Egg Hunting

   Several days ago, children scrambled across snow during an Easter egg hunt.
   Unlike other such hunts, there was no pressure on them to find the most eggs. The organizers did not award a prize for the child who collected the highest number of eggs. 
   Still, there was competitiveness among the kids. Each egg contained candy. The more eggs a child found, the more candy he'd eat.
   Competition doesn't always require winners and losers.

Cover Up

   Nowadays, we're bombarded with a clutter of artificial stimuli. There's television, advertising, and social media, just to name a few. It seems that everybody and everything is vying for our attention.
   Several days ago, a Catholic church (in photo) near my home did the opposite. They veiled all of their statues. It's a tradition that many churches practice during the last days of Lent. The idea is remove visual distractions so people will focus on the passion of Christ.
   Ironically, a covered statue grabs one's attention rather than diverting it.
   When I was a child, those veiled figures creeped me out. As an adult, their starkness conveys solemnity. 
   Not seeing is sometimes more powerful than seeing.

Chinese Food for Thought

   I froze in place, staring down at a bowl of wonton soup. A thought informed me that I ought to refrain from eating the soup. Wanton contains pork. Catholics like me don't eat meat on Fridays during Lent.
   Every Lent I've experienced these last second reminders about fasting. Once, when a hamburger entered my mouth, but before I chomped down on it, a reminder popped into my head.
   Whenever these reminders strike, I'm filled with wonderment. Are they natural functions of brain activity? Or do spiritual entities convey these messages?
   Last Friday had been difficult. Lots on my mind. My elderly father was sick, very sick. My mother needed emotional support. Taking her to a Chinese buffet eased the stress. Amid the clutter in my cranium, a reminder about fasting rose to the fore.
   Some people might consider it silly, but I suspect that these reminders come from a guardian angel. Heeding the angel's message, I poured the soup back into its pan.

Leaving an Impression

   My approach to shoveling snow has changed.
   In the past, I shoveled my driveway and put away the shovel.  Rarely would I clear the public sidewalk in front of my home; that job was handled by the town's sidewalk plow. Often, a day or two would pass after a snowstorm before the sidewalk plow showed up. In the meantime, pedestrians resorted to walking on the street.
   This year I've cleared narrow swaths through snow on the sidewalk. 
   Doing so leaves an impression among passersby--many of them strangers--that someone cares about their well being. I am convinced that doing good to others enhances ones own well being.

Habemus Papam!

  
   Early last week, gloominess hung over my family.
   My elderly father's life hung in a balance. He suffered a near fatal heart attack. Afterwards my brothers and I took turns visiting him in the hospital.
   Amidst this period, I read a news flash that a new pope had been chosen. I put on the television. My mother and myself, along with millions of other Roman Catholics around the world, knelt during the Pontiff's first public blessing (seen in photo).
  I phoned my father in his hospital room to inform him of the pope's election. Dad picked up the phone and said in Latin, "Habemus Papam!" (We have a Pope!)
   Dad condition remained shaky, but it his spirits had lifted.
Ours did too.

Out of the Blue

    My great uncle sewed this jacket for my father. It was a wedding gift. My great uncle was a tailor in New York City.
  Since then, over the course of several decades, my father has worn this jacket to church services. The jacket has held up well. It's a tribute to my uncle's tailoring skills.
   Last Sunday my father suffered a heart attack while attending church. His heart stopped beating. Two ladies in the choir--nurses by profession--administered CPR first aid. Emergency medical technicians rushed in and took over. They used 'trauma scissors' to cut away his clothes.
   In an instant, a sleeve of the jacket was slashed open.
   Dad's condition is guarded. At least he's alive.
   Now, when I look at that jacket, I'm reminded of how unexpectedly--out of the blue--one's life can change.

What's In a Name?

   None of these men are named Jacob.
   There's Ernie, Harold, Tom, and Vincent, to name a few. Their faces appear on a plaque depicting men in my town who died during World War II.
  Fast forward from that era to 1999. Every year since then, the name Jacob has been the most popular name given to male babies in the United States. Jacob is a name with Hebrew roots.
   Some people surmise the name is trendy because of Jacob Black, a character in the 'Twilight' novel and movie. Twilight debuted in 2005--six years after the Jacob phenomenon took hold, so the book is probably extending the name's popularity.
   I'm writing a contemporary novel for young adult readers. Novelists in that genre are advised to choose trendy names for their characters. Doing so adds authenticity.
   Perhaps that's true. But I have no intention of naming my characters as Joshua, Christopher, Tyler, Ethan, Jacob, or any of the top names of the past decade. When a name gets lumped into a trend, it looses distinction.
   The greatest opening sentence of a novel might be from Moby Dick. It consisted of three words: 'Call me Ishmael.' That name--another Hebrew one by the way--is ranked 2,971 in names chosen for boys last year. Ishmael is a distinctive name, even though I won't use it.
   As a person working in the creative arts, I abhor trendiness. It's better to follow one's own creative compass, if it increases the risk of not being recognized. 

Bloom and Wither

   What's that thing on Mary?
   Last week the question popped into my head while I strolled about a shrine near my home. A statue of the Virgin Mary was white. The field where she stood was white from snow. It's no wonder that a dark object would catch my attention from afar.
   I tromped through ankle deep snow the statue. There I determined the identity of the object. It was a rose and stem. Someone had affixed it to rosary beads wrapped around the Virgin's hands.
   Alas, the flower had wilted.
  Surely it was blooming when placed there. Since then it had endured awful weather--multiple snowstorms, a whopper of a blizzard, and bouts of rainfall. Yet there it hung, wilted and persistent.
   Imagine that, a withered flower raising my spirits on a raw winter day.

Soaring Harmonics

Robins perch on my garage roof. Snow on ground (in background) is less than pristine.

 
   I woke up to a concert outside my window.
   Songbirds were calling each other. I lay in bed, enthralled by the beauty of their notes.
   Later I got up, opened the curtains, and looked outside. Yikes! The snow in the backyard was covered with yellowish orange blotches.
   Bird piss!
   The neighbors installed a feeder near the property line. Winged critters have been showing up in greater numbers. They sit in trees, waiting their turns to eat. Or they perch on the garage roof.
   It took a snowstorm to reveal the dark side--or orange side--of this situation.
   Some of the nicest things in nature come with a catch. Beaches are great but sand gets into everything. Mountains must first be climbed. Rainbows appear after downpours. Autumn foliage (here in New England) provides spectacular views; weeks later those colorful leaves must be raked.
    Orange snow is a tolerable price for soaring harmonics.