Light from Dimness

I visited this Catholic church in a suburb of Boston.

    On the spur of the moment I entered a church.
    Nobody else was there. The lighting was dim. I knelt and prayed.
    Churches with dim interiors put me in a mood for worship.
    One day after my impromptu visit I attended mass elsewhere. The lector read from Ephesians: The light of Christ does not simply shine on us; it should shine out from inside us.
    Heeding that advice requires a change in outlook. Contemplation and prayer can foster such a change. 
    In order to become a light unto the world, spend time in dim and quiet places.

Faith and the Bottom Line

    Nobody reached for the Milk Duds.
    Baskets of candy flanked check-out lines at a supermarket. The prices were reduced. I’d never seen candy—or any product—occupy that spot. Floor space usually remains open to accommodate foot traffic.
    Chances are, the store’s management had ordered the candy without considering the season of Lent. Many Christians fast during these forty days. They avoid sweets.
    It behooves a company to factor in behaviors of the faithful. Religions affect bottom lines.

Swirling Assemblage

    Every day, seagulls soar en mass above a parking lot near my home. They're not going anywhere in particular. They fly every which way, without a common direction. They're a swirling assemblage. This aerial performance lasts about one minute.
    How do they avoid collisions with each other? Why they perform this seemingly haphazard activity? They're not looking for food. Maybe they're just having fun.
    For the longest time, birds didn't interest me. Their ubiquitousness rendered them boring. But now I enjoy birds. Their interrelationships are on display. It's easy to watch them get along, or not get along, with each other.
    Observing birds reduces stress, and whatever reduces stress is healthy.
    Birdwatching contributes to our well-being.

Calling Their Bluffs

Airbag is located under the dashboard of my car. Auto dealership seen in background.

    A nationwide recall notice arrived in the mail. My car had a safety problem.
    I telephoned a dealership. The conversation went something like this:
    “Hello,” I said.
    “Hi, can I help you,” a woman said.
    “I’m calling to set up a service appointment. I got a recall notice for the passenger side airbag.”
    “Sure, we can take care of that. Let me put together a customer profile.”
    “Does that mean I have to give out my personal information.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “I’d rather keep that information private.”
    “May I ask why?”
    “I don’t want to be placed on another marketing list. I bought my car from the previous owner of your dealership. Afterwards, the dealer robo-called me on the telephone. The calls went on for months.”
    “Sorry to hear that, but we need your contact information.”
    “I’ll give you the vin (Vehicle identification number).”
    “We also need your contact information.”
    “I really don’t want to give it out.”
    “Then we’ll be unable to repair your airbag.”
    “So be it. I hope nothing bad happens.”
    The woman paused to think. My last remark was loaded with innuendo. It implied that if the airbag--the defective airbag--discharged prematurely and injured a passenger, the dealership would be in trouble.
    “Okay, we’ll fix the airbag,” she said.
    All to often, cashiers ask for my personal information when I buy products with cash. I don’t comply with their requests. Sometimes cashiers persist. They’ll state that my contact information is necessary for sales to go through.
    I call their bluffs. I refuse to provide them with the information. At that point, cashiers back off. They accept my dollars and that’s the end of it.
    All to often, cashiers aren’t just cashiers, they’re also data miners.

Graffiti Train

    While idling in traffic, I viewed a parade of ugliness. A freight train passed by. Graffiti marred the sides of almost every boxcar. I reminded myself that this ugliness came from somewhere else.
    Graffiti is rare around here. People care about aesthetics. There’s respect for property, both public and private. This attitude prevails in most regions of our nation.
    When I visit Europe, I am dismayed at the prevalence of graffiti. I would not want to live in a place, foreign or within the USA, where graffiti is commonplace.
    Graffiti is a harbinger of cultural problems.

Oh Sew Kind

Seamstress holds the quilt mended on behalf of my mother.

    Fifty-eight years. That’s how long my mother has owned a quilt. It’s small, intended for a child. That quilt probably warmed me when I was a toddler.
    Now the quilt warms Mom. She drapes it over herself in the living room.
    Mom’s got Alzheimer’s disease. She’s 93. Her husband is not longer alive.
    Her memory is fading but she hasn’t forgotten about the longevity of that quilt. She remarks at how much pleasure it has given her. That quilt is a connection to her past.
    Wear and tear had taken a toll on the fabric of the quilt. Mending was needed. Last week I purchased new fabric. Like the original fabric, this material was pink in color and smooth to the touch.
    I visited a dry cleaning store. A seamstress works there. I requested that she sew the new fabric on to the quilt. I mentioned why the quilt was important to my mother.
    The seamstress spent two hours sewing the fabric. Her work was excellent. I prepared to pay her bill.
    She cut back her price by a third. This gesture expressed sympathy for Mom and support for me as her caregiver.
    The seamstress’s goodwill came as a surprise, but I wasn’t surprised by her goodwill. Other people have performed random kindnesses to Mom and I.
    When people observe an elderly person being assisted, their hearts soften.

Spontaneous Generosity

        A young woman approached my mother while inside a market. The woman offered to buy Mom a loaf of bread. Mom, by the way, is 93 years old. I was standing beside her.
     The bread was fresh and warm. Beforehand, Mom and I had handled a loaf. We had debated whether or not to purchase it. I chose not to. Unbeknownst to us, the young woman had overheard our conversation.
    I told the woman I would purchase the loaf after all. She again expressed a desire to buy the loaf for us.
    It seemed odd, a stranger offering to buy us bread. Why the generosity? Did she think my mother and I were poor?
    That explanation was plausible. The date was Monday, January 2nd. On the first Monday of each month, welfare payments are released to people in need. They mob this supermarket on that date. Prices are lower than anywhere else. Mom and I are not welfare recipients, we are middle class, but we still shop there.
    The young woman wandered over to a check-out line. Mom followed her.
    I cued up at another line. While a clerk tallied my purchases, I glanced toward the young woman. She and Mom were chatting. Smiles creased both of their faces. It was as thought they were old friends.
    The young woman handed the loaf to Mom. Mom returned to my line. Turns out, the young woman had bought us the loaf of bread.
    After paying for my food, I walked toward the young woman. She wore a head cover. The bottom of her ankle-length dress extended below her coat. The dress was plain.
    I asked her why she was wearing those clothes. She told me she was a member of a Mennonite Church. It was located nearby. Mennonites dress modestly.
    I shook her hand and thanked her for the bread.
    She smiled and said, 'Go with Christ.'
    The encounter reinforced a notion: An act of generosity lifts the spirits of both a recipient and a giver.

Home on New Year's Eve

    I am typing this blog at home on New Years Eve. It’s forty-five minutes before the ball drops in Times Square. People are partying all over the world.
    But not in this house. My mother is sleeping. She’s 93 years old.
    I just photographed a Christmas light in the window of a bedroom. Seen behind the pane of glass, my neighborhood is aglow with holiday colors. It’s peaceful out there. And quiet. No revelers are present on the street.
    My neighbors’ car is parked in the driveway. They’re home. It’s the same with houses across the street. Nobody is throwing a party.
    A memory comes to mind from a trip to Brazil. I met a nurse there. She lived in Sao Paulo. I asked her what she did on Carnival, the most popular festival in that nation. She told me her family—and lots of families—didn’t take part. Instead they went camping. They preferred the quietude of nature to crowds and partying.
    For many years, I felt awkward by staying home on New Years Eve. I’d think, why wasn’t I attending a party? Everybody else was having a grand old time. Was I not normal?
    Now I realize that I was normal. Most people, I believe, are content to remain at home on New Year's Eve.

You are my Sunshine

    While visiting Boston, I listened to a street singer. Her repertoire featured songs from decades ago. One song was 'You are my Sunshine.'
    That song is an Americana classic. Its appeal endures. The lyrics are recognized by millions of people. Here are the opening lines:

                                    You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
                                    You make me happy when skies are grey.
                                    You never know dear, how much I love you.
                                     Please don’t take my sunshine away.

    I asked her why she sang oldies rather than contemporary music. She told me that listeners preferred the older hits.
    Nowadays, new songs rarely achieve crossover appeal. I can’t recall the last time a new release became recognized by Americans from all walks of life. Michael Jackson’s song, Billy Jean, might be the last such occasion. But even the appeal of that song, I predict, won’t hold up like ‘You are my Sunshine.’
    Why is there a lack of songs with crossover appeal? One reason might be a decline in creativity. Also, music and audiences have fragmented into genres and sub-genres.
    I believe there’s a yearning out there for simple music, the kind with catchy and uplifting lyrics. Someone might be composing such a song right now. Maybe he’s a teenager, unknown to the world, scribbling lyrics in his bedroom.

A New Target

On my porch, a metal box hides a light bulb.

    For decades, a metal box gathered dust in the cellar of my home. Nobody paid attention to this box. It was empty.

   Yesterday, I examined some words embedded into its side. They read Amm Box, 50 Cal M2. I looked up its meaning. The box once held ammunition for a Browning 50 caliber machine gun. M2 ammo was used during World War II.
    I don't know how the box ended up at my home. Perhaps it housed something my father had purchased. Military surplus must have been abundant back in the 1960's.
    During the Christmas season, this box has a new location. It lays on the floor of my porch. I placed a light bulb inside it. The light bulb illuminates a wreath. Thanks to the box and some tape, light does not spill every which way.
    An object intended for war now serves a better purpose--celebrating Christ's birth.

Ammo box and bulb pictured during daytime.

Chipping Away a Holiday

    On Thanksgiving morning I frowned.
    A heap of advertising inserts spilled out from the newspaper. Some of them publicized shopping hours for later in the day.
    That’s right, shopping on Thanksgiving. Which means employees working instead of relaxing with families. And people fixating on so called ‘doorbuster’ sales.
    Why can't retailers exercise restraint? They've already conditioned millions of people to shop on the following day, nicknamed Black Friday, an orgy of spending (of which I refuse to participate).
    What's happening is an encroachment on a cherished holiday. Shopping hours are confined to the evening, that way, the Thanksgiving dinner is not affected. People will be less apt to raise a stink.
    But that doesn’t make it right. In future years, those shopping hours might increase on Thanksgiving. The chipping away is gradual and insidious.
    Holidays are vulnerable to encroachments by monied interests.

Giving Thanks

I photographed the Mayflower while it passed through the Cape Cod Canal.

    Imagine the misery. Those early Pilgrims, crammed aboard the Mayflower, suffered from an assortment of diseases during the winter of 1620/1621. It happened while they were anchored off the coast of Massachusetts. Half of them perished.
    Imagine the relief. Half a year later they had built homes on land. Crops where being harvested. No wonder they held a celebration. Turkey meat was devoured. It was our nation’s first Thanksgiving.
    On Thursday—Thanksgiving—that tradition continues. My family will eat turkey. So will my fellow Americans.
    Will they also thank God for their blessings? Some people won’t. But I am confident that millions of Americans will recite a grace before eating their meals. And that’s a tradition repeated every day.

Radio Free Worksite

A workman paints my garage.

    The boss prohibited his workers from listening to radios while on the job. They were three men. They painted my house last week.
    Past experiences brought about the ‘no radios’ policy. The boss had received criticism from customers. They objected to profanity blasting from painters’ radios. The painters had listened to hip hop and rap.
    It’s easy to assume that swearing is pervasive in our culture. Television shows perpetuate this assumption. Often, actors utter dialogue that is laced with profanity.
    But in reality, lots of people object to profanity.

Projecting Charisma

    When I photographed Donald Trump, his flamboyance was on display. The location was a restaurant in New Hampshire. He arrived in a stretch limousine. If my memory serves me well, no other passengers sat inside the car.
    His charisma was obvious. People thronged to him. At the time, he wasn't even a candidate.
    The same reaction occurred when I first photographed Barack Obama. He showed up at a bookstore event. He wasn't yet a candidate. People seemed in awe of him.
    I photographed Mother Teresa, another person regarded as charismatic. She smiled often. Her expression came across as genuine.
    I've looked up the traits of charismatic people. One trait jumped out: Charismatic people smile a lot. And their smiles don't appear fake, even if those smiles in reality aren't sincere. Sure, Trump often scowls. But up close and personal, he also smiles. So does Obama.
    Charisma can be acquired. That means smiling often and in a manner that appears natural.

Quiet by Nature

I photographed these Lakota Indians during a public event at Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota.

    American Indians don’t talk all that much to strangers. I learned this fact during a visit to the Lakota (Sioux) Reservation in South Dakota.
    A local family was hitchhiking. I pulled over my car, they climbed in, and we traveled eighteen miles. I tried to initiate conversations. They had little to say. I felt awkward.
    Later, while on the reservation, someone explained to me that Lakotas are quiet by nature. Chances were, that family didn’t feel awkward inside my car, even though I did. They were just being themselves.
    Later, I read that American Indians by and large aren’t talkative. They appreciate silence.  So do I.
    Silence triggers introspection, and introspection helps us navigate through life.

Degrees of Satisfaction

A mother and son earned general ed. diplomas on the same year. I photographed them in New Hampshire.

    I no longer consider my graduating from college as a source of lasting satisfaction. The same goes for my graduating from high school.

    Don't get me wrong. I'm not unhappy about earning those degrees. They've benefited me. But earning an education was nothing out of the ordinary. It was merely fulfilling a necessity.

    What has contributed to my well being? Hiking the Appalachian Trail left an enduring satisfaction. So did hitchhiking across North America. And so did writing a novel. Those achievements resonate because they were not undertaken by necessity.

    When we achieve what’s necessary, the satisfaction wanes. But when we achieve what’s unnecessary, the satisfaction endures.

Purity of Heart

    Sometimes, while visiting a chapel near home, I read prayer requests left by other people. These requests appear in a notebook.
    A visit last summer offered a surprise. Two dollars lay beside the notebook. A message from the donor read, A little $ for anyone in need.
    Reading that note brightened my mood. (I didn't take the cash).
    The donor didn’t leave his name. Perhaps he was familiar with an exhortation in the New Testament. It reads: Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them.
   The media often reports when someone—often a famous person—donates money. These reports dismay me. I wonder if those donors are motivated by self aggrandizement rather than compassion.
   Anonymous donors are inspirational because they reveal purity of heart.

Vigilance

A hawk perches on a fence behind my house. Note the meat beside its talons.

    This hawk exercised vigilance. Rather than feeding beside the remains of a dead animal, it took away a hunk of meat and perched on a fence. Caution made sense. The remains lay in the woods where coyotes lurk. The fence provided safety.
    Even while eating, the hawk peered about. It rarely let down its guard.
    Like the hawk, people are cautious. They look each way before crossing a street. They avoid strangers deemed—rightly or wrongly—as a threat. Immediate threats trigger caution.
    But not all threats are immediate. Many people ignore long-term threats.
    Friends and acquaintances of mine are dead. They succumbed to cancer. A high percentage of them partied too much during their lives. They weren’t vigilant about their health. Their bad habits caught up with them.
    Short term vigilance comes easy. Long term vigilance requires discipline.

Audio Overload

I took this photo at a high school field where, on another day, the announcer was too loud.

    I no longer enjoy watching sports. One reason is audio overload by announcers.
    This problem came to a head while I attended a high school football game. The announcer working the public address system was loud and incessant. He rarely shut up. I could barely converse with a friend beside me.
    Twice, the announcer drowned out the band as it performed during breaks in the action.
    The announcer’s motor-mouth ruined the fun.
    My friend agreed with this assessment. I suggested he write a letter about this problem to the editor of the local newspaper. My friend demurred. He didn’t want to anger people in his town.
    Fair enough. But I didn’t live there. So I write a letter to the editor. This letter explained in detail how the announcer’s relentlessness made it hard to enjoy the game. 
     My opinion incensed many people. Some of them wrote angry rebuttals in the newspaper.
    My phone rang during this period.
    “Hello,” I said.
    “You’re an a…hole! a woman said before hanging up.
     Anyone who challenges a status quo encounters fierce resistance.

Healthy Dirt

    Does mowing the lawn keep a person healthy?
    The man in the photo, close to one hundred years old at the time, still mowed his lawn. He was healthier than most people his age.
    I also push a mower. It kicks up dirt, dust, and all sorts of bacteria. Filth cakes my body. When I shower afterwards, water flows with blackness.
    Researchers theorize that when children play in the dirt, or stuff dirt into their mouths, they’re developing their immune systems.
    I am 59 years old. My health remains good. I'm not taking meds. And once per week, while behind a mower, I breath in gobs of airborne dirt.
    My gut tells me that exposure to dirt contributes to the health of adults.