Sunday, July 28, 2019

On awakening with a mountain lake, and a moose


 "I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, 'This is what it is to be happy.'"  —Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
 We rose well before dawn, having walked the dogs quickly in the darkness first, then packed up fly rods, tackle, and net in the car. A brief stop for coffee and a raspberry fritter to split, my wife and I drove East into the Wasatch Range and onto the narrow, winding mountain road up Big Cottonwood Canyon.
 We have arrived well before the crowds, at first all alone with the awakening day, the breeze off the water, the scent of pine and the tentative chirping and trilling of birds a peaceful welcome. A short time later,  we are joined by my son, Rob, and daughter in law Rachel. 
 It was twilight, with the coming sunrise a bashful, soft glow over the near two-mile high Brighton Ridge, we arrived at Silver Lake. The lake, which adjoins acres of marshlands, is a popular destination for young and old; the former can frolic in heavily forested picnic areas and run along the shoreline and scale adjacent mountain trails . . . and the latter, a mile of boardwalk meanders through the natural area where waterfowl, trout (of which we caught none, but that's fine) and, on this day, a foraging moose, too, resides.

 The moose, a cow, occasionally glances at us, but seems unperturbed; as it first swims and then plows through rushes and sedge meadows until it reaches the boardwalk. She clops onto the boardwalk and into the wet seeps beyond, intent on breakfast.

 I smile. How humbling, and beautiful, to just be part of the scenery for such a majestic creature.
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To close, a modern-day parable:

 Father Herman recalls a quiet moment when he was with Father Seraphim [Rose] and their animals came up to them: Svir [the monastery dog] looking up devotedly and wagging his tail, and a lovely, white-pawed cat named Kisa standing quietly by. 

 “From your point of view,” Father Herman asked in a reflective mood, “what are animals all about?”


Father Seraphim replied: “They have something to do with Paradise.”



Saturday, July 6, 2019

Lord had mercy: The grandma I never knew, welcomed my mother 'home'

My grandmother, Bessie Fern Powell, held me when I was a baby.

I don't remember her. I was 2 years old when she died in October, 1955, at age 61 of cancer.

But I pray for her repose regularly, along with her husband, my grandfather Luther Powell, and my other grandparents, departed uncles and aunts and cousins, and a few folks, passed away and still living, who were sources of pain --and thus learning -- in my life.

So, all I have of Bessie is the memory of an old black-and-white snapshot my mother showed me. It was of my grandmother, who hailed from the Scots McGinnis family, holding me, wrapped in blanket.

That photo may be among the few belongings she left behind. I've not, yet, been able to bring myself to go through them.

Mom passed away on June 28, age 91, after years of being ravaged by Alzheimer's disease. I had seen her last in late March, when I buried by father. During our visits we had a few seconds of her being "present," a smile and a laugh, before the blank eyes and drifting off to sleep regained increasing, and terminal dominion.

Staff at her nursing home in Cheney, Wash., had told me her last few weeks were non-responsive ones. And finally, in the early morning hours a couple weeks ago, she just stopped. So, that was my image of her final breaths in this life, as I have prayed the Eastern Orthodox Christian Akathist for the Departed the past week or so.

But, back to Bessie.

Today I learned of another piece of the story of Katherine Mims' final moments, one that means so very, very much.

Late the day before she was found deceased, a staffer told my family, Mom awoke out of her near-coma briefly, shouting with surprised delight: "Mama!"

And then, she fell asleep again. As far as we know, she never awakened again, at least in this world.

Could it be? My heart tells me, yes.

Thanks, Grandma Bessie.

I look forward to someday seeing, and remembering you, for eternity.