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Sightings

10/4/2016

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I know it sounds silly, but it didn't take long once Tal died that I began needing him to appear in some way. To make himself known. For comfort. More importantly, for reassurance. As much as we both understood what was coming for him and for us as the ALS progressed and as ready as we strived to be, his being gone was sudden and final and devastating.  And so, I longed ... longed for something. Where are you?, I would wonder. Are you still somewhere?

​Tal's favorite bird was the red tail hawk.  Early in our relationship I learned that watching the roadside and trees along a route was part of travel for Tal. He began pointing out hawks. I became good at spotting them.

​So, you know what I'm going to say, I presume.  One week to the day of Tal's death, I was headed to the mailbox. A commotion in the oak tree at the head of the drive and suddenly a Cooper's hawk followed closely by an irritated mocking bird erupted into view.  The mocking bird went off; the hawk lingered, circling over my head, ascending slowly until it caught an air current and sailed, its wings still and outstretched, until it was out of my sight. Oh, thank you.

​That was only the first sighting.  More days than not they appear, hawks most of them small, none of them red tails, swooping across my path, emitting a signature scream in the distance and staying put until my walk takes me near enough for me to spot it, a pair doing a tag team progression up the second fairway, perch to perch, making eye contact as I pass by.  Each and every one of them, of course, is spoken to and thanked and called Tal.

​Scientific? Not in the least. Theologically sound? Not likely. A balm to my battered spirit? Like none other.

​Hope I see you tomorrow, dearest.
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A light extinguished

1/19/2015

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Picture
While I was dressing this morning, the light through the oxalis leaves here in the bathroom window had me reaching for the camera.  At that same hour a dear friend and mentor, one of the most important people in my adult life, was loosening his grasp on this earthly existence. 

Grahame Butler-Nixon, an Episcopal priest and naturalized American citizen, had the most wonderful Australian accent.  In June of 1992 he welcomed me to Grace Church in Camden South Carolina, fresh out of seminary, unsure of myself.  Fact is, he taught me with patience and love, over the course of the three years I was his assistant, how to be a priest.  I owe very nearly every success I enjoyed during my fulltime parish years to him.

A friend wrote in an email announcing Grahame's death that "the loss is almost unbearable."  I agree.  But, the last two months have been excruciating for Grahame.  I, along with many who have walked closely with him this sudden and final illness, are happy that his pain and struggle are finished.

Rest in peace, Grahame.
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    Welcome

    For most of my 60 years I have let the question "what is this all about?" dwell somewhere in my being -- in the forefront at times, frequently banished to the depths. It's persistent, that question.

    This space is one I want to hold open for myself, and for all who visit, where I can use photography and the written word to contemplate life's wonders and mysteries.

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