Carole Moses

I wish I could figure out what photograph she's writing about, but honestly, I don't know.  I thought it might be one of me, but then it wouldn't exactly be "nameless," would it? He’s sitting on a bed, clad only in a diaper, this nameless child in the photograph. He stares straight into the camera, as if he is looking directly at the viewer. His expression puts the Mona Lisa shame. I have never been a partisan of the Mona Lisa. The famous eyes, which are said to follow you wherever you go, always seemed sly to me. Also, her famous smile is too interior, As if she’s contemplating a secret jest, perhaps at the viewer’s expense. This child, however, looks at you directly, And requires that you do the same to him. The child is not overtly smiling, but his lips are curved slightly upwards, As if he is about to break into a joyous smile. And his lips are slightly parted as if he is barely holding back from exclaiming about the wondrous world he inhabits. His left arm is...

What loving parent has not played peek-a-boo with their child? “ Peek-a-boo!” And the parent’s hand covers her face. Does her child feel a frisson of fear over the absentee parent? A sense of unease? “ I see you,” and the loving parent uncovers her face. And the child laughs and giggles with delight. What if God is playing peek-a-boo with us? During high summer, when the elderberry bushes around our yard burgeon,  I step on our deck and notice a surprising lack of bird life, despite our two feeders.  Then a large flock of sparrows emerges from our bushes and commences to eat.  They were there all the time, but hiding in the foliage. Peek-a-boo! During winter, when the bushes are brown and seemingly lifeless, a  flock of sparrows emerges, having been camouflaged perfectly by the sere and brown leaves that cling to the stems of the vines. They also were there all the time, but hidden in the branches. Peek-a-boo! I have to ask myself if God gets as much pleasure out of ...

This makes me so sad.  The lost opportunities . My mother has set up the ironing board in the living room so that she can watch the annual Mary Martin showing of Peter Pan with me. I am sitting on the floor, and the crucial moment comes for me to save Tinkerbelle’s life by saying, “I believe in fairies.” But I won’t do it. I know it will become material for my mother’s stories about the “cute” things that Carole says. And I refuse to be patronized in that way. But I certainly do not want Tinkerbelle to die. So I have to sit and think very hard “I believe in fairies” and hope that the vehemence of my thoughts is loud enough to save her. And thus my childhood went, trying to avoid being an emotional “fashion accessory” to my mother, as she bragged about all the delightful things I did and said. Not that I realized at the time what my motivation was,  but I always felt uncomfortable around my mother. Yet, from a more mature perspective, I can see that she was doing the best she ...

Driving with my husband along a country road in Pennsylvania, I see a surreal sight. There, in a meadow, is what looks like a grove of cigarettes, the white tubing reaching toward the sun. I ask him what these can be, and he tells me that they are barriers put around seedlings to protect them from deer and other predators. I, a city girl, with little knowledge of growing things say, “That can’t possibly be right. How can plants grow with only a little bit of sunshine reaching them when the sun is directly overhead? Surely photosynthesis needs more.” But several years later I drive on this same road and see green leaves spilling out of their prison. They’re almost a comical sight: cigarettes with leaves and branches coming out of them instead of smoke. They remind me of children who have made a long trip and have finally received the hoped-for answer to “Are we almost there?” Or perhaps they are like children being released from school and rushing out to meet the world, thinking the day...

                              The Friends' meeting house that she attended for many years.  I sit in the old Quaker meeting house with the door open, The autumn sun pouring in. And I look across the Friends’ graveyard to two trees behind the stone fence that divides Quaker property from that of its neighbors. One, an evergreen, defies autumn’s changes. The other, bowing to the season, assumes a mantle of yellow leaves, harbingers of the winter to come. A gentle breeze sets the leaves dancing. Suddenly, a flock of birds from the evergreen fly into the neighboring tree and are lost from sight, they blend so well. But as I watch, one of the yellow leaves takes flight, a late goldfinch, perhaps. I then notice a red leaf among all the golden ones, and think of the cornucopia of colors in the months to come. But this red leaf too takes flight, a cardinal, perhaps looking for some seeds or simply glorying in his sc...

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.