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The Healing Shore

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HD Thoreau noted of Eastham Cape Cod, that “the barren aspect of land would hardly be believed if described.”  I suppose it depends upon what you are cultivating.  For me, our home in Eastham shores writhes abundantly with life.  Whether it is the view from out of my window on Cape Cod Bay, or walking the hard sand flats at low tide, there stands no more fertile plain for raising up one’s most profound and deepest thoughts.

Or wading heavily amidst the thunderous rhythms of Nauset Beach’s ocean waves as they crash and seethe along the slender sandy strand hemmed by towering dunes and open sea.  Surely, there lies no richer field for planting soul into perspective & the mind into more astute reflection.

‘Twas to this most blessed retreat I came this week after shoulder-replacement surgery.  The quelling of the mind and the release from the daily frenzies of home and office life proffered the utmost recuperation.  With my good wife Lorraine, and later joined by my COO & laughing adventuress Carol Ezzo, we journeyed into the realm of simple re-creations such as finding clams on the flats, half-shell oysters amongst the shoreside restaurants, and bright-plumed birds in remote marshes.  And yes, and in the eve, we even made some amazing strides in our latest book, along with lining up new guests for our The Art of the CEO radio show.  The brain works best when freed from the chaff of distraction – and fueled by good friends and lobster in drawn butter.

Wishing you all a grand summer,

– Bart Jackson

Going up to Jerusalem – The Noise from Within

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Below are some brief ponderings scribbled during my wife Lorraine & my recent trip to the Holy Land

From within the stone arch resounded a shattering shout – then another – another – a rhythmic chorus of insistent chants marking some sort of human ritual.  Not so odd really.  This was the old walled city of Jerusalem.  For millennia the faithful of all faiths have gathered here to raise their voices to God as they envision Him.

We had wandered lost somewhere amid the stone-hemmed, covered bazaar, maybe in the Armenian Quarter. We ogled past open sacks of colorful spices, teetering stacks of pomegranates and witicized T-shirts, and religious icons carved in heaps by piecework laborers from the Pacific Rim.  Fine dishpans, sneakers, and jewelry – each of the highest quality, if the lyrical chants of the touts were to be believed.  “Come in.  Let me show you.”

But we were fingering tempting silken scarves and the shattering shouts kept resounding within those stones just ahead.  The hefty stones bore a grey age, each adzed to a cube long before memory – perhaps by a Roman slave or some crusader’s serf.  Each fitted to each forming a heavy archway, Quonset-hut style, but a little more compact.  And through the low doorway, Lorraine and I peeked within.

An aged seller of even older photographs has told us that not so long ago – about the time I was a boy – this stone room had housed pithoi (great earthen jars) of olive oil.  Jerusalem – hub of nomadic trade even yet.

And within this former storehouse we beheld Children.  A little phalanx of shouting youngsters in pristine white Gi’s, practicing in chorus their karate kicks in forward marching lockstep.  About seven years, each was trying to don some fiercely stern aspect, but the fun they were having kept breaking through in smiles (theirs and ours.)  Here in this ancient cavern bounced and thrust today’s children – just like we see at our local “Ken’s Karate Center” at home with its smooth matted floor and well-lit gym.  “Hey, Mom.  Did you see me?  How High I kicked?”  A small parental pack in both yurmalkes and Moslem head dress stood dutifully approving from one corner.  I hope the makers of these stones smile down on its current use.

Hastening hotelward in the wrong direction, I clutched Lorraine drawing her back from a pair of bike-riding youths bouncing athletically down the stone-paved pathways, weaving ‘twixt the piles of precious commodities.  Their shouts of glee universal.

Is it not wonderful that joy is ageless?

More later,

– Bart Jackson

Better Than the Smelling of a Rose

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Calf deep in the mud, slinging shovels, pawing at the sodden earth with bare hands, crawling beneath the van’s chassis to shove lumber beneath the sunken wheels.  Bespattered with farm field, we grinned and joked.  Thus began a welcome hiatus from my morning keyboard labors yesterday about 6 a.m.    I had peered out my window and beheld a large white van with wheels buried to the hub tops in Protinick’s cornfield across the way. Its desperate driver stood shaking his head beside the road.  The first half of his K-turn had skidded him into this plight and man, he was stuck solid.  Another nice mess I’ve gotten me into.

It was well below freezing, so I put on shoes, then grabbed a couple of shovels, some rope, and planks from the barn, and headed out to lend a hand.  The van’s owner and I began digging.  Within moments we were joined by a lanky jogger who couldn’t resist a little break in his routine.   After several minutes of moiling about, a pickup truck passed, paused, and backed up close to us.  Together we hitched my inch-and-a-half hemp to each vehicle – dug some more and got in position for the big tow.  (Only in America – a Ukrainian, Oriental, Indian, and WASP all heaving on the same car.)  After all was set to readiness, the pickup surged forward, the rope snapped taut, while the rest of us pushed.  Then slowly the great white behemoth rose from the soil and eased back onto the roadway.   Had it been 6 p.m. rather than a.m., a drink would have been in order.  As it was, we all gave a brief cheer; the van owner thanked us all, and each of us, a little delayed, headed off to our day’s work.

I do not know the name of any of these gentlemen with whom I shared this chilly mud wallow.  They were just good folks who saw a fellow in need and made a little fun out of setting him free.   Ya just gotta love mud and homo sapiens – vital elements of Eden.

Wishing you every success,

– Bart Jackson

 

The Clothing of Diana

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Gloriously full, round, gleaming and nude, our sister the Moon, fires that most passionate side of our souls.  When her whole self stands revealed, reflecting down upon us the rays of the hidden Sun, we go a little crazy and perhaps unleash our more accurate eccentricities.

Today at about 5:20 am, about the time my COO was having her second cup of coffee, and one of my most ardent authors, his first, I pulled two chairs out back and my wife and I beheld the full Harvest Moon.  Armed with camera and binoculars, we watched for the next hour as an eclipse of our Moon slowly evolved. A scud of whispy clouds added to the haunting.  Like a subtle tide, the earth’s umbra gently laved Diana in shadow.  Denser than a scrim, but lighter than a blanket, our planet edged its shadow increasingly across her brilliant form, and like, like the best gowns, served to make the remaining uncovered parts more brilliant.

Slowly the celestial hand move the orbs and the encroaching umbra squeezed the lunar brilliance into ever more slender arcs.  Unlike the normal phases of the moon, the shape of this diminishing arc was uniquely its own.  My wife and I held hands, lost in an hour of wonder.

As I tap out these words, the sun is also rising, imbuing the horizoned clouds with that Cabernet, roseate hue that marks our dawn.  Another day launches beneath His light.  Soon my neighbor Dave will follow the lead of his puppy Quincy and cross before my bay window.  The school bus will then come to pick his daughters and take them to their duties.  The human hive will again prevail our vision and thoughts.  Yet today will not be like all others.  For this day I have spent one too-brief hour with my best beloved, as the old hymn says, lost in wonder, love and praise.

Take your time,

            Bart Jackson