Can You Do Your Job Too Well?

One day on a late Friday afternoon I was called into my boss’s office. There had been a reorganization of my area, and all the teams had been given new functions (and headcount!). My peers and I were finding out one-by-one what our new assignments were going to be.

But it didn't turn out quite the way I expected.

To read more of the story, please visit The High Calling.

Romance for Flute and Piano

Emerging from soundlessness,
quiet pools, small eddies,
tiny swirls of motion
dance, slow, stand.
A single note of perfection
holds for an extended moment,
a shining, crystallized rivulet
of sound, and then
the music flows
again into silence.

Last week, my wife and I attended a program at The Sheldon Concert Hall in St. Louis called “French Impressions,” a group of selections by Jacques Ibert, Claude Debussy, Lili Boulanger, Camile Saint-Saens and Carlos Salzedo. Only four instruments were played – flute, harp, viola and piano. The Sheldon is an old building, well maintained, with one of the most acoustically perfect auditoriums in the country. Musicians of all kinds love performing there because the sound is wonderful. (There’s also an art gallery connected to the theatre, with the paintings of Max Lazarus currently the main exhibit.)

The selection played before the intermission was "Romance for Flute and Piano" by Saint-Saens. The musicians were Mark Sparks on flute and Peter Henderson on piano. It was stunning. When the lights came up for intermission, I sat there, staring at the stage, and then scribbled the poem above on the back of a program insert.

You can hear the music by clicking on the link below (it's a university recital, not the one at the Sheldon).



This poem is submitted for One Shot Wednesday, hosted by One Stop Poetry. To see other poems, please visit the site. The links will be live at 4 p.m. Central time today.

Heart psalm

A shy glance,
a small smile:
my heart is strung.

A quiet word,
a warming touch:
my heart is strung.

A heart is wrapped,
enveloped, tied,
willingly bound
in living oneness,
intimate silence,
outpost of heaven.

A tender look,
a sparkling eye:
my heart is strung.


This poem is submitted for today’s Warrior Poets Circle over at Jason Stayszen’s place, where the prompt is “heartstrings.” To see more poems based on the prompt, please visit Connecting to Impact.

The poem is for my wife Janet.

Photograph: Blood Red Hearts by Michael Meilen via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

I Was a Vegan and Didn't Know It

This week at The High Calling, our discussion of The Spirit of Food: 34 Writers on Feasting and Fasting Toward God covers three essays, one by Caroline Langston a former “Lapsed Southern Baptist” turned hyper-Presbyterian-turned Eastern Orthodox on fasting in India (I won’t attempt to unscramble all that); one by Suzanne Wolfe, editor of Image Journal, who writes about her eating disorder and her grandfather; and one by Thomas Maltman, who writes about a "famine" held at his church.

The mention of a grandfather was all it took. (And she tells a great story, by the way.) I veered from the serious, and these are all rather serious essays.

As a child, I would spend a week with my paternal grandmother in Shreveport. Those are some of my best memories of childhood, in fact. I’d either be driven by my parents from home in New Orleans (then about a six-hour ride) and fly home (on a real airplane!), or fly to Shreveport and then my parents would come pick me up after a week. I did this from the time I was seven to when I was about 14.

Those weeks with Gram were wonderful. We’d tool around Shreveport in her old Ford (with running boards) and inevitably the car would break down, usually in the “wrong” part of town. I’d accompany her on her “visits” to other elderly ladies, and they were always very formal things, with each of the ladies using the “Mrs.” to address the other. “Mrs. Young, would you care for more coffee?” “I do believe I would, Mrs. King.”

And something was always going on at her church, a short block from her house. It might be a revival, an ice cream social, a special concert (my grandmother sang solos and played the piano) or a picnic, but there was always something.

My father’s oldest sister and brother-in-law lived directly across the street from my grandmother (this was the aunt who made the heavenly biscuits, the recipe for which went with her to heaven). And in their backyard, at the very back of the deep lot, was the largest vegetable garden I had ever seen. My uncle was retired, and he loved growing vegetables. He also loved sitting with his rifle on the back porch and shooting the neighbor’s cats, but that’s another story. (They did have a lot of cats; they were also his oldest son’s in-laws.)

That vegetable garden was, to my child’s eyes, huge. Especially when, in the early evening when it was cooler but still daylight, we were all expected to “work the garden.”

That garden had everything: corn, radishes, several kinds of beans, tomatoes, squash, bell peppers, pumpkins, new potatoes, herbs, even a rather large grapevine. The four of us – my aunt, uncle, grandmother and me – would assemble after dinner. My uncle would give us our assignments and distribute any tools needed. I usually had to “pick” something – tomatoes or beans. Once I had the privilege of digging up the new potatoes.

When we were finished, my grandmother would be provided with a supply of fresh vegetables, and I’d carry the filled bushel basket back across the street.

Since something was always being harvested, we always had plenty of fresh, homegrown vegetables.

Every day, we would eat lunch with my aunt and uncle. And vegetables graced the table. Creamed corn. Sliced radishes. Cooked squash that I wouldn’t eat. Sliced tomatoes. Green beans. Snap beans. Lima beans. New potatoes in cream sauce. When the harvest was especially bountiful, we have fresh vegetables for both lunch and dinner.

But no meat.

The first few times I sat for lunch in my aunt’s kitchen, I was always looking around for the meat. After all, that’s what we had at every meal in New Orleans. But I was far too polite to ask. I decided that someone had forgotten the meat, and they would eventually remember.

But they didn’t remember. We ate vegetables. Lots of vegetables. For a week a year, I was a vegan and didn’t know it.

My aunt would notice me looking around, and usually pass another bowl of vegetables, thinking I was especially hungry. One summer she finally figured out what I was looking for, and she made sure from then on there was plenty of it available for lunch. After all, she said, she knew what people from New Orleans liked to eat.

And out would come a big steaming bowl of – rice.


To see more posts on the spirit of Food, please visit The High Calling.

Photograph: Harvest and Preserves by Kim Newberg via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Portal of Rock and Stone

Looking out:
Stares through to beyond
field, hill, history
of possibility, hope
boundless
breaking past the confines
of a life, of lives.

Looking in:
Peers through sunlight into
mind, heart soul
through ruined lens
of wood and rock
to interior rooms,
now grass-carpeted.

Looking at:
Observes the painting
displayed on a wall of light
designed, imagined
as future, as past
the eye’s landscape
beckoning, retreating.


This poem is submitted for One Shot Sunday hosted by One Stop Poetry. To see additional poems (and some spectacular photographs), please visit the site.

Photograph by Sean McCormick for One Stop Poetry. Used with permission.

Family: Guest Post by Jason Bourne

Family

By Jason Bourne

Faithful
Always there
More love than you can imagine
Inseparable
Loyal to the extreme
Yes, sometimes friends are the BEST kind of family!!

Last week, through Lesley Moon at Moondustwriter, I was introduced to Jason Bourne, who blogs at Jason’s Spinal Bifida Journey. We got to talking via email and Twitter, and soon I had a guest post at Jason’s place and he sent me the guest post above.

As you can tell, Jason likes acrostics. He also blogs about his journey with spinal bifida.

Jason’s a remarkable young man. He works as a writer and photographer for the city of Marietta, Georgia. He writes and speaks with a sweet, pure heart.

Check out his blog. You can also follow him on Twitter.

Photograph: Late 19th Century Family by John Davis via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Saturday Good Reads

I don’t always include videos, but this week I ran across three really good ones: Kenneth Branagh reading a sonnet by Shakespeare; a tribute to Ruth Bell Graham that is incredibly moving; and the reading of a poem (1837) by Thomas Hood.

And then’s there’s all the other good stuff.

Prose

“When It Was, Was Football (And the Writing on the Wall)” by Greg Sullivan at Sippican Cottage.

“The Last Words Spoken” by Marty Duane Scott at Scribing the Journey.

“Flight” and “Rolling Coins” by Michelle DeRusha at Graceful.

“The Pure in Heart” by Jeanne Damoff at The View From Here.

“The Magnitude of So” by Jennifer Dukes-Lee at Getting down with Jesus.

“Dream a Little Dream with Me” by David Rupert at Red-Letter Believers.

“Running the Race” by Tim Challies at Informing the Reforming.

“Playing with Stones” by Sandra Heska King.

“And Then They Grow Up” by L.E. Fiore at Salt-Rain Tidings.

”I’m the Red Power Ranger” by Michael Perkins at Untitled.

“Falling Rocks” by Billy Coffey.

“Poetry Out Loud” by Harriett Gillham at The Other Side of the Mountain.

“The Mess of Me” and “The Holding” by Kelly Sauer at A Restless Heart.

“In Praise of Marriage as Spiritual Therapy” by Bradley Moore at Shrinking the Camel.

“Now I Know” by John Blasé at The Dirty Shame.

“God vs. the Weather Channel” by Deidra Riggs at Jumping Tandem.

Poetry

“Dear Luci” and "Among Thorns" by Nancy Rosback at Nance Marie.

“Woman on a Chair (A Study in Black)" and “Where I Walk” by B.K. McKenzie at Signed…BKM.

“Lassen Peak” by K. Duane Carter at Songs from the River.

“Love is the Drum” by Milton Brasher-Cunningham at Don’t Eat Alone.

“Manhattan Progression” by Steven Marty Grant at Urbanality.

“You Overwhelm” by Michael Perkins at Untitled.

“And oil keeps floating by” by Jerry Barrett at Under the Door Frame.

“Tendered Arms” by Louise Gallagher at Recover Your Joy.

“Poetry Pilgrimage” by Jay Cookingham at Soulfari.

“Early Valentine’s Day Poem” by Jason Bourne ay Jason Bourne’s Spinal Bifida Journey.

Paintings and Photographs

“The Dawn” by Jessica McGuire at Jezamama.

“Invisible” by Susan Etole at Just…A Moment.

Videos

Actor Kenneth Branagh reads Sonnet 30 by William Shakespeare.

“Give Me Jesus,” a tribute to Ruth Bell Graham (via Justin Taylor at Between Two Worlds).

“I Remember, I Remember, poem by Thomas Hood (1837),” text and video via Sherry Early at Semicolon.


Photograph: Puff Dandy by Nancy Rosback. Used with permission.