Lucy

Who are Writers?

Alice W. Flaherty, a neurologist at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston, decided a while ago to find out what compels people to sit down and write, so she sat down and wrote a book about the subject. Using her Ph. D. as well as her M. D., she came out in 2004 with The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer’s Block, and the Creative Brain. Briefly, I think she wrote that there are actual differences in the physical brains of writers and nonwriters. Extra activity in some of the temporal lobes may compel us to write. These changes produce hypergraphia, the medical term for an overpowering desire to write. That area is also important for metaphor and the sense of inspiration, she says. This is rare, she says, but its opposite, writer’s block, is common. The bad news is, she says, is that writers are ten times more likely than the general population to be manic-depressive, and many great writers in the past have had epilepsy. Now the good, sort of, news: “If we are all a little bit sick, it is not all that sick to be sick,” she writes.

Well then, what of great travel writers, Herodotus, one of the first? He wasn’t perfect, as an early excerpt about a fifth-century BCE trip to Gaza shows:

“There is an inscription in Egyptian on the pyramid telling how much was disbursed on radishes, onions, and garlic for the workmen. I remember very well what the guide said as he translated it for me, it cost [about one hundred million dollars]. If this is so, what did the other expenses run to, the cost of the stones, the iron, everything else?” The truth is, no guide in the fifth century BCE could read Old Kingdom hieroglyphics any more than those who take you around the pyramids today. It wasn’t until Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt that French scholars found the Rosetta Stone (1799), by which modern man was able to translate those symbols for the first time. Moral of this story: don’t trust anybody, even guides, as people love to tell stories and make things up. Check any facts you provide, preferably from more than just one source.

“Good night, Angel Baby, my precious little boy. Shalom.”
He lay there so helpless, vulnerable, so innocent. How could he know the power of the blessings contained in shalom that would cocoon him this night?

We had traveled far today. The terrain had been exceptionally rugged, and we both were weary. Our stomachs were now full, and the ebony curtain of night had settled over us. I drifted deeply into my own shalom. Safe! Well, and happy! Ponder the meanings! Health, prosperity, peace! The fears that my Angel Baby might wander away from the group had crowded my entire being all day. Tormenting scenarios of sinister plots by the hungry foxes and wolves had followed me relentlessly. They had hoped to pluck off young meat to feed their own pups, but now, safe and snuggled down into the warmth of our bedding, I thrilled instead at the wonder of his small frame.

My little girls had grown up and had little girls of their own now, but many of our boys had been ripped from us, just as they were reaching their full growth, and we never saw them again. I wrenched with pain as I remembered the talk that I had heard and knew to be true. Our young boys would be washed and preened and taken to the temple….never to be seen again….I must be still! I must sleep! I need to be strong for tomorrow.

The crystal night air was shattered by a piercing, mournful scream–another and another, coming closer to us. I jerked my head up, wrenching and straining to see what was happening. A light glared so bright I could have sworn we were being surrounded by thousands of blazing torches. My eyes recoiled from the shock as pitch-black turned instantly into blinding bleach. My lids batted in blurring speed as they tried to adjust to the brilliant surroundings.

Moments which felt like eternities passed, then another woeful cry perforated the countryside. Now I could hear the shuffling of feet, the gentle words that I didn’t understand but recognized them to be filled with compassion. I had to see who or what was coming so close, even now entering our safe haven. I slipped away from my sleeping Angel Baby. He had jerked twice but now was so quiet I could only feel his little chest moving gently as he gathered the night air into his small lungs. Were they coming for my son?

As I peered into the main room, I saw a Human Kind carrying a writhing body, one of his own species, similar to the shepherds’ mates who came to visit occasionally out in the meadows. They cuddled our young and cooed to us when we were afraid and tsah-tsahed to us when we were straying to far. Both figures glowed in the bright light. Gently and ever so slowly, he knelt to the ground, his strong arms placing the form in our tomorrow’s hay as though it was a treasure of gold and every precious stone and piles of rare and priceless spices.

The frail form that he nestled into the straw was now nearly doubled over in pain. Another wail. Deep within me, I knew what was happening. This beautiful Human Kind was being brought into our refuge to give birth to her Baby. Her mate had tried to make her comfortable, but there was nothing he could do now but watch in awesome wonder and amazement.

Was this a king who was to find his birthplace here? No pauper would ever have access to the lamp power which flooded over this miraculous event. I slowly crept to the window with the hopes of seeing a regal caravan. There might be camels bedecked with precious stones and bright tassels and finely braided leathers from a far-away country, loaded down with everything a king and his parents could possibly need for this long journey which now was interrupted by an untimely birth.

I strained to see the entourage which had come with this royal family. We witnessed such sights on rare occasions as we had grazed the surrounding hills of Bethlehem. Rich, purple satins, jeweled turbans, arm bangles and bands of gold and grand rings laden with diamonds which sent shafts of light in dozens of directions all at once.

I blinked in disbelief as I stretched forward, hoping to solve this mystery. Just outside the doorway, a lone beast of burden had crumpled to the ground in exhaustion, gleaming wet with sweat, sides heaving as it gasped for life, its head now resting on the stony terrain. No entourage, no caravan, no company of nobility, no gems or jewels or golden threads woven into fine fabrics. One lone animal had brought the Human Kind to our humble place of rest.

The puzzle of a thousand lamps was solved as my eyes looked upward. The star which hovered above us seemed brighter and closer and more intense than any I had ever seen, as though it had been possessed and carried by a Power as mighty as all the forces of heaven and earth combined.

At last the birth was over. All the agony was now gone. Laughter and love filled the stable. I thought I heard many voices riding the breeze which surged across our shelter….worshipful melody accompanied by lutes and harps and bells and timbrels. My heart stood still as my mind dared to think of the beautiful baby boys that I had nursed in the past, only to have them taken from me. Would this beautiful new-born Human Kind, this Baby of royal birth, one day be washed and preened and taken away?
A Christmas story told through the eyes and ears and heart of a ewe in the stable where Jesus was born. By Connie Shannon © December 12, 2007

Now when I think of Christmas I always remember the smells. My nose tingles with the fragrant scent of pine needles. Smelling the pine scent of ever greens transports me back to my childhood. An unforgettable experience happened when I was ten years old.

Our house was decorated for Christmas and I woke up each morning drawn to the fresh smells of our pine tree and then at the Nativity Scene displayed in our living room. Each ceramic figure seemed to glow and gave me such a sense of peace. I loved to hold each figure and try to imagine how he or she felt during this glorious moment when the baby Jesus was born. Sometimes I actually thought I felt a presence near me.

One day I turned around and saw St Nicholas – not Santa Claus but the real Saint. He said, “Do not be afraid I am the Bishop of Myra but you probably know me as St Nicholas. May I tell you a story about my life?”

I was so awed, frightened, and curious all at once. I said, “Yes, your grace, I would love to hear your story.”

“I was born during the third century in the village of Patara. Do you know where Turkey is?”

I nodded my head. We were learning about world history in school. Also my grandparents were born in Greece and Turkey is close by.

“This city is on the southern coast of Turkey but the area at that time was Greek.”

I smiled.

The Bishop continued saying, “My parents made a lot of money so we were able to live very comfortably. Despite our wealth, they felt church and God was their number one priority. They raised me to love God with all my heart and be a devout Christian. It saddens me to tell you that they died in an epidemic while I was still young. I was taught to obey Jesus’ words to “sell what you own and give the money to the poor,” I used all the money my parents left me, my inheritance, to assist the needy, the sick, and the suffering. I dedicated my life to serving God. God blessed me and helped me to become known throughout the land for my generosity to those in need, my love for children, and my concern for sailors and ships. This was all possible through the love of God our Creator.”

“Your grace, may I interrupt you? My mom has told me many things about you and I want to know if one of the stories is true. Did you really help a man with three unmarried daughters? The man was poor and could not provide a dowry for his daughters so they were destined for a low life and could end up as street walkers. Did you throw gold into their houses or down their chimneys?”

“I did help the three daughters but how I did this will remain a mystery to you and to others. The important thing to remember is that I gave gifts so the daughters could be saved from a life of shame and all were able to marry and live a good life thanks be to God.”

“So it is okay to give gifts? My teacher said we give too many gifts in America. She said we have become too —what was the word—materialistic – I think that was it.”

“Yes, the world has become materialistic as you say. Many people tend to think of their desires and not their simple needs or the needs of others. We would be happier if we expected less and gave more. It is far better to give than to receive. One gets a true feeling of satisfaction when one gives with a pure heart to those who are less fortunate. If we give a gift to someone today without letting people know who it is from, we can say it is from Saint Nicholas (or Santa Claus). Did you or your parents give a gift to someone in need? When we give a gift to someone we don’t know we are sharing our love with them just as God shares his love with us all.” Even when we give gifts to our family and friends it is okay as long as we are giving without expecting something in return. If our hearts are pure, we feel great joy when we see the recipient of our gift smile with gratitude. This is another example of God’s love working in and through us.

“I really don’t know if we have given to the poor, I will have to ask my parents. Wait a minute, I know — we collect canned goods for the baskets at Sunday school. I think they go to the poor. And I remember now we bought clothes for a family our church adopted for the holidays. Is this how we pretend to be you?”

“The spirit of giving begins with God!
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

“Child, you gaze at the nativity scene each day and hold the ceramic figures. Why do you do this?” asked Saint Nicholas smiling.

“I try to imagine what each figure was seeing, hearing, smelling and feeling. “

“Would you like to see the real baby Jesus?”

“Yes, oh yes, could I? How?”

“Close your eyes and hold my hand.”

St Nicholas held my hand and I closed my eyes and felt a rush of wind. I could feel my clothes move in the wind and my face was cool with a breeze rushing across it. Superman probably felt the same as he traveled faster than the speed of light. It seemed like only a few seconds went by —my nose was assaulted by numerous foreign smells: farm animals and straw and a fragrance I never smelled before. I had walked out of my room without my shoes and suddenly I felt dirt and straw under my bare feet. I looked up and saw the cave and the shepherds and yes there was Mary and Joseph and baby JESUS.

“Can they see us, I asked Saint Nicholas?”

“No, child we are here but we are invisible to them.”

I looked from one face to the next. The shepherds looked dazed and awed and couldn’t take their eyes off the Baby Jesus. Mary sat close to the manger and stoked His head and face. Joseph stood close by admiring both Mary and Baby Jesus. The animals were all very quiet but appeared to be both reserved and reverent. There was a peace that settled on the whole area. I noticed a bright star way up high in the sky. I heard angels and then I saw them – all around the cave. Suddenly the three wise men approached. That fragrance I smelled must have been the frankincense or maybe the sweet, pure smell of the Baby Jesus.
Baby Jesus was soooooo beautiful. He giggled and smiled and looked up to the Heavens. There was a golden light above him and of course all the angels. Now as I looked there must have been hundreds of angels in the sky all around us. It was so beautiful and ohhh now I hear them singing. The most beautiful sound I have ever heard. My heart was so full of joy I thought it would burst. I have never felt so truly happy. The Baby Jesus looked right at me and smiled.

“He sees me”, I said excitedly to Saint Nicholas. My heart continued to swell with tremendous joy, contentment and peace. It was a perfect feeling.

“Of course, said St Nicholas, He sees us and watches over all of us all the time. “

“But you said we were invisible. “

“No one is invisible to God.”

Abruptly a light flashed and I was back in my house in front of the manger scene and St Nicholas was gone. I still felt totally at peace. Did I imagine this experience; did I have a day dream, what happened? I looked down at my feet and picked a piece of straw out from between my toes. Did it fall from the manger scene my mom put out on display?
Or………….?

They said there’d be no wind on Christmas eve, and yet it came in the night with a howl to wake the dead, the ghost of hurricanes past, a mighty thrust of gusts that stripped their mooring, ripped their sail, and in the end sent Mary and Jean-Claire into the sea with one violent toss of the deck. They tread water under a storm-darkened sky until enough moonlight broke through the clouds to light the near shore. They swam to the boulders, enormous round rocks called the Baths, and sought out a soggy cave between two massive rocks in which to shelter from wind and rain– too exhausted to celebrate the holiday, two grateful to escape the storm’s wrath, sprawled on sodden sand with the drumming of the surf echoing through the chamber like the warm and close heartbeat of the world.  On Christmas Day, they emerged to the shoreline to survey the scene, sailboats smacked and toppled along the coral reef. No merriment that morning, just a grim determination to put things right.

Mary felt that same fire in her heart now. After six weeks, power likes still lay silent, poles snapped like toothpicks and tossed across the dike. Her neighbors huddled under blue tarps and boiled water. At least she could live in her tent, in her leaking store, but what of all these people without roughing-it skills? She knew a talk with Slim was more important than ever, and this was the morning for it.

All I Want for Christmas

Max hated Christmas.
He walked with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his grey corduroy jacket.
“The Grinch had the right idea - who needs all that noise and laughter?”
Twenty years ago Sarah his wife gave him the jacket. She was dead a year now, left him barely six months to the day after they’d retired and moved to Florida for the good life.
His kids were Up North busy with their families. Saying it that way saved face. “Busy, my butt,” Max muttered. “I’m are out of their hair and they don’t care.”
But the old grey jacket lived on. Unlike his family, it did not desert him. He wore it for his daily constitutional. Max preferred an early morning walk. He didn’t have to talk to anyone.
Stumbling over a small stone, he gave a pebble a vicious kick, sending it flying into his neighbor’s grass.
The strains of “I’m Wishing for a White Christmas” drifted through an open window.
“I’m not wishing for a white Christmas, ” Max snorted. “How stupid is that idea on December 24 in palm tree land?”
He walked on, past the Lewis house with two tricycles in the driveway and the Stanley house with the rose garden out front. He turned the corner and came to an empty lot.
A white two-door sedan picked up speed going around the corner then burned rubber coming to a quick stop.
The passenger door opened. A hand held out a bundle then a foot emerged and kicked the bundle into the grass of the empty lot. The door slammed and the car sped off.
“Hey, littering is a crime!” Max shouted.
Curious but cautious he walked slowly to the spot where the bundle disappeared. Tall grass blocked his view. Max heard a soft whimpering sound.
“Dear God, don’t let it be a child,” he whispered. Max parted the tall grass. He bent down and looked into the hurt, puzzled eyes of a puppy.
Max gasped. He picked up the small bundle of brown fur. The puppy whimpered.
He walked home quickly, put the dog in passenger seat of his car, buckled up and went looking for a vet.
Doc Marshall heard a voice in the waiting room.
“Anybody here?”
“Yes, I’m coming.”
Max held out the small brown bundle.
“I found this by the side of the road. It was kicked out of a car.”
“Well, let’s have a look,” Doc said, carrying the bundle to a room with a table.
The puppy whimpered as Doc did his examination.
“She’s sore in the abdomen but I doubt major damage. I’d like to take an X ray to make sure.”
“Not my dog,” Max said curtly. “You take care of her. You find her a home.”
Doc rubbed his eyes and put both hands on the table.
“There was no one in the reception area because it is Christmas Eve. Everyone wants to be home with family. Me too. I’m leaving soon.”
“Well, tough, I don’t have family, why should I care? ” Max’s voice was loud, harsh.
Doc looked at Max, then down at the puppy on the table.
“No family?” he said softly. “Are you sure about that?”
The puppy had her head on Max’s hand. Her eyes were closed. When he tried to move his hand, she opened her eyes, wagged her tail and licked his hand.
Moisture flooded Max’s eyes. The room blurred. His knees felt weak and his heart thumped in his chest.
Doc picked up a chart and said briskly “Well, now, we need a name for your daughter.”
Max stared at the brown bundle for a long moment.
“Her name is Hope. She is the Christmas present I didn’t know I needed,” he whispered.
The X ray was normal. Doc gave Max some dog food.
During the night she started whimpering.
“When our son Jimmie got a puppy, this happened. Potty training. Let’s go outside,” Max said. He picked her up from a blanket on the floor. Hope knew what to do in the grass.
On Christmas morning something moved on the pillow next to his. It was Hope. She’d crawled up on the bed during the night.
“Amazing thing,” Max said, smiling. “No tree. No lights, but Christmas came anyway, thanks to you.”
The puppy opened her eyes and wagged her tail. Together Hope and Max stepped into the light of Christmas morning.

My journey begins with a push off the shore and the dip of a paddle into liquid pink and blue, a palette of morning color skipping across the shallow marsh. I’d never thought I’d sit in a kayak and paddle to a distant island through waters where alligators grow large, but the hurricane stripped away those foolish fears. After all, if I could swat a big ol’ gator with a broom to nudge him out of the broken screen door of my shop, why should I fear them as I float on the surface?

The royal palms call. I’ve considered them from a hundred angles, brought easel and watercolors to the tip of Bacom Point in my daypack to capture their stunning profiles. They hanut my dreams at night. So close, and yet so far, they are where the herons wing at night, where the moon sets after midnight, and they seem far taller than the gentle giants that line the approach to our downtown. What mysteries do they guard? What secrets do they know?

I dip the paddle again, and the gleam of pink plays over the wood. If I arrive after the sun rises, it will be much warmer than now, so I redouble the stroke, pushing through the grassy waters to the holy grail of Okeechobee.

Atop the highest shelf, well out of reach, I stand with head held high, staring skyward. What will waltz into my vision today? A fluffy cloud, thin enough to hold a center of swirling mist? A red balloon, set smartly against blue sky? The sun’s blinding orb, which passes without fail every day at 2 PM? A flock of me, animated, chattering and quacking, reminding me of a life now lost, trapped as I am in this Pinocchio pose, my aching neck an arc of wood pointing skyward, always skyward, my curse for which a thousand years pays no penance.

and liked it a lot. Six authors take turns , each takes a day a week to write about literature and life. Since there are seven days in a week,  Must get Sundays off. Or is it Mondays? Their comments are sprinkled with lots of photos. I especially liked “A day at Hogworts” when Jacqueline talks about going back to school. All six authors have their photos across the top and links to their Web sites down the right side. They describe themselves as . . .The Naked Truth about Literature and Life
A cop, a Brit, a deb, a B-school grad, a guy with good hair, and a wisecracking lawyer wrestle with the naked truth about literature and life.

I love it. I’ll go back.

Bookmark this site - a keeper