Blog

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MEDITATION
2
Or The Horse May Talk–Excerpt
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The Case of the Mysterious Daffodil
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Compulsion To Write Books
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The Real Cost of Election Day
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A Dark and Stormy Night

MEDITATION

MEDITATION

Today is the day after Thanksgiving. We have entered into the towering days during which we find ourselves, willing or not, engulfed in the surge of—not holidays—but holy days.

We find ourselves pushed, pulled, rattled and scrambled out of the dull, colorless, day in and day out struggle to get the bills paid, the kids fed, the computer quieted, the boss satisfied. We try to fight back, “I’m not going to spend too much—eat too much—believe too much—” And time after time we fail. A tune tinkles out of the radio, “Rockin’ around the Christmas tree—” and suddenly the jitterbug deep in us comes to life and we clap our hands and skitter across the floor. In spite of our determination, Black Friday stirs us–maybe just a quick stop after work at the mall or Walmart? And, oh, the Christmas carols, oh, the Christmas carols—

You were strong. Right up to Thanksgiving. And then your mother called. Your sister brings up the subject of pumpkin pies. The kids, rambunctious most of the time, become civilized at the table.

And when you leave the Thanksgiving table, it is with a hazy knowledge that, no matter your resolutions of last week—you are sliding, no, floating, into the great tide of Christmas. You can no more leave Christmas out than leave out breathing.

Because Christmas won’t leave you out. It closes around you like a wonderful mist that you breathe as if it were the air itself. You slip—buy a small gift one day. Take a peek into that dusty old box of Christmas ornaments. Find yourself comparing prices at Christmas tree lots.

And, day by day, you sink deeper into the only celebration we have that is worth celebrating—the knowledge that we are not alone in a cold impersonal universe. But instead have citizenship in the Family of God and a reason to live, work, pray—and celebrate.

Let us cherish these days. They are precious beyond all measure.

—LMFlourish-25

The Case of the Mysterious Daffodil

This spring I was favored with an unusual and mysterious event I call: The Case of the Mysterious Daffodil.

I have spent much of my life planting seeds and bulbs, bringing home potted plants (because they reached out and asked to come home with me), and hauling watering cans and leaky hoses from one expiring plant to another. I huddle over pans of potting soil waiting for that first intrepid sprout of green, and am filled with joy as the first petunia ruffles out of its bud. So as the saying goes, I’ve been there, done that and got the T-Shirt. Every pair of jeans I’ve ever had went into the trash-bin caked with mud, stickers, burrs and out at the knees.

You’d think that I would have some acquaintance with the world of gardening and plants that not much would surprise me. But something happened this spring that I can’t understand: after years of struggling with my beach-sand top soil with a few successes and many failures, I was completely flummoxed by a daffodil.

Several years back I planted several daffodil bulbs along the edge of my front porch. Ordinarily as we all know, daffodils are a tough and persistent race and greet spring with a joyful jangle of golden bells.

But not these. They disappeared without a trace. I blamed the gophers of which we have many and my front porch hunched there, flowerless and drab.

Then, this spring, about four feet out from the front porch in what we call the front lawn, but is actually a flourishing community of mostly weeds and a little Bermuda Grass—three foreign leaves sprouted up. And Up. They got taller and taller. Three slender green spears that plainly did not fit in with the community of weeds.

Then a bud appeared.

It looked like—a daffodil bud.

But…?

Then—it bloomed.

And there it stood throughout our dry, dull spring—one yellow flag of victory, reminding us that the one thing we shall never completely understand—is nature.

No matter how hard we work, how careful our studies, the one thing you can count on as a gardener is—being surprised!

Compulsion To Write Books

From time to time I find myself wondering if somewhere back among the early twigs on my family tree, the following scene might have taken place…

compulsion to write by Louise Moeri.comUG (a burly cave man) is earnestly chipping away at a large slab of stone.

MUG (his wife) shouts from the nearby cave: “Ug:The Aurox is overcooked! Stop what you’re doing and come to dinner!”

UG: “Can’t”—puff—puff—“stop—got—to finish chapter two—”

MUG: “The kids are hungry!”

UG: “Feed the kinds—I’ve got to build suspense here—-”

Well, you get the picture. I am absolutely certain that the compulsion to write has been in my family since, well, maybe not since UG and MUG, but close to it. A faculty with words is our most distinguishing characteristic. The one thing I learned quickly and easily as a child was the alphabet, followed by the rudiments of grammar. And with this basic equipment I have spent a great many years allowing and encouraging the stories in my head to flow down my right arm, through my pencil and onto an immense stack of paper to be typed at some point. Many of these stories remain moldering in my file cabinets, but—oh, joy—quite a few became published books.

I can therefore say that I understand people with this crazy compulsion to write BOOKS, and my advice is—DO IT!

The world is waiting for your book!

The Real Cost of Election Day

 

My husband was a veteran of WWII. He and his teenage friends found themselves swallowed up by the terrible, ravenous monster of WWII. Some of them went to Europe and he found himself on a ship headed for the South Pacific. Years later, I heard brief, grim stories of beach landings—always he said in the third wave—Stifling nights in a jungle that was dangerous even if there had been no war. He never talked about it much, but I always got one message loud and clear. It wasn’t for nothing. Come election day, or hell or high water, he and I showed up to VOTE. He never preached patriotism but wore it proudly, like the uniform he still had tucked away in a dresser drawer. Make no mistake, he could criticize elected leaders with anyone—and usually did. But—if asked if voting was really worth it, does one vote really make a difference—the eyes of that strong man’s man figure, the embodiment of what it meant to be an American, would glimmer and he would tell you, yes it does. He knew too well that your right to vote cost a terrible price. Don’t waste it.

flag decal

 

A Dark and Stormy Night

I have been toiling away for several months trying to write —and then re-write—a story that no one will ever read. It’s called A Dark and Stormy Night. It has no car chases, no guns firing, not even a guy threatening to punch another guy’s lights out. The characters are not bleeding and no one calls 911. At the end—everybody is not only alive but well, having funneled their way through a labyrinth of personal hazards so mundane as to elicit little more than a ho-hum from anyone I might be able to persuade to read it.

Right now, my prospects don’t look too good. I need to retype some pages—a slow process for me, and then see if I can find someone who could be persuaded to read it. A rather short novel about a woman who has cancer, a woman who has a powerful grudge against life and a man whose skills at avoiding other people’s trouble is unmatched. And oh yes, some castaway cats.

So why do I work so bloody hard to write the darn thing?

I can’t help it.

When in the process of creation, the person who was to become ME was cooked up, somebody stuck in a compulsion to tell stories. I strongly suspect that one of my ancestors was among those fellows who drew cave pictures in pre-historic France. I can guarantee that guy was muttering to himself at the time…”I wish somebody would invent WRITING…so I could tell the story of this Aurochs”.

Well somebody did invent it and people like me have been running amok with it ever since. We just can’t help it. When I was a first grader I was the only kid who could think up sentences using the spelling words.

I confess I filched the title for my latest adventure story“ A Dark and Stormy Night, from the British writer, Bulwer-Lytton. Yes, I know, that phrase has been used and abused by generations of writers, but the reason we do this is because he hit on a few words that describe where most of us are standing. And yes, it’s quite legal to borrow the title!

Let me know if there is a compulsive READER out there who would care to see my work. I’ll take it up with my editor.

 

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