Be as One

Yentl dared to dream and now, so do I

Published on July 12, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbailey2 Comments

Note: This is a post I wrote nearly a year ago, right after I started this blog. It talks about dreams, and I am happy to report that some of them are already coming true. It is especially sweet for me to read this and know I have been moving forward, confident of what I feel called to do. It took me over fifty years to become confident enough to take a chance and dream, and then work to make the dream come true.

I hope this post inspires you to chase after your dreams too.

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Recently I rediscovered early Barbra Streisand and her classic live album, “A Happening in Central Park.” As when I was a child, this performance really resonated with me. I didn’t know why back when I was 12 (except perhaps because it was shown on TV past my bedtime and I listened from my room anyway) but I know now at 57 – it’s the way she connects emotionally with the lyrics, never mind the fact that she has the most extraordinary set of pipes! I knew every song on that album by heart and used to pretend to be Babs in the car while driving. I never came close. 🙂

In reminiscing about Barbra, I came upon her “Yentl” soundtrack. I remembering enjoying the movie a lot and dug into the music. The first song in particular, “Where Is It Written?” made think about the women I’ve been reading about thanks to my obsession with Louisa May Alcott:

And why have eyes that see
And arms that reach
Unless you’re meant to know
There’s something more?
If not to hunger for the meaning of it all,
Then tell me what a soul is for?
Why have the wings
Unless you’re meant to fly?
And tell me please, why have a mind
If not to question why?

It sounds like something Jo March would say.

I live in a good time. Women are no longer restricted in their pursuit of learning (at least in the United States). Fully settled now in the “empty nester” phase of my life, learning has become a hunger that is never satisfied. While I am not what you would call scholarly or intellectual, I do have an insatiable curiosity. Just like Yentl.

In the movie, Yentl, a Jewish woman at the turn of the century, is unlike any woman in her village. While they are, fittingly, caught up with domestic concerns (food, drink, children, families), Yentl is consumed with learning the Talmud. “Where Is It Written?” begins with:

There’s not a morning I begin without
A thousand questions running through my mind,
That I don’t try to find the reason and the logic
In the world that God designed.

Her father, widowed for many years, indulges his daughter and secretly teaches her all that only men are allowed to learn. When her father passes away, Yentl is left with a decision: can she assume the expected life of a woman of her time, or must she break free somehow so that she can pursue the life she feels she is born to?

Deciding in favor of the bolder choice, Yentl cuts her hair and disguises herself as a boy, joining other Jewish men in serious study. She meets Avigdor (Mandy Patinkin) and they form a close friendship. As there are always consequences for keeping secrets, Yentl comes across some pretty difficult, and somewhat amusing, problems. But I’ll let you watch the movie to see how it all turns out.

I’m watching now as I write this. Yentl (now known as the boy Anshel) has been accepted into the school and is realizing her dream. As the song, “This Is One of Those Moments” is heard in the background, we see Yentl savoring her moment, loading her arms with books once forbidden to her, and engaging in the heated discussions about the Talmud that she has dreamed of.

Her mind is ready for the feast. At times she’s terrified, but she’s sure in her decision.

That’s how I feel whenever I have the chance to increase my knowledge of my passion regarding Louisa May Alcott. I see that scene in the movie with Yentl’s arms loaded with books and I think of the day when I will finally step into the Houghton Library where so many of the Alcott papers are housed, and have my arms loaded up too, preparing me for my bold choice to write about this family.

I want to make my mark in Alcott lore and I feel I have something new to say even if I will never be a scholar.

And when I think about doing these things, I stop for a moment and give thanks to God and ask Him again, “Why have you graced me this this?” I should know better than to ask: God has His own plans for me and I usually don’t get to see too far down the road. Smart move on God’s part – it feeds the anticipation and makes the experience that much sweeter. It also prevents me from getting freaked out over knowing too much too soon.

Dreams are good. Life is good.

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Holy Silence – from The Holy Rover blog

Published on June 25, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbaileyLeave a comment

Obtaining true silence, that stillness of the heart and mind open to hearing the whisper of God from within, is one of the most challenging aspects of the spiritual life. I believe it is the most important thing we can do for if the voice of God is continually drowned out with our busy lives, we will miss the truth.

Christian singer Michard Card says it so beautifully in his song, “The Final Word:”

You and me we use so very many clumsy words.
The noise of what we often say is not worth being heard.
When the Father’s Wisdom wanted to communicate His love,
He spoke it in one final perfect Word.

What is Holy Silence? How do we quell the noise in our lives? One of my favorite bloggers, The Holy Rover, has a wonderful post about silence that I wanted to share with you.

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Icon of Elijah at the mouth of the cave (Wikimedia Commons image)

One of the pleasures of being married to my husband has been the many stories I’ve heard through the years about philosophers and their peculiar habits. One of my favorites is about a friend of Bob’s who several years ago gave a lecture in a philosophy class and then was asked a follow-up question by a student. In response the professor said, “You know, that’s really a good question. Let me think about it.” And then he sat down and thought about it. And then he thought about it some more. He furrowed his brow, he got up and paced across the floor, he stood looking out the window with a faraway look in his eyes. The minutes ticked by slowly as the students watched him in growing bemusement. Finally he gave his answer, clear and well-reasoned. And after class the students spread the story as proof of just how strange philosophers can be.

What flummoxed the students, of course, was the extended silence. Most of us are uncomfortable with silence, especially in a public setting such as that. But even when talking privately to a friend, we typically rush in to fill any pause with words. So the example of the philosopher in class, of someone being comfortable with an extended silence, conveyed a message that probably went unlearned by most of his students.

Click here to read the rest of this post.

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Birding at historic Mount Auburn Cemetery, circa 1960

Published on June 20, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbaileyLeave a comment

Mother’s Day in our family was always celebrated with a trip to Mount Auburn Cemetery for the Spring Warbler Migration. It’s a magnificent trip to a truly historic place awash in beautiful mature flowering shrubs and trees surrounding three different picturesque ponds. And the birds! Warblers are tiny, often colorful wonders with a wide variety of songs to challenge the most experienced birder.

On lucky trips, you might even catch site of a Great Horned Owl nest with owlets, or there might be a tiny owl wedged in the hole of a tree, blending in seamlessly.

It’s time outdoors, time spent with historic figures, and time spent enjoying a competitive, stimulating and truly fun hobby. Here’s a look at birders from the famous Brookline Bird Club at Mt. Auburn in 1960: http://www.mountauburn.org/media-archive/bostonglobejune1960/

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Happy Birthday, Seven Kittens!

Published on June 7, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbailey3 Comments

The litter that started it all! I can’t tell you how much pleasure it has given me to watch kitty cams on the web. It sounds like a silly waste of time but the wonderful stories of love, caring and creativity have been inspiring (resulting in beautiful quilts, drawings, paintings and T-shirts). The seven kittens from Pittsburgh led to Foster Dad John Barrett from Purrfect Pals in Washington state and his string of successful fosters (he’s on his 36th litter) You can find him with his current litter, the Mythbusters, on LiveStream; his Facebook page is called The Critter Room.

A long day can be made special watching the antics of 4 week old kittens just learning to play and zoom around on wobbly legs (as they are now on the Mythbusters cam). My vocabulary has grown with “new words:”

floofy (means fluffy)
zoomies (means playing frantically)
Uncle Chickenfish (a favorite toy)

Noodles, the lovely blond mother of the Seven Kittens was rescued from the streets and taken into a private home by two very generous women, Jen and Kara. Watching seven hungry kittens feed from one mother all at the same time was quite the site to see!

Here are the little guys and gals that started it all, at 2 months of age:

at 2 months - Hank is looking up while the others sleep — at 2 months – Hank is looking up while the others sleep

And here are five of them, all grown up:

Facebook page: Cosmo Swisher-Mullins

Facebook page: Venus de Meowlo

Facebook page: Henry Von Cattestein

Facebook page: Miss Spooky

Facebook page: Loki

And here is my favorite picture of all:

My, how they’ve grown!

Here some links to the original story of the Seven Kittens:

Those posts spawned a wonderful Kitty Scrapbook by members of the community.

You can also catch up on the litter on The Seven Kittens blog on Facebook.

Thanks to the generous foster parents for your care of these wonderful creatures, and for all the wonderful hours of fun and inspiration!

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How do you live in the present moment when the present moment sucks?

Published on June 3, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbailey2 Comments

Not an especially eloquent way to state it but that’s what’s been going through my mind the last couple of days.

It’s not that life has been especially trying, not at all. But a conversation that I had recently with a wonderful nun really got me to thinking.

In preparation for my next column in the Catholic Free Press, I interviewed Sr. Bridget Haase, OSU. She will be presenting a workshop called “Walking the Path of Faith: Three Practices of the Abundant Life” for the Gather Us In 2013 conference sponsored by the Commission for Women of the Diocese of Worcester, a group I chair. During the conversation she spoke about the necessity of learning to live in the present moment so as to grow in the spiritual life. She shared about caring for her mother who had Alzheimer’s and how she had been plagued with regrets and memories of the woman she had known and loved, now lost to her in the haze of the disease. She began to realize that the only way she could cope with this loss was to accept her mother as she was, now, not knowing her own daughter nor remembering any of her own cherished memories.

I choked up, remembering my own mother, swallowed up by dementia, anger and despair, wishing I had known that wisdom. I shared with Sr. Bridget how a woman, Sandy, and her mother used to sit with us at dinner each night in the nursing home; her mother was just beginning her journey with Alzheimer’s. My mother was not the woman she had been and yet Sandy was able to accept her just as she was and perceive what she had been. She appreciated Mommy’s feistiness and when she began to fail, Sandy visited her in her room. After Mommy passed away, I talked with Sandy for a long time on the phone, thanking her for her friendship and telling her how much I appreciated that she was able to see the real woman behind the mask of dementia.

I never was able to be in the present moment with my mother because the present moment was too painful. I kept shrinking away from her, my fear trumping my love for her.

Friday I took a long walk during my lunch hour and again pondered this thought. I’ve written several posts about the joy I had found in walking, considering the fact that I have bad feet which had made it painful. For a time my legs and feet felt stronger and I had no pain. The walks reconnected me with nature and gave rise to wonderful reflections.

Since January however, walking has become painful again, legs heavy with knee pain, shin and muscle aches. Finishing my walk last Friday, I thought long and hard about the present moment as I slogged through the 90 degree heat with every muscle, joint and bone in my legs aching in pain.

The route I took that day was exceedingly pleasant. I had chosen to walk through Wellesley College and was delighted and surprised to find that commencement was taking place. Beautiful music and the sound of peeling bells from the tower filled the air as graduates swarmed on the campus after the ceremony. I took in those sounds as I walked along the edge of Lake Waban, stopping to take pictures of the rhododendron bushes flashing their parade of colors.

Staying in that part of the present moment was easy.

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On the return to my office, the aches and pains set in along with the fatigue from the heat. The walk back became more and more difficult as I sought a path with shade and hills that sloped downward.

I struggled to stay in the present moment but the present moment was not a fun place to be. How do I stay there when my body is screaming “No!” and my mind is saying, “It won’t be long now, you’ll soon be back at the office and things will be better.”

The same thing happened the next day as I was cleaning out our swimming pool. We have a leaf net on the pool to catch the leaves from the numerous oak trees in our yard. I needed to shovel out the leaves. At mid-morning it was already 88 degrees and after only twenty minutes I had to stop. Sitting inside in the air conditioning I thought again about how to live in the present moment. It’s a puzzle I have yet to solve.

Thoughts of my friend Jackie come to mind as she lives day in and day out with her pain and somehow manages to stay engaged with life. My gut says I better learn what she knows as I face the challenges ahead of aging. I’m only 57 but somehow, this year, there is a greater urgency to learn this lesson.

I know the answer lies in the Cross. To walk the path that Jesus walked. He utterly embraced the present moment despite its horror, conquering it with His love.

A deeper spiritual life. This is what I desire. I had better learn to walk the way of the Cross.

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The Ever-Present Thirst for Connection and Community

Published on May 29, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbaileyLeave a comment

This is my monthly column for Catholicmom.com.

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Recently I met with a mother and daughter from our parish to conduct an interview for the local Catholic newspaper. Chris and her teenaged daughter Katy had attended our diocesan women’s conference together in 2011 and I was curious as to how a mother managed to cajole her daughter to give up a Saturday to gather with mostly older women and learn about her faith. After a lively hour the interview was over and Chris and I lingered over coffee and muffins to share tales and concerns about our spiritual lives. The time flew by and we knew by the time I left that we would do this again.

Our hearts and minds connected instantly, finding so much in common. We bonded through our common faith and deep desire to grow in love of God.

Ever since I was a teenager, I have craved such relationships. Throughout high school I was blessed to have been part of a regional non-denominational youth fellowship run by a famous Protestant church in Boston, Park Street Church. Twenty-five kids from our high school belonged to this group including my future husband. Every Friday we’d get together and play volleyball, sing at the top of our lungs and listen to inspirational preaching about what it was like to have a personal relationship with Jesus. Fellowship with other Christians was an integral part of this group and it left me with a lifelong desire for such friendships. I moved on from the group after college and marriage but I never lost my need for a community of believers. It haunted me for years to come.

My rebellious years arrived during my twenties. It didn’t appear that way on the outside as my husband and I faithfully attended mass and got ourselves involved in various church activities. But inside I wandered aimlessly. People at our church were very nice but they were so much older than we that we found little common ground. My husband and I had not yet learned to share our spiritual lives with each other so my faith withered in isolation, much like the seed on dry ground. My thirst for Christ and for other Christians gnawed at me endlessly but I had no clue how to quench it.

Each year just before Easter, Franco Zeffirelli’s iconic “Jesus of Nazareth” miniseries would air on the TV and I would fall in love again, crying copious tears. I wished fervently for those feelings of love to remain alive. But, in an instant they would pass and I’d return to my cold isolation.

A breakthrough finally came in my mid-thirties. At that time I was a mother of two young children. I worked the second shift at a local daily newspaper, often coming home after midnight. Faith at that time came down to the perfunctory attendance of mass each week, no more. A new passion had taken over as I poured myself into my job, wishing to advance up the ladder. In the process I offended a colleague whom I had been friendly with. She in turn wrote a disparaging letter about me to another colleague and strategically left it where I could find it on the computer. Late at night as I was finishing my shift, I read the letter. In stunned silence I could feel a pressure on my chest as hurt, anger and confusion welled up inside. Desperate to keep my feelings secret I rushed to the ladies room, breathing heavily and sweating profusely. My supervisor caught wind of my plight and followed me in, asking what was wrong, and I shared what happened. Her kindness dispelled the anxiety and I was able to get ahold of myself.

That letter was a gift in disguise. The next day, still distressed over what my colleague had said about me, I turned to a book by Chuck Swindoll called Simple Faith and read a section about forgiveness. I fought vehemently against the notion, crying out to God that I could not forgive this woman. It was then that I finally realized my need for God to take over and I asked Him to help me forgive her.

God was tremendously gracious to me. He filled my head with many practical ideas as to how to make amends. This woman had no idea I had found the letter so I could act clandestinely. I remembered things we had talked about in the past, especially the soap operas, and chatted with her about them whenever we were together. I found my mind opening up again to God’s grace and my heart softened, becoming pliant, and ready for whatever He wanted. I left that job two months later, walking out the door with a bottle of champagne and best wishes from that colleague.

My relationship with God restored, that longing for fellowship with other Christians burned inside of me. Knowing my need, He led me to a morning bible study at our parish. I struck up a conversation with another mother who eventually invited me to a rosary prayer group. In the process, I met a precious new friend in the Blessed Mother. Shared the rosary and our lives together, my thirst for Christian fellowship was being quenched after eighteen years of wandering alone in the desert. The grace of those friendships poured over me like a balm, healing the wounds brought on by isolation. My pride and arrogance began melting away as I turned over my life again to God.

Over the years I have continued to seek out and develop relationships with other Christian women with whom I could share my faith. These relationships are some of the most precious gifts God has given me. My friendship with Jackie, a homebound woman, is one I particularly treasure. We spend a couple of hours together each week chatting about our interests and eventually, sharing deeply about our growing love for Jesus. That time together is a comfort to our souls and a light to our minds and hearts. The insights fly back and forth, fast and furious, with deep joy and passion. We laugh, cry and learn from each other.

My husband’s discovery of his vocation as a deacon opened up his heart and deepened his zeal. As he read and studied, he began sharing with me what he was learning. His insights taught me and my feedback helped him to better understand what he was learning. Sharing our faith lives together has deepened our love for each other and created a wonderful sense of harmony in our marriage

More than ever I am convinced that we are never meant to walk with God alone. The day that Jesus began His public ministry, He called Andrew, Nathaniel and Simon Peter to follow Him. While He would retreat to hilltops in the middle of the night to pray alone with His Father, He was never far from His friends, even walking on water to be with them. After ascending to heaven, He provided the Holy Spirit, to bind together His followers in love and unity. He foresaw the difficulties and dangers of following His path and thus freely gave of the Spirit to them.

A favorite icon by Rublev of the Holy Trinity best describes why faith in God can only live and grow in community. In the icon, we see three angelic figures, each looking at the other with indescribable love. Henri Nouwen described it as an endless circle of selfless love, a circle that each Christian is invited to join. The Trinity is the symbol of perfect and live-giving community, the Church that Christ has given to us through the Holy Spirit.

Long ago God had planted that thirst inside me for friendships with my spiritual brothers and sisters. He is continually calling me into that circle, just as He calls all of us. Faith cannot grow, cannot live without that vital food. It took me eighteen years of aimless wandering through the desert to figure out what I had already known and experienced as a teenager. I’m always amazed how dense I can be!

My new friend Chris is now a part of my circle and I look forward to the growth of our friendship as God continues to reveal Himself to us.

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The story of Africa, U.S.A. and its proprietors, animal trainer Ralph Helfer and Daktari producer Ivan Tors

Published on May 23, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbailey2 Comments

In digging up old articles about my favorite TV show as a kid, Daktari, I came across this fascinating story about Africa, U.S.A, once a large complex where exotic animals were trained through “affection training” rather than through fear with the whip and chair. This was back in the 1960s before caring for animals and the environment was fashionable. I direct your attention especially to the end of the article and the heroic efforts of the trainers, saving animals from imminent death because of raging floods. It’s quite amazing.

Daktari TV Show

My thanks to Walter, a longtime Daktari fan from the Netherlands, for sharing this fascinating article about just what Africa, U.S.A. was all about.

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Animal Kingdom, USA

Out in California flourishes a wild-animal domain located just this side of Unbelievable

by Cleveland Amory for TV Guide April 1966

Hollywood these days may or may not be still the Land of Make-Believe. But it boasts at leastone place, Africa, U.S.A., which has even the “natives” rubbing their eyes. “I’ve worked here every day for a year,” Marshall Thompson the star of Daktari told me, “and I still don’t believe it.”

To begin with, like most things in Hollywood, it is actually not…

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Greetings from the Beyond

Published on April 22, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbaileyLeave a comment

Today is my mother’s third anniversary of passing into a better place (which I firmly believe is Heaven). Today God granted me a great consolation, a gift that I never expected to receive.

Louisa May Alcott is My Passion

You may recall the last post I wrote about Work: A Story of Experience where I reiterated the religious importance of this autobiographical novel by Louisa May Alcott. I was moved by the consolation Christie Devon received as described in chapter 19, “Little Hearts-Ease.” She heard husband David’s “voice” as the breeze blew near his flute.

I wrote about similar experiences when my mother passed away.

Today, April 22 marks the third year anniversary of my mother’s passing. God gifted me with the most exquisite greeting from my mother today, a greeting that I believe Louisa would have greatly appreciated.

I had mentioned my mother’s affiliation with Wellesley College, first as a Botany major, and then as a laboratory assistant in the Botany department. As a child she picked wild flowers in the woods with her older sister Meredith. Her father maintained a splendid English garden at the old homestead…

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Terrorism at the Boston Marathon: connections, reflections, evil and good

Published on April 20, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbailey2 Comments

Note: I am keeping this post free of images. I want the words to tell the story.

The last five days have been utterly surreal.

As a lifelong resident of Massachusetts now living in the central part of the state, our family has roots that go back to the Governor Winthrop fleet in 1630 when Allan Bread (ne: Breed) came over. My mother, God rest her soul, was a direct descendant.

I grew up in Wellesley and still work there; it’s twenty-seven miles from Boston.

My sister and her husband recently sold their share of their business to their partner. It’s on Arsenal Street in Watertown, blocks from the headquarters for local and federal law enforcement during the siege that overtook that city over the last twenty-four plus hours.

My brother lived for many years on Homer Avenue which is off of Mount Auburn Street. Franklin Street is also off of Mount Auburn; this is where they found the younger Boston Marathon Bomber.

Both of my nephews ran in the Boston Marathon. According to his time, my younger nephew would have crossed the finish line just as the bombs went off.

Our office in Wellesley was closed yesterday. It’s right on the marathon route.

Surreal.

Marathon Day is very special to Bostonians and people from all around the world. Begun in 1897, the Boston Marathon is the premier race in the world. It’s used as a qualifier for the Olympics. It attracts the cream of the crop. Tens of thousands run this race, many as a means of raising funds for their favorite charity.

The Boston Marathon was the first to feature a wheelchair race. Women runners have distinguished themselves in the race officially since 1972 (and unofficially since 1966).

We celebrate in our office with popcorn and soft drinks, watching the endless wave of runners from the door and then cheering on the winners on TV.

Boston is my home. The Boston Marathon is a shining jewel of that home, celebrated on Patriot’s Day, the day freedom began to take hold in America.

Evil invaded my home, turning it into a war zone.

At first it was impossible to believe. Two bombs going off near the finish line. Three killed, so many maimed for life. An eight year-old boy was among the deaths. How could this happen?

An important international story was unfolding in my own backyard.

News junkie that I am, I was glued to the computer, watching all the local news stations simultaneously and following Twitter like an addict.

What the hell was happening?

On Thursday the story began to grow bizarre. The FBI, out of options, revealed to the world video tape footage and still photos of the two suspects. Suspect #1 in the black baseball cap. Suspect #2 in the white cap with the golf label. One picture showed Suspect #2 very near to Martin Richard, his sister and mother. Martin was killed in the blast.

Everyone held their breath. Either these two would slip away quietly or all hell would break loose.

I dropped off to sleep on Thursday night hearing something about a shooting at MIT. I dismissed it as unrelated and shut off the TV.

At 4 am my husband woke me up with an unbelievable story: the MIT shooting was, in fact, related. The two suspects shot and killed Sean Collier, a 26 year-old MIT police officer in cold blood. They car-jacked a Mercedes Benz SUV and ended up in Watertown where a furious gun battle ensued between them and police. I couldn’t believe my ears when my husband told me the suspects threw bombs and grenades out the window of the SUV at police.

Suspect #1 was killed. Suspect #2 backed over the man (his own brother) in the SUV and escaped, eventually leaving the car and running away on foot.

In Watertown? My own backyard? This was beginning to sound like Israel, Iraq, Afghanistan.

Again I glued myself to the TV, computer and iPhone following the events. My stomach tightened more with each hour. I tried to pray and could not except for an occasional “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us!” I tried to sleep but could not. Home alone after the office had closed, I thought twice about leaving doors open on such a warm day and opted to keep them closed. I was safe in Central Massachusetts yet I did not feel safe at all.

Boston and surrounding cities and towns (Belmont, Brookline, Newton, Allston-Brighton, Waltham, Cambridge) totally shut down. No public transportation. No taxis for a time. No commuter rail running past the back of my house for the whole day. Businesses were closed. The streets were utterly deserted as people, urged by Governor Deval Patrick and Major Thomas Menino hunkered down in their homes with the doors locked.

The police were searching for more undetonated bombs.

Watertown became a war zone. Federal, state and local law officials descended upon the quiet city in unprecedented numbers. Many of the vehicles brought in resembled tanks. Never had I seen such a show of force.

Despite my morbid curiosity, I felt full to overflowing and had to shut it off for a time. I was amazed how tired I was from the stress even though I was just an observer. Yet sleep would not come. The knots in my stomach continued to tighten. The fiery pain from a small patch of shingles that had been diagnosed on my back expanded around my abdomen. My mind was calm but my body acted out otherwise.

Again I tried to pray and could not. I was grateful that there were so many others around the world who could pray for all of us. I thought of those brave police officers.

A press conference was held around 5:45 in the evening of that day. It seemed the police had failed to find the suspect and they lifted the “shelter-in” order; people could now leave their homes and move about.

That’s when all hell broke loose on 26 Franklin Street, Watertown.

A man, stepping outside into his yard to catch some fresh air, noticed that his large boat, still shrink wrapped for the winter, was disturbed. One of the ties was cut, deliberately. And there was a trace of blood. Grabbing a ladder, he climbed up, pulled back the shrink wrap and tarp and peered in. He saw a pool of blood and a crumbled body cowering in the boat.

How he was ever able to peer inside that boat I will never know. But his curiosity, and bravery, led to the arrest of Suspect #2.

It was not without a wild gun fight. People were quickly evacuated as police feared Suspect #2 might have bombs strapped to him. His older brother had on a suicide vest when he was killed and the bomb exploded. Somehow at this point I was able to pray and begged God to protect these brave men. After many tense minutes the police had their man. A cheer went up in the crowd.

It was over.

Grateful residents lined the streets, forming a gauntlet as law enforcement began to leave in their vehicles. Cheers, applause, the waving of flags, the pumping of fists. The brave police earned their due.

I thanked God for their safety. Too many had lost their lives or had their lives changed forever by the inexplicable harm brought on by Suspects #1 and 2.

I marveled at the bravery and tenacity of law enforcement officials who risked their lives to protect the public.

I reflected on the first responders who, immediately after the bombing, ran towards to the scene to help the victims. Many lives were saved by the bravery of those people.

I thought about the runners who continued running after crossing the finish line to area hospitals to give blood. So much blood was donated that the blood banks became full.

Citizens stood tall, frightened but unbowed by the terrorism that invaded their lives. Bostonians rose to the occasion. I felt proud of my heritage.

Mayor Menino has served five terms as mayor of Boston. With deep emotion he said that he was never more in love with his city than he was now.

I am too. My ancestors would be proud.

This story is far from over. There will be the continued investigation and endless questions. But for now I just want to take the time to remember all those who did so much to help the victims and protect the public.

Evil is a mystery that cannot be explained. It is a part of our broken world.

The mystery deepens when so much good arises from it. In the midst of ugliness and chaos, good continues to triumph. People find strength in themselves they never thought they had, allowing them to perform heroic acts for their neighbors.

I want to cling to that thought as this story continues.

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The thrill of birding: the game, the competition, the beauty and the art

Published on April 14, 2013March 19, 2016 by susanwbaileyLeave a comment

My brother-in-law (the same one who gave me the Daktari DVDs) has lately been sending me spectacular images of birds from his friend Matthew Faughnan. I enjoyed these pictures so much that I wanted to share them with you (see below for gallery).

West Coast, East Coast

Since I am an East-Coaster, these birds from the West Coast are all new to me. It is particularly interesting to see the western counterparts of familiar birds such as the Blue Jay, Towhee and Goldfinch.

Inspired by a movie

Matthew and his wife have only been birding since December of 2012 and have made remarkable progress. Their interest began after seeing the Steve Martin movie The Big Year about three men from different backgrounds who take a year off and travel together competing for the highest count of bird identifications. Equipped with binoculars and a bird guide, they began the fun of identification. The addition of a camera created something more. Check out the gallery at the end of this post.

Fun competition

As depicted in The Big Year, birding is indeed quite competitive, whether it’s against others or competing against yourself. It brings out the braggart in me, that’s for sure! It’s a game and a thrilling one at that, with the bonus being that it is done in the most exquisite outdoor environment.

Spring migrations and fall outs

My sister now lives in Alabama and reported that the spring migration of warblers is passing through, soon to come northward. I live for the spring migration, something my mother was passionate about, passing it down to her children.

The dream of every birder is to experience a fall out and my first was last year right near my house (a fall out is when several species “fall out” of the sky and settle all in one place for several hours, a rare occurrence. In my fall out I saw 12 different species!).

Boston’s Grande Dame of birding

For two weeks in May I drop everything to go birding. Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA is a favorite place, a gorgeous haven in the city where the migrants gather among breathtaking flowers and exotic budding trees, nestled between historic grave sites.

Visiting the cemetery on Mother’s Day was a treasured family tradition. Mount Auburn is crawling with birders, many of them experts and we’ve often tagged along behind them to listen to help us identify what we’re seeing. Now that my parents are gone and my sister has moved away, I hope to carry on the tradition in their memory. Always competitive, I prefer now to strike out on my own to see what I can identify.

West Coast birding

Matthew has been able to do what I cannot – capture stunning closeups of birds, transforming his hobby into art. Shows what a little passion will do. Enjoy!