My Prize

You are my prize marble,
The one I won't play,
The one I keep warm in my pocket, day after day.
I take you out and gaze at you,
When I don't have to share.
I hold you gently in my palm,
Each time discovering a beauty that I hadn't noticed was there.
Like light through a prism, or sunshine on opal,
Color spills everywhere, when I gaze at you.

Lori

I lost a friend this weekend. She lost a battle with cancer. I think this was the second time around with it for her. She was too good a person for it to take her down easy. She was kind and open, the first to welcome us into our home in this neighborhood. She was the 'mom' of the neighborhood. All the kids knew they had a safe place to go if they ever needed it. Lori took care of everybody.

She always seemed happy, this neighbor of mine, always positive, always nurturing. She flitted around the neighborhood, doing whatever she could to make life enjoyable for anyone she knew, and even those she didn't know too well. She always had a smile and a kind word, no matter the circumstance, in spite of her illness.

Oddly, maybe it was her battle with cancer that made her so positive. Maybe the first battle showed her how precarious life truly is...that one must do all he or she can to make it worthwhile and fill it up with as much happiness and love as possible, because one can't know when it will be over. She made the best of the time she had, and all who knew her are better for it.

There's a little less brightness in our neighborhood now, a dark place that once was filled with Lori's smile. But, there will be a new bright star out in the sky when these clouds clear, and she'll be smiling over those who miss her most.

I heard a Nanci Griffith song this morning, Angels. It reminded me of Lori:

We’re lifted up by Angels
Higher than the world
Strong enough to leave it
Bound to learn the secret
Angels never hurt
Close enough to heaven
Above the rain
Darkness cannot reach us
Let the Angels teach us
Only love remains
We’re lifted up by Angels
Given wings to fly
Leave the night behind us
Trust the light to find us
Even as we rise
We’re lifted up by Angels

Goodbye, friend. I was blessed to know you. You'll be a wonderful guardian angel.

Butterflies in the Rain

Back in August, I wrote a note to my best friend in the whole wide world. She was going through some tough times. Still is, come to that. The weather was uncharacteristicly and unrelentingly wet where she lives, and had been for days and days. She had roof problems, and the water was leaking through into her house. Up here in PA it was a nasty, and very nearly rainless hot August, so rain was quite welcome when it came. Here, with an edit or two, is what I sent her. It may be winter now, but to this friend, and maybe some others, it still applies.

To my best friend, I hope you don't mind that I share this.

It rained here all day yesterday, a good, solid, cooling rain. I drove home under a gray sky. I don’t usually enjoy the color of a gray sky, but yesterday it was beautiful, just because of the rain. (I know you're sick to death of rain, but bear with me.) I was listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter, enjoying her voice and the steadily falling rain so much that when I got home, I sat in the car and listened. (My car is my favorite listening room.) There was a jack-rabbit in my neighbor’s back yard, snacking on juicy wet grass. I kept the wipers on so I could see it better. He seemed not to mind the rain either. I watched him as he grazed toward the butterfly bush next to the neighbor’s house, the bush's deep purple flowers drooping from the weight of the dripping rain. Then I saw something pretty amazing. The butterflies were busy, flitting from branch to branch and flower to flower, and out into the yard, doing their butterfly things. I say it was amazing, because I was surprised they could fly with the rain pelting them. I never really thought about it before. How much harder it must be for them, with their fragile wings, trying to keep from being worn down and washed away in the rain. While it wasn’t a hard rain, it wasn’t particularly soft either, and granted, the little monarchs weren’t flying far or high, but they were still getting their butterfly things done. I imagine the raindrops just bead up on their delicate, orange wings, like dew on grass, magnifying in wonderful detail the intricate patterns underneath.

The sun is back here today, but with less heat. Keep doing your butterfly things. It can’t rain forever.

ADDENDUM: I don't know why, but rewriting this brings to mind a movie I watched recently. It's an Oscar-winning Italian film directed by, and starring Bernardo Bertolucci, 'Life Is Beautiful.' It's about an irrepressible and irreverent man who protects his young son from the horrors of a concentration camp. For those of you that don't understand Italian, it's definitely worth reading the subtitles. If you get a chance, watch it.