Eclipsed

I am one who experiences life more as poetry than as science (sometimes to the consternation of those with whom I do life).  This description of my experience of the total eclipse may not reflect scientific accuracy, but it is how I lived it.  Also, I have resurrected here an old, dead blog to have some place to set this. If you choose to read any of the other content here, you will first have to blow off the dust.

The ridge was 5,000 feet high, stuck up in the middle of the sky.  A sky that would host a show for us unlike anything we had ever seen or experienced.  We wandered and wondered, there along the spine of that ridge. We were expectant, eager, guessing at what we were about to experience.   The sky was clear and brilliant blue, except in the colorless area around the blazing territory of the sun. All appeared as usual, a normal clear, sunny day in eastern Oregon.  We were standing on the promises of science, waiting for something which did not yet even hint at occurring.

At first, we noticed that the shadows began to change, lengthening, sharpening focus.  We lifted our hands, spread our fingers, and watched the umbra of the sun rise between them.  Our first fascination of the morning.   Then the sky began to dim, all of it, not slowly, partially, as when a cloud passes over the sun, but all together, as if a giant umbrella had opened.   There was no sign of the moon.  The perpetrator in this magnificent event is invisible until it stands boldly, in its entirety, before the sun.

Shadows stretched, then rocked and twitched.  Depth perception shifted.  Trees stood out in stark relief against a shimmering twilight – like some film backdrop, intending to be three-dimensional, but somehow falling just short of the mark.  The world was all silver and sage and dusty mauve.  Colors seemed to have been drained of all warmth and they appeared as if beneath a thin veneer of frost.  Birds that had been calling, raucous, in the forest, went silent, preparing for the shortest night of their lives.

The breeze gathered itself together, then unfurled as gusts of wind.  We zipped our jackets to our necks and drew our arms about us, reflecting in our actions the deep-seated anxiety that accompanies an obliteration of the heavenly orb that sustains life.  We were driven by instinct as much as curiosity as we searched the sky.  Then suddenly, the glasses that granted us safety to observe this strange celestial phenomenon became completely black.  Absolute darkness fell, thick and heavy, like the plush of velvet, cool and hinting of dampness.  The encroaching twilight had tiptoed in.  But this total darkness rushed in and swallowed us.  And the thing that we were waiting for, this event prognosticated by astronomers, was no longer about science at all.  It became all art.  The place no longer resembled the planet on which my feet were firmly planted, the home where I live and breathe.  It was a magical place, foreign, yet familiar.  Out of this world in the truest sense. Past and present.  Future and fantasy.

Someone yelled.  There were cheers and gasps and mute fascination as we realized that now, for the next hallowed moments, we could gaze upon the sun without any protection over our eyes.  Our voices became muted.  We were not without speech– there was too much to see, too deep a desire to share this immense mystery.  But our voices felt hushed, insignificant, in the midst of this glory.

A band of silver, fine and bright and beautiful – a perfect circle for a few perfect moments – stood in the indigo sky in place of the flaming sphere.  We shivered, as much from awe as from the cold that encompassed us.  Did this feeling, this astonishment, this understanding-yet-not-understanding, possibly somewhat resemble that of shepherds standing on a hill in Bethlehem two thousand years ago?  This thinking that you understand, but knowing that you don’t?  This awe and fascination?

And then there was a flash, a burst of silver and stardust and magical brilliance.  The glowing band ruptured, and we knew that we were on the other side.  The horizons to the east and the west of our ridge began to glow again, soft and blurry – pale yellows and faded orange sliding up into a rinsed blue strip that pushed against the dark indigo dome.  Sunrise and sunset, simultaneously, all horizons the same.  Baffling and indescribably beautiful.  We reached out, pointing to the sky, yearning to touch, to grasp, to hold this magic. We were giddy and gleeful, childlike.  A plethora of emotions experienced in just a snatch of time.

As the light crept back in, perspective was off.  Trees in the foreground were too sharply focused, the background too soft and fuzzy.  The landscape appeared just out of focus, as if created by a pointillist artist.  The frosty glaze slid away, leaving a soft haze in its place.  The shimmer slowly dissolved and the dirt beneath my feet became ordinary again.  I neither wanted it to stay nor wished it away.  I simply rode, watching with joyful curiosity as new wonders blossomed around me.  The wind hustled off on its way.  We unzipped our jackets a bit.  Warmth returned, slowly, with the light. The colors gathered intensity, finally blazing again.  We were drawn back from the astonishment and the splendor.  Each in our own reverie, we turned to the tasks at hand.  We set off to the routine of our days.  We returned to sameness and familiarity, yet we are not the same.  We will carry always, firmly planted within us, the glory and the mystery of the day.

© Georgeann Kurtz 2017

Word Shifting

Wow! It's been so long since I stopped in here that I couldn't remember my password - or maybe it was my user name that was the problem. No excuses to offer. Just having an extended tiff with words. Why, I ask, are they so unruly? They jump up and down clamoring for attention just as I am drifting off to sleep - or when I am trying to grab those last few moments of slumber in the morning. And them, when I want those words, they flee. Scatter about the landscape of my brain, hiding in obscure folds, determined to elude me.

This is not writer's block. It is out and out writer's rebellion. Warfare. The word army against me. I flex my muscles, stand firm and refuse to be goaded into battle. I will NOT write. I will NOT be berated and reproached and, ultimately, thwarted into submission. No. I will turn my back on those unruly words and feign indifference. Who me? Need you? To write? Ha!


But if I put away the blustering and bravado, what am I left with? Fear, I think. Fear of choosing the wrong words. Or of choosing the right words to reveal the wrong things. I love this (long) quote by Stephen King (whose books I cannot submit my mind to, but whose talent as a wordsmith I greatly admire):

"The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear."

How fearsome it is to try to put our most important ideas and sentiments into words. We don't want words to shrink what's most important, or to cause people to misunderstand us. Trying to pack those most significant emotions and theses into receptacles as meager as mere words is frightening, intimidating.

So, is it that the words are actually unruly? Or is it that I prefer not to find them? Maybe the safety of silence promises comfort that I do not wish to risk.

Dancing on Sunday

When I was thirteen years old I completed Confirmation class and was confirmed as a member of my church. For two years my little group of junior high friends and I met weekly in a tiny room with our pastor in the basement of our church. We gathered faithfully to learn the theology, liturgy, and sacraments of the church. (If I was to be completely honest at this juncture, I would have to confess to some ulterior motivation in the form of fetching young male classmates.) It was an officious day when we all, robed in white, trooped to the front of the church to be ceremoniously welcomed into church membership.

The best thing about the morning was that we all knew our pastor, whom we deeply admired, had chosen a special Bible verse for each of us. He would publicly bestow our verse upon us, and present us with a plaque bearing our designated reference. I could hardly wait to hear his handpicked promise for me … expressly chosen to represent my unique personality and potential. I listened as my classmates received verses like, “All things work together for good to those that love the Lord,” and “… nothing shall be able to separate you from the love of God,” and "...you will run and not grow weary, you will walk and not be faint." Cool promises! I could hardly wait for mine.

“Georgeann, ‘In quietness and confidence shall be your strength.’ ” Say WHAT?!?!? No cool factor there! I wanted to have all things work together for good for me ... I wanted to run and not grow weary! I felt robbed. I slunk back to my pew, undone. He sure must not have thought much of my capacity for attaining Christian success. Quiet? Me?!? Was he giving me a cloaked message? Implying that I was too loud?

The plaque, in its original box and wrap, was stuffed away and forgotten. Until the day, several years later, when I needed it. I came across the battered box, blew the dust off, and gently removed the tissue from around the wood plaque. More than anything at that time in my life, I needed to be quiet … to be still … to listen. I suddenly heard a different message in that little verse. An invitation to rest, to cease my endless striving, to confidently collapse into arms of love and grace. I came to understand that my strength is indeed found in solitude, that quiet listening leads to the trust that is the foundation for confidence.

That confirmation verse has become my life theme – the most precious of many treasured verses. Pastor Nelson knew me better than I knew myself. He knew that one day I would come to understand the wisdom of quietness … and the meaning of “in the stillness, dancing.”

Nobody There

"I see nobody on the road," said Alice.
"I only wish I had such eyes," the King remarked in a fretful tone. "To be able to see Nobody! And at that distance too! Why, it's as much as I can do to see real people, by this light." - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Oh, how I love Alice. Regardless of what one believes about Carroll’s level of sobriety when he penned the tome featuring her, one must admit that it’s full of some pretty cool quotes – even little pearls of wisdom. More than occasionally, I feel like Alice. Sometimes wandering through a wonderland of fantastic and curious creatures, sometimes tumbling headlong through a dark corridor, the victim of my own impulsiveness and curiosity.

Some find the story of Alice’s journey through the looking glass dark and frightening. I have always found it to be amusing and, often, quite thought-provoking. Take “seeing Nobody on the road,” for instance. You can look at this any number of ways (this IS Alice In Wonderland, after all). For me, today, it speaks to my proneness to put thoughts in other people’s heads. To assume that I know their motives and attitudes. To see the nobody, rather than the real person. Occasionally I am correct. More often, there is really “nobody” there.

I leave a meeting, or a casual conversation, and I begin to rehash the discourse. Before long, I have created a scenario (usually casting a rather dim light on myself) that causes me to worry and fret. Have I said the wrong thing? Have my words painted me in a dim hue? The road must be full (I fret) of people who now see me as inept, insensitive, (insane?) – or in possession of some other equally derogatory character flaw. Before long, I have created a road full of people who really may not exist at all.

How wise the King, to point out the wisdom of just looking at the real people. Of not creating a bunch of “nobodies” on the roads we travel. How sensible to accept what people present to us, and not create for them a reality that may be entirely false.

It’s hard enough to see real people. God help me to resist creating a bunch of nobodies along life’s road.

Little Red Hen

We have a chicken who thinks she is a dog. She lives in a tenement-style rabbit hutch, but when it rains she claims squatter's rights to the dog house. My mom thinks this is chicken abuse. "She needs someplace proper to perch! She has no place to lay her eggs!"

Ah, but she does. She is a free-range chicken and every day (well, every other day, now that she is advancing in age) is Easter in our backyard. You never know where an egg might be found. And if she catches you finding one, she will be sure to hide it better the next time.

Drumstick greets me each morning at the kitchen window (unless I oversleep - she must get on with her day). She watches every move I make at the sink. Watches me fix my breakfast, make coffee. It is as if she is the kitchen foreman, making sure I get the job done right.


Confused identity aside, Drumstick lives her life with purpose. If the hutch door has not been opened by sunrise, her raucous calls rouse us from our sleep. Her routine begins the moment she is sprung from confinement. I can see from whence the author of The Little Red Hen drew her inspiration.

There is only one exception to the routine. When Fred is in the yard working, Drumstick will gladly interrupt her own business to faithfully trail him about the yard, pecking at his knees now and then so he will bend over and scratch her under the chin. (Do chickens have chins?) He is the object of her affection and devotion, always. Priority one.

Drumstick is devoted, purposeful, sassy, and confident. She knows her mind and her turf, and she defends both with ardor. Not a day goes by that she does not attend to her daily chores, disciplined and dedicated.

Sometimes I envy her. She never wonders how to prioritize the duties of the day. Never forgets an appointment. Never regrets words misspoken, or not spoken at all. She knows her place. Knows what she is here to do. And she does it, faithfully. There is a rhythm to her days. She knows to follow that rhythm. Every afternoon she rests. Finds a shady, secluded place in the yard and listens to the quiet.

Ah, to be attuned to the rhythm of life, to truly listen for it, and listen to it. I want to dance to that rhythm.

A Flying Leap

When our daughter, Brynn, was a toddler, she had a penchant for searching out the highest point in the house. She would then set about scaling said object's heights. Once at the summit, she would fling her arms wide and leap. She did this without ever looking down, and without any hesitation. Although these leaps would sometimes result in minor injuries, she would return, undeterred to her practice of scaling and soaring.

I often wondered what possessed her to do this. She lacked the communication skills to explain her actions - and she would probably have declined to comment anyway. It could have been the novel perspective of a new vantage point that impelled her. Or the brief thrill of being airborne. But I like to believe that they were leaps born of pure joy. That the joie de vivre (of which she had plenty) within her small body became too great to contain and she had to find a way to appropriately express her delight.

Hers was a simple joy. She delighted in life's small pleasures. She did not need expensive toys or extravagant experiences to set her merriment in motion. She simply allowed the simple pleasures of daily life to well up into gladsomeness.

I sometimes reflect back on her brief flights of fancy and wish for the same cheer and courage to well up within me. Oh, for the simple heart of a child.

Leap, my young one. Continue to leap - across mountaintops and through valleys. Search for the high places, and scale their heights. And find within you, always, in the still, small place, your stream of life and source of joy.

On a lighter note...

I just got my own cell phone. Oh, we've had one for several years. The shared phone - the one to be used in emergencies. When the few people who had our cell phone number used it, they didn't know if they would get me or my husband.

I rarely had the phone with me, even when I intended to take it. Usually it just sat on the kitchen counter. Or sometimes in my purse in the trunk of the car. No electronic leash for me!!

I just recently learned to text and retrieve messages. Now don't get me wrong. I'm pretty tech savvy - even VERY tech savvy for one of my vintage. I can find my way around my computer and cyberspace with relative ease. If I want to do something technologically, I can almost always figure out how to do it. And I love the worlds that open up to me via technology. But I like to be the instigator - I want to do what I want to do when I want to do it. And don't tell me that I can just let my phone take messages for me. I don't know how to access my messages - because I don't want to.

My favorite part about my new phone is the pretty turquoise accent stripe that runs around it,and the way it slides (instead of flips) open. And I kind of like my ring tone. It's not quite as good as the birds singing that I used to have. But that one used to confuse me a little. Since I didn't often have my phone with me, I would think that there were birds in Costco (or wherever I happened to be) when my phone rang.

I really wanted "Hey there, Georgy Girl" as my ring tone - wouldn't that be just so appropriate!?! But I couldn't find a way to make that happen. Not for lack of trying, mind you. I engaged in hours (literally) of tutorials and program downloads (X3) for customizing ring tones. I didn't want one of those "free" programs, so I downloaded programs to convert my iTunes music to WAV format, then to MP3 format, and then from MP3 to a digitized format that my cell phone could understand. (I told you I could find my way around technology when I wanted to.) But even after I successfully initiated Blue Tooth communication between my phone and computer, the music files winging through cyberspace did not want to dance. Apparently they have trouble recognizing one another since I am using the latest version of iTunes, with newly configured files.

So, the quest for the Georgy Girl ring tone was all for naught. I gave up and settled for a Veggie Tales tune. Now, when I am in Costco and hear my phone, I will probably assume it is some toddler rocking out.