Where the Cardinal Goes

Where the Cardinal Goes

(For Mom)

On a clear blue morning

I saw him perched precariously on a metal limb

Head held high 

Chest bared in brilliant crimson red

And in my silent mourning it occured  to me

"Mom?"

Where does the cardinal go

When the heart needs comforting 

When life seems lesser than when you were here?

In my silent prayer I know

Where the cardinal goes

He finds his mate

Settles in to a common space

A nest they have gathered together

To cultivate

A new generation

Another chance for life to renew itself

Though my sorrow ebbs, and flows

My spirit soars to

Where the cardinal goes.

D.A. Wittler 3/13/20

Windward Sons, Great Coaches, and an Artist of Life

A few thoughts: Windward Sons, Great Coaches, and an Artist of Life.

We received a letter on Friday from my son Ryan who is about to begin the midway point in Marine Corps training. I have come to realize that he is a windward son because he has chosen the difficult path against what most young men his age would choose, but in the end he will be stronger, and more able bodied to face any obstacle life places in front of him. The same could be said of his brother Aaron who is learning, and growing in his own more traditional way; work, save, explore possibilities, and build gradually at his own pace. 

Ryan says it's like his Drill Instructors are easing up one minute, and jumping down their throats the next. Believe me, any former service member, or student athlete knows this feeling. It is because they have reached a point where being a novice gives way to being a serious student of "the game." Drills, conditioning, fundamentals, and mental maturity start to kick in, but not without constant pressure to gain proficiency above, and beyond. Like great coaches who strive for perfection, life teaches many lessons, often times throwing obstacles in our way to test us of our worthiness, or courage to strive on.

Now, I'm  finally getting to read a good book about some of the greatest coaches of Notre Dame football, as I am constantly looking for ways to encourage my sons through this most challenging time of their lives. Since martial arts is a part of Marine training, I sought guidance from one of the greatest teachers/philosophers in Bruce Lee. He changed the world in regards  to opening up the ancient arts of the Far East. As a student of philosophy as well, Lee melded together what he knew of the physical art with the discipline of the mind. This is what I gleaned from a brief study of his life, and work.

Become like the caterpillar

Prepare, 

Grow, 

Dream, 

Emerge, 

Stretch your wings, 

Fly on your own power 

This is what it means to be

An Artist of Life

A student of the soul.

Paint your canvas like a perfect scene before you 

Is it a deeply hidden meadow amongst the trees?

Or can it be seen for miles around

Like a journeyman's dream 

With limitless possibilities?

It is up to you

According to the life you lead;

Choose wisely,

Be true to the heart within

That beats the drum 

And leads the way.

D.A. Wittler 3/8/20

God Bless!

October Morning Meditation

October Morning Meditation

A chilly October morning is transformed

As blue sky and dawn

Give way to a golden orb of sunlight

Ascending above a neighbor's shady maple

From cross our street.

Squirrels flit about the lawn

Planting acorns

 In subterranean hiding spaces

Birds collect on power lines

In anticipation of a free meal

Hanging from a seed feeder

While a gentle breeze awakens

Wind chimes dangling from a front porch

Like my folks

Who now reside in heaven

Sing in unison

I lament them in my present state

Yet remember them with fondness

For devotions sake

Of love, and hard work

To make my life a blessing.

I take a moment

To post the colors

In appreciation for freedoms

Paid in full

By horrific suffering

Intense determination

Overcoming oppression

To vanquish tyranny.

I look towards bright stars

Red stripes

To breathe in a legacy

Of liberty

For all!

I gravitate to my creative side

A gift given

By my heavenly Father

I contemplate possibility

Brush away negativity

Like a common house fly

Buzzing about my thoughts daily

As if a simple annoyance

They no longer define me

If I so desire.

Millie trots about dew covered grass

Her nose attuned, and twitching

At every trace of passing squirrel

I wonder what it must be like

To be a creature bound to nature

And yet I sit

Conforming to better angels

Whispering to my soul

Sweet nothings

Singing:

"Look up child

See what our Creator has given

Know that you are loved,

And tomorrow 

Is your wedding day!"

D.A. Wittler 10/5/19

The Resilience of Weeds

A few thoughts on family:

The Resilience of Weeds

I remember as a child when school started the week after Labor Day when hot Summer air gave way to a cool near Autumn breeze as fog clung to earth like an early warning sign of things to come. I recall freshly refinished hard wood floors, eraser dust, and new bought clothes fresh off the rack from J.C. Penney. Smoke from burning leaves on small town streets, pumpkin patches full with Fall color, and corn stalks gathered in tripod shaped arrangements. I remember dragging a paper sack along dew covered lawns on Holloween, and losing all the accumulated candy gathered as a beggar on front door steps. There were parades of ghouls, and every kind of costumed character. One year I went as Evel Kneival in a star studded helmet, and boots.

Now, I'm a child of Summer; the only one of my siblings born in July along with my Grandma Bea who baked the best pies ever! I still sit, and enjoy her grandmother clock chime away the hours, and tic-toc the seconds as she used to share stories from her childhood. We are a family of deep roots, and "strong stock" as some people say about their lineage. As resilient as weeds growing up between cracks in sidewalks or among the rockiest landscapes at the base of mountaintops. We endure hard times, and cherish those moments like a wedding or a weekend camping out in some remote neck of the woods. Days, and years pass as the seasons bring every manner of weather imaginable; sunshine, rainfall, fog, and a rare blizzard noone living then will ever forget. The winter of 1978 is one of them. I remember losing a Grandfather then on a frigid January morning; his essence remains deep within me like a campfire on a starry night.

Now, on occasion I may quote a verse from scripture, or take note of a line from an infamous poet, but you will always find an original thought designed to spark a part of your soul that reaches deep inside to draw out the best in you. But I will never suggest an ill conceived notion to put you down, or treat you less than human. I am my father's son, my mother's child, and a brother, but we do not need to share blood to be a neighbor, co-worker, or best friend. I will always be there to lend a helping hand, or provide a shoulder to lean upon.

I am that resilent weed coming back from beneath the concrete to greet you. Though my roots may seems loosely attached at times, my soul runs deep within a  belief

that God is with us no matter what, and family keeps us closer than anything. We just need to learn to love one another each day.

And so, as Fall creeps in on this overcast September morning, I give a piece of my essence to you who may be suffering, or in need of something positive to read apart from all the bad news waiting on your doorstep. Like a pair of humming birds hovering above me this morning on my front porch, I will always be a voice you can count on to reflect the resilience of weeds; even when an Autumn breeze makes you shiver with the thought of dark days, and stormy nights in Winter.

God Bless you all!

D.A. Wittler  9/7/19

Mourning Coffee

Mourning Coffee

You waited for me

As I gazed to see

Stars emerging from daylight

Sunset converging with midnight

Like smoke, and mist conversing

About a cabin in a clearing

I lost myself in Frost

Longing for mourning coffee.

It may seem I stole from you

A precious commodity

A thought, a line, your poetry

But I simply sought you out

Oh kindred spirit

For an opportunity to grow

Like summer grass

Lost in weeds

Who determines which has more worth

Man or earth?

They each draw from fertile soil

And soul alike

Changing with seasoned grace

Withering, dying, then reborn

Leaving me  

With mourning coffee

Healing with a dearest sibling.

D.A. Wittler 8/23/19

You may wonder about the meaning of grief. How it ebbs, and flows through you like tidal forces through a marsh. It rises with the moon, recedes in time, then returns with a treasure all its own; shells, and creatures from a deep blue.

For some, a marsh is a dark mysterious place that serves no other purpose but to remind us of the gloom residing within our hearts, and minds. But grief is like a marsh, it separates us from land, and sea with its murky mystery, and it buffers us from the worst storms nature can muster. And yet, a marsh connects us gently to the greatness of mountain peaks, and valleys of our souls.

As Kya (Where The Crawdads Sing by: Delia Owens) knew from her loneliness, and depravity; life is a series of choices to survive, and live another day, or slowly die as the waters recede in a brackish haze of old age. Therefore, choose whichever, and know the wisdom of the ages lies in being alive each moment knowing full well that inevitable truth is in being born, experiencing, rising, and falling as a sunset bringing forth a universe of twinkling possibility called afterlife!

Amen, and God Bless!

 . 

From Frost to Page

A few thoughts from Frost to page:
I read from In The Clearing by Robert Frost this morning, and it got my thoughts going. I cannot describe the process, but let it suffice to say that when it comes, it flows like a stream of consciousness.

Frost wrote in his final line from Accidentally on Purpose; upon the inauguration of President Kennedy:
"And yet for all this help of head, and brain,
How happily instinctive we remain,
Our best guide upward further to the light
Passionate preference such as love at sight."

And so from head, and brain, and heart comes this refrain...
August Ascending
(A work in progress as I am)
For Mom:

You came, and lit
Upon a morning shade
Tweaked your wings as if to say
"Hello son"
And once done
Flit off about your way
To visit yet another day
And time of your choosing.

Chimes are silent
August ascending
While I muse
My heart lamenting
Like tears of Pele'
Our evening emerald
Lies beside the ashes
Of a long lasting love.

Yet still I mourn
Your last breath lingers
Like a portrait
Upon the walls of my memory
In a tiny gallery of gloom
That became a death room.

But who can say what remains
A twinkling light, a flickering haze?
To remind us of our lost school days
When we thought of nothing
But camp fires, card games, songs,
and plays.

D.A. Wittler 8/3/19

Remembrances

Remembrances: A Final Farewell To Mom.

In the beginning... Once upon a time… two of the most infamous opening lines in literary history, and perhaps of all time. And so, I pause, reflect, and remember the humble beginnings, and storied life of Carol Jean Stepleton-Wittler; otherwise known as Mom to some of us.

For today let us remember a little dark haired child perched upon the back of a pony. She is wearing her finest Annie Oakley hat, and leather chaps with silver buckle, and fringe down the seams. Born into hard times never made her bitter, perhaps a better person because she could always appreciate the good times as blessings, and bad as classrooms of knowledge to teach how to get through anything that life put in her way. She grew up knowing the value of a dollar, and held on to the belief of an innocent child where Roy Rogers always rode along to help her travel the next unknown bend in the trail, or traverse an unseen mountain top ahead. In her own story she could gallop off into the sunset to brave another adventure.

She knew in her adult world that life was like a good book shared with a child at bed time where happy endings were as real as Sleeping Beauty awakening, or Harry Potter riding his thunderbolt for the first time. Where Fast Friends meet, and frenzied haste makes us waste not of the opportunities that God grants us to make the world a better place. She could always make the hurts less powerful, and the bruises less ominous to a tear filled eye. For you see, she was a mother; always there, and always carefully watching over her beloved offspring.

In the intervening years she held many roles, and portrayed many characters familiar to friends, family, and neighbors. She was more than just Mom, her wings covered many more lives than six children, but generations of young inspired minds destined to go in every direction imaginable. She was a babysitter, homemaker, playground monitor, teacher's aid, Girl Scout leader, and responsible town council member. She even went back to school in later years to further her professional career as an elementary school librarian. I remember sitting next to her in an evening psychology class at OSU/Lima. She got an A, of course while I was content with a B. So, not only was she "Mom" but a student as well; always building on her repertoire of many colors like the cross stitch patterns she completed over the years.

Mom had an eye for beautiful things, like the spray of flowers displayed on her casket. She loved to plant all kinds of them in boxes around the outside of the house each Spring, and Dad watered them religiously every day in the heat of Summer; they were a pair those two. On one hand there was a rainbow of colors, and on the other precision, and detail. Some of us remember shined hardwood floors slick enough to slide across in stocking feet, and cleaning registers with a butter knife, and rag making sure every cobweb was cleared away. 

And then there was her Catholic faith. The folks had a permanent pew for us in the very front row beneath the pulpit every Sunday morning as we grew up. Mom made sure we knew our prayers, and Dad would doze off slightly during the homily, but always monitored us for horseplay, or the occasional uncontrollable giggle. And as I wrote this morning out on the front porch,  a brilliant red cardinal perched upon one of the blue bottles on our bottle tree. Perhaps it was Mom stopping by to say "good morning son." Yes, I believe faith comes in many sizes, colors, and instances, and Mom would agree. 

Well," I'm so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh, or sing a song; seems we just get started, and before you know it, comes a time we have to say so long." For you see I could go on, and on until eternity with memories of Mom, but I guess it will have to suffice to say: "Happy trails Mom, until we meet again."

D.A. Wittler 7/19