life in a word – Page 7 – Life In A Word

unsung

St. Patrick gets a lot of attention this time of year. His Feast Day is March 17th, when many of us claim to be Irish. We wear the green, march in the parades, run the 5k’s, and drink more than we should. Over the centuries we’ve built massive cathedrals to Patrick’s name in Dublin and New York City and a dozen other cities around the globe. But why does Patrick get all the love? Did you know there are actually three patron saints of Ireland? I’d like to talk about one of the others – my wife’s namesake Brigid. Her Feast Day is February 1st.

Three years ago Brigid and I visited Ireland for the first time. While we toured the Emerald Isle we made a point of travelling to Kildare – not far from Dublin – to see St. Brigid’s Cathedral. Kildare is delightful; the quaint Irish town of my mind’s eye. St. Brigid’s Cathedral is its focal point, just above the town square. It was constructed a long time ago but it’s still an impressive landmark. You’ll learn a lot about St. Brigid here. She had a way with animals (an absolute parallel with my wife), she was a patroness of students, and she was a female superior in the church. In a nutshell, she knew how to get what she wanted (again, a parallel).

Brigid has fifteen “wishing wells” throughout Ireland; devotional places where the water is said to be holy. The one we visited had a prayer tree full of ribbons and strips of cloth. Animals watched us from a nearby pasture.

Let’s go back to Patrick for a moment. Again, I’m not sure why he gets the spotlight. Yes he’s a “patron saint” of Ireland (along with Brigid and some guy named Columba) but more specifically? He’s the patron saint of engineers and paralegals. That’s it.

Brigid outdid herself in the patron saint department. She’s the patron saint of (deep breath here): babies, blacksmiths, boatmen, brewers, cattle, chicken farmers, children whose parents are not married, children with abusive fathers, children born into abusive unions, dairymaids, dairy workers, fugitives, infants, mariners, midwives, milk maids, nuns, poets, poor, poultry farmers, poultry raisers, printing presses, sailors, scholars, travelers, and “watermen” (whatever those are).

Maybe Brigid deserves a parade too, huh? Doesn’t she seem a little unsung?

Patrick made magic with shamrocks and banished a lot of snakes from Ireland. Brigid performed at least eight miracles, founded several abbeys and monasteries, and built a school of art. Need I say more?

We have a St. Brigid’s Cross in our house, which legend says protects the home from any sort of harm. We also have a framed copy of her Blessing, which ensures the roof, walls, windows, doors, and fireplaces are all covered. We are all about Brigid.

One closing comment. After returning from Ireland it occurred to me there’s probably a little love for St. David somewhere in the world as well. With a little research I discovered that St. Dave also has his own cathedral. It’s on the west coast of Wales in the county of Pembrokeshire. As the crow flies it’s less than a hundred miles from Brigid’s place in Ireland.

I think our next trip will be to Wales.

sensational

The weather is a popular topic this time of year in Colorado. Snow and frigid temperatures are the norm so everyone like to guess “how many inches of accumulation” or “how many degrees below zero with wind chill” we’ll see with a given storm. If the snow or the low temps last long enough our moods are affected by what we call “snow fatigue”. Summer cannot come soon enough.

Winter weather is a favorite headline on the local news as well. Last week Colorado had its first major snowstorm of the season and the networks went bananas. They love to increase your blood pressure with labels like “Breaking News!” and “First Alert Forecast!” Fully half the stories covered in thirty minutes of news this time of year have to do with the weather. Which leads me to the following annoying conclusion: the news over-reports the weather. Their hype would have you believe we’ve never seen the white stuff in Colorado before. Their forecasts are often more extreme than what Mother Nature delivers. And the “news” stories they attach to the forecast seem designed to increase worry and stress levels. This is a perfect example of sensational reporting.

My favorite news stories about the weather involve on-the-spot reporters. Last week these brave souls went to the grocery stores the night before the storm to see how quickly the shelves were being cleared. You’d have thought the world was coming to an end. It was all delivered with a sense of “better get your supplies now”, as if Colorado was about to enter the next Ice Age. In the end, barely 36 hours later, there was less than a foot of snow and plenty of bread and milk left on the shelves. I guess we got lucky – again.

I find the weather news entertaining when some junior reporter is elected to stand out on the road to talk about accumulated snowfall. I get to sit in my pajamas in front of the fireplace at ten at night while this person is huddled on my television screen in several layers of clothing, alone on some dark highway. To add insult to injury, our news channel leads the story with a split-screen between this reporter and the in-studio weather guy. And they always go to the in-studio weather guy first. I can never fully concentrate on his forecast because I’m thinking about Junior out there in the snow and sub-zero temps, waiting for the cue to deliver his little two-minute report. When they finally get to him his speech is a little slurred and his teeth are chattering and you wonder if his hat or microphone will blow away before he’s done talking.

Admittedly, a good portion of our weather reports are useful. Forecasters in these parts are good at what they do, especially considering the Rocky Mountains just to the west of us can alter weather patterns on a dime. There have been times when the forecast calls for snow to start at 2pm, and darned if the snow doesn’t actually start at 2pm. Or they’ll predict a wind chill temperature within a few degrees of actual. Now that’s what I call sensational (to use the secondary definition of the word!)

transcendent

Last week I found myself in a cemetery. That may sound a little ordinary to you, but my experience was anything but ordinary. In fact, it was a little surreal.

cemetery

To be clear, cemeteries are not a regular habit for me. In fact, I’ve only visited them a handful of times in my life and most have been the “historical” kind. Last week’s visit was to a small cemetery overlooking the ocean in Pacific Grove, CA, just south of the Monterey area. It’s a beautiful spot: quiet, peaceful, and guarded by dozens of the area’s native cypress trees. I was there to visit the final resting place of my aunt and uncle, who spent several years living in nearby Carmel-by-the-Sea.

On the drive over, I made a mental list of the things you do when you visit a cemetery. Flowers, words, a few prayers, some contemplation, maybe a photograph for a keepsake. That’s my “left-brain” mindset in action, by the way. I always have to take the logical approach instead of just going with the moment. To further complicate things I’m not really comfortable with cemeteries. Notice I use the words “final resting place” instead of “grave”. Or “cemetery” instead of “graveyard”. On this day I was even conscious of how I dressed. Apparently I default to the formal, as if I’m visiting someone’s house for the first time. Which I guess I am in a sense – it’s just a really tight neighborhood.

I stopped in Monterey for the flowers. The drive then took me through the quaint central shopping area of Pacific Grove before the road rose up to the coastal bluffs to the southwest. One final right turn and I had reached my destination. Passing through the front gates I immediately slowed to the posted 5 mph speed limit, then navigated the loop road to where I thought my aunt and uncle were buried. I parked and started walking, and I probably looked odd trying to find their plot. I wandered here and there, up and down the rows, not really knowing what to look for or where to look. I had to keep donning reading glasses to make out the inscriptions.

Finally I found them. I was happy to see my aunt and uncle were buried side-by-side, off to the edge of the cemetery, in a quieter area and under the guard of one of those cypress trees. Add in warm breezes, the afternoon sun, and a view of the ocean in the distance (photo) and it’s quite a place to call “home”.

I spent several minutes kneeling and recalling fond memories. It was peaceful, as there were only a few others on the property and the sounds of the nearby neighborhoods seemed appropriately hushed. I said a final prayer and took a few photos and suddenly it was time to go.

Here is where my experience took an unexpected turn. As I put the car in gear I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Emerging from a nearby stand of trees, a single deer stood not ten yards from my car; motionless. He watched me for a few seconds, cocked his head, and walked very slowly across the road in front of me. Several yards beyond the road, he paused, looked back once, then once again, before casually disappearing up and over a hill. Gone, as if he had not even been there at all. It was a moment – an encounter really – that my brain could not immediately process.

My first reaction was to look around and locate all of the other deer on the property (hello again left-brain). But there were none, not even as I completed the drive around the loop road and exited the property entirely. Now that I think about it, the people I saw when I entered the cemetery were gone. Just me. And a deer. And my aunt and uncle.

My wife has shared several experiences where an animal makes an unexpected appearance after the loss of a loved one. Since I’m all about explanations, I never accepted any otherworldly connection. Now I’m not so sure. When I was talking to my father later about my visit, he asked “did you see any deer?” He went on to explain that deer are seen frequently in the Pacific Grove cemetery, only too happy to munch on all the flowers left behind by visitors. But my deer was a lot more interested in me than flowers. I think he was even trying to tell me something.

There are moments in life that go beyond the expected or the ordinary, and then there are moments that completely defy reason. My moment was one of those – transcendent – even as I continue the search for a logical explanation.