Weather Diary - Day 27 (Saturday April 15 2006 Hot and Windy 82F)

'On Light'

"Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you."
-Maori Proverb

Holy.
How to describe this morning. There is a brightness about the day, a brightness which seems to be pushing me to be creative.
A sparkle.
Golden light.
Everything with a certain clarity.
You might say 'enlightened'.
Full of intuitive insight.
Light. Bright. Yes.
All reminding me to...
And then, I remember.

I need to buy flashlight batteries.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. A day chock-a-block full of activity. For Chester and me, it will begin before daylight. There will be fumbling about in darkness, ferry crossings, long long car travel, lots of 'The Unknown'.
And if I am going to spend today creatively, today, Saturday,
the last full day of my self-inflicted-hermit's-pilgrimage,
I must get organized for tomorrow - right now.

And what I need are batteries.
My trusty little flashlight is growing dim.
I will be happier knowing that, if nothing else, I am holding on to the light.

Chester and I hike up the highway to the hardware store. The hardware store where the young man I call 'Red' is working. He is busy with paint, (the wall-painting variety), so, looping Chester's leash outside, I enter, perusing the aisles of bicycle parts, nuts, bolts, screws, nails, tools, plumbing supplies. When I hear, "Oh, Hey!", I know he is free.
His wide grin enchanting. We chat about art, about hardware, the beautiful spring weather.
He comes out to see Chester and I follow, clutching a small brown paper bag holding two AA batteries.
This done, Chester and I carry on with our walk, meandering toward the 'Cat Ridge' area of the village. Off in these farther reaches of the curving harbour road, sits the striking Ocracoke Lighthouse.
Call this a (short) pilgrimage of sorts, but I have a hankering to see it close to.

A flashlight on a grand scale.

And it is grand.
Ocracoke Lighthouse stands about 75 feet tall, its brick walls five feet thick at the base. Nearly 200 years old, (and not the first lighthouse marking Ocracoke Inlet), its solid white colouration distinct.
Once known as 'Pilot Town', this little island village was settled by pilots.
(And pirates, for that matter.)
Piloting ships, a tricky (and necessary) business.
The shifting channels around this island, hazardous.
Ocracoke Lighthouse.
A stationary beam visible fourteen miles out to sea, the octagonal lantern, 8000 candle power.

Standing at the base, I gaze up the vast white side, blinding white in the brilliant sunlight.

Ocracoke Lighthouse.
How many, in 200 years, have been guided by this light?
A solid steadfast beacon.

Walking home via the harbour road, we reach the Community Store where I pick up a small mesh bag of foil wrapped chocolate Easter eggs.
And think about what lies ahead.
Tomorrow.
The glorious celebration of Easter.
A day of light, renewal, love, celebration.
Of light risen.
And, (in the here and now), light rising from the sea in the east, and lighting our way.
Hallelujah.

The afternoon is spent drawing.
Oil pastels, graphite, drawing pad.
Between drawings, I gather together what I need for Sunday, stowing it all in my day pack.
I place this by the door with a large water-bottle, Chester's leash, purse, hoodie, car keys.
I am as organized as I've ever been, and unbelievably excited at what tomorrow will bring.

The rest of Saturday, (the daylight part of the day), I am deep in my art.
And when the sun goes down across the Pamlico Sound in the west, and all is beautifully bathed in golden light,
everything slowly and gradually darkens, leaving the moon, (just past full), to take over the business of lighting the sky.
And with this moon looking down on the little island of Ocracoke, I sleep.

Weather Diary - Day 26 (Friday April 14 2006 Wind 75F)

'On Spontaneity'

I feel the winds of change.

A windy April Ocracoke morning.
Good Friday.
And while much of my reading throughout the week has been of the spiritual variety, I have not followed the Holy Week rituals of my youth.

Until this moment.

For one reason or another,
GF was my father's day to spring clean the garage. I suppose, because it was, well, Spring, and that he had a day at home, was an avid gardener and couldn't wait to work outdoors and put spade to earth. All of those reasons. But when we were growing up, GF was a day of work and sacrifice, (to say nothing of fast and abstinence), and therefore a day of recruitment for my siblings and me.

I take a leaf from my father's book and, (putting on yesterday's clothes), begin a cabin-clean-up on a massive scale.

I have been here for nearly a month. I have completely taken advantage of the fact that, (in spite of following a regimen of my own making), really, I can do whatever I like, whenever I like. There are books and art materials (and art) strewn everywhere. Not wanting the strictures of over-organization, or to spend my time here cleaning and tidying ad nauseam, I have laid out my reference materials, papers, pencils, paints, magazines, thus allowing myself the freedom to act and react spontaneously.

In other words, this place is a sty.

Chester, (seeing the broom), senses that he isn't going to like this (at all) and heads for the deck. It is quite windy, even on the sheltered side of the cottage, but he manages to find a still corner of sun, and curls into a ball.
I spend the morning reorganizing, sweeping, tidying, washing dishes, doing laundry. There is a wee room I barely use, a sort of small child's bedroom, where I have been laying out my daily 'Weather Diary' drawings, and it is in here that I organize the clutter of books, magazines, art materials (at least the ones I'm not using), and sort through the mounds of clothes clothes clothes.

This work takes me (well) past lunchtime. I decide (on a whim) to change tack and attend the afternoon GF service. Once showered and changed, I realize that I have cut it very close (time-wise), and hop in the car to drive round (instead of hiking it through the schoolyard) to the Ocracoke United Methodist Church. As I approach, though, I see no one. (Am I that late?) Not only no one, but no where, to park that is.
Lots and lots of cars and not a soul in sight.
Hmm.
Oh sure, I could slip in the door and sit at the back, but, well,
I am chickening out.
Perhaps this could be (instead) my time of Spontaneous Spiritual Solitude.

I spin back to the cottage and pick up the (very happy and excited) dog. We drive on out of town, letting the wind take us where it will. I am quite happy to be without plan. (It feels a bit like skipping school.) If nothing else, we could drive all the way up the island to the north ferry docks, and back down again. It just doesn't matter.

I am deep in my own thoughts.

Halfway up the island, we approach the area known as the Pony Pasture.
This being the large penned area on the Pamlico Sound side of the island, where the (once) wild ponies are now contained, cared for, fed and watered. These two dozen or so 'Banker' ponies (as in 'Outer Banks'), are domesticated, but their ancestors ran free on the dunes and beaches, and in the woods and marshlands of Ocracoke Island.
They are beautiful.
And quite shy. They don't seem to be the sort to amble over in interest, (to see what people are staring at), and have their noses stroked. They are usually way way off, their brown and white coats just visible.
But as I slow to glimpse across the paddock, to my surprise there are two ponies right at the fence, nosing about in the grassy sand.
I park a little distance away and, not wanting to startle them, watch from there.

Chester and I sit quietly for some time. They are a beautiful sight. No need for our interference.
We slip out of the car, and away in the other direction, across the road to head out on the long boardwalk toward the dunes and the sea. Not having been to the 'Pony Pasture' boardwalk before, Chester is all about the new smells of this foreign land.

There is no one here.
We are completely alone on this vast stretch of sand.
The sea, churned up in the strong westerly, rolls shoreward, then is blown back out by the insistent wind.
I feel the winds of change.
We keep to the dunes, and so, are slightly protected. My thoughts, on the solemnity of the day, the beauty of the once-wild ponies, the vast and empty beach, the wild seas.
And the joy of the instinctive impulse which brought me here, not planned or caused or suggested or incited, but the spontaneity leading me to this particular place at this particular time.

Back home, and as night falls, I draw, and think of how this day unfolded.
Then, lighting a candle, cup of tea in hand, I curl up to listen to John Tavener's "Svyati - O Holy One",
a plaintive dialogue between choir and cello - slow, brooding, mesmerizing.
And in this way, Friday ends.

Weather Diary - Day 25 (Thursday April 13 2006 Sunny and Warm 78F)

'On Landscape'

"To see the world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wildflower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour."
-William Blake

Land Ho!

 I am now one with the land.
The land which is sand, that is.
As, when you go to bed with sandy feet, you wake up the next morning with a good deal of it in bed with you. Four to five a.m. spent in futile hand-sweeping.
(Eternity in an hour?)
I begin the day by removing all of the bedding and shaking it over the deck railing.

After the morning ritual, I set to work on a piece I (for now) am calling 'Green Bather'.
I have brought limited resource material with me. But I have a desire to represent the figure as a reflection of my time here on Ocracoke Island. What could be better than a seated woman, donning or doffing footwear (for the zillionth time).
Perhaps she is shaking out the sand.
It is continuous.
And amongst my scraps of visual inspiration, my torn out images, pinned and fluttering to the fishnet window covering, is a two by three inch reproduction of 'Woman Putting On Her Slippers' (1843) by Danish painter
Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg.

Eckersberg's image is my model, my starting point. I use a grid to divide the space and get down a rough outline of the form - the angle of the tipped head, shoulders, arm, trunk, legs. I am in love with the slight turn of the body. The arm stretching downward.
I am not interested in (Eckersberg's) detail. But the overall. The light and colour.
Or rather, light, shadow and colour.
Using acrylics, I lay on some paint. I find the darkest dark and the lightest light. Moving from foreground to background, negative space back to figure. Just the colour, the lights, the darks, and the image begins to take shape. I use the colours of the earth - of ground and tree, the greens and blues of the sea, the oranges of sunset, creamy whites and earthy reds.
'Green Bather' is becoming the land.
And it dawns on me.

She is a Landscape.

All of a sudden it is crystal clear. Even if I am working on a representation of the human figure, my work is a landscape. It is not just about a representation of the human figure, but equally about the space around her.
It is about colour and light. And a time and place.
And me as the painter.
It is about my process.
And where I am when I paint it.
But also about the viewer. And where the viewer stands to look at it. And the space between.

Our sense of place.

Perhaps the night of sand in my bed has grounded me. A constant (itchy) reminder of the earth under our feet and all around. As I now see the all-encompassing importance to talk (visually) about 'Sense of Place' in my work.

The evening drawing is influenced by all of this sudden clarity.
And influenced by our late afternoon beach walk, with land and sand underfoot. This island is an ideal place to think about the land, (being on the very fringe).
The horizon line sharp. Greys and greens and whites. Golden light sparkling on water.
I call to Chester, now way way off and along the beach, sniffing around a washed up tree limb. He looks at me defiantly and before moseying back, has a long long roll in the sand.
He is grounded too.

Weather Diary - Day 24 (Wednesday April 12 2006 Pleasant Conditions 73F)

'On Music'

"Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;
Unless some dull and favourable hand
Will whisper music to my weary spirit."
-Shakespeare, 'Henry IV Part 2'

Chester and I, deeply in need of company on this Wednesday morning, set out quite early.
After our day of silence and solitude, I am now perched on a wooden stool, on the porch of the coffee shop, surrounded by lively chat, a cup of java in hand. Chester lies at my feet, pointing himself toward the dog-cookie-men. (Just in case.)
As warm as it is, the coffee shop door is propped open, and drifting porch-ward are familiar strains from within, music presumably chosen by the two (quite weary looking, as if they hadn't had a full night's sleep), coffee shop servers, music which fills me with memories of childhood.
I rejoice at the paradox which is Ocracoke. A place where two young men, barely out of school,
would happily begin their workday to the gentle strains of the nearly hundred year old parlour song, 'When You Wore a Tulip'.

For me, 'When You Wore a Tulip', an old camp song, (caught in a place and time), is ringing through the Coselen Camp dining hall, out the open windows, and now a whisper, drifting over the clear cool waters of mid-1960's Lake-of-Bays, Ontario.

But here on Ocracoke Island, it is a solo, and when I wander in to inquire about the music, I find a delightful CD entitled 'Ocrafolk Music Sampler II' which, happily, is available at the bookshop.
Chester and I hang out until the bookshop opens, joining in (mostly listening to) a conversation on the lively local music scene, gardening and fig trees (lots here) and, inevitably, food, Ocracoke's famous Fig Cake being front and centre.
Well, it is a Wednesday. And I seem to be following a pattern of having an insatiable appetite on Wednesdays.
So.
First, the bookshop. Second, the vegetable man. (It being his day for supplying the island with fresh fruit and veggies.) And third, The Fig Tree, a tiny eatery on the main drag where I'm sure they sell Fig Cake by the slice.

When all of this is accomplished, I, on a whim, spin up to the grocery store for a half-pound of ground beef and a package of sesame seed buns. This will be my first non-vegetarian experience in more than three weeks. Since I have discovered a little barbecue, (a grill, as it is called here), in the cottage shed, I decide that, yes,
It. Is. Time.
But before all of this food, (so that I am able to relax in the evening with a sense of accomplishment), some ART.
The afternoon drifts along with drawing and study, accompanied by the meditative music of Hildegard Von Bingen, R. Murray Schafer's 'A Garden of Bells', and Kathleen Battle.
Chester lets me know when he is ready, and we head off for our long beach ramble and the spirit-filled music of the sea. Wearing t-shirt and denim skirt, (no hoodie needed), I find that even on this most exposed Ocracoke beach, it is summer-like.

On returning home, an unexpected surprise.
The next-door cottage, (empty from Day One), is occupied. It turns out to be the owners, preparing for the upcoming season of rentals. We have a good chat as I set up the 'grill', Chester showing great interest in seeing people, especially these new (dog-friendly) ones.
When they drive off for a restaurant meal, I crank up the volume on the new CD, so it can be heard in the little back yard. I find a low-slung deck chair, and when the fire is lit, sit with beer in hand and take it all in.
Such a complete about-face from, first, my silent day of yesterday, then, my meditative afternoon music. Now the air is filled with guitars, fiddles, and ol' time music, and it is sheer joy.
Really good.
In fact, it's all good. The CD, that is, but as well, the warm summer-like evening, the smell of grilling meat, (a drooling dog), the nearing weekend, the satisfying feeling of having (almost) made it through my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage.
Even the sand, now dried, but still clinging to my feet is cause for joy.

Later, weary but happy, after (Chester and) I have had a burger, I run up the outdoor open wooden staircase, put the CD on again, and retrieve the single slice of Fig Cake.
Under the clear darkening sky, with only the glowing embers and the just-rising moon to see by, the fiddle music reprising 'When You Wore a Tulip', I unwrap the Fig Cake.
I (along with my assistant) savour every bite.
It just doesn't get much better than this.

Weather Diary - Day 23 (Tuesday April 11 2006 Sunny and Warm - Clear Skies 70F)

'On Silence'

"Silence is more musical than any song."
-Christina Rossetti

I am down to my last five days of solitude.
And I am of two minds about it.
On the one hand, I want to cherish every second and slow the hands of time in the last days of my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage.
It is all (rapidly) coming to an end.

And on the other hand, I can't wait for next week. I will move into a new chapter when this all comes to an end. Only then can I look at it from somewhere above, and figure out what, exactly, my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage is all about.
(Hard to do when you are in the middle of it.)

On this clear warm Tuesday on Ocracoke Island, (after much mulling), I am stilled.
As, at the centre of my conflicting thoughts, I find balance.
I now feel no sense of urgency, no need, no restlessness.
And so I stay put, and (as a nod to the Cistercian Monks about whom I'm reading) work in silence.
No radio, no music, no talk.

But first, I squat beside Chester for a moment, lying happily on the deck. He has been down to ground level, (to the tangle of woods behind the cottage, although briefly), and now seems content to lie on the weathered boards of the upper deck in the soft morning sun. I stroke his head, his ears, so he knows how much his companionship means to me, and then I get to work, in silence.

I am focusing on the figure work I call 'Water Girl', the only sound, the pencil scratch on board and the bird song through the open windows. The bird song, first a call close by, then a distant answer. And again. And again.
The world carries on - truck passing, fridge hum, helicopter overhead, insect buzz.
But within, I am holding my thoughts like a vessel, letting them turn and churn, slowly and without insistence, letting them gradually become polished and bright.

My mind stills until I see only my drawing, hear only my breathing.

If I take home nothing else from my time in this place, it is the thankful realization that I can now find the deep still place within. It is this still place I draw from, the heart of my creative ability. And I have found this by being given time. Time to myself. Time for my work.
My art allowed to be central.

I continue to work in this stillness, and when I have no more to give to 'Water Girl', I stretch out on the deck on my back and stare at the sky.
I see the elements, the spirit of this place - earth, air, water, fire - the elements so clearly present on this island.
The earth, the fringes of land, touching the water.
The water stretching to the horizon, touching air, meeting sky.
The sky, aflame, opening and closing the day.
And the fire within.

The silence around it.
Silence. Solitude. Stillness. Rest.

Morning, then afternoon, pass in this musical silence.
A radiant sunset, then all the world bathed in silvery moonlight. The silent stillness, the elements, the fire within, all find their way into my evening drawing. A part of it all.
And then I sleep.

Weather Diary - Day 22 (Monday April 10 2006 Sunny 62F)

'On The Sky'

"Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies..."
- Henry Francis Lyte 

The Sunday service at the Ocracoke United Methodist Church has travelled with me into Monday. Or, rather, the ringing sound of the hymns.
It is a perfect sun-filled morning, and I am humming
'Abide With Me'.
Humming, (rather than singing), as I don't really know the words, but I love it in all of its old-fashioned glory, and the way it makes the tears (involuntarily) well up in my eyes.
Wasn't it one of the last songs played on the Titanic?
The phrase which stays with me, '...point me to the skies...', has (in my humming version), become the only spoken part of every verse.
And so, with this phrase nailed in my brain, I decide to 'up sticks' (at least for the morning) and travel to one of Ocracoke's far-flung beaches with Chester, a box of watercolours and a sketchbook.
And, in so doing, point myself to the skies.

We drive through the village, (stopping for a moment at the coffee shop), and then along the Back Road, Old Beach Road, curving past houses, stunted village trees, jungly undergrowth full of bird song. And on past the Ocracoke Child Care, ('Peace begins in the playground'), turning onto Highway 12. We creep along at 'village speed', passing the main grocery/hardware store, U.S. Post Office, Sheriff's Office,  Howard's Pub and the South Point Road, to the outer reaches where we can finally step on it, on the open two-lane highway stretching up the island.

It feels a bit like escaping. Not that I don't absolutely love the little village of Ocracoke,
but here, when you 'head out on the highway', you are (typically) on your own.
On we drive, past the little airport, the 'lifeguard' beach (with no lifeguard at this time of year), Hammock Hills nature trail, NPS campground, pony pasture, and on to (what we call) the 'North Beach'.

There are, in actual fact, two vehicles already parked in the sandy little pull-off. Chester leads me up the high dunes, (in his eagerness to run wild and free on the beach), but we stop at the top to take it all in. The view, that is.
Oh my my.
This first glimpse (of the day) of the wide open Atlantic never fails to impress.
It is all so extraordinarily beautiful.

I spot the people belonging to the vehicles - a couple, surf-fishing 100 yards one way, and a dad with two kids shelling in the other direction. Chester, unleashed, sniffs his way to a dead something and has a happy roll in it, all four legs in the air.
I set up camp. Paints, pencils, ruler, brushes, water-bottle, sketch pad, folded hoodie to sit on, and (very naughtily) one can of icy cold beer, to bury in the sand until 11 a.m.

As awe-inspiring as the sea is, the sky is a pretty equal match.
And, happily, if I were to choose one day for sky-study, this is a good one.
The first thing that strikes me is colour.  Do I have the right ones in this little paint box to capture it all?
I decide to work in a grid-like manner, drawing a series of small squares on several pages. Now I can systematically record the subtle nuances, and at the same time create (what I consider to be) a pleasing pattern.
But it isn't as easy as it seems.
The sky, blues moving into lighter blues, into greys, into whites.
The paints, though, (in a lovely wooden box inherited from a favourite Renouf relative), are up to the task. I begin with a range of blues, greys, earthy greens and browns. I mix, add water, more colour, and do my darnedest to capture what I see.
The wind, scuttling cloud, swiftly moving shadow, sparkling sunlight, reflecting and effecting the colour of the energetic constantly moving sea.
I include the vivid hues of the sea in my sky studies, (and a fair bit of the ubiquitous sand,
blowing about and ending up as part of the art). Not sure I've really captured the colours, but happy with the process.

And so it goes, until Chester nudges my arm and I see his lolling tongue.
Thirsty.
We each have our drinks of choice, (so good) and then a long long bare-footed amble in the shallows of the ebbing sea.

Later, back in the cottage, (feeling somewhat sunned-out), I read, lying on a sofa cushion on the floor of the shady screened porch, "Hawthorne on Painting". His words speak to me.

"Get acquainted with your palette, dip into pans that you almost know won't do. Experiment."

"Each day has its own individuality of colour."

"Have the humble attitude. To see things simply is the hardest thing in the world."

"As long as one is simple and childlike and humble, one progresses. Keep this point of view and there is no limit."

"Irritatingly correct - charmingly incorrect."

That's it, isn't it. The truth about all things interesting in art. That the work be 'charmingly incorrect'.
Not duplicated accurately.
Nor copied mindlessly.
Nor fiddled with endlessly.
But observed, touched, tasted, with all our human foibles and imperfections.
Point me to the skies and I'll show you what I see.

Weather Diary - Day 21 (Sunday April 9 2006 Sun & Wind 55F)

'On Loss'

Sunday. Sun and wind.
And all I can think of is the fact that this day marks the start of my last week of self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage.
This makes me a bit sad.
Yes, I still have a week on my own, to finish the artwork I need to finish. And it's really not unmanageable or overwhelming, (in spite of my panic of yesterday). I just feel a bit sad that this time, a time of my own rhythm, is coming to an end.
My rhythm.
So like the tides, I move toward my work, and step back. Toward and back. Toward and back.

Leaving Chester at home, I hike over to the Ocracoke United Methodist Church for some spiritual nourishment.
First I hear, rather than see, the activity around the church. There is an abundance of children, some running around outside, others standing on the steps handing out bulletins. I enter and settle into a pew, happy to be anonymous. There is plenty to watch as families, singles, friends, young and old, make their way in. I sit behind (what I imagine to be) a mother and daughter, one in her 70's, the other 40-ish.
It seems somehow so familiar, this mother and daughter. One speaks quietly, the other leans towards her, smiling. Both comfortable and content in each other's company. So lovely.
The mother reaches into her purse, fishes around for something, and hands it to the daughter. The daughter stares at the 'something' in her lap. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment. Then both are consumed by silent giggles.
Yes, somehow so familiar.

 I feel a stab of wistful memory, seated behind this mother and daughter in the Ocracoke United Methodist Church. My mother and I spent Sunday mornings in a similar fashion the last years of her life. The last years of her life, and our closest.
I loved my mother dearly, and counted on her for so much, but we both shared argumentative natures, natures which led us up a sometimes rocky path, (though always ending in peace.)
"You and mum are SO alike." My sister's pronouncement to me as a teenager.
And true.
We, at times, rubbed against each other, each knowing the other's argument inside out and backwards (because we'd heard it all before).
But my sister also confided in me her prediction that I'd probably end up closest to our mother.
True? Perhaps.
In her last years, all was loving friendship, and peace.
Peace.
The name my mother is very nearly given, being born two days before the end of the first World War, a name, by her own admission, totally inappropriate. Born on the island of Jersey, Esme, the youngest, much loved and cherished child. Here they live until 1940 when their lives are turned upside down. They leave Jersey on the last boat to England the day before the German occupation of the Channel Islands begins. Her mother, frail, her father, vacillating about leaving, her sister with two small children, and my mother.  Each with one small bag, leaving everything else behind.

My mother, a wonderful story teller and writer, takes it from here:

"When we arrived in Weymouth, (on the south coast of England), we had no idea where we were going to go. My father announced that he was just going to slip away to do a bit of shopping. Leaving the rest of us puzzled and tired, we couldn't imagine what this man, who rarely shopped for himself, needed. He returned an hour later, looking sheepish. In a brown paper parcel was a pair of men's pyjamas. The reason given, that he's forgotten to pack any. As in his one small case (allowed for each person), he had packed the following:
his dinner jacket,
a bottle of scotch,
and a glass."

My mother's parents, my grandparents, never return to their beloved island. Both die in wartime in Shrewsbury, England. My mother marries my father, and when the war is over, and life slowly, imperceptibly begins to return to normal, they, along with my two eldest brothers, immigrate to Canada.
My mother. Bright, sociable, deeply spiritual, funny, argumentative, comforting, loving. A voracious reader, a writer whose craft never really gets the recognition I wish it had. Is this due to her choices, her family, her charitable work? Was this a loss for her?

The service at the Ocracoke United Methodist Church, is lengthy. Each person there for their own reasons. My mother, on my mind throughout. So thankful am I that her life didn't end when I was a selfish child, a belligerent teenager, a needy young adult.
That would be loss for me on a massive scale.
So thankful am I that she lived to an age when we could sit in loving friendship, comfortable and content in each other's company, like the mother and daughter in the pew in front of me, on this windy sunny Sunday morning, in the Ocracoke United Methodist Church.