Eternal Memory...

St. Nicholas Memorial Chapel built in 1906 over the graves of Father Igumen Nicholai, Makari Ivanov and a monk whose name is not recorded. I painted this structure when I was very young and now have the opportunity to paint it again. Most of the homes where I spent early childhood were destroyed in the earthquake or burned. This humbly elegant building remains ever constant.

Kindness starts...

“Nut Orchid”

As a small child, one of my clearest memories is the smell of the geranium plant mother kept on the windowsill. The pungent odor and bright coral color in the solstice of Alaska winter was fascinating to me when everything outside was a notan wash of  snowbound grays. Mother’s house plants were precious to her, yet she often plucked a leaf from one of her African violets, tenderly wrapped the raw stem with damp paper and passed the gift into the outstretched hand of many newly arrived cheechako. The grateful beneficiary was equally careful of the fragile gift, tucking it under her coat before stepping out into the weather. Until recently, I didn’t understand the significance of shared starts in a time before the invasion of chain garden centers.

How the idea of caring for a living thing often gives us the spark to keep going when we’re frozen to the emotional bones.

How even the smallest spark of color can uplift a wintered over heart and inspire creativity.

How flowers help us remember a kindness.

The way our brains work, we feel physiologically the same as if the gesture is bestowed again in the present moment.

Mike gave me a couple of corms and said the plant was a “nut orchid.”  A bit spindly at first, it took off and provides a largesse of blooms every spring. When the “orchid” blooms, I remember how Mike and his wife took my kids clam digging and how he mentored them to clean the catch and wouldn’t let them quit until the job was finished for all of us.  I’m reminded of the blood red poppies lining his driveway and how he often dropped in unannounced to see how we were doing.  I see in each floret his face and feel again his concern when he traveled many hours to be present when we buried a son.

I’ve only begun to learn the power of sharing starts.

Sacajawea I'm not...

The other night, I was lost yet again in Portland. Getting into town is slick.  Leaving is harder. The one-ways and closed streets are easier to navigate with repetition, however, about the time I congratulate myself for having expanded my horizons in the metro area, I’m sucked into the vortex and traipsing like Moses in the wilderness ~ except I’d actually ask for directions if anything was open. Yes, I do have a neurotic GPS.

Wandering around in the fog and dark like ET trying to find home, I stumbled across a bridge and spilled out onto Martin Luther King Boulevard. Breathing a sigh of gratitude for the familiar touchstone, I considered on the remainder of the drive how people like Martin Luther King or Cesar Chavez provide a directional star for so many of our efforts.

I’m grateful for the people who courageously conduct their lives with integrity and provide us with a compass of truth to guide our own endeavors.

There’s a street sign somewhere in Pennsylvania bearing the family moniker.  I’m not sure the patronymic will become as famous as Martin’s or Cesar’s, yet I hope somehow what I contribute to the planet will provide illumination and direction even if only one person finds their way back to themselves.

As we continue into the new year we might encourage ourselves for the ways we contribute to our community and the planet.