Thanksgiving…remembering love

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inspiration, life, love, pets, Thanksgiving, Washington National Cathedral

This week nearing Thanksgiving, thoughts of passed people, pets, and unexplainable occurrences tiptoe into my consciousness.  Quiet trickles of images, sweetness, perfect scenarios, and moments of happiness drop in… people who showed appreciation for my talents, pets who loved unconditionally, and divine experiences that gave me a glimpse of spirit. They all circle around me now. I embrace them all.

Formosa lily blooming in early November

During what turned out to be the last weeks of my mother’s life, one afternoon I rested at the end of her bed and in silence, she simply reached down and stroked my head. No words necessary. What had often been a tumultuous relationship with years of distance and silence, we had finally reached a place silent acceptance, forgiveness, and love. Tomorrow would be her 102nd birthday.

Mother as a model in NYC.

Photo by Sindre Strøm on Pexels.com

Ragtime Rags, a doberman/lab filled my life with constant companionship for thirteen years. While young, she preferred to run ahead while I reigned a spirited horse behind her — over fields, ravines, and open space. During later life, she enjoyed our condo/air conditioned lifestyle and daily walks to the local park. In the city, strangers would cross the street when we approached. They did not notice her alert face, shiny coat, and wagging tail. Never did she pull on the leash, yet always alert kept one step ahead by my side. When she left this life, I buried her in the country, a place where I returned in 2000. Her resting place is only two miles away from Swallowtail Cottage. Her headstone resides with me.

When we were young…Ragtime Rags and I

Resting in my garden

Cinnamon was a golden retriever who resided with clients of mine. I was asked to sit with her when the couple went out. For a few years, she and I enjoyed romps on the property, as her “parents” were too fragile to go for walks on uneven terrain. While I enjoyed their pool, Cinnamon, who had a scary encounter with water as a puppy, gazed at me from the solid edge. I walked to the steps, invited her in, and with the aid of a tennis ball, she joined me in the water. I cradled her under her belly as she paddled about, then I returned her to the steps. Soaking wet, she exited, shook, and from the look on her face, I could tell we had crossed a threshold. Later reports stated that she often confidently sat on the top step of the pool, cooling her belly.

Cinnamon enjoying a plush life and deep thinking

I blogged about Miss Kitty when she left this life in 2011. Although I hosted numerous felines throughout my adult life, Miss Kitty was my true love. She had been a barn cat for her first four years, and when we met, she wanted out. We were like Velcro for eleven years. Her presence is still very much here, as she has a tool box, and keeps the icemaker going. As a spirit Kitty, she is an easy keeper. Her ashes reside on the printer in my office, one of her favorite napping spots. When I become ash, we will be sprinkled together somewhere in a beautiful garden.

Miss Kitty, the feline love of my life.

The Washington National Cathedral in Washington, DC is an ethereal place. I attended regular services there after my mother died in 1995. Arriving early, I sat in the front row, in order to take communion following the choir and before the masses who sat behind me. One bright, breezy Sunday, this position allowed me to notice an unusual light play. And by play I do not mean theatre. During this sermon, I noticed that the sunlight coming through one magnificent set of stained glass ebbed and flowed according to the cadence of the sermon. Yes, that is what occurred. This was no artificial manipulation by theatre crew.

Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

Another time while in deep mourning for my mother, I knelt in the Cathedral’s small chapel reserved for loss. Not in prayer, but simply present among the tiers of glowing red votives, suddenly I felt my chest open up as if fingers were painlessly revealing my heart — no other sensation felt until I flinched and returned to reality. Never has this happened again. I often wonder what would have happened if I had stayed in that moment. Would the divine have had a message for me?

Photo by David Dibert on Pexels.com

Whatever the meaning, Thanksgiving is a time of reflection and remembrance. I welcome the trickle of happy yet somewhat bittersweet thoughts that visit now.

Are you experiencing similar thoughts this time of year? If so, please add to the comments section of this post.

Happy and safe Thanksgiving to all and may you too remember love this holiday.

Copyright © 2019 by Diane LaSauce All Rights Reserved

the thing about old haunts

Tags

old haunts, Pentagon, Pentagon City Mall, Washington DC, Washington National Cathedral, Whole Foods Market

One day this month, I snuck away with a gal pal and headed back to an old haunt, Washington, DC, where I lived and worked for sixteen years.

I left Northern Virginia in 2000, when the hub-bub became intolerable. Having lived in a sleepy foothills hamlet for the past decade, a neighbor and I decided on an itinerary that included the Washington National Cathedral, The Smithsonian, and the Pentagon Memorial. I have fond memories of the National Cathedral, as it was entirely comforting following my mother’s death. The Smithsonian never fails to educate and entertain, and the Pentagon Memorial was a must see for the first time since 9-11.

Although we drove up in driving rain, the clouds parted when we reached the Metro station in Vienna.

Parking was simple, once we located the place, and although we did not receive a parking ticket upon arrival, we were assured by a Metro employee, that we would get one at departure. Oh blind faith. We hopped the next train into DC—first stop, the Washington National Cathedral.

One person we trusted as a seasoned commuter, directed us onto one train. While on the platform at Metro Center, a beautifully dressed male (reformed lawyer/lobbyist/now professor) chatted up my companion, and HE revealed that we were about to board the WRONG train. Tenleytown was where we needed to go. OK! Although I was thoroughly convinced that this lawyer/professor (with a wedding ring) wanted my companion’s number, we sweetly thanked him and departed before matters became embarassing.

At a run, down the stairs we flew, and up the other side just in time to zip on to Northwest DC.

A lot of walking in DC. The Cathedral was a mile away from the metro station, yet fortunately there was a Whole Foods Market just across the street, where we found cool drinks and a pit stop. This store is quite a change from our pretty WFM in Charlottesville.

The next challenge took us south on foot to look for a metro bus, which would save time and leather. We assumed that the all-day Metro passes would work on the metro busses, and thankfully the first driver waived us on when we showed him our train passes.

We were well on our way, in mild weather, to see the sights. The transportation was clean, the passengers pleasant, and the views impressive.

Feeling like travel pros, we reached our stop and hopped off the bus. The streets are WIDE in DC, and across the mighty artery stood the mightier Cathedral.

I was excited to once again experience the awe of its interior. Alas, that 6.0 earthquake in Central Virginia on August 23, left the Cathedral spires in shards and pieces. The entire building was enclosed in chain link fence…closed to visitors! Rats!!

While I hoped that we were seeing things in time-lapse, we waited for divine intervention. None came. So we watched and photographed each other, the broken building, and the brave men who walk…

the edges from defying heights. Gasp! All the king’s horses and all the king’s men will be needed to put this together again! How sad!

It took generations of master craftsmen from around the world to complete this masterpiece, and only seconds for Mother Nature’s wrath to dismantle the crown of glory. My old haunt visit must wait until another time.

On to the Smithsonian. The next bus driver—a woman—refused to accept our Metro train passes, so while we stood fumbling for money, she also failed to tell us that no change is given on the bus line. While we could have fiddled endlessly for exact change, I shoved a large bill into the kiosk, only to learn that I had made a handsome donation to the DC bus system. The stoic bus-woman never flinched, tainting what so far was a quite pleasant journey.

So be it.

This ride took some time as we wound around Georgetown and past the White House.

Fellow travelers/locals became more animated and talkative. Soon we were chatting like chums to each other about the equally damaged Washington Monument (cracked), signs of the times, and how DC has changed in recent decades. TT and I both received copies of The Examiner Washington from ethnic men eager to share.

When our feet finally touched terra firma, I was quickly reminded how far apart streets are in order to accommodate the huge buildings of this fine city. Destinations are not reached quickly while on foot. I felt dwarfed, yet determined to accomplish our itinerary in the remaining few hours.

One of my favorite museums is the National Gallery of Art, East Building. My favorite painting hangs there—and we needed lunch.

We shot across the elegant main floor of the West Building, through the Rotunda and East Garden Court, then descended to the concourse level where we found end-of-day offerings in the cafe. Pass. Another jaunt through the West Building Shop brought us to the Underground Walkway where standing motion was dazzling.

Alexander Calder’s brilliant mobile remains an old friend, constant and reassuring.

The memorable Zen garden, on the Upper Level, was replaced by ghastly piles of Buckingham, Virginia slate sporting the dirtiest windows in Washington. Totally uninspiring…

NGA bring back the Zen Garden!

I discovered this in the sculpture garden and LOVE, LOVE it.

Another long hoof (where are the horses when we really need them?) and we arrived at the American History Museum where this vegetarian demanded a photo.

Rich in diversity, this city, these museums, and its people invite the tourist to return over a lifetime, again and again.

Our final leg took us into Virginia to pay homage to the lost at the Pentagon. There the images were so powerful, I composed a separate blog entitled the thing about the Pentagon Memorial. Check the link in the category column, left side of this blog.

This tunnel provided the solemn stroll necessary to process the Pentagon Memorial’s impact. Accompanied by Pentagon employees returning home, we headed for a quick visit to the shopping mall and dinner.

When I lived in Arlington, places like this beckoned me regularly. As I walked here this day, I felt repulsed and wanted nothing.

When visiting a shoe store seeking slippers, I was told that nothing in the store was made in the USA.

The store next to it sold expensive infant clothing, and again, NOTHING WAS MADE IN THE USA!

Politics aside, I simply wonder what American consumers are thinking (or not) when purchasing high dollar retail items.

At least this kiosk offered fascinators made in the USA. A lovely Korean saleswoman arranged TT’s hair and coaxed a sale.

THEN we were off to find a memorable meal.

Directed to Pentagon Row, we walked through the parking deck, descended decrepid steps, ascended decrepid steps, to find an Irish Pub at the corner. The Guinness on tap was pure perfection—silk in a glass—

so following a mediocre fish and chips meal (one order shared), we opted to split another Guinness for dessert.

I think I could have stayed all night with another pint, yet the pitch of this popular joint was deafening and we gals needed to retrieve the car in Vienna and drive 200 miles home.

Therefore, we returned to the metro at Pentagon City, found the train to Vienna, and rode a packed commuter train into the suburbs.

The time was now 7:30 PM and both the train and interstate were jammed.

I asked one woman, what time she had to be back on the train the next day, and she answered, “8 AM.” When I asked her what kind of home/family life commuters had, she replied, ” I am single, so home life does not matter. I get home, go to sleep, and do it all again the next day.” These folks cannot all be single, and at 8 PM, most young children are already in bed. What has this country come to? These workers appear resigned to this lifestyle, as observed in this photo. Are all major cities in the US following suit?

This day of visiting one of my old haunts only reaffirms why I left Northern Virginia a decade ago. My schedule is one of my choosing. My life is filled with meaning and quality, nurturing images inspire me, while I am embraced by a supportive small town humanity.

We found the car quickly, yet there was no way out of the lot without a special pass—a pass never mentioned by the locals or employees of the train depot. As we drove about looking for a parking attendant, none existed. Finally at one exit, we spotted a local woman, standing out of the pouring rain, and she offered to let us use her pass, if we would give her a ride home—just a few blocks away. Our angel in disguise, indeed.

A long day, a telling day, and one to reflect upon.

As for my next trip to the urbane, it may be delayed for perhaps another decade.

To order USA made slippers go to www.sundanceleather.com

Copyright©2011 by Diane LaSauce All Rights Reserved