Wow. That's beautiful. Not only are you a talented writer, but you have a very lucky son. 

Forgive me for not writing more. I've been speeding to the finish line on my project and finally quit at midnight. But that truly was beautiful, even as tired as I am.

Wilda
Subject: My Books - Snapshots from the Family Album

Today, hell hath no power o'er me
and the world holds no attraction.

MEDITATION ON FEAR & BELIEF

There are some days, sadly few, but recently more frequently occuring,
when I seem to breech the barrier built by humankind,
ever thicker and ever higher, which keeps them from sensing
the touch and guiding hand of the divine.

But these past few days I've felt, aya, e'en seen,
the hand of the Creator, gently on my shoulder,
guiding me in his pathways.
I do not resist.
I am open to all possibilities.

It was always thus, I believe.
It was always thus, I fear.

In the child's soft fresh openness to the universe,
I believe,
having watched my son grow in wonderment,
grow in delight, and grow in love,
the presence of the divine surrounds, and glows;
sings beauteous melodies and choral anthems --
the lullaby of the cricket,
the woodpecker's wake up knock,
the call of the gently flowing stream,
the power and grandeur of the lightning bolt.

It was always thus, I believe.
It was always thus, I fear.

I believe for I have seen God's glowing love
reflected in my son's mirthful eyes.

I fear for I remember not my own childhood's wonderment.

I believe, for no other explanation fits the facts --
and this is good.

I fear, for no other explanation fits the facts --
and this is not good --
that I once held the universe in a grain of sand
in my small child hand
and cannot remember.

I believe, for to not believe means
that death conquers all.

And greedily, for to not believe means
that death conquers all.

At one time, I must have known that
love is, was and ever will be the answer.

At one time, I must have chosen to forget that
love is, was and ever will be the answer.

Aya, the world's pleasures and temptations o'er came me.

I believe, I fear.
I fear I believe -- for reasons all wrong.

And to believe for reasons all wrong means
that death conquers all.

And yet,

There are days
When I breach the barrier
And feel the touch of the divine guiding me.
And I am open, to all possibilities.

I believe, I fear.
I fear, I believe.

And since I cannot reconcile these outliers,
I choose instead
the middle path.

I choose to hope.
To hope to be a follower of The Way.

.................. Monday, August 28, 2006
.................. After a weekend in God's country where
.................. an alien, I was not.


INTRODUCTION -- THE WHY'S of the EYES
The stories I have written about my son are all based on actual incidents. However, they began as letters, written primarily to my youngest sister, Marianne, who lives in Amherst, Massachusettes, fittingly enough, just six blocks down the street from the home of Emily Dickinson. She has encouraged me wholeheartedly to continue these writing adventures.

One huge and heretofore unanticipated benefit of putting these events to paper is the insights, occasionally mountainous, that I gan. For instance, around Christmas when Adam was four, I was visiting hi home and as we played in the basement, he called me "butt head". That hurt, and, in a state of mind neither tranquil nor calm, I told him never to call me "that word" again. He has abided by that request (there have been damn few things I've ever asked him to do anyway, so it's probably easy for him to remember) ever since, past 18 years now.

I relieved the scene with the detail of a radio broadcast announcer calling the seventh game of the world series. Adam and I had been playing mountain ram on the floor. Flopping around on all fours, as we boys are so often wont to do, and smashing into each other, going full throttle. I called the play-by-play: "Head butts to the butt! Head butts to the ribs. Head butts to the head. OUCH!!" 

So clearly then I saw, for the simple act of putting them to paper, MY WORDS, from MY SON'S LIPS, paying my words homage. [Of course, he was not paying ME homage ... just my words.] Had I not taken the time to make the time to write it down, I would have missed the point. For the future, I vowed to give him the benefit of the doubt and to not cheapen his words with the counterfeit currency of my preconceived misconceptions.

Another day -- hot, sticky, warm August, in Adam's fifth year, he was seated on my lap. We were talking, eyes peering into each other's soul. And then he got that look, that look of wonderfment, of scientific inquirty, and instantaneously I knew what he was about to do, but too lethargic to halt it; kind of like watching a traffic collision in slow motion. His attention now riveted on my stomach, he lunged his fist into its depths, discovering he could bury his whole hand therein.

"Adam," I begged, "I'm a very, very, very old man. Please do not do that to me again." I was not angry. I had never told him to not plunge his fist into the belly of the beast. Again, he has not done so since my cease and desist request.

"You're old? How old are you?" he asked quizzically. "I'm 38 years old," I answered. He began counting silintly, lips moving ever so slightly. By the time he got to 38, a perceptible portion of time had passed. "You really ARE old," he chirped. "Are you going to die?" ghe continued, his train of thought thundering towards the next logical destination.

Totally unprepared for this trick question, I recognized in a blink of an eye that it required an honest and thoughtful answer. "Yes Adam. I am going to die. Every creature ever born eventually dies. You too will someday die. But I love you so much, I'm not going to die for a long time."

Another summer day, three years later, Adam challenged me to race and play chase in the yard. I told him "no," perhpas for the second time of his life ... (he has yet to hear me say it a third time). Which perhaps, explains a LOT of things.

"You're a loser," he derisively announced, dismissively. 

I remembered my vow. "Why do you call me a loser?" I asked. 

"Because you won't even run or race" he answered, in frustration. 

Had I not asked, my knee-jerk gut assumption would have attributed a quite different meaning to that appellation.

I have since been living less recklessly while cheerfully characterizing myself as an old butt head loser. The wrds are mine but they are gifts from a flower to a garden, precious gifts from my sone; perpetual reminders that things are not always what they appear to be, that words do not always mean what they say, and that promises should not be broken.

CHIVALRY - Through the eyes of Child / Father / Man Mark

Saturday, April 3, 1993, was a day with Summer, Winter and Spring in the same package. Bright sun in a clear blue sky with patches of clean, white good-for-packing snow on the ground. Between the snow patches, the grass was green, the first day of richly green grass all year, with that uniquely spring smell which only lasts until the first mowing. standing in the shade, you wanted a hat for your ears, but lying down on the high ground, you didn't even need a jacket.
Adam James and I made bare-handed snow balls to throw at trees. Soo Adam asked me for his gloves. I went inside and got his, but not mine. shortley thereafter, Winter triumphed and I retreated for mine. Reemerging, I snarled, "I hate these things. You can't make good snow balls with them."
Adam sees the glass half full. gloves have fingers. He wore mittens. "Are you kidding? Those are perfect! Let's have a snow ball fight."
He reads my mind. We are of one accord. Thus we proceeded to have history's first civilized snow ball fight. There were unspoken rules, merely matters of being of once accord, and fair play. sneaking up WAS permitted. Making loud noises to frighten or throwing snow balls while backs were turned was not. chirvalry's not dead. It just needs kindling.
The largerrr boy (the old butt head, loser) could not throw bullet shots until the smaller one was behind a tree. when one combatant had successfully snuck up while the other was engrowwed in stockpiling snowballs, the stock piler had to stand still while the sneaker threw. The sneaker had surprised you fairly and while an uncivilized opponent would have pitilessly pelted you with hard packed perniciously thrown ice balls, this adversary was your mitten-wearing son and as ill-suited as mittens are for making snow balls, they are more ill-suited for firing frigid snow missiles.
Then too, Adam is wise and intuitively knew that the joy is not in hurting the rival but in hastily retreating after having successfully snuck up on, patitnetly waited to be perceived by, and only then, finally throwing your snow ball. Conclude the hasty retreat with a double somersault while snow balls rain down all around, and the foray has been a grand triumph! I'd been couped, as the plains Indians would say.
For Adam James, the highlights were the sneak, the retreat and the double somersault. For me, they were the perfect snow balls, the day, and the look radiating from Adam's face. It was chrubic, beatific. There was patience, joy, love, and repect with just the slightest hint of mischief, and it was my leasure and honor to behold it dozens of times. It is seared into my memory and will be, God willing, the last thing I shall ever forget if it be my lot to one day forget all that I have known.