Delights: August 23 to August 29

August 23: A few weeks ago, during my annual silent retreat, I decided that one of my prayer themes would be “joy.” That, in turn, led me to return — after nearly a year’s absence — to my community of blogging friends. From their perches in Maine, England, New Zealand and Singapore, I was greeted with enormous warmth, affection and, yes, joy. Inspired by their welcome, I decided to revive good ol’ Fashioned for Joy. And I added “gratitude” to my week’s reflections.

Bonus: I invite you to marvel over dovecotes (a status symbol in long-ago England) from Platypus Man, enjoy a small sign of fall from Laurie Graves in Maine, linger with Barbara in Wellington’s Karori Cemetery in New Zealand, ponder how the last colors of summer might resemble a romance that has run its course from Nes Felicio, and chuckle over whimsical public art in Singapore from Ju-Lyn.

August 24: From our town of Falls Church, Virginia, one can ride a bicycle to the Lincoln Memorial in about 30 minutes. Our high school athletes, on the other hand, needed to travel nearly two hours in one direction to find right-sized competition. In 2012, the stars of the boys basketball team — including Noel, Jeremy, Eion, Philippe and our son Nate — led the team to the state championship game. The unsung hero, however, was Noel’s father, who all season long drove the players’ school bus on winding mountain roads and through scary winter conditions to venues all over northwestern Virginia.

This weekend, Kevin and I celebrated the birthday and retirement of Noel’s dad. We toasted the memory of those games, the arduous travel, and our sons’ enduring friendship. And we learned that in retirement our friend hopes to see the United States behind the wheel of an RV. Compared to his high school athletics responsibilities, driving the RV will be a piece of cake. And I hope just as much fun.

August 25: As I sat at a particularly long stop light on my way home from church today, I reflected on the sermon. Urging us to try to reclaim (a bit of) the Sabbath, the pastor invited us to adopt a simple practice: “stop before you go.” Whether that looks like a prayerful pause before rising or a few  intentional breaths before saying words we might regret, this tiny practice weaves Shabbat — literally, rest — into our days. We might quiet our over-charged limbic systems, or recall what truly matters to us, or simply allow a bit of gratitude to seep in and flow out. 

The traffic light eventually turned green. I’m looking forward to the next red light.

Reflection: This weekend, Kevin and I attended both a Celebration of Life and a “celebration of living.” During the party for Noel’s father, we took turns telling funny stories, saluting achievements, and recounting the many facets of his loving and meaningful life. During the Celebration of Life, we did exactly the same thing. Except at the party, we got to shake our friend’s hand and express our love. I am resolved, now, not to wait for either type of celebration to speak my heart.

August 26: In museums, I like to look for the fingerprints of the artist. Maybe a stray pencil mark under an Alma Thomas brush stroke or a painting’s unfinished corner or an X-Ray of an oil’s undersketch. I never expected to find fingerprints that were more than 3,000 years old. 

And yet there I was, in the 19^th Dynasty tomb of Sety I in the Valley of the Kings in Luxor, Egypt, beholding an artist who almost stood before me. I had passed through gilded and ornamented rooms of perfected beauty and then stumbled into this chamber — plotted, sketched and abandoned. The Pharaoh is dead; move on to the next tomb. 

I found myself transfixed. Despite the marvels that surrounded me in the Valley of the Kings, my mind keeps returning to this chamber, to this intimacy between me and an artist who dropped his pencil in 1294 BCE.

August 27: My friend (and beloved former mentor) suggested that we sit on a shady bench within hearing of a creek. “Tell me,” he said, “about this museum docent possibility.” I did, for thirty energetic joyful minutes. My friend smiled, asked engaging questions and listened with his entire heart. I finally fizzled out — but not before recalling my recent resolution. 

I turned on the bench to face my friend. For the first dozen years of my career at the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, he was my teacher, coach, guide and cheerleader. He encouraged my creativity and risk-taking while keeping me on sound footing. He answered my questions patiently and guided our conversations so that I did more and more independent thinking and problem solving. I always left his office believing firmly in my ability to meet the day’s challenges. And, as I matured in the role, I could swear, as I made presentations to senior officials or delivered particularly insightful advice, he beamed at me with pride and delight. So I told him all of that and much, much more. 

I realize now that my friend was an awful lot like Ted Lasso, who said, “For me, success is not about the wins and losses. It’s about helping these young fellas be the best versions of themselves on and off the field.” Exactly. Thank you, friend. 

Bonus: I’ll tell you more about that museum docent possibility soon. Fingers crossed.

August 28: My GPS led me around the Washington Monument (nice obelisk!), past the Library of Congress and on to Capitol Hill. Eventually I hit the traffic my device tried heroically to avoid. 

As I sat (and sat), I studied the aging row houses hugging the sidewalk (and each other). Each home boasted a pair of distinct, if faded, colors enlivening its shutters, clapboard and trim. As I studied the tiny third floor dormers, I noticed a dozen chimney tops astride the rooflines where the homes meet. And down the entire block, pairs of chimney tops were painted vertically in two colors, to face and match the shutters, clapboard or trim of the home snuggled between them.

August 29: This morning, I came upon a 2021 New York Times piece, written by poet and essayist Hanif Abdurraqib, memorializing Mary Wilson of the Supremes. He recounted a story of Wilson, on one of her many Soul Train appearances, playfully begging Don Cornelius, the show’s host, to dance with her in the famous Soul Train dance line. She’d never danced in the line before; neither had Cornelius, who declined again and again, a little anxiously. Suddenly, we see Cornelius dancing down the line with a radiant Wilson, who Abdurraqib muses, possessed “this endless desire to pull someone else along with her in her joy, to open it up so that Don Cornelius — and we — could feel it too.”

Abdurraqib concludes his tribute with these lines: “It’s those small moments that must be stashed in the memory, in the limbs that feel heaviest on the sad days. You don’t know how good it is to shake off the grief until you’ve done it a few times. Until you’ve grabbed some people by the hand and dragged them along with you to perform a miracle.” 

Who will you grab? 

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If you’d like to browse my past delights, please consult the “word cloud” featured at the very bottom of this post. Find a theme or two that interests you and sift through the sands. Or learn a bit more about my Blog by visiting my Welcome page. You’ll also see links to four essays that were published in print magazines. I’m glad you’re here!