Carole Moses

As I walk through the emerald grass in Brandon Park, looking downward taking care not to stumble over tree roots, I see a series of perfect miniature sand mountains about three inches tall with a perfectly round hole at the top of each. I’m reminded of Indian tipis with a vent on top for smoke to escape from the cooking of the Indian women. I wonder who could have made them. And then I realize--they are ant colonies. But these are not the ant hills I was used to seeing, growing up in Brooklyn. Those were mere spills of sand on pavement. But these are perfectly symmetrical, as if made on a potter’s wheel. And I wonder about the vast cooperation that must have existed between the ants: to build structures next to which the Pyramids are as nothing. They are so perfect and did not require overseers with whips to spur the workers on. If my gaze was not fixed forcibly on the ground, I could easily step on one unawares. And I reflect that if the ability to produce such remarkable architecture...

I sit down to meditate, set my timer, and ask God to let me use this time well. Immediately thoughts crowd my monkey mind: I need to prepare class, I have a major doctor’s appointment next week, I even start to compose a poem. I call upon my border collie mind to herd these thoughts; but, sheep-like, they scatter away from the lone shepherd. Then I feel a thump on the sofa and I know one of my dogs is joining me. It’s a comfortable feeling as she circles, settles down with her head on a cushion, and makes contented snuffling noises. I think “This is a metaphoric border collie, sent to remind me to focus on higher things.” But then I wonder if there really is a difference between the sacred and mundane? Or does the sacred entwine with every facet of life, even my inattention? Would St. Francis have turned from his animals to pray? Does a mother hold her child at a distance while praying? I shrug my shoulders and return to meditation, but with less of a sense of failure.

Nobody asked me if I wanted to marry Mr. Parkinson and join my life to his “till death do us part.” But, as with all marriages, you learn to adjust and what outsiders criticize becomes irrelevant to your marriage as you work around each others’ weaknesses. I have learned to adjust my activities to accommodate  Mr. Parkinson’s rhythms. And Mr. Parkinson has taught me a lot about patience and acceptance. I have learned to scan the ground when I walk in nature to avoid the snares of roots and potholes. In doing so, I have discovered treasures of nature: seeds, insect wings, salamanders, beautifully formed rocks. And I have learned to walk carefully in order not to fall and to appreciate the help of others if I do. I also reap rewards of character: a kind note from someone I never especially liked, a willingness to abandon my fierce independence and lean on others, an inclination—not always acted upon—to be more open to others. My realization of God may be imperfect, but I pray that th...

I’ve always been skeptical of Cordelia, the good daughter. Is her “nothing” really the sign of unbounded love? Claiming to “Love and be silent,” her terse reply to Lear’s preposterous question, cannot but madden him. Has she really lived her whole life in the castle without realizing, as Regan does, that “he hath but slenderly known himself.” Is Cordelia’s reply that of a good daughter or one who has decided to get her own back? Oh, but, you say, Lear grows from his mistakes. But at what cost? All the main characters are dead by play’s end and Kent is shortly to follow them. And the wise fool pines away, exiting the play with little fanfare. Fast-forward to this century and Cordelia explaining why Lear must go into a retirement home. Masking anger with love, she dutifully tells him that she will not let him return home because he is too weak to live alone. When he says “I hope a child of yours never treats you like this,” she hides behind a rationale of love as she replies that “she ho...

Tennyson’s Ulysses exhorts his mariners to make another heroic journey  with him, “to seek a newer world.” Apparently one go-round with Circe, the Lotus-Eaters and the Cyclops, among others, didn’t quench his thirst for adventure. Even his trip to Hades didn’t satisfy him. He misses being the center of attention, no longer Athena’s pet. Home after many years, he discovers he’s bored. And after striving mightily to be reunited with his family—even when the beautiful nymph Calypso offers him immortality, and her lovely body—he refuses, preferring his wife to an immortal. But once home, he finds Penelope has become “aged” and his son, though dutiful, is not the heroic figure his father was. Even worse, his subjects no longer know him, the mighty conqueror. When Athena establishes peace at the end of the Odyssey , there seems little point to the existence of this great warrior. As I flip through the latest issue of the AARP bulletin, I am sure the editors w...

How they come flocking to the outdoor restaurant, Clad in multicolored finery, But always tasteful: shades of blue, gray, white, even a light caramel brown. No vulgar emerald green, shocking pink, or sunshine yellow, And, like debutantes, each boasts a different pattern in her dress. No problem of duplication here. Yet, as if to compensate for their sartorial restraint, each wears an iridescent choker in subdued shades of blue and green. Like plump Victorian matrons, they strut self-consciously, as if to confirm their place in the world. Their eyes are beady, alert for gossip, perhaps, as they nod their heads complacently. But my fancy has gotten the best of me. They are simply pigeons who have discovered spilled seed below my bird feeder. Yet I delight to view them, each the same species; each unique.

At first the news seems overwhelming, crushing. But as one lives with this condition, one starts to ponder. If I were a snail and moved slowly along the pavement while dogs, cats, even insects rushed by me, would I feel disadvantaged? If I were an ungainly albatross, whose clumsy landings have earned him the name of “gooney bird,” would I be ashamed? If I were a crow, whose raucous caw scared away the songbirds, would I spend my life regretting that I was not one of those singers? So, too, my slow gait, occasional falls, and problems of articulation are only felt if I hold myself up to a standard of what it means to be me. But trees that bend in the wind do not fall over. And as God made the albatross and the crow, so also He gives me strength to embrace the new creature I am becoming.