A lot has likely happened
in your last two
weeks, but maybe you remember
my last column,
the one about the shrieking
toddler in the highway rest
area. About three, she
voiced rage at her father by
squatting in the middle of
the crowded lobby and loosing
a shriek that almost set
light bulbs popping and
ceiling tiles dropping from
overhead.
So piercing and so endless
was that shriek that
scores around her covered
their ears.
Finally her crimson faced
father picked her up,
still shrieking, still crouching
like a garden gnome,
and strode out of the building
with her under his
arm.
Hers was a bravura performance,
and a great illustration
of a trait that, sadly,
many of us adults, ``children
of a larger growth,’’
carry through life and to
the grave. For many humans,
almost every choice,
big and small, echoes the
essence of the toddler’s
shriek, ``I WANT WHAT I
WANT!’’ It makes for much
personal unhappiness.
After the little girl was
gone and the lobby had settled
to a normal buzzing
swirl of people, I still had
some time left to loiter and
watch. (I was awaiting, you
may remember, Anne’s arrival
from walking Blue,
my signal to go out and sit
with Blue in the car.) And
so I stood to the side and
out of the way, against a
blank wall just past Auntie
Anne’s Pretzels.
There were lots of careworn
adults to watch, and
cranky kids, too, though
none to match that little
screecher. I watched one
weary family group —
mom, dad, daughter, son —
standing in the McDonald’s
line, endearingly leaning
against each other. I saw
an old gent scuff slowly toward
a marble column,
bump his forehead against
it and stop, maybe to enjoy
its cool surface, maybe because
he just hadn’t seen it
in his path.
But across the crowded
lobby, through the moving
skein of bodies big and
small, I saw something arresting,
beautiful. And
there began my second adventure
in ten minutes. In
fact, it only took three minutes,
but I doubt that I’ll
ever forget it.
Standing against the opposite
wall was a man of
my height and age, but he
was not loitering and
watching. He was very still,
and his dark eyes were
slightly raised above the
crowd scene. His rich mahogany
skin and classic
features identified him as a
Dravidian from southernmost
India. And so did his
dress, all of it a brilliant
white.
His snowy tunic almost
reached his knees; beneath
it he wore loose white trousers.
Around his shoulders
was a scarf, wide and full,
and again it almost reached
his knees. Above his dark
face and full gray beard and
mustache, he wore a white
turban wound from soft,
snowy gauze. Unwound,
the strip must have been
ten feet long.
My eyes were riveted on
him, this figure of total
composure beyond the
swirling people. And,
though this is difficult to
describe, something deep in
me began to respond. Across
the crowd, I felt linked to
him, drawn to him.
And I began to walk toward
him, through the
crowds.
When I was halfway
across the lobby, his eyes
met mine and a wondrous
smile broke out on his face.
I raised my hands, palms
together, up to my chin in
namaste, the Indian greeting.
He did the same, still
smiling, but with a luminous
softness now in his
features.
``Namaste,’’ you may
know, isn’t a simple ``hello.’’
In its origin, it means,
``That of God in me greets
that of God in you.’’
As I approached, this
grand man began to chuckle,
and he spread his arms.
The hug he then gave me
was the sort one gives on
suddenly meeting an old
friend. Then he took me by
the elbows; I did the same,
and we stood smiling at
each other. Not knowing
whether he spoke English,
I gestured with my head to
the lobby’s other side and
said slowly, ``I felt light
coming from you.’’
His head tipped back in
another joyful chuckle. And
then he raised his right
hand and placed the heel of
his palm high on my forehead,
fingertips resting on
what’s left of my hair. The
few Hindi words he murmured
were surely a blessing.
Then, this smiling, gentle
man nodded slowly at
me, and I back at him. And
I walked away, down the
swarming lobby. And here
came Anne, just walking in
the doors at the far end.
I didn’t look back, almost
fearful the man would have
disappeared. But he would
have still been there. He
was no apparition; he was
as real as I am. But his
blessing changed me. These
days when I praise my Creator
through Jesus, I no
longer center myself behind
my closed eyes. My consciousness
drifts in the
darkness up to my forehead,
where I still sense
the soft pressure of that
hand.
Oh, friends, we can’t
cage a Being of infinite love
inside a palisade of dogma.
Grace is everywhere, everywhere.
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book, From Fly Creek —
Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking
Country, at JimAtwell.
com.
Columns
Jim Atwell: In Transit II: Everywhere, anybody
- Columns
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In These Otsego Hills: The losses are adding up ...
It is with sadness that we note the passing of long time friend, and distantrelative, Jane Patrick. Over the years we have worked with Jane in a number of organizations including Women’s Club and the Community Advisory Committee at Bassett. And, of course, in later years we joined her, along with the other Dinner Belles, for any number of delicious meals. But we do think that our favorite memory that we shared with Jane was when we discovered, having both married Cooperstown natives, that we shared Cooperstown Christmas plans.
Continued ... -
Up On Hawthorn Hill: Bird Feeder?
Bird feeder is a relative term. At least that is the case around here. A few mornings ago we spotted the first rabbit to visit the feeders. Normally, all we see during the winter are rabbit tracks crisscrossing the gardens.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Cheers for the Blue Rabbit!
My handwriting’s always been an embarrassment. Way back in elementary school, while most of the others were developing a clear, sometimes graceful hand (especially the girls), my penmanship showed no improvement.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: This and that ...
We have found the weather so far this year to be on the unusual side. And while we have no problem with the fact that we have received very little snow, we are of the opinion that what we have had instead is not particularly to our liking either. In fact, we are very hesitant to venture out much as we live in fear that the rain will turn to mixed precipitation which will freeze into a sheet of ice. And we are definitely opposed to encountering a sheet of ice underfoot. In fact, we are so hesitant that we now have taken to canceling our participation in events based on what just might be a dubious forecast.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Feinstein’s latest is sheer enjoyment
Most people who follow sports have probably heard of John Feinstein. As a nationally known author, sportswriter, pundit and broadcaster, he has brought a unique angle to sports journalism. His groundbreaking book on Bobby Knight’s 1986-87 Indiana University basketball team, “A Season on the Brink,” still resonates today as an all-time classic.
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Book Notes: No Trekkie should miss Shatner’s books
It would be hard to find a television phenomenon as popular as “Star Trek.” Even though it was only on television for three seasons and 79 episodes (1966-69) it attracted viewers and devotees that still follow it passionately 45 years later. The fanatical supportspawned several movies and television spinoffs. Star Trek conventions continue to this day. There has never been anything like it.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Making sense of things
A book I have been reading investigates the various ways over time that we have made sense of the world. It carries the reader through to the present via several seminal classical texts and ultimately aims to suggest a strategy for “ finding meaning in a secular age.”
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In These Otsego Hills: ‘Property must be secured or liberty cannot exist.’ − John Adams
Last week we were asked if we would be interested in previewing a documentary, “The Empire State Divide,”produced by the Foundation for Land & Liberty. And we were more than happy to do so as we understood the documentary dealt with the problems that continue to face family farms.
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From Fly Creek: Now wait a minute!
On the ninth day of Christmas, driving down Cooperstown’s Eagle Street, I saw something astounding! No, not “nineladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans” etc. I saw one jogger jogging. And puffing on a cigarette.
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In These Otsego Hills: Goals of the past and goals of the future
We have long subscribed to the concept that we are always more successful if we, number one, set a goal and then, number two, meet it. And this was our thinking when we decided before Christmas to watch at least part of every college football bowl game. It was perhaps an odd, if not completely nonsensical, goal.
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In These Otsego Hills: Not to our liking ...
It is with sadness that we note the recent death of Steve Nagel. The son-inlaw of our late husband’s cousins, Alice and Harvey Eckler of Fly Creek, Steve was married to the Ecklers’ oldest daughter, Gail. We had the pleasure of spending Christmas Eve with the Nagels and the Ecklers in Fly Creek, greatly enjoying the delicious food and delightful conversation.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Of birds and faith
I watch birds quite a bit. Every five days or so I send in a report to Cornell as partof its annual Project Feeder Watch program. The data, collected from volunteers from all over the country, enables scientists to track population trends. I would spend quite a bit of time checking out the visitors to our feeders anyway. Participating in the feeder program makes a personal pleasure that much more meaningful. It is rare that aesthetical and scientific endeavors work in tandem.
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Book Notes: Biography captures the real Stephen Colbert
It would be hard to find a comedian as unique as Stephen Colbert. As the host of “The Colbert Report” on Comedy Central he hasmanaged to leave his mark on the nation’s consciousness in both a serious and humorous sort of way. His unusual wit has allowed him to become American icon. It would be difficult to find another entertainer quite like him.
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From Fly Creek: Christmas and varied blessings
I’m still astounded! The last farmers’ market before Christmas, I was sitting up front, directly under the ceiling heater, shmoozing with the hoi-polloi. (That’s an awkward linguistic mix,but let’s let it go.) As I sipped my hot coffee, a gloved hand came to rest on my shoulder and a warm voice said, “Merry Christmas, Jim.” I looked to my left—it was Santa Claus!
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In These Otsego Hills: Always a learning experience ...
We must admit that we thoroughly enjoyed our 2011 Christmas celebration. We partook of Christmas Eve dinner at the home of Alice and Harvey Eckler of Fly Creek and Christmas Day dinner at the home of Sandy and Al Bullard of Milford. We had our usual Christmas Day brunch at home on Pioneer Street, although we must admit it was a tad bit later than usual as, what we enjoyed most about Christmas, namely our granddaughter Abby, took a great deal of time opening her Christmas presents.
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In These Otsego Hills: Coming up ... 2012
Difficult as it seems, 2011 is fast coming to an end. And it is always our hope that as a year draws to a close, the issues which have been in the forefront during the year will be resolved. Unfortunately, we suspect that will not be the case this year. Instead, we are fairly certain that many of the issues that plagued this year, will continue to plague next year. Thus we will find ourselves still musing about the same issues we have spent time with already. And while we have not come toany conclusions about many of the issues, we do think they would all likely benefit from both sides thinking critically about perspective, risk assessment and possible solutions.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Circularity
When she was a puppy my dog Gabby would run in what I described then as “circles of joy.” She celebrated her15th birthday a few weeks ago and despite the inevitable frailties that old age imposes upon all of us, she is doing pretty well.
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Book Notes: Grisham doesn’t disappoint
John Grisham is one of this country’s most popular authors. Every time he publishes a book it’s an instant best-seller. He appeared on the scene about 20 years ago with his tense legal thrillers, “A Time to Kill” and “The Firm,”and hasn’t stopped producing top-notch novels since.
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From Fly Creek: Still singing, beyond our hearing
This column from Christmas 2001 still speaks deeply to me, and perhaps will to you, too. Take it, please, as my Christmas gift.
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In These Otsego Hills: The 2011 Cooperstown Carol
Since 1984, with the exception of one year, 1999, we have looked forward at the end of the year to going through all the issues of the paper in order to glean those news items which have been worthy of note throughout the year and which should make their way into our annual Cooperstown Carol.
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In These Otsego Hills: The losses are adding up ...
