Black Smoke Rising

Maybe if I were Catholic I would "get it" regarding the selection of a new Pope, but I'm not, and the whole ritual and hoopla seem to me to be relics of ancient history. Black smoke just rose from the Sistine Chapel! The first time I saw that "news", I thought, "How awful! The Sistine Chapel is on fire!" But apparently not. It's just the other half of the duo, Smoke and Mirrors. On balance, has Catholicism (or any major religion, for that matter) been a force for good in the world, or an excuse to change the lives of those who think differently? 

Of course there are many wonderful people of the Catholic faith, just as there are many wonderful Muslims and Hindus and Jews and Animists and Shintos and Rastafarians and Jains. As for me, religion pretty much boils down to the Golden Rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Although the members of a church can provide a very positive social and support group, I don't need a church, and certainly not a males-only-need-apply pope.

This isn't intended to pi** off my Catholic Friends. It's just my personal opinion. Find comfort and guidance wherever you believe it is, but always remember The Golden Rule.
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 To the Editor

"Thomas Jefferson described our inalienable rights as life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  I do not think the order of those important words was haphazard and casual. The liberty of any person to own a military assault weapon and high-capacity magazine and to keep them in their home is second to the right of my son to his life."  This was spoken by Dave Wheeler, whose son Benjamin died at Sandy Hook Elementary on Dec. 14th.

No one is talking about taking away hunting rifles, and yet the NRA has convinced reasonable, sane people that this is what's on the anti-gun violence agenda.

It's time for intelligent sportsmen to open their eyes, think, and speak out against the madness of owning military assault weapons.  You don't use them to hunt.  I have listened to the opinions regarding "anti-gun" legislation, and I haven't seen anything that made me believe the pro-gun sentiments are based on fact, common sense or open-minded reason.

Stop lapping up the propaganda of the folks who want to earn more money from paranoid gun-buyers and start thinking for yourselves.  Prove to me that you're smart enough to be a responsible hunter.  Most of you are not those who equate the deadliness of their firearm with the size of their dick, so be men and stop being suckers.

Waiting

Waiting.  We wait for a bus, for a vacation, for the end of the movie, for word, for forgiveness, and in my case, for forty-two years.

I was twenty-five that morning when I dropped my daughter off at my parents home on my way to work and my mother greeted me with a look of stricken grief and an outstretched hand in which she held a small newspaper clipping.  From the Rochester Democrat & Chronicle's Op-Ed page, it was a brief letter to the editor from a healthcare worker blowing the whistle on the high incidence of thyroid cancer linked to the 'miracle cure' of x-rays administered twenty years earlier to patients in the Rochester area to treat neck, throat and face ailments.  As I read, the world turned from color to grayscale and I felt as though my eyes were seeing the printed words through a tunnel.  My stomach turned and I had to sit down.  I could see the doctor's face, feel the lead shields on my eyes again.

My mother cried as she told me how sorry she was, that she didn't know, and that if they hadn't radiated my adenoids to shrink them, I would probably have gone deaf.  And there it was.  Not only was there the radiation to treat acne that I remember from my teens, but another potentially cancer-causing dose when I was four years old that I had never even heard about.  Had I been older, maybe I'd have taken this news with a little more equanimity, but as a single, working mother still trying to feel comfortable with adult responsibilities, it walloped me blindside.  

Tests, examinations and scans followed, and no abnormalities were found.  This vigilance continued yearly for the next 37 years, my mind eventually reassured by the fact that the onset of this cancer generally occurs within twenty years of the radiation date.    At 24, I had already passed that mark for my first exposure; at 35 I passed the second, and although I felt somewhat out of the woods, I continued to have yearly blood tests and physical exams.

Eventually my thyroid began to increase in size and get lumpy, even though functioning properly, and I was referred to a new endocrinologist who performed yearly ultrasounds on it - the same doc using the same machine each time.

"It's big, it's ratty, come back in a year," was what he'd say.  And I would.

And then, this fall, the pronouncement:  "It's big, it's bumpy, your thyroxin levels are normal, but I DON'T LIKE IT.  It needs to come out."

Two months later I write this with a grin that just doesn't want to go away.  That "ratty", big, properly-functioning gland came out two weeks ago, and it contained a very tiny (4mm) papillary carcinoma - the cancer most commonly caused by radiation.  It's gone, removed, done with.  It's so strange to feel elation over the loss of a functioning body part, but that is what I feel.  

I wish I could tell my mother that she did the right thing when she accepted the radiation treatment for me, a decision she mourned deeply.  I'm so grateful for all the years I have sung and listened to music, for being able to hear my friends and loved ones and the natural sounds around me.  I am so grateful to the medical team that brought me through this surgery at precisely the right time and finally vanquished the shadowy devil from my subconscious.  My wait is finally over.

Click!

FaceBook.  FB.  Time-sucking, discount-store blog.  "Friends" you've never met on the outside of a screen feel your pain and share your excitements with a simple click; causes and politicians can be supported with the touch of "Share".  Surely this is Nirvana.

I used to blog regularly, at times doing the literary equivalent of attending Black Friday sales in the wee hours, searching for the perfect word or turn of phrase to complete the day's post.  Now, through FaceBook, I take on the evils of real Black Friday with a mighty click.  Climate change:  Click!  GMO crops:  Click!  Romney's dog on the car roof?  Click!  Click. Click. Click!  

Back in the real world, there's an insect for that, although the Click Beetle's clicking tends to scare off predators because of its sound and action, not its support of causes.  The mechanism is a spine on the prosternum which snaps into a corresponding notch on the mesosternum.  Not only does it create a clicking sound, but it can bounce the beetle into the air, so it's useful when the critter is on its back and needs to right itself.  Evolution has not yet provided our click beetle with an "Unfriend" button.

                                                It was Karan Cross of http://www.thewildinside.blogspot.com who "got me on FaceBook," as they say.  As anyone who sells handmade items will tell you, social networking is a way to spread the news of what you are creating, and, being a smart dealer, Karan made it easy for me to try the drug.   It quickly progressed to being the first thing I do each morning with subsequent fixes throughout the day.  The personal page was soon supplemented by a Wizened Eye Photography page.  If you want people to "Like" your art, it isn't necessarily good to mix personal observations, loves and hates with the more dignified artistic self you wish others to see...  Or, put more succinctly, I soon had two f***ing FB pages to manage.

Inevitably, the question "Why?" arises.  I sip my morning coffee and click to see what's new.  A high school classmate posts a new photo of her granddaughter, stunningly beautiful and sparkling with personality.  Click!  A distant neighbor describes a morning's activity in Ireland. Click!  A cartoon makes me laugh out loud (or, more precisely, LOL).  Click!  A new painting is unveiled, a hand-crafted silver bracelet displayed, a haiku shared.  Click, click click!  Awareness of someone's need or illness is made.  A dinner recipe tempts me.  Whispers and shouts from around the world, taken in nibbles that I swallow- or left as crumbs on a plate for other scavengers of cyberspace to forage.

And so, although it doesn't fend off enemies or right me when I'm on my back, like the beetle, I'll keep on clicking.  My FaceBook friends, thank you for being a part of my life.  This post's for you.

Northern Angels

These days I am acquainted with many wonderful and amazing people because of my art.  In these artists there exists the possible, the unusual, the unique, the weird and the beautiful, expressed in form, movement, sound, image, rhyme and probably a dozen other sorts of vents for the fire within.  One such person is named Hope, and besides being a wonderful digital and photo artist, she is also a healer.  I learned this because I mentioned having to fit a volunteering commitment in around a health issue.

Holding a small mixed media sculpture in front of me, Hope asked me to place my hands on two blue stones which were intregal to the piece.  She held stones on the opposite side and closed her eyes.  As perhaps a minute passed, I could feel a slight tingling in my arms, and then she opened her eyes and smiled, saying it had worked and that she could also feel my energy coming back to her.

Twenty-two hours later I was standing in line to pay for a delicious plate of organic, vegetarian food at The Table restaurant in Ottawa's west end.  A young woman in front of me struck up conversation, as women will often do when sharing such a wait.  Her wavy, shoulder-length hair simply parted, she radiated a glow that didn't come from make-up, and she brought to mind a painting from a long-ago art history class.  Yes, the food is wonderful, no it isn't the first time I've eaten here.  "I'm excited because I think there are things here my grandson could eat!  He's allergic to lots of things; soy, dairy," I said.

"Do you mind if I pray for him?" she asked.

That statement somewhat startled me, but I don't think I let it show.  Good grief, I thought, another wack-o Christian, but I replied sure, if she'd like to.  I imagined she meant later, so it was quite surprising to hear her - still glowing and radiating that beautiful, peaceful smile - speaking words of blessing softly beside me.  Even more surprising was that no particular god or son thereof was being mentioned. 

"What is your name?" she asked, "Judy," I answered, and she ended her words of blessing with "and his grandmother, Judy, to whom he brings so much joy." 

And then she turned and walked away.

I joined my husband at a small table near the window and told him that I thought I had just met an angel. 

Were the encounters with these two women coincidence?  I'll never know, but they profoundly impressed me and gave me a great deal of food for thought. 

The painting posted here is Botticelli's Madonna.  I have not been able to find the image that came to my mind at The Table, but this one is similar to it and would be perfect if Madonna were radiantly smiling. 

My life is indeed blessed.  May prayers and healing be affirmed.

I Smell A Rat!

'Funny the skills you accumulate over the course of a lifetime: driving a nail, mending a mitten, riding a horse, baking an apple pie, tap dancing, writing a blog.  Many of them you don't ever think about, but now and then a learned skill might catch your notice as something that sets you apart from the pack. 

In my case, being able to insert four fingers in my mouth and rip off a loud, shrill whistle has always seemed to me to be one of those things that elevates me to a place most girls don't get to.  It's good for calling a crowd to order or summoning a dog, not to mention the fact that people are impressed.

And although you often hear somebody say, "I smell a rat!",  I really can.  This doesn't happen very often, but yesterday, in the barn, there it was:  my nose, and the unmistakable aroma that falls somewhere between piss, vinegar and old sneakers.  I'd forgotten all about rat-smelling as part of my skill-set, but yup, sure enough, I, my friends, have it.

It's funny what life in the country can teach a girl.  And now I need to impart that knowledge to the cat.

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Julie and Julia

It's been at least a year since I wrote anything in Wizened Wizard, although lately there have been several things that I've wanted to write about.  Last night we watched Julie and Julia, and her blogging experience brought back to mind all the fun I'd had creating this blog, the excitement of having a growing number of actual readers, and the enjoyment of "getting to know" some interesting and good people.

Circumstances change.  I don't have the time to be a serious blogger now, so whatever I write will be for myself and with no wish to gain a readership. Pieces won't be in Wizard's voice, but this is the easy and somewhat logical place to post them.  Who knows how much I'll write or how often.

Below are the first two entries "post-Wiz".  Thanks for the memories, Julie!
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Goosed

Spring brings the return of the Canadian Geese. For the past few years we have had a nesting pair on the small beaver pond behind the house. They make their presence known early in the morning with a loud chorus of donkey-sounding honks, the daily announcement of daylight in the swamp and whatever else it is that geese get excited about.

Most pairs have successfully fledged goslings, but not all. One spring, after muttering about being awakened daily by “the pond donkeys”, our sleep was interrupted at about midnight – and then made difficult for the rest of the night – by incessant and frantic honking and splashing. Morning shed light on both would-be parents pacing the shoreline, nervously looking too and fro. Down was floating in all directions, and the nest had been destroyed. It might have been a raccoon, but more likely a mink or an otter who brought about the demise of domesticity.

This year, the beavers long-gone, a pair of geese settled atop what was once a beaver lodge. It has gradually settled down into the pond and now appears to be just another small, ragged island in a swale not sure whether to call itself a pond or a swamp. We watched the female draw up bits of sticks and grasses around herself to prepare the nest, and she has been sitting on eggs for a couple of weeks now. The gander is her guardian, fiercely scaring off any interlopers, the interlopers being other Canadian ganders who are probably dropping by for a little R&R from defending their own nests elsewhere. Ducks and the pond's resident muskrat are accepted as good neighbors.

Last night a freak spring snowstorm brought high winds and buried us under more than a foot of snow. In the morning I leveled the binoculars on the small, white island, finding Mrs. Goose hunkered down on her eggs, her head aloft, her body a dark lump of determined mother-to-be in a cold, white landscape.

By late afternoon the sun was out and the snow had been reduced by about half. I took my camera and headed outdoors, lured by the contrast of green spring growth and white snow. Wandering around the pond, I decided to “shoot” the goose on her nest, and walked through the woods to a point close enough to get a decent picture. To my surprise, she was lying there completely motionless with her head outstretched and her neck in a gentle “S” curve. Playing possum, I thought, but she was so still. I clapped my hands a few times, thinking that if she was simply laying low, she would at least startle and show some sign of life, but she did not. A shrill whistle also failed to evoke a reaction, and the gander was nowhere to be seen. I was mortified. The goose was dead.

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Was it the storm? The cold? Had she been deserted by her mate, and if so, had she been unwilling to leave the nest long enough to find some nourishment? Maybe he had been a victim of the storm too. Geese are thought to be “silly”, but this goose had given her life for her yet unborn children, and I was deeply moved and saddened.

Some time later, back at the house, I picked up the binoculars again. To my astonishment, the goose had been resurrected! Still on the nest, she was holding her head high. “I've been goosed!” I exclaimed aloud. She had completely fooled me, as was her intention. Later the gander reappeared, and the lives of these expectant parents went on.

So, who's the silly goose?

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A Pleasant Mound

Cemeteries aren't really for the dead, but for the comfort of their living remainders.  The older the stone, the more of that comfort they provide, at least up to the point in time when weather and lichens render them illegible and they become mysteries to ponder. 

Yesterday I walked a cemetery called Pleasant Mound, a moniker which conjures up some odd images if you don't happen to be right there looking at it.  The reality is that it lies peacefully dotted with gray stones and old maples on a hillside at the edge of town.  Pleasant Mound is most surely not the place cradling the bones of Matildaville's first inhabitants, but burials here date back to the mid-1800s when much of the area had become settled, the forest cut back, and the place was humming with the business of lumberjacks and tannery workers.  And when the place was still called Matildaville.

We've been living nearby for about 35 years, which makes us newcomers.  Our kids went to school here, rubbing shoulders with others having the names Stowe, Hennessy, Hepburn, Irish, Arbuckle, Thomas; the same names I saw yesterday in Pleasant Mound on old, weather-worn stones.  In the peace of this place, I wondered how many of those kids ever come here, curious about the great-grandfather or long-dead cousin lying at rest.  How many realize the comfort of knowing - and being among - their own roots?

After my mother's death, I began researching my family tree.  The search started online and eventually led me to small towns in Northumberland County, Ontario.  There I found cemeteries very much like Pleasant Mound, and there I paid my respects to people whose names I had only recently become aware of, gently passing my fingers across the old stone, plucking high grass from around them, and photographing my discoveries in the hope that someday my own kids might also be moved by the history I had uncovered.

My grandparents' ashes have resided in a metal urn for over ninety years waiting for someone to figure out what to do with them.  My parents' ashes were scattered from an island where we'd spent many happy times.  I suppose my own will be the problem of my children.  As ancestors, we'll take up less space, but we'll rob our descendants of the experience of running their fingers across fading letters on weathered stones in comforting places with names like Pleasant Mound.
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Moving On

WizenedWizard has had a good run. I really enjoyed creating this blog and watching it grow and develop over time.

At first, it was mine alone, but gradually others came to visit and a community developed. I "met" many good and interesting people, and the Wizard developed her own identity. There were the gnomes - notably Sigmund and Elizabeth - who could be observed or observers; fact and fiction were portrayed here, and the process got my creative juices flowing. It was fun.

Wiz tried to exit before, and to some extent she did, but I have come back a few times and written things that really aren't in the voice of my wizard personna. In truth, the somewhat fictionalized home in the forest had revealed its truths and told its tales; the game was over.

Recently I posted a couple of photography-related pieces. They tell where my head and heart are presently at, but they just don't fit with what the Wizened Wizard was. Rather than continue to water-down that feisty, sometimes foolish, wizened character who inhabits my woods, my home and my body, I've decided to bring this blog to a close. When winter comes and I can find more time to work on it, I intend to delete those posts which have strayed from "wizardry" and leave the blog in all its proper and appropriate glory. In the meantime...

...I have started another blog, a private one to chronicle my photographic career. This blog is personal and probably of no interest to any of you. It will be a journal and documentation of the role of photography in my life. Pretty boring to anyone but me, but I want to record this journey. And of course I am still posting Shaman's poems and an occasional photo at Shaman and Wizard.

So say goodbye to the gentle wizard. It's been wonderful, and I thank you for reading my many ramblings over the years.

All that's good -

Wiz
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