Marc Chagall, Elijah Touched by an Angel

YESTERDAY was one of those long days.   Just after ten o'clock in the evening I sat down at my computer and noted that an e-mail/ comment had come in shortly before. relating to a posting done last January reporting an extraordinary correspondence between Rebecca Hammann, a well-loved schoolteacher in California, and one Barack Obama.  Rebecca, the passionately devoted mother of her two-year old Lucy, had received a diagnosis of terminal cancer and knew she was to die.  In that critical moment, she picked up her pen.

The e-mail was from Diane Floyd, Rebecca’s sister.  It said:

Rebecca Hammann passed away this morning, December 7, 2009 at 6:15 AM and we'd like to be able to share this web-site with people who want to read her letter and the response.

She brought to my attention technical difficulties with the posting that are not important now, but that made its reading a difficult proposition.  I wrote Diane, offered to her and the family my heartfelt condolences, and said of course I would fix the problem.  Then I undertook to battle Wordpress, once again.

After some thought, it occurred to me that the best way I might honor Rebecca’s living memory, and celebrate the love for Lucy held by her so tenderly within her heart, was to republish the posting.  Part of the true glory and mystery of Love, after all, is that it never belongs to just some of us. It knows no limits and requires no reason.  Love is never static but ripples always outwards, touch after touch after touch, and so on, out towards infinity.  Towards center.  Like it or not, speak of, or even see it or not-- it binds all of us together.

And so I am grateful.  When this woman found herself pushed to a point of utmost crisis, darkness all around, she reached deep into her heart, and shared.  And all I can see there are words woven of luminous gold, all the more brilliant for the darkness surrounding.  There is only one   message to be read "between the lines" here, and it is the only one that really matters.  It may be nearly enough to lead one to hope.

Here; read for yourself.  The post of January 27, 2009, enhanced only by the addition of a few illustrations.

_________________________________________________________

Rebecca Hammann Writes Barack Obama

You have been telling people that this is the Eleventh Hour, now you
must go back and tell the people that this is the Hour. And there are
things to be considered...

Then he clasped his hands together, smiled, and said, "This could be a
good time! There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and
swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on
to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart and will suffer
greatly. Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let
go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes
open, and our heads above the water.

And I say, see who is in there with you and celebrate. At this time in
history, we are to take nothing personally, least of all ourselves. For
the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey come to a halt.

The time of the one wolf is over. Gather yourselves!
Banish the word 'struggle' from your attitude and your vocabulary. All
that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.

We are the ones we've been waiting for.

Prophecy, Hopi Elders, 1980

The hour for Hope is now, and there may not be a moment to lose. That, to me, is good news.

In a conversation with my brother Whitney a couple of days ago, he mentioned that the sister of one of his colleagues at the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra in New York City had written a letter to Barack Obama, and proceeded to read it to me. That woman's name is Rebecca Hammann, a beloved middle-school science teacher in Fairfield, California. Rebecca is apparently the greatest and most inspiring kind of teacher and has a heart of huge, even legendary, proportions. Yet the clear love of her life and very heart of the heart of her passion is her 2 1/2 year-old adoptive daughter, Lucy.

Just months ago, Rebecca received a conclusive diagnosis of terminal cancer, and learned that she does not have long to live. When the days of one so alive are all at once so shortly numbered, and yet heart still bursts with a sacred love that knows no bounds, what is she to do? Rebecca Hammann sat down in November to write a letter to Barack Obama.  I immediately felt to share her letter with you, and the President's response. We are all in this together, and even having wandered together for so long through the valley of shadows, I feel hope dawning. Here and now.

Dear President-Elect Obama,

For the last year or so I have felt as if the world was falling apart. Our system is based on buying more than we need, more cheaply than the true costs. We believe that we deserve comfort and ease and material things that our Earth cannot afford to give us. That is why I hoped so much that you would be elected. You bring hope and true leadership to this country and this world. There is a chance, now, for my two-year-old daughter to live in a world of beauty and love instead of the chaos and greed I had begun to imagine for her.

She is a glorious child, full of life and love and humor and she alone is worth changing the world for. You must not falter. I know in my head that there are millions of children to protect; even adults who have created this mess are worthy. But I must ask you for her in particular. The day after your election I learned that I do not have much time. A seven-year-old cancer has spread to my lungs and brain and will prevent me from taking part in the changes that must occur. So I am begging you to lead this world with all your heart and mind, to not take the easy path and to never let the rest of us take it either. This is a lot to ask of you, I know. Our entire paradigm must shift. Our decisions have been based on material possessions and comforts. Even mine. I just decided a few weeks ago to try to live without my own car. I realized that I must be part of the solution now before it is too late. But my tiny realization must be magnified a million times if it is to save our beautiful Earth. Our lives must change. We simply cannot sustain what we are currently doing.

Chemo Nurse Angel Dale Phelps, Woodcut.

(Phelps is a retired Iowa orthopedic surgeon and prostate cancer survivor. http://blochcancer.org/2009/04/fighting-cancer-woodblock-prints-by-dale-phelps/)

My hope is that you are honest and courageous enough to lead us in the direction we must go. You have two beautiful daughters yourself. You know there isn't a moment to lose.

But your task is daunting. It is not something you can do alone. You will need to convince the people of this country and in this world that they need to and can change. If anyone can do this, it is you. In a culture of lies and convenience and ease, you have the ability to say the truth clearly and, I hope, the people of this country have the willingness to hear your words.
The changes we must make will require almost overwhelming amounts of courage and hope-and that is what you inspire in us.

My darling Lucy can do without most of what we have grown accustomed to-the material possessions and the comforts. But she needs a healthy Earth and a thoughtful self-sacrificing humankind willing to act for our future generations no matter how difficult.

Please, from the bottom of my heart, don't give up this fight. If you could meet my daughter Lucy, you would know why you cannot. And there are millions of Lucys in this world.

Sincerely,
Rebecca Hammann

Obama's reply:

Dear Rebecca,

Thank you for the letter that you wrote to me on behalf of your daughter. I was moved by your sense of hope and purpose.

You described what makes Lucy unique and glorious, and then ended by saying that “there are millions of Lucys in this world.”  I was struck by the seeming contradiction, but of course it's true – we all know that there are hundreds of millions of children, and yet each is unique.

Just like you, I try every day to build a better world for my daughters, and to make sure they are ready to enjoy it – that their personalities are shaped by love, knowledge, compassion, a sense of honor, and the free spirit that my mother always nurtured in me. While I can't imagine the anguish you feel knowing that Lucy will grow up without you, I am profoundly honored to be part of the hope that buoys you today.

You are right to be hopeful, because our children face a future of limitless possibility. We know that a sustainable way of life is essential to our children and grandchildren.  But beyond that, the quest for sustainability that you described with such eloquence and passion is integral as well, because it is a powerful unifier, motivating peoples and nations to act in concert so that all may benefit.

I have every confidence that your daughter will grow up to be a part of this, living out the principles that have motivated you and which will live on within her. My heart tells me Lucy will play a part in creating the change you and I seek. My faith tells me that you will be smiling down on us the whole time.

Sincerely,
Barack Obama

Marc Chagall, Blue Angel

God bless Rebecca, and Lucy. God Bless our President and his family. Let us tend to that small flicker of Hope that remains alive, in ourselves and in one another, tenderly and with the greatest vigilance.

We might all be surprised.

Rad the Magic Dragon Dale Phelps, Woodcut

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Figuring that it never hurts to get in a jolt of some art, I thought I'd share with you the canvas even now sitting downstairs drying on my easel, as of its second sitting.

 

Rapids, Miami River P. Crockett (2nd Sitting.)

 

I have enjoyed learning as much as I've been able to get my hands on about the history of the river, and pieced together from available photographs, etc. as accurate a depiction as possible of this "gateway into the 'Glades," as it might have appeared anytime in the last few centuries. (Any time, that is, until its utter demolition by dynamite in 1909 as part of the Everglades drainage project juggernaut. ) The site today would be just about exactly where NW 27th Avenue crosses the river.

 

View facing other direction, 1896.

I also wanted to simply take an opportunity to thank all of you for being part of my personal reason for gratitude every day of the year, and to wish you and yours a restful and truly meaningful celebration of the gifts given you. That and a good turkey, lechon, or whatever else speaks your language, has got to make for a good day.

Until next time.

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Greetings, Dear Readers:

WITH this posting, I felt like doing something a little different, but it didn't work out quite the way I'd intended.  I had the post presented here on the web log in a "virtual book" format embedded in this page, through www.scribd.com.  It looks like this:

An interesting idea, I thought, but I couldn’t quite get the plane to fly because of an overly demanding loading time.

So, to make it more simple, I figured I’d just provide a link in case you’d like to take a look: http://www.scribd.com/doc/22570777/So-Long-Old-Friends And, I’ll go ahead and post the “old-fashioned way.”

It also occurs to me to share the link to another “document” I’ve posted on scribd,  which inspired today’s posting and is in a sense its “prequel.” You saw it here first, last year: http://www.scribd.com/doc/22577533/Capturing-History-Before-It-s-Gone

A quick note about the format: it can look a little confusing, at first.  Give it a try anyway.  In the line of blue words on the upper left, just beneath the title, click "Fullscreen."  The material is then presented in a book/ page format.  There are only two relevant controls; just play around with them a bit and find what works best for you.  The first is the Left/ Right arrow beneath the display, which "turns the pages."  The others, just to the left of the arrows, are the "zoom" controls, by which you can adjust the pages to suit you.

 

While you’re on the site, you might want to check it out, if you haven't already.  It is happening in a major way, and might be among the best indicators today of what reading and writing might look like, tomorrow. Since anyone can write, submit and see "printed" anything that might occur to them, the site can seem at first only chaotic, even slightly mad, and is most certainly of uneven quality.  But like Manhattan (and I hope to be forgiven the analogy) the experience can be overwhelming at first, but virtually anything you might be looking for is in there somewhere.

Some of the hugest and most successful authors are experimenting with "printing" and sales through the site, as are the two remaining publishing houses (I exaggerate, but only slightly.  There are actually still four.)  As in YouTube, one might have to wade through mountains of oyster shells before sighting the first pearl, and that can be painful, but the pearls are there.  Do a search; let your mind wander.  You might be surprised.

Hope you all enjoy the post and your experience.  I am grateful for any feedback, always.

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Return to the Peacock Inn P. Crockett

 

THEY are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:

I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

                --Ernest Dowson, 1867-1900

 

The Last Days of the Peacock Inn P. Crockett

 

So long, old friend I never really had a chance to know...

Is it foolishness to feel for an old house, a simple one, really, even falling apart at the seams?  A building that was once a home, but had quite obviously been given up on long since? Houses, exactly as those who build them, are held together only by the attentive care, sustained efforts, and generous time of those who might care, and there is no hiding its lack.

Is it ridiculous to wish to simply acknowledge it that it had once been very much loved, and feel the need to express to the house (as if it had ears, or (for that matter) were even still here) a sense of gratitude that it had loved in return?  To remind it that, in the deepest and truest sense, it once had a place in a world that was rapidly changing?   To simply bear witness, and declare, “I remember?”

Abandoned houses are done, because we consider ourselves through with them.  And they go without a protest, returning to the Earth from which they first took shape or under the focused might of a wrecking ball.  And I can only imagine their spirit calmly whispering, all the while, “Thank you, for I have been given to serve,” knowing in some mysterious “house wisdom” that this will always remain true.  No matter what. Always.

For all that we fancy ourselves, for all that we are or will ever know, having a place in such a way may well be the one and only thing that ever has really meant anything, or ever will.

THE PROPS assist the House

Until the House is built

And then the Props withdraw

And adequate, erect,

The House supports itself

And cease to recollect

The Auger and the Carpenter--

Just such a retrospect

Hath the perfected Life--

A past of Plank and Nail

And slowness then the Scaffolds drop

Affirming it a Soul. 


     Emily Dickinson

 

The property immediately across the street, now green lawn and steps leading graciously to nowhere.

Just beneath the thriving, hustling surface of today’s Coconut Grove, in fact all around for any who take the time to see, are remains.  Not simply architectural remnants, stubborn stone and mortar and brick, but evidence.  Of an era now forever gone, of a way of life that we can scarcely imagine, try how we might.
From where this house once proudly stood, an excellent vista of open bay could be enjoyed, and its cooling breezes savored even in the most relentless waves of summer’s heat. One can still make out a sliver of the blue water, just over the rooftop beyond.

Is it madness that some part of me devoutly hopes that there may be a Heaven for old houses?  Homes that stood faithful and strong for as long as they were needed, and able?  Piece together a well-built roof, walls, floors, and doors all fashioned from fine Dade County Pine, and an abundance of large windows (with panes now melting slowly downward, for glass itself is less a stable thing, like stone, than a sort of celestial hourglass, the molten sands forming its smooth surface always in motion, slow and certain, towards the end of time), and you sometimes have something more than a house.  Even if the whole of it had not once been part and parcel of the first hotel in Dade County, thus playing a prominent part in a most notable and singular history.

An old house that once gave families comfort and shelter from the assault of howling hurricane winds that came out of the blue, and as well, helped them through the ravages more harsh (yet equally unforeseeable, or even imaginable) of human tragedy and its resonating aftermath of excruciating loss.

There are times when one has lost all: received that dreaded call in the middle of the dark night from the Highway Patrol, attended faithfully and with full devotion one who will always hold their hearts but now lays dying, all the way through to their final breath.  The journey can be epic, yet its final end disarming.  Even anticlimactic.  Quite suddenly, and most gently, the one that has meant the world to them finally takes one last breath, and is gone.

IN such times, the familiar roof over one’s head can keep a spirit grounded, maybe offer gentle support in resisting that call from above, amplified in heart badly broken, to just let go, because it’s suddenly so awfully heavy down here, to simply slip loose of those clunky and graceless chains at last and float on up, upwards into the Great Big Blue above.

It is true that in the fullness of time we must all answer that final call, but how we experience each loss boils essentially down to a question of timing.  There comes a time when there can be no greater blessing, and before that time there seems no tragedy greater or more wrong. Many times, it’s somewhere in between.

Events must happen in their turn, we come to believe, or they make no sense. Consequently, many a stone is thrown in utter desperation at the mocking Heavens, and hard, bearing the burning question, “Is it too DAMNED much to ask, to at least have let it make some sense? Well, IS IT?? HUH?”

Yet the Heavens throw back no stones. The cries are indeed heard, and heard as prayer most urgent. The Higher Realm knows only compassion, but its answer comes in whisper too soft for mortal ear.  There must be a reason.

The Artist’s Home at Night    P. Crockett

In its deepest sense, home is wherever our hearts tell us that we really should be, the place that is good and right to call “ours.” Where (hopefully) we are needed, and others rely upon us.  Robert Frost said: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.”

So, where is home? None can know truly know the answer to that most sacred of questions, but each of us alone.  If you can reply without doubt or hesitation, realize that you are blessed.  For many of us, it is the ultimate question to grow into, to come to understand in the living.  And that’s for ourselves.  For those that we love, or would love, all we can ask for is the clarity and courage to recognize and communicate our wishes and feelings, and for the grace to hope.

If we are to speak of home, it seems imperative to remember the growing number of our friends and neighbors that have either already lost theirs in the “perfect storm” of foreclosure actions sweeping the country, or who even now stand trembling on the precipice. They need more than our prayers and good wishes alone. Though the thought itself be painful, we must stop to realize that it could be any of us, next. Is there no organized voice to speak clearly and with sufficient authority to be heard at last, ENOUGH?  Is there a point beyond which the People will not be pushed?

A subject for another posting.  I will say only that there is clearly something wrong with this picture, in a “night is day and up is down” sort of way, and that despite all distractions and smoke screens fanned by this industry or that, it is not the People who are primarily at fault here.

Yet we are the ones suffering.

Now. Would you join me on a brief visit?  Just a couple of stops. First, Mandeville, Louisiana.

 Little Flower P. Crockett

“Little Flower Villa,” a true classic in a  historic Louisiana town, before the storm.   Beautifully tended and well- loved by my cousin Charlie Roberts and his family, the property unfortunately sat on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain across from New Orleans, where it met with the utter devastation of Katrina’s storm surge.  (The view across the street is below.) I’ve not met this cousin (technically a second cousin; his Mom being first cousin to mine and yet closer than many sisters, one of a true-blue “steel magnolia meets Ya-Ya sisterhood” unholy alliance who periodically get together and raise Hell!) but somehow nevertheless feel a strong connection.  As I felt him stand in utter desolation with his huge heart badly broken (as if life had been without sufficient challenges before the storm!), grappling with the huge practical issues of where to send the boys to school and whether or not to rebuild, I felt to do this painting for him.  Upon request, he sent me a cd with pictures from “before.”

I conspired to “surprise” him with the delivery of the painting.  Just a few minutes after opening up the wooden crate he called me, crying, and left a message I will always treasure.

Lake Pontchartrain

Now, back to Coconut Grove.

 Cocoanut Grove Homestead 1880  P. Crockett

 Back in 1993 I painted this fine old home across the street from the old Peacock property, and just north of the empty lot with the steps leading only to memory.  It is situated atop the silver bluff on one of those great old lots fronting Bayshore Drive, running the entire distance through to Tigertail Avenue.  I had the great life experience there of being received with gracious hospitality by the property’s owner, Marshall Connally.  Her great-grandfather had built the family home in 1880, and at the time I met Marshall was living there, taking care of her elderly, ill mother.

It was a hot day, and she offered me cold iced tea while we sat on the expansive porch and chatted.  It turned out to be one of those simple moments that, before you know it, add up to the greater part of a life’s real treasure.

The view was amazing.  It was a magical experience; time itself seemed to grow sleepy in traversing the long swath of emerald lawn stretching way down to the street in the distance, and curled up to catch a little nap.   Even the clouds seemed a bit sun-dazed, for the moment overcome by the celestial ennui of just drifting.

I casually brushed the icy glass against the sweat on my forehead as I listened to Marshall hold forth, leaning back in a lounge chair, feet up.  She set about sharing with me a bounty of great stories about the house and its family, in a casual and earnest tone.  The property had never been anything but proud, comfortable, and solid, its walls made of huge, thick slabs of solid coral rock quarried locally and then hewn by hand before being lifted into place, according to the design of her Grandfather’s father.

 

The luxuriant green avenue and its towering palms all conspire together to pull one gently back in time, to the sweeter moments of life in an era now long forgotten.  All of it boggles the mind: how very green the world had once been, and expansive, and how much room there had been for everybody.  A world in which I have to imagine there seemed less need for hurry. There was always time enough to drop whatever one might be doing and “visit” with guests in the welcoming shade of the monumental front porch, always open to the Bay’s breezes.

I learned several years ago that Marshall had passed on, in her 50’s (or so it seemed) and relatively young.  I am grateful that I had a chance to meet her; she gave to me a great gift.

 

 

 

Her mother had quite certainly preceded her.  Ever since, the house has sat empty.  Even its its porch waits, silent.  No cold iced tea is served, and there is no casual gossip. Or laughter.

 

 

Just for now, I like to think.

Just for now.

 

Finally, it’s just a couple of neighborhoods over and a little back in time, to visit my dear long, long-time friend Vicki de la Torre at the truly grand Old Spanish mansion that she and her sisters and brothers all grew up calling home.  Occupying an entire block along date-palm lined South Miami Avenue, the property always felt a wonderful world of its own, its expanse of buildings, hidden gardens, and romantically decaying fountains and benches all fitting together as poetry.  The “castle” was gracefully surrounded by a low wall, built of coral rock and inset with iron scrollwork, and guarded by two majestic stone lions.

After the divorce the home had to be sold, a hapless victim of the real cost in today’s dollars of maintaining the finest dreams of Yesterday. The children were heartbroken.  The new owner, fearing the imposition of a historic designation that would have encumbered his right to destroy, lost no time in seeing the place utterly demolished.  The pool has long since been filled in, and virtually every sign of what had once been, removed.  Only the wall and rusting iron remains, and the fine lions.  Even they have at last begun to crumble, the plaster breaking away and exposing to the corrosive elements the rebar that has for so many years held up their tails at a suitably proud angle.

Vicki now lives with her family in California, and a few years ago commissioned these paintings from two old, badly faded photographs.  This one is called Vicki’s Inner Child at Home.

Here is Vicki, close up.  (Actually, as it turns out, her older sister Chris.

That’s all right, it works for both of them.)

Finally, a view of the “back” view of the house, which actually faced the broad avenue.  This house most certainly did not have any "ugly side."  The way the sunlight poured through those windows into the monumental living room, so high above, was a simple glory to behold.

Vicki’s Home              P. Crockett

Now, safely back where we began, I must get back to my life, and leave you to yours.  Before you go anywhere, though, I want to thank you most sincerely for your companionship upon this little jaunt.

Take a moment to think about the people and places you might have come to love, and the dreams you hold most dear, for yourself and for them.  Now is always an excellent time to cherish, for burnishing to its finest glow that most sacred to you.  The practice requires no reason.  It partakes of the reason that we are here, meaning (in practical terms) that it will provide you with a reason.

And it occurs to me to say: should you find yourself put to a choice, allow love to pass reason. If it’s really love—and that’s where the discernment comes in—it will never, ever let you down.  Despite all the hype, the voice of reason sometimes makes little real sense.

Wherever you are, is the best place to start.  (Yes, that includes you.) Each breath, until our last (and quite possibly thereafter) can truly be seen as a new beginning.

If we believe it!

See you--

 

 

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