machine in the boathouse. “Plenty of grape. No. They don’t like grape. “Plenty of root beer.” “No.” “Plenty of Coca Cola.” “No. They don’t drink that.”

“Well,” the girl replied, exasperated, “What do they want?”

            “Oranges. They like oranges. We have Nehi orange soda.”

            A giant car with a huge shiny grill spewed sun glare as it pulled slowly down the dry chocolate rocky gravel road toward the boathouse where the children waited wrapped in beach towels wet and dripping creating puddles all around them.

            A man and a woman got out of the car.

            Together they stood under a slim elm tree. The woman was pretty and delicate—a princess. The man was solid with a square jaw, a big firm handshake, a quick smile wearing a thick black suit that looked hot enough to suffocate him.

            The children directed them to the bench by the boats in the shade then went to fetch the ice cold orange soda from the frosty soda machine.

            The man and the woman needed to quench their thirst, and get revived from the sweltering heat. The temperature made the woman more beautiful in her billowy flowered red dress that clung to her body in the soft wind.

            It made the man sweat even more to look at her. There was a kind of magic about them, a circle where no one else entered because no one knew the secret word.

            The man removed the suit jacket he wore and placed it carefully on the bench where no cottonwood fluff might blow on it. Then he reached out and took the cold soda from the boy. He looked at the orange Nehi soda, then at the boy and said, “I’d rather have a beer.”

            A short blunt dagger ripped through the girl’s heart. All day she watched the boy make the preparations. He didn’t play or suck on grape popsicles all day like the girl did.

            Instead, he anticipated that moment when the man and the woman would relax and be happy.

            But, it wouldn’t come—that moment—just like those stupid sunnies that hid in the shadows under the dock and you can never catch them. You can throw all the bread you want at them and those sunnies will never, but never, come out.

            The sun started to go down. The bottles of orange soda were empty now lying in the grass by the bench where the man and the woman left them.

            The boy picked up the empty soda bottles and put them away in the wooden case.

Selections from the Collection Canny Furtherings, by William Stevens

Rippled Color Time

When rolling my eye

does not hearing seek

with joint bearing

lines verbal arroyo?

Lights affixed.

Red brambles go with gravities.

Palmette eye the permessos thought   (1)

of brisk water.

The banks move slowly.

Summertime the banks enclosed

filled with jocundity.

Silent boat

sit on joyful rotundity

in colophon and

symbol tranquility.

Canny Furtherings

After some vast weighted boats stratum

brings lofty glaciers approaches seasonal loon.

Above link contour look and moon.

Imparted feeling attire

are as important that rhythms do follow as

they do aspire.

And cried “carry out carry out.”

A wash of coral.

A lustration of sands.

Or a slush of stones and ice.

Then recalling livening desert with things

silent and still.

Heretofore adfrifted as dawn.

Here of upwards music as the look of dawn.

And hence come seethings rains.

Windy response in cave with

stark canvassing.

Galas are far away motions.