Everyday Angels

Mixed media acrylics.

Secrets and Surprises

Under Old Pines

Last night after John’s funeral we sat
on the hill under old pines and watched
dusk spread like a shroud draped
across fields of corn stalks, withered
and spent at summer’s end.
Hearts heavied.

The full moon rose, a fluorescent sphere
floating above the rise of the blue
mountain ridge. Jupiter sparkled cold and
orange cinders escaped the crackling fire,
spiraling up and over our heads.
Night deepened.

Sisters, brothers, and cousins joined by birth
and by fate, numbed by the cold or the day,
sitting still in the dark; shadow figures against the firelight.
You sighed and wrapped that tattered gray
blanket tighter across your breast.
Grief wrenched.

After a while, thawed by the chilled wine
or the muffled voices of our children playing
in the dark, you wondered aloud how
we could sit so still and not feel
the earth spinning on its axis.

We stared at the black heavens as if

God himself might answer back.

And there, for so brief an instant, a shooting star.
Leaving us nothing else to say.

Karen Corrigan
September 2009

John Luttrell, Jr. with niece, Karen (me!).

Cosmic Intersections

In the days before she died, my grandmother saw angels. No rush of wings, heavenly chorus or robed Botticini messengers . Just an old man sitting in the corner, head bowed, hat in hand. And a woman in white reflected in the mirror; watching, smiling. The faintest tinkling of bells and low whispers from familiar and long missed voices. She said they were there, and I believed her.

And I tell you this story now because in the last few days, I’ve seen her loitering at the edges of my dreams. The first time, she was standing on the ledge of deep blue pool holding a small child and I tried to swim closer to see which of the many children, grandchildren, nephews, nieces and cousins it could be. But the water current flowed both ways, as it can in the physics of dreams, and I couldn’t get close enough to know for sure. It looked like my son when he was just a baby and I awoke flush with emotion, missing both my grandmother and the child that was my son’s young past.

The palest of pink wisps were breaking through the gray dawn hours when I slipped out of the house and into our own backyard pool, floating on my back with eyes closed and letting the warm waters wash over my face. And in the half light of those early hours, thought about the new baby that my cousin and his wife welcomed to the world just yesterday. And how little Lucas Christopher would never know the great-grandmother that used to hold and feed and play with his now-grown Dad. And how his other great-grandmother, his Dad’s paternal ‘nanny,’ was this very day preparing to pass on, racked with cancer. And I wondered if he would meet her before she left this earth.

And the tears flowed, salt water to salt water. I didn’t open my eyes again until the sun broke over the horizon and light danced on the water like diamonds.

My grandmother showed up again today. This time she was dressed to go out – to lunch, or shopping, or visiting, as her generation was want to do. I could feel the fabric of her favorite black and white sweater, recognize her jewelry, smell her cologne. “Where are you going,” I asked – as if that were a normal question. “To meet a friend,” she replied and turned to leave. Then stopped and turned and said, “I really saw those angels, you know.”

I know. I know.

The Beginning

How do we know a thing exists if we judge it only by waking standards? For the lucid dreamer, there is but a breath of separation between waking and sleeping, between consciousness and dreaming where ‘all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream’ – where the conscious doing of thinking and subconscious act of dreaming unite. This is the place I’m called to journey; to discover what is as true in dreams as we believe to be in real life, to discern a false awakening in real life as we experience in dreams; to grasp the teachings in a well-spun tale, the poet’s verse, the true confession.
(photo by Erin Cowherd Swemba)

A Dream Within a Dream
by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!/And, in parting from you now,/ Thus much let me avow/You are not wrong, who deem/That my days have been a dream;/Yet if hope has flown away/In a night, or in a day,/In a vision, or in none,/Is it therefore the less gone?/All that we see or seem/Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar/Of a surf-tormented shore,/And I hold within my hand/Grains of the golden sand/How few! yet how they creep/Through my fingers to the deep,/While I weep- while I weep!/O God! can I not grasp/Them with a tighter clasp?/O God! can I not save/One from the pitiless wave?/Is all that we see or seem/But a dream within a dream?

Emerald Days and Torquoise Nights

It's the first week of March and I am yearning for the warm yellow sun and crystal clear blue waters of the Bahamian Islands. Not the Nassau-cruiseship-strawmarket-touristy Bahamas, but the remote, unfettered islands of the Abacos. Paradoxically wild and refined, hedonistic and spiritual -- the Abacos possess a raw beauty woven of warm tropical breezes, palm trees, white sand, blue seas, pink hibiscus and welcoming people. I miss very much the women that gathered there at the end of winter -- to reflect, to rest, to connect, to share, to renew. I miss the dreams that only came in nights so silent. I crave the long, unscheduled days that drew out the heart's desires. I humbly seek to return.

An Abaco Prayer

Island spirit
hoist your turquoise night
and spread her soft upon
our pillows
late this eve,
this night in Abaco

Let your spirit child
hair ribbons tethered
by sea shells
and cobalt stars
dance beside seas of night indigo
and across our dreams

Rock us gentle spirit in our beds
to the cradle rhythm
of the azure seas;
let us hear her breathing
rise and fall
distant ‘cross the dunes

Bathe us in warm breezes
and deep, cerulean pools
where crimson flowers
and yellow petals
float in the wake
of our finger traces

Let us dream, island spirit
of viridian palms
gold drenched by the
Abaco sun, sweet on its fruit
and on our lips,

And of coral-laced froth
at the ocean’s edge
where the surf pulls us
to our knees
and we surrender our
souls’ desires
in whispers to the tide

Let us drift now, spirit, sleeping,
buoyed by the arms of your blue,
blue waters

And forever hold our hearts
in these turquoise nights
and emerald days
of Abaco.

Karen Corrigan , Treasure Cay 2002

Message from the Hopi Elders for this Era

My dear friend Michele sent this message on to me:

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 that they are being torn apart and they will suffer greatly. Know that the river has a destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river and keep our eyes open and our heads above 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 comes to a halt. The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves! Banish the word "struggle" from your attitude and vocabulary. All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration. We are the ones we have been waiting for.

Surfers and Dolphins

The day after Thanksgiving was clear, bright and unseasonably warm in Virginia Beach. It brought the surfers out in force; a convoy of Jeeps, Hummers, and pick-up trucks rumbled along the ocean road, halting in front of the stilted houses that line the beach. Surfers of all ages jumped out of their vehicles, slid into wet suits, grabbed their boards and headed over the dunes to the sea. The waves were breaking in a rolling surf -- drawing cheers, feet running faster toward the water, diving in and paddling out to the point where the waves began to form. Reaching an invisible line just past the break, in unison they waited, watching the waves gather strength, swell and race landward. At some just right moment, the boards turned, arms reaching out, splashing to propel the boards and surfers forward. The wave catches them and then with the power of gymnasts, grace of dancers, they were standing, gliding along the white crest of the surf. Every twist, turn seemed effortless yet purposeful. Closer to the shore, they jumped off the boards, did an end zone dance and turned to paddle out again for the next perfect ride. And this time, while they waited, a pod of dolphins leapt out of the water, surfing the swells and swimming amongst the humans in communal delight on this gorgeous late November day.

It just doesn't get much better than this.

Photo taken on Friday, November 28, 2008 in Virginia Beach, Virginia

Thanksgiving

An Excerpt from ‘Letter to My Daughter’
by Maya Angelou

"The ship of my life may or may not be sailing on calm and amiable seas. The challenging days of my existence may or may not be bright and promising. Stormy or sunny days, glorious or lonely nights, I maintain an attitude of gratitude. If I insist on being pessimistic, there is always tomorrow." 

Today I am blessed.

A Pot with a Lid

My grandmother woke me up this morning. She touched my shoulder and said 'you'll have to find a lid for that pan.' The command was loud enough to make me sit up and, just for a minute, I thought I might be back in my grandparent's house in Albin. The comprehension that it was just a dream was immediate. Just a dream. Maybe because our bedroom in Virginia Beach sits just off the kitchen like the room where I slept in her house. Maybe because the first task on my list this morning was to make an applesauce cake and my grandmother made so many applesauce cakes and I can't bake like she did. Maybe because the grief of her passing just two months ago yesterday still sits like a raw onion. So, I got up while it was still dark and everyone was sleeping and found the apples and a knife and a pot with with a lid and sat in the quiet peeling apples.

The cake finished baking before the house woke up.

The Space Between

From our vacation house in the southern end of Virginia Beach, we wake up to the sounds of the Atlantic to our east and the birds that habitate the marshes to our west. Here is the early morning view looking west; the photo was taken just before sunrise this morning. I'm reminded of a lecture from a photography class taken some years ago, where the professor stressed that the richest, deepest, truest colors could be found in pre-dawn, in that very fleeting space between barely light and sun up. And those early risers willing to brave the dark or chill and lay in wait are well rewarded.