People leave things in books-that is a fact of life. Some times it's a ticket stub. Some times it's a check. Some times it's a photograph. Sometimes it's a piece of bacon. And some times it's a bit of intrigue, the end to which you will never know.
Mrs. Casey,
Mrs. P ( band director) has a small group of parents that got themselves elected to the Boosters board. They have the same "no values" mentality. They allow their kids to do things that are not Christian. One set of parents drove the band trailer all year and charged the band. This has always been a volunteer job. But they are friends w/ Mrs. P and she wouldn't let anyone else volunteer. This same man cannot hold down a job and they put him as Treasurer. Our previous Tres.+ others are afraid he won't be able to do or money will disappear. Parents pay 200-300 for marching. The budget is over $20,000. Mrs. Stivender is trying to come up w/ things to get rid of her. Please don't tell anyone where this came from. Angie
(Hand written note on small note paper that has this quote printed on each page: "I know the plans I have for you." Jer. 29:11. Found in a book in a library in Florida.)
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Hour of Mice and Deer
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| (photo by J. Martin Ward) |
Nearly a decade ago I became friends with a US Army Medic who was serving in Iraq. Upon returning to the States, he found it hard to adjust to life outside of a war zone. He was haunted by memories of patrols and the loss of two comrades. He had anger and regret with no place to put them. Not surprisingly, he had a few run-ins with Johnny Law and spent several months in jail on an assault charge.
It was during this time that we became true penpals. Envelopes flew back and forth between us, letters full of stories and news and games. One letter cautioned that I was to read it outside, atop something high, under a full moon, late at night. And so I did. On a clear February night in temperatures below zero, I nipped outside at three in the morning, clambered atop the cab of a pick-up truck in the yard and read the letter.
I don't remember what was in it now, probably lots of laughter from the writer imagining me gullible enough to be out in the freezing cold following his whim. But I will never forget the stillness and incredible beauty of moonlight on snow and the words of someone reaching out to me across so many miles and experiences.
When I crawled back into bed, I found I couldn't sleep. I needed to make my own homage to what had happend and thus wrote this poem:
The Hour of Mice and Deer
I was awake’d at 3 AM,
Nocturnal musings from a pen
Calling me from slumbers deep
To answer riddles, hide and seek.
The full moon on the patient snow,
The stars above, the cold below.
No gloves of wool, nor hat of fleece,
In my own house I was a thief.
Stealing glances, listening hard,
I moved as dust into the yard.
The door behind me gently closed;
The sting of night at 3 below.
Yellow paper, man-made light,
A silent witness in the night,
Instructions in a reckless hand,
Un compos mentos rewards the man.
Clear, cool nights inspire the mind,
We gaze amazed at what we find.
We came together seeking knowledge
And in the process found our solace.
Here, my view is open spaces,
The heart recalls what time erases.
There, your view is no less grand,
Despite the concrete walls at hand.
Your jailers cannot even see,
They are the captives, you are the free.
Words of lead upon a page,
Redemption as the battles rage.
The moon, her silent vigil kept.
I read your words. I thought. I wept.
For only you could bid me here,
In the wee hours of mice and deer.
There is a sound that snow possesses
When the temperature regresses.
It leaves its mark upon the soul
Of those of us born to the cold.
Imprinted with this icy brand,
We learn to wait and understand.
Patience will be our salvation
In this life of our creation.
I said a silent, sacred prayer,
Then mindful of the chilling air,
Crept back inside, leaving no trace
That I had traveled to this place.
And yet my mind with visions filled.
There are no liquors, nor are there pills,
That can begin to replicate
The heady joy of entwined fate.
We were not strangers when we met.
The heart recalls what time forgets.
In variations we reside.
You held my hand somewhere in time.
c. Feb 4, 2007
Art and Our Lady
The Virgen de Guadalupe has been making her way into our life of late. Living in Austin, Texas, for several years, we saw her on grocery store candles and in roadside shrines. Our Lady of Guadalupe Church sits resolutely in a challenging neighborhood on the east side and she peers out of tiny retablos at Tesoro’s Trading Company on South Congress. 
We continue to see her here in Florida. There is a large painting of her on the side of Lucy’s Super Market in Avon Park. I found a prayer card with her image tucked into a sign atop a gas pump. When Jamie had a dream that a groovy shaman had tattooed Our Lady’s image onto his wrist we agreed it was time we paid more attention to this mysterious lady. Unexpectedly we found a small poster of her at Om Gaia here in Bradenton while at the Saturday Farmer’s Market. The sale included some strands of beads for the Hernando DeSoto Grande Parade that evening but they quickly became our first addition to the little shrine in our kitchen. Curious about her origins, I began to troll the internet for her story and found a wonderful assortment of images and information.
La Virgen de Guadalupe is known as ‘Mother of the Americas’, an image under which the many conquered nation states of Mexico were united to form our modern idea of Mexico. Having been a country of many languages and invasions, it was the appearance of the Virgin in 1531 that lead to a galvanization of Catholicism with indigenous pride and practice of the local people. Judy King, in her article “La Virgen de Guadalupe: Mother of All Mexico” writes this:
The appearance of Guadalupe on Tepeyac, the site of the destroyed Aztec temple of Tonantzin, the Mother Earth Goddess restored the dignity and the spirit of the people. Her arrival is said to mark the birth of a new land and a new people, neither European nor prehispanic, but both, the first product of the New World. Even her physical appearance announced the newness of this world, for her face looked neither like the Spanish nor the Indian. Her lovely features are the pleasant mixture of both - she is a Mestizo, the first Mexican.
King goes on to say:
It has never occurred to Guadalupanas that others could see the image as flat, and tacky, a two dimensional piece of religious art. They cannot believe that others are missing out on the unconditional love that makes the Virgin multi-dimensional, alive, and a very real part of the family. She IS, after all, their MOTHER, she is always there, waiting to be consulted, waiting to be consoling, waiting to listen, waiting to speak, to enfold them in her arms, to pull them on to her lap.
Octavio Paz, the Mexican writer and Nobel Prize winner said, "When Mexicans no longer believe in anything, they will still hold fast to their belief in two things: the National Lottery and the Virgin of Guadalupe. In this I think they will do well. For both have been known to work, even for those of us who believe in nothing."
Inspiring such devotion, it is really no surprise that the image of Our Lady is so joyously embraced and shared, whether on the back of matchbooks, in celebrated cathedrals or on the banners of the United Farm Workers. We create to tell our stories, to ask for understanding and to show our love and appreciation.
Last Saturday, at a Bradentucky Bombers roller derby match here in town, I noticed a large tattoo of La Virgen on the slim, fishnet-stockinged thigh of a Gainseville Roller Rebel. By the end of the bout the fishnets were torn but Our Lady took her victory lap with pride and grace. That seems to be what she does best.
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| Nuestra Senora (acrylic on canvas by Wren Davis Pearson) |
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