Weekly Muse

The weekend. That magical time when the alarm-clock gets turned off, when you may indulge in a decadent second cup of coffee with your feet up someplace.  When making bagels and scrambled eggs for breakfast doesn't have to be weighed against getting to work on time. 

It's Saturday.

Sigh

And it's a gloriously beautiful morning so far. A nice laze-about the bed, slowly waking up to birdsong and soft rustling of the leaves in the gentle breezes. Breakfast has been consumed and a 2nd cup of coffee is in the offing.

The soundtrack of the morning is as above. Benign music that teases your senses with fizzy, bright notes of joy.

For that is the theme of the weekend - joy.

This our last full weekend with no commitments to others for the next month.  This is not to complain, mind you.  Yet each weekend after this, thru nearly the end of June, we will have at least one day destined to be consumed by activities.

It's all good.  Lots of church-related stuff and that's doubly good for we love and adore our parish family; any time spent with them is a blessing in its purest form.

And so this weekend it's all about - us.

Tonite it's "Date Night".  We have season tickets to a wonderful regional theater and we always go out to dinner before each show.  We've been doing this now for about 12 years - and it includes the same restaurant.  A jewel of a hideaway, a tiny place where reservations are mandatory, the food is sublime and the wine list is like stepping into heaven from a soft cloud.

A place where, after all these years, we have our own table and get comped various and sundry treats including a random amuse-bouche, a tempting dessert or a house-made after dinner cocktail.

And a place where interesting music winds its way into your ears and your soul.

Tomorrow will be shopping for new deck furniture; we've been restoring our 20-year old, 2-level deck for the past month and it is finally finished.  Time for a new table and set of chairs to go with the crisp beauty of our newly restored deck - painted a lovely deep pewter with white deck railings.  Classic.

Just as this weekend will be.  Classic - quiet, just the 2 of us indulging in the things that bring us...

...joy.

Journey of Faith

Faith.


A single-syllable word that is one of the most difficult to define.  In Christianity about the most perfect definition can be found in the Book of Hebrews, 11:1:

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

For the other extreme, Atheists (and to a certain extent - Agnostics), that sentence is the crux of all that is wrong with religion in general - and Christianity specifically.

But we won't be concerning ourselves with the unbelievers or semi-believers, or even non-Christians.  This is to be a conversation - a sharing - of my faith journey.  A journey that I continue on as we speak - growing, changing, expanding.

It is one that began in 1963 when I was born.  Yes...revealing my age here and I'm OK with that.  It's just a number anyway.

I grew up in a Christian family - a devout, faithful Christian family.  My parents choose a fringe faith - nothing you've likely ever heard of.

Christadelphian.

The link above is to the Wiki on this faith and it's about as accurate as you'll find without the mumbo-jumbo of the faith's particular belief system.  It is historically correct and represents the faith's tenets with clarity.

If you Google the name - you'll find references to a cult.  And that's not too far off to be honest.  It has much in common with the Jehovah's Witnesses...and any Christadelphian worth their salt would vehemently disagree with you on that point.

Christadelphians are a tiny sect in Christianity with very small worldwide numbers - 70,000 total in 120 countries.

Very small.

And for my entire childhood I dealt with the stares, derision and skepticism of my classmates when the subject of religion would come up.

In fact, it grew so onerous to deal with that I just started saying we were "Christians" and left it at that.  Tone and body language can go a long way to get your point across, even if you are only 12 years old.

As with most children, I followed my parents in their faith without question or comment.  Even in my teen years - when you would expect rebellious behavior - I largely never objected to going to church on Sundays, lectures on Sunday evenings and other related events.

In short - I believed.  I believed in God, in his son Jesus Christ.  I believed in the sacrifice made by Jesus for my salvation.

Christadelphians teach a very narrow view of Christianity.  They don't believe in an immortal soul, they don't believe in a Trinitarian system, they don't believe in Satan as a physical being and it follows that they don't believe in Hell as a physical place and they don't believe in christening infants. Baptism is reserved for someone old enough to discern their faith and answer questions during an Examination after a lengthy period of study and mentorship.

What they DO believe is astounding - they believe that the Bible - all of it...Noah, Moses, Abraham, King David, Jesus, the Apostles, etc...was written only for them.

Like I said - astounding.

Christadelphians truly believe that salvation belongs to them - and them alone.  And to go further, if you are a non-Christadelphian exposed to the faith and you fail to learn about it and follow it, you will have to answer to that at the time of Judgement.

Yes.

I believed all that to be true - until I turned 32.  My beloved dad died at age 63 and for the first time in my sheltered, pampered life - I started to question the meaning of, well, everything.  Including my faith - specifically the Christadelphian faith.

How could it all be just for them? For 50,000 people in a world with 6+ million - the only ones to be saved would be the Christadelphians?  It made no sense.

It rang hollow - devoid of depth, acceptance, tolerance - all those things that Jesus himself taught us were so very important.

And so, 18 months after daddy died, I left the only faith I had ever known.  I walked away with a heavy heart because my dad was a man of deep faith; he truly believed in all of it. And I knew that if he was alive, his disappointment in me would be catastrophic.

Yet - I began the first leg of my independent journey of faith; a trip that would take 15 years to complete.

And that - will be for another blog post.

Remembering

Memorial Day.

It's not about the latest white sale or the deal you can get on a car.  And really, as much as we enjoy it, it's not about the 3-day weekend.

It's about honor. Sacrifice. Remembrance.

And 10 years ago I learned that a member of The Oracle's family made the ultimate sacrifice during WWII.  The only reason we know about this is because I was working on a family pictorial project and asked for access to The Oracle's parent's family photographs.

Mixed in was this image:

Nothing was written on the back of the image - no names, no dates.  Clearly a WWII-era image but who was this adorable young couple?  And why were they in the family photo boxes?

My MIL was able to shed some light on it.  This is Uncle Albert Dentino.  My MIL's mother's brother.  I asked what happened to Uncle Albert?  We'd never heard of him before - including The Oracle.

The answer...he died in a foxhole in France during WWII.

That's it.  Succinct and pretty much devoid of emotion.  When asked, we were told that the family NEVER discussed Uncle Albert.

And with that - my heart broke for Uncle Albert.  His life, his sacrifice - forgotten by his family for 60 years until this old, wrinkled picture was discovered, buried in a box of photos long-since consigned to the bowels of an attic overflowing with junk.

Including, somewhere, the Purple Heart that was awarded to the family.  Lost in the mire of family mementos.

We restored the photo thru scanning and PhotoShop - bringing out the details in the uniform, in Uncle Albert's face.  And thus began my quest to preserve his sacrifice.

I've learned much in just the last couple of years.

Pictured above: Uncle Albert with a Christmas tree, we believe at age 15 or 16

Albert Dentino enlisted on January 16, 1941 - nearly one year before Pearl Harbor.  At a time when the U.S. wasn't involved in the war; indeed we were doing our best to stay firmly out of it.  Yet this 19 year old young man enlisted in the Army National Guard, Company K, 328th Regiment, 26th Division.  His motivations are lost to time of course. Like so many of his time, Albert finished 2 years of high school and dropped out.  Perhaps he joined because he was bored and hoped the military could give him a future.  He wouldn't be the first to do that and he wouldn't be the last.

Yet - I believe in my heart he did it because he knew, like so many others, than the U.S. couldn't stay out of the war for much longer and he was going to be trained and ready when duty firmly called him to action.

On December 22, 1942 his older brother, Rocco, would also enlist in the Army.  And with that, the only 2 sons of an immigrant family - indeed the first Americans in that family - would be off to put their lives on the line for their country. 

I haven't been able to track where the boys began their journey; some records say Rocco was sent to Ft. Devens.  There is no mention of where Albert went.  And since Rocco survived the war I haven't found much on where he served overseas.

In fact, the only reason I know Albert died in France is because my MIL told me.  No records I've found, yet, give the actual location.  I do know that PFC Albert J. Dentino died on December 10, 1944 - barely three years after he was likely sent overseas.

I also know that he never came home.  I found a scanned image of a request, by his father, for a gravestone.  The request was submitted a staggering 5 years after Albert died.  And it's for a gravestone only, specifically indicating it is a marker for a body whose location is unknown.

And with that, Albert's story ended. 23 years old, single, no dependents. And a family who never mentioned him because the pain of the loss was so great.

I have more to find out about Albert's service, chief among them a desire to get a replacement Purple Heart.  I've done the research and it seems you need to be immediate family; yet no immediate family survives him at this point.  The only connection is my MIL, Albert's niece.  I haven't given up on this and intend to enlist the assistance of friends who might know how to get this done.

Because Albert J. Dentino deserves to be remembered.  He was a young man with a whole life ahead of him who, instead, choose to join his country's military to fight the good fight, preserving the freedoms his family made their own sacrifices to attain.

Honor. Sacrifice. Remembrance.

For Great Uncle Albert - who is no longer forgotten, whose courage and commitment to his country will be remembered as long as there are people to tell his story to.

The Weekly Muse

Happy Weekend!  When I had my old blog I had a "weekly post" that was driven by the music I was listening to during the week.  It became some of my favorite writing moments; as a musician I feel music deep into the marrow of my bones.  Relating that to something going on in my life - was a great way for me to dig deep in my writing.  And so - I am happy to start up The Weekly Muse!

As you know from my previous post, we have been away for several days at a mountain retreat of sorts.  Musicians are never without music playing in the background.  From cooking to reading to cleaning...we always have music of some kind that suits the mood or activity.

These past few days have been so peaceful, so restorative that classical music has been the background of our days and evenings.  We did start with some mellow jazz but swiftly went for Mozart, Bach, Beethoven and Locatelli.  Something about these notes as you look out at the mountains - musical words floating and gliding over the landscape.

The soundtrack of our lives is as varied as the notes in a single song.  There is no "one genre" that we listen to exclusively.  In fact sometimes we jump around genres so often on long-distance drives that we end up laughing for miles and miles because we can't seem to settle on just one thing.

Musical ADHD.

The Oracle is also a musician.  Among the many instruments he plays - the saxophone is his ballywick. He sits back in the pocket of his prodigious talent and just - gently teases out accompaniments to some of his favorites sax players - such as David "Fathead" Newman.

While The Oracle's musical gifts are innate and natural, mine are not quite as easy.  As a pianist I must have the music in front of me - I can't "play along" as The Oracle does.  I need sheet music and hours of study & practice.  With it I can achieve things that sound like this:

No! That is NOT me playing...but after months of practice, it's pretty darn close to what I sound like. A few more weeks and it will sound like this.

Music - is our life in so many ways.  The enjoyment of it, the discovery of new artists, new genres, new ways of listening to old standards.  We remain always open to the experience.

And with this - you know why I always loved my Weekly Muse posts.

More Than a Mini-Break

Seven months.

That's how long it's been since The Oracle and I have been able to get away for even a simple overnight.

Oh wait - The Oracle.  I must introduce him!

The Oracle - is my husband.  We've been married for nearly 32 years (!!!) and he factors into every aspect of my life.  We call him The Oracle because, well, if you have a question about anything - he'll just instinctively know the answer.

This can be on subjects about which he is intimately familiar (computer systems analysis, corporate IT infrastructure, the nuance between a tenor and alto saxophone or the merits of using garlic powder on everything); or it can be about something you don't think he's heard of or knows about and yet - he somehow manages to pull out the correct answer every single time.

It's annoying.

And I love him anyway.

So - where was I?  Oh yes, getting away.

Seven months in this our crazy life - is a long time to go without packing a suitcase and heading out to - somewhere, anywhere.  Add in the historic winter we just endured and it's all been a bit - much.

This barren landscape of vacationing has finally - ! - come to an end.  For we are now ensconced in a lovely, cozy home nestled in the foothills of the White Mountains (on the Vermont side). In fact as I type this, my view is of Mount Washington.  Which can look like this first thing in the morning:

We are incredibly blessed to be here. The house is a future retirement destination that is owned by dear friends - and they generously let their closest friends use the house...

...for free.

That's right my peeps  - we are here for 5 glorious days at no cost.  Well, aside from the gas to get here and home and food expenses.

Mere trifles my darlings, mere trifles.

For this is a mystical & magical place; you feel it in the energy as soon as you walk in the door and pass through the mudroom to the living room with the cathedral ceiling.  Then you look out at the expanse of back deck, yard and beyond to the mountains...and you can feel the stresses of life, the detritus of the demands of corporate america...just fade away.

You can literally feel your soul healing.  A good night's sleep - which is inevitable in the crisp mountain air that your lungs can never seem to get enough of - and the next morning you awaken feeling like the world that sat so firmly on your shoulders just a few hours ago has - shifted.

Not in small ways...oh no.  In ways that you firmly believe total strangers will notice.  Something deep within you changes; the blowing of the leaves on the trees is enough to make you stop what you are doing and just watch them - entranced by their delicate, fairy-like movements.

Leaves.  Fairy-like movements.  I sound like a proper whacko and you know what - I'm totally and utterly OK with that.

Because here - in the Northeast Kingdom of this glorious state called Vermont - all things are possible and indeed, feel normal.

It is - just 4 short hours by car - a true vacation.  A place to just sit and...be.

All images are the property of Reflections - Photography by Kris Payant and can be found in my online portfolio at www.krispayant.com.

Launchpad

Once upon a time, I had a blog.  It started in 2004 after a year of internal deliberation.  That blog morphed into a dot com blog and between the 2 of them, I blogged for nearly 10 years.

Then - I gave it up.  Just like that.  Poof!  I just thought it was time.  Life was posing some unexpected challenges in the summer of 2014 and by that fall - my muse had left me...or so I thought.

Turns out - I am an artist after all.  I am a musician, I am a vocalist, I am a photographer and...I am a writer.

And the writer will not be silenced anymore.  Blog posts have been whirling in my head for weeks and I can't ignore them.

Those unexpected challenges did put me through my paces all winter long.  The longest winter in New England history in more ways than one.  Epic snowstorms, unrelenting cold - our lives turned into a frozen landscape that didn't recede for nearly 6 months.

Six months of over 3 feet of snow that never seemed to diminish and a bitterness to the air that sunk deep into your bones.

And now - it's spring.  A late spring to be sure but, like the buds on my Lilac Trees, I finally feel like those challenges are behind me.  My mind is clear; the path forward isn't exactly laid out perfectly however I can see it now.

I haven't seen the path in many years.

And part of the path is - The Artist Hidden Within.  I have spent so long turning my back on who I really am that I lost my way deep inside my soul.

Now - my soul is starting to hear a new song.  I plan on singing the tune at the top of my lungs!