Yes, Paradise

The birds are beside themselves. After a long winter—snow that persisted throughout March and early April—spring has come to northern New Mexico. I’ve been away for the last two months, gone to Texas to peddle my wares, repair the damage of my absence, dig in the dirt, and of course, to spend time with my family and friends there. After three years of living most of the year here in this high desert place, I guess I’ve become a little complacent about paradise. But as I was reminded by my oldest sister, Joan, as she and I visited with a friend in my garden just before I left for the return here, “you have the best of both worlds”.

This spring, because the Texas winter brought lots of cold and generous rains, my garden there is lush. The first showing of old roses—count them, 31, shrubs and climbers—was spectacular. And the local birds were already beside themselves as early as the end of February. I smile in understanding that in my absence, the redbirds, mockingbirds, black-capped chickadees, and their feathered cohabitors rule. Over the last three years, the cottontail rabbits have become downright comfortable. They give little notice to my presence in the garden. Joan told me this time that she sometimes brings a soda down to my garden and sits a spell, soaking up the sights and sounds. It doesn’t take much abandon to sense the sanctuary in the heart of this place in rural Leon County Texas.

The magic of my return trips to New Mexico over the last three years always kicks in just west of Clovis, once the panorama of eastern New Mexico reminds me that I’m headed to the high desert and the mountains. This year, not so much, as I gnawed on the recent past and, of course, the future, which demands to be unresolved. A heavy rainstorm between Santa Rosa and Cline’s Corners, where the temperature dropped from 65 to 49 in a matter of minutes and driving insisted that I be in the present, managed to wash away some of the monkey mind that wanted to have its way with me. I had been listening to CDs, everything from crooner Michael Buble to the soundtrack of “Hairspray” to the feisty lyrics of Shania Twain, and it was in the latter that—Bam!!—I got the message I needed to hear, wanted to hear. As I exited to Hwy 285 and the last leg of the trip to Santa Fe, she let me have it: “Find your self-esteem and be forever free to dream” (“Black Eyes, Blue Tears”). I hit the replay button, and I said, “thank you”.

So along with the abandon of the neighborhood birds celebrating the true beginning of spring at 7000 feet, the scent of evergreens on the walk from my tiny patch of real estate here to our little gym—one of the amenities of condo living—gave substance to one of the things really going on here. Yes, it is that other piece of paradise my sister reminded me of last week. It’s time to shift gears. It’s time to lavish in the lilacs, head to the mountains and my favorite stream crossing at Big Tesuque, get out my pueblo drum for Wednesday nights at the place where I nourish my spirit in the company of others, to sit over coffee with friends—the same ones who lovingly called me while I was in Texas to tell me that they missed me—and, yes, to jettison that which would rob me of the beauty that lives inside me, at times waiting, waiting, but always patient for me to claim my splendor. And so it is.

Yes, Paradise—Santa Fe New Mexico (April 21, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis

New Age Stuff

Three years ago, when I was excitedly beginning the part of my journey living much of the year in northern New Mexico, a couple of older fellow Episcopalians—both educated and experienced—gave voice to their perceptions of the spiritual reputation of Santa Fe. After we finished lunch (they were in Santa Fe to visit her brother), she advised, “Don’t let yourself get caught up in any of this new age stuff.” Or something like that. I don’t think she said ,“woo-woo”. I think about this once in a while, especially since I decided a year ago that the church-going path I was on at the time, and had been for most of my adult life, was just not resonating for me.

There had been times along the way that I got caught up in moments of my religious and worship journey, but something clearly was missing from the spin I was putting on how all of this mattered to my life. I don’t think I had ever been unclear on what I consider the heart of the message of the man from whom the whole Christian epic began 2000 years ago. But what to do with this message was for me incomplete and tampered with. Such is the lot of many Christians for these two millennia since Jesus of Nazareth walked this earth.

This past week I had an opportunity to hear Episcopal Bishop Gene Robinson deliver a sermon here in Texas. When I saw that he was going to be in Dallas, I immediately seized the idea of driving the 165 miles to hear him, although I didn’t know he was preaching. I thought he would be talking on his memoir. But it was a church service, although not in the Episcopal Church, fully complemented with an orchestra, chorus, featured vocal ensemble, communion, readings from the scriptures and sermon—and two collections of offerings.

In fairness to the circumstances and the sermon, I was more than a little excited to hear Bishop Robinson, and though his sermon centered on the importance of gay and lesbian folk claiming their rightful place among God’s own, it was a sermon. As I make baby steps toward growing beyond the standard message of much of the Christian tradition, that of sin and redemption, that of how we fall short, and move into the true message of Jesus, the great teacher, healer and mystic—a message centered on love, worthiness and equality in God’s eyes—I find it harder and harder to sit for the message that I’ve heard all of these years. When it came time for communion, I had retreated to the back of the worship space and stood next to one of the large limestone pillars that mark the entrance to the seating area. Do I go for communion, I asked myself. If I do, what does it mean? Am I compromising where I find myself trying to walk these days—not judging, not feeling unworthy, not feeling wrong and fallen short? Although the confession which I have been accustomed to for four decades was not part of this worship, we were reminded that evening that we are all equally unworthy in God’s eyes.

“Almighty God,
Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
maker of all things, judge of all men:
We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness,
which we from time to time most grievously have committed,
by thought, word, and deed, against thy divine Majesty,
provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation against us.
We do earnestly repent,
and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings;
the remembrance of them is grievous unto us,
the burden of them is intolerable.
Have mercy upon us,
have mercy upon us, most merciful Father;
for thy Son our Lord Jesus Christ’s sake,
forgive us all that is past;
and grant that we may ever hereafter
serve and please thee in newness of life,
to the honor and glory of thy Name;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.” (“Book of Common Prayer,” Rite I)

I’ve been learning a new message over the last year—that we are all worthy in God’s eyes, that we are all loved equally by God, that we are all expressions of God, of the Divine, the Spirit. I am learning that the world is abundant—even though through the manipulation of human kind heart-breaking deprivation exists all over the world, including here in America where wealth achieves mind boggling and disgusting statistics. While it remains hard for me to say that I am god, even though I trust that the one God, the Divine, the Spirit, dwells in me, even though I know that God is in everyone and everything, I am learning. To be reminded, as I was last Wednesday night, that in the traditional Christian view we are all equally unworthy—regardless of our sexuality, race, intelligence, economic birthright or achievement—seems more and more irrelevant to me.

The teachable moment is always at hand for each of us. A few years ago I attended a worship service at the Episcopal Cathedral in Houston. The young priest preaching that day talked about the work and writing of Verna Dozier, who at the time was in her 80s. An African American, Ms. Dozier was retired from a long, accomplished career as a public school teacher. For many years she had been an active leader in the Episcopal Church. What the priest spoke about was from Ms. Dozier’s book, “The Dream of God.” The message from Verna Dozier: Do you want to follow Jesus? Or, or you just content to worship him? In her eyes, the church chose centuries ago to worship Jesus, rather than to follow his teachings. We can all do our own homework about that history.

Each time I go to the center in Santa Fe where I meet with others for spiritual nurturing and growth, my God consciousness increases. Each time I hear from the podium about our relationship with God, the Divine, the Spirit, I smile. Each Wednesday night, we sing the words:

“I am an expression of the spirit, of the spirit
A beautiful expression of the spirit, of the spirit
Magnificent expression of the spirit, of the spirit

A unique, un-repeatable expression of God”
(Robert D. Anderson)

As much as I love all of the traditional hymns I have sung in worship over the years, oh, how I prefer to hear—rather than that I am an unworthy wretch who has been saved—I prefer to hear that “I am free, I am free/Everyday of my life, I am free-free-free-free-free. I am love, I am love/Every day of my life, I am love-love-love-love-love. I am blessed, I am blessed/Everyday of my life, I am blessed-blessed-blessed-blessed-blessed. When I wake up in the morning, ‘til I lay my head to rest, I am blessed, I am blessed.” In spite of my ego that gets in the way oh so often, I stand in gratitude knowing that I am an expression of the Divine, and that sometimes I even measure up to the responsibility that goes along with that expression. Even at my worst, I am worthy.

New Age Stuff—Normangee, Texas (March 28, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis

A Simple Scratch

This afternoon I scratched my left forearm against a virburnum shrub as I continued working down my mulch pile. The five yards I had delivered over a week ago is almost a memory. I noticed the burning sensation on my arm as I pushed the wheelbarrow away, but it was only after I had gone back for another load of mulch that I noticed the heavy collection of blood pooling around the scratch. “Oh,” I thought, “I’ll clean that off after I finish this load.” Shortly, I came into the house, and rinsed off my arm at the bathroom sink. I couldn’t locate the triple antibiotic, so I doused the scratch with tea tree oil, and then went outside to continue working. A smaller pool of blood continued collecting around the scratch.

When I called it an afternoon for spreading mulch—I’ve been piddling with this since my first big push on the day the mulch arrived—I went back into the house to wash the wound. A folder paper towel lying by the kitchen sink served handily as a pad to fold further and soak in water for daubing the blood. As I cleaned my wound, looking at my arm, an image of my daddy wiping a scratch on his arm in the very same way flashed through my mind. As he got older, the skin on his forearms became more vulnerable and minor trauma to the skin—a frequent occurrence working around the yard—became common. In spite of hard-earned resilience, which apparently applies only at the soul level, physically we tear and break more easily as we grow older. Tomorrow it will be 29 years that he died.

Just the other day, my oldest sister, Joan, and I were talking about how much Daddy loved the two-story barn that became my home 10 years ago. When our parents bought this place in 1973, the barn housed farm equipment, tack (although there were no horses to ride at this point), hay upstairs, and in the cool hallway, Daddy’s workshop. The bunkhouse that ran the 50-foot length of the northwest side of the building was a place for family and friends visiting Mother and Daddy in the country to spend a night or two.

Along with our middle sister, Sue, last week we went to see the man who does some investing for us, just as he did for our mother the last few years of her life. That day Sue pointed out places healing on her arm where she had scratched herself in the normal course of working around the house. She’s been taking cortisone, and I remember that Daddy took cortisone off and on. Alas, we get older.

They say that as people get older, they become more interested in where they came from. I don’t know this to be so true for the relatives from my parents and grandparents’ generation. Our mother loved to talk about her Texas German family roots—a group that landed at Galveston in 1866, when my great grandmother Louisa was only 1 year old, and settled northwest of Houston, what is now part of the great Houston octopus. Daddy didn’t know much about his family, and neither did his siblings, although they loved Hollis family get-togethers. They were a close family.

Our cousin, Marilyn, daughter of Daddy’s youngest sister, is working away on the genealogy of both our grandpa Hollis, who died in 1941—a couple of years before I was born—and our Mamaw Hollis’s family. Last October, a cousin on the Hollis side—the youngest daughter of Daddy’s youngest uncle—found me on the Internet, and we’ve been corresponding about her impressive work on the Hollis family. She’s traced us all the way back to pre-Revolutionary times in North Carolina. Our branch—going back to great-great grandfather Isaac—made their way to Alabama before the Civil War.

When our parents bought this land in Leon County Texas almost 40 years ago, we discovered a Hollis street in the nearby town of Normangee. After I moved up here 10 years ago from Houston, I found that there were Hollises in a nearby cemetery in Madison County, and through the wonders of technology and the Handbook of Texas online, found out that they had come from Cannon County Tennessee. Their youngest son (born 1834 in Tennessee) had raised his family here in Leon County, and several of their family members are buried in the historic cemetery just down the road. Yesterday, cousin Martha figured out the connection. Based on information I had given her, she connected that the ancestor father of this Madison County Texas group was the brother of my great-great-great grandfather, William C. Hollis, who was born in North Carolina.

I smile knowing that we can trace our Hollis roots back to the early 18th century American colonies. Our branch made its way from Alabama to east Texas by train just before the turn of the 19th century. Mother’s family landed here in Texas on November 26, 1866, only 17 months after news of emancipation reached Texas. Both of these historic events—one obviously much more personal to our family— occurred in Galveston.

It’s amazing, isn’t it, how a simple scratch in the garden—doing something that my daddy and mother enjoyed immensely—can connect so brilliantly (in my humble opinion) to a minor celebration of family. We live on in memory at the cellular level. We are blessed to know and to care and to connect the dots of our family, our humanity. On the eve of the 29th anniversary and celebration of our daddy’s life, what could be better than working in the garden, a garden no doubt upon which Tena and Russell Hollis are smiling on the first day of spring, 2010. And so it is.

A Simple Scratch—Normangee, Texas (March 20, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis

That Moment of Silence

I have been feeling sad and out of tune lately. I think I understand the source of my blues. I feel overwhelmed. I have to remind myself that all of this comes from inside and it comes from my own doing or my lack or my lack of doing. Even though I know that the best medicine for the blues is to stop, sit quietly, breathe and go to my source, I can’t always get to a place where I feel the sense of peace and harmony that I—that we all—long for. But sometimes in the clamberings and confusion, sometimes in the simply putting one foot in front of the other as we make our way, we remember what we always know deep inside, even if only a glimpse.

Before daybreak today I went out to my car to get the book that has lately been a part of my morning readings. As I made my way in the dark, no flashlight to guide my steps, the morning air reminded me that we are not quite to spring. My two sisters and I went on a mission in my car yesterday, and I didn’t remember where I had stowed this little paperback titled “Irresistible Revolution”. But when I opened the back door on the driver’s side, there it lay, in the very position where it landed when I hurriedly tossed it out of the way. Gratefully, I retrieved it and headed back to my front door.

As I made my way, the last sliver of the moon hung in the sky, and the sound of the fountain in my garden made whisper in the quiet. It was too early for the morning chorus of birds in this rural sanctuary. All was waiting. I felt that moment of silence, and I smiled.

Normangee, Texas (March 13, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis

About Getting Things Done

Casey, the Blue Heeler who came to live with us in the country in January 2000, celebrated her 11th birthday in November. I don’t remember her birth date because she was a rescue from an organization in suburban Houston that was founded to provide shelter for lost, abandoned and neglected canines. Although she was born with pedigree, she was traveling without papers, as it were. At the time I found out about her through a colleague at work, Casey was living in a kennel at the clinic of the veterinarian for this organization. Alas, she had been unseated from the vet’s family to make way for a Chihuahua. As I recall, the family already had a poodle of some sort. Her original family, I am told, had bought Casey as a puppy, a Christmas gift for their two little girls. By nature, Blue Heelers, are rambunctious, ever ready to romp and perform. They are herders. Casey was just too much for these little girls.

When Casey joined us in the country, she was 15 months old, and indeed, she was full of fire. For the first two weeks, I didn’t let her run loose, but walked her on a leash. She loved going out to the county road and following the two-mile course defined by the gravel and dirt byway. She was alert and totally accustomed to being on a leash.

Because I was traveling between Houston, where I lived and worked, and this place here in Leon County, Casey was left alone during the week. I built a temporary pen with cow panels a little to the east side of front of my barn home. Here Casey had to stay during the week. Our neighbor Jake brought her dry food and water every day, and a young gelding named Bart, who made his home in the trap by the barn, became Casey’s best friend. After a couple of weeks, I decided to let Casey run, which was great, but when it came time to go back to Houston, I couldn’t catch her to put her in the pen. So she was left to her own defenses. Jake told me later that had it not been for Bart, he thought Casey would have tried to find her way back to Houston, some 125 miles to the southeast.

Well, Casey stayed. She has grown old. Her right ear no longer stands up, the result of surgery for a hematoma. She’s arthritic, her days of instinctively plying her heritage, herding cows, horses, donkeys, and anything else that can be herded, including human beings, is behind her. These days Casey mostly hangs out around the shed where the horse and donkey take their meals, nestled in the leafy flowerbeds that abound here, or sunning anywhere she pleases. Since arriving back here in Leon County Texas for a two-month visit, I hear Casey barking at the evening sounds. She is still the self-appointed sentinel on the graveyard shift.

Spring is taking hold in this part of Texas. My middle sister Sue, who lives less than an hour west of the great Houston sprawl, commented yesterday that just like always we’re moving quickly from winter to summer. It’s the heater one night, and by a day or so later, it’s time for the ceiling fans. The days of air conditioning are almost upon us. If I had Casey’s instincts, I’d worry a lot less about pruning and mulching and getting the brush pile taken care of while the ground is plenty wet and the first green shoots of spring grass help inhibit the spread of fire. When I used to call Casey, she would answer, if just to find out what’s going on. Earlier this afternoon, she just raised her head, as the donkey nosed the ground nearby. Napping in the sunshine makes a lot more sense to her.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to stay focused on the long list here that never seems to get shorter, in spite of my genuine efforts. Last night a friend reminded me that I’m getting older, when I complained of a back that insists on slowing me down and a foot injury from a hiking event almost a year ago joins the aggravation. Even though it’s really not my habit anyway, it’s still a little cool and the ground a little too wet for spreading a blanket and considering the vastness of the sky while on my back. I don’t know what Casey has on her mind, but I can rest assured that she’s not working any list. Her body has told her to take it easy, and that’s just what she does.

About Getting Things Done—Normangee, Texas (March 11, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis

Tribal Notions

Basing his words on the writings of Baha'u'llah, founder of the Baha'i tradition in Iran, Wayne Teasdale reminds us that the forces of globalism are inevitably bringing the human family together, for good and for bad. He goes on to say that "the retrogressive forces of tribalism and narrow notions of culture and religion" react violently to "the coming together of the planet as one community." "The planet itself is our real nation, and we are all members of this larger society. The enlightened have to put the interests of humankind and the natural world before the interests of individual communities." (Wayne Teasdale [The Mystic Hours], New World Library, 2004)

In my own rather narrow experience, I am reminded that I routinely and habitually behave based on my own tribal upbringing, which is not limited to my blood family. We are reminded by the gospel writers, Mark, Matthew and Luke, to love our neighbors as ourselves. We know, of course, that this teaching in the Gospels is not limited to the neighbors on our block or fellow churchgoers or the elect of any group that we choose or we are chosen to be a part of.

I am further reminded in my limited experience of the tragedy of families torn apart by misunderstanding, jealousy, selfishness and pride. We hardly have to walk out our own door to know such misery. The sad truth is that we choose this misery in so many of our human relationships. For myself, I want to be reminded every day that I choose my happiness and I choose my misery. And though I am at times angry or sad or jealous, none of these traits of the human condition define who I am. We all have a choice. If I can't love and embrace my own family, how in God's name am I to love and embrace the rest of the world? I recall from the wisdom spoken from the podium a few Sundays ago, it is impossible to bless and judge at the same time. And so it is.

My Masterpiece

I’ve given some thought to a confession I made over an early dinner yesterday. I’m not as nice as people think I am—or something like that. “I know,” said my dinner companion. Hmm, a moment of Merlot honesty on my part, an equally honest perfect martini moment on his part? I can only speak for myself. In truth, I’m a pretty decent guy. Terribly flawed, yes, but abiding by the so-called golden rule—the ethic of reciprocity—is relatively easy for me. Yes, I have plenty of opinions about myself, and about others.

Another dinner companion told me awhile back that I’m hard on myself, and as a consequence, hard on others. I won’t argue the point. Terribly flawed, yes I am. Do I wish you to be blessed? Do I want you to succeed—to succeed in the kindest, most generous sense of success? You bet! At my expense? No. I don’t want you to do to me what I wouldn’t do to you.

As I was preparing to leave Albuquerque early this morning to return to Santa Fe, the simple things of a morning wrapped a smile around my heart. Just as I hoped, a well-lit, inviting coffee house was situated on the right hand side as I made a left turn on to Central Avenue. Coffee and maple pecan scone in hand, as I exited to the street I realized that I could have used my Frequent Flyer card for bonus points toward a complimentary dessert some time soon. Another day, I thought. I was happy to be heading to the Interstate as daylight kept coming on. I was waiting until I was on the drive north to take my first sip of coffee with half and half.

At a traffic light, a group of early morning joggers from the University of New Mexico—all clad in dark shorts and gray t-shirts, accented with lime-green iridescent belts, dark beanie caps keeping their heads warm in temps hovering in the mid 30s—made their way across the street. Young, vigorous, some smiling as they moved easily across an already-busy intersection. I noticed that the two bringing up the rear were chatting. What a great way to begin the day.

Even when I turned the corner onto the feeder road at I-25, and my cup—resting in the opening in the console, tilted, the unsecured cap giving way and coffee spilling over my jeans and onto the floor mat—“dammit”—I had a great day going. I thought about the big woman with the big red hair who works as a checker at the grocery store I frequent. Because I’ve been the recipient of her bruising attitude toward the customer a few times now, I try to avoid her line. As life will have it at times, though, on Valentine’s Day she was the only choice as I walked toward the checkout stations. I witnessed her anger, frustration—I don’t know the source of this seeming testiness—as an elderly guy struggled with the debit card machine while trying to buy a bouquet of red roses for his valentine. He apologized for being so incompetent, which I guess disarmed her, threw her off balance. “Have a great Valentine’s Day,” she offered, as he walked away. At her instructions, I unloaded my own basket, “Sir, you can go ahead and empty your basket” I felt like a misbehaving child. What have we all done wrong to come under the scorn of this person whose business is customer service?

Yes, as I felt my drenched pant leg and imagined the coffee pooling among the grooves of my floor mat, I nodded to myself. This is going to be a good day. The traffic heading north on I-25 was brisk and intent at this early hour of the day. And the light coming from the east was, for the lack of a better word, breath-taking. I was not in a hurry, and I tried to stay out of the way of all the people who had somewhere to be at some certain time. Or so it seemed. For me, I just wanted to be. And oh my God, what a morning just to be. As I headed north, the light against the mountains and the low-hanging clouds took my breath away. I get to be here. I get to live this. How could I not be smiling? How could I not want everyone to feel just as blessed as I felt right then? If there’s really a way to paint the world with such a feeling, hand me a brush, please. Let me start work on my masterpiece.

My Masterpiece—Santa Fe, New Mexico (February 16, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis