Kingstontown

My daughter recently visited her grandparents (my mom and dad) who gave her a bunch of photos that my mom took when she was little. She scanned them and sent them to me. My appologies to my son who appears in only two of the pictures here. If it is of any consolation to him, I have to say that the same thing happened to me. My older sister got all the press since she was the first born, so there are more photos of her than of me in my mother's scrap books and piles of photos.

One of the nice things about cyperspace and digital photos is that it frees room in the closets. I regard these videos as a kind of scrapbooking and journal keeping without all the bulk. I love my blog because I can't lose anything on it and the photos never grow dull or get beat up. It is also cool because I can share my life with people all over the world that I know and love.

Regarding the music in this video, I enjoy Harry Belafonte's singing. Kingstontown kind of conveys the feeling I have of being so far away during this season. The ship, the Rose also called the Surprise is from the movie Master and Commander the Far Side of the world, based on the books by Patrick O'Brian.

Thanksgiving Dinner.

I am entering a second holiday season away from my family. This is the hardest time of all to be away from them, but I am not about to let the season go by unmarked or with indifference like last year. Last year I had just arrived and was hoping that the expats who were here would have something organized that I could participate in. I was too fresh, too new and too poor to put much of anything together. This year I did my best to put a dinner together and to do it right. I intend to keep the holidays and the civilization that they represent to me. I was a bit busy and didn't get too many pictures, but I thought I would send a couple.

Reflection for the first Sunday of Advent.

That HE should come into our poverty and hopelessness—when we are in the dark of our mid-winter; when the moody sun becomes broody and miserly at a time when we are most in want of his light—that he should come now, of all times, is matter to be pondered. How shall we care for him in our poverty? Isn’t it better that he comes into the house of kings? Isn’t it better that he be educated in the best schools? Would it not serve the world for him to be a prince among men, high, proud, and powerful among the masses? What have we to offer him? What but love? And what is that against the raging of nations and the weight of history? What is love when we can barely feed him, clothe him and hardly keep a roof over him? What of love when we must watch him struggle under the oppression of the rich and the powerful as we have done? And yet, we do. Somehow we do. We love this baby, crying to be fed, like any other baby. We love him, find food somewhere for him, clothe him, house him and teach him. He grows up with the masses, dirty and running barefoot through the smelly, dusty, crowded streets. We love him. That is all we have. But how will the world be better for this?

Bicycles on the Corniche

Sometimes, the stress of the week is too much and I have to get out. It so happened that a handful of my friends here were getting together to go for a bike ride along the Corniche in Abu Dhabi on a Thursday night. Thursday nights are like Friday nights in the United States, people are done with the work week, are out and about, and in a good mood. The cost of renting a bike is 20 dirhams for the hour (about $5) so I decided it wouldn't break me to get out and go with them to enjoy the good weather and have a pleasant chat and a bit of fun and, frankly, I needed the exercize. It has been well over a year since I'd been on a bike.

Seasons

It is after the storm ,
when the hot
concrete of the sidewalks
sends up steam and the starlings
feast on the worms, that I
live. The clouds have
a tint of green
and my lawn, my trees, my skin
my dog, my children, my house
and all that is me
is verdant in their light.

It is the white ash
that is the first to
turn the color of
fire and embers and finally
to a deep peach, then
the maple’s glory starts exploding:
preaching of the beauty there is
in death with the eloquence
and the grace of
slow motion fireworks--a yellow
that changes my mood as I walk
down my street to the large confetti
coming down as if I were a hero
home from war.

It is waking up to the
silent, satisfying, fresh
deep, deep, downy layers
of sparkling snow, on my yard,
my bushes, my trees,
drifting across my driveway
curling around
the eves of my house where I
live, cozy in the warmth of
quilts and love. The rising sun
casts its Midas touch on the face
of my wife who is looking out
on a golden world.

It is in the red bud that
she begins her dance without
motion as she sends the purple
lace winding among the beaches
and oaks. She makes me stir. She calls to
the dogwood, and the lilac that
it is time to grace the
world with new colors.
She smells of fresh earth, mushrooms,
the decay of leaves, and
lily of the valley. In the
mornings she watches me in
the multitudes of
of droplets of dew
like a thousand cats’ eyes
on every spider’s web,
leaf, and blade of grass.
She does not linger:
brevity is intensity,
intensity is passion.
If you would take her,
take her now.