As a child I used to love to pick buttercups. My friend and I would hold them up to our chin to see if our skin glowed yellow; if it did, our love for butter was affirmed. The years pass, yet in the dead of winter this silly childhood memory sprouts golden.
My friend Jean, (since age 15) and I spent a day together gadding about town, during my recent visit to Vermont. It was the kind of day that chilled me to the bone. As we walked Main Street our pace accelerated until we descended the cellar steps into Mocha Joe’s coffee house. The cafe is named in honor of the late Joe D’ Angelis who owned and operated a shoe repair service in this same location for many years.
Noteworthy to mention, is Mocha Joe’s commitment to social responsibility as demonstrated by their imports of Fair Trade and Rainforest Alliance coffees and Direct Trade programs in both Cameroon and Nicaragua. Additionally, the company supports “healthy ecosystems in coffee producing regions and sustainable economic relationships, essential to producing quality products in Vermont.” www.mochajoes.com
Distinctive of Vermont’s welcoming hospitality people are invited to come in from the cold and linger a while. The tables are close enough that you can’t help talking to people who are nearby. Every small table and accompanying seats were filled with people using computers, reading, engaging in conversation, or learning to play chess, as they sipped hot java and dipped a scone.
Frankie was a young man who happened to be sitting at a table next to ours. He offered us a friendly stem of small talk. We exchanged pleasantries and he told us that he was feeling all soggy inside, wet and in need of sun and warmth. Soon he was going to visit his friends in Puerto Rico. Frankie's thoughts flowed freely in swirling images of a generous spirit.
He thoughtfully recited this poem by memory. 
“Mint:”
It looked like a clump of small dusty nettles
Growing wild at the gable of the house
Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:
Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice.
But, to be fair, it also spelled promise
And newness in the back yard of our life
As if something callow yet tenacious
Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife.
The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday
Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:
My last things will be first things slipping from me.
Yet let all things go free that have survived.
Let the smells of mint go heady and defenseless
Like inmates liberated in that yard.
Like the disregarded ones we turned against
Because we’d failed them by our disregard.
-By Seamus Heaney
How easily we travelled down river to a vast sea. A portal opened suspending us in the magic of the moment. Frankie and Jean talked some about world conflicts . Later, Jean mentioned to me how encouraged about passing the baton to the next generation of Earth's inheritors and how hopeful. We both were impressed by this young man’s ability to see beyond the usual confines of conditioned thinking. He seemed to have an intuitive ability to identify parallel connections between world conflicts and politics at home. A phrase Frankie used tickled my fancy, “they can’t see the world’s buttercup.”
When Jean and I left Mocha Joes we both knew something understated, yet extraordinary had unfolded. As near as I can tell, it was like souls touching souls.
In closing, I leave you with an excerpt of another poem Frankie recited.
"Tintern Abbey"
FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur. -- Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration: -- feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened: -- that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on, --
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).
Note: photo, from the Internet and "Mocha Joe's" Painting on silk by Linda Marcille website: http://www.crowhousestudio.com/ "
~liz Sorensen Wessel
Days 28-29 Begin
"The artist is not a special kind of person; rather each person is a special kind of artist." — Ananda Coomaraswamy
Nonetheless, the best way to get beyond a vast horizon of procrastination is to simply begin.
Begin. Even if what chugs out is a rusty syllable or two, one need not fret ‘cause there is plenty of opportunity to do some polishing. It’s surprising how one little thought conjures up a mate that bumps into some newfangled inkling. Before long, ideas spill forth as though they are running to greet a cherished friend, not seen for a fortnight.
I recall, that Erie once encouraged my writing efforts by telling me to notice how the process affects the quality of our lives. Recently, I read the novel, “An American Childhood” by author Annie Dillard. In this splendid autobiographical book, the author recounts her desire as young girl to observe and commit to memory everything that happened in life before it was lost forever. In this way, when we write of our experiences and our imaginings, we record images that convey clarity, transmuting fading remembrances in focused appreciation.
Sometimes, when my thoughts spread out to indelibly ink the parchment of my heart they become bigger than life. Certainly, more bold. Writing my experiences intermingles with the myth of my dreams in a sacred manner. Creative expression reveals a kaleidoscope of color in translucent hues amidst dark silhouettes.
So often people cannot see themselves as creative and are unwilling to try on the robe of an artist. Distancing words crowd out all possibility, “Oh no, not me. No, I can’t draw anything but chicken scratch, nor paint or write for I have no imagination. I can’t sing or act. Dance? Why I have two left feet! No don’t play an instrument, can’t even carry a tune. Why, I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.” The white flag of defeat waves presumptuously.
Who told us these things? Were we so convinced that we gave up long before ever trying? Some say that I have artistic tendencies. Yet, what I see is those artistic qualities in the person before me. When I pick up a brush and swirl color it is my way of expressing Love. (Of course, practice by doing helps in whatever artistic endeavor we gravitate towards).
The gift of a creative spirit manifests in each of us in the most profound ways: For my mom, it is in 96 years of letter writing, for a child; a sense of wonder, for a lover; intimacy, for a friend; devotion, for a stranger; becoming family…
Perhaps, we cultivate the art of living when we give our complete attention to what is in front of us. In these days, when technology lures us toward instant gratification, it can become exceeding difficult to commit to spiritual practices. Yet, if we offer our wholehearted presence to what we love we may notice an enhanced quality in our experiences.
Caregivers are artists of a noble kind. Their listening hearts’ create a blank canvas where each person is seen, recognized and genuinely loved for what they are.
~liz Sorensen Wessel
Note: Above drawing is called, "Hands" and is a lithograph by the Dutch artist M. C. Escher which was first printed in January 1948. Don't you love it?
Tags: Erie Chapman; Annie Dillard; Journal friends;, Liz Sorensen Wessel; Ananda Coomaraswamy
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