The Curious Case of the Missing Snow

It's Wednesday morning, February 1st. To be precise it is 4 a.m on February 1st when I am awakened to the sound of a snow plow going up my street. Out of a deep slumber I smile to myself, happy that we've been blessed with winter snow and open the curtains to see what the overnight storm has brought. But there's nothing. The road surface is essentially black. There is a dusting of snow on the sidewalk. It must have been a dream. Slightly disappointed by the lack of snow and my snow-plow hallucination, I climb back into bed. 

To be clear, by not much snow  I mean there was less snow on the road than there were attendees at the recent inauguration. To claim otherwise would be  an example of "alternative facts."

But then just as I am about to pull the covers over my head and hoping for a more pleasant outcome to the rest of my sleep I hear the plow again. However, this time I am definitely awake. I grab my iPhone and go to the front door and take a photo of the black-top. 

Winthrop Road Feb 1, 2017



I hear the truck, but don't yet see it and then the plow comes around the corner. And then another follows soon after. They are plowing the black and clear surface of our road. I take pictures and videos so that I can show any disbelievers and I wonder what on earth is going on. 

What has reality become? Are these climate change denying plow-drivers? There is no snow! There are only sparks flying off the road where your plow meets the tar. We are paying to plow snow that isn't and then will have to pay for potholes that shouldn't have been. 

There is so much suffering in the world and I truly appreciate how well we are taken care of in Lexington. I don't take it for granted. We live a life of such privilege and have so much to be grateful for, but it is over the top to send the plows out when there is no snow, especially when it is 4 in the morning, I mean if we are going to waste tax-payer money, money that could be going to our schools and plenty of other worthy causes, don't rub salt in the wound by waking us up. And speaking of which, they did not appear to have spread any salt, so that's something.

THE NATURE OF THE CHOLLA CACTUS

A Reflection After Mindful Walking at the Desert Renewal Retreat in Tucson, Arizona

After the morning sit, our group of thirty retreatants would go for a mindful walk. As I was rapidly discovering, anything I could do mindlessly I could do mindfully, including walking. Up until that point I am certain that I had never paid attention to the act of walking, or at least certainly not since infancy when I first stood from a crawl, spread my arms and took those first tentative steps towards my mother. Walking is something that I  take for granted, a way of getting from one point to another. But this walking mindfully was a different matter altogether. Not in the sense that the biomechanics are any different, but in the way of paying attention to it. "Notice each step," instructed Father Pat, our Catholic Priest and Zen Master (but that's another story), "notice how it feels, how your foot touches the ground, the sound that the step makes, and then expand your awareness to the path, the other ambient sounds, and the temperature of moment."

The first morning walk in the desert had us meandering in a single line on a path behind the retreat. Marsha (Linehan) led us on the route which took us up a slight hill between the many forms of cactus that call the Sonoran desert home. On reaching the top of the hill, we stopped to take in the sight of the yet-to-rise sun reflecting its light on the pink underbellies of the desert clouds. Then we turned around and went back to the hall for more sitting meditation.

On the way back the person in front of me brushed up ever so slightly against a very bushy, almost cuddly-looking, cactus. A round stem snapped off the cactus and landed on the path in front of me. I need to fast forward to say that I later came to discover that the cactus is also known as the jumping cholla cactus or teddybear cactus. It is said to jump because the joints between the seed-bearing stems are so weak that they break easily, which is its way of ensuring that it will easily disperse and spread its seed. The very thorns of the teddy bear cactus are in turn covered by hundreds of tiny scales. There are thorns on thorns, and there exists no process for easily removing the stems from clothing. I am also told that it is extremely painful to remove if it attaches to the skin.

But I knew none of this as I walked mindfully down the path. When I spotted the stem on the path, and mindful that many of us were wearing sandals, I timed my step so I could kick it off the path for fear that someone would step on it. What happened next was that the stem, which was round and the size of a small apple, stuck to my sandal but it was only after I took the next step that I realized that it was stuck to my footwear. I became increasingly self-conscious with this prickly ball clinging to my sandal. As discreetly as I could, with my next step I tried to shoo the cactus off my sandal by waving my foot into the air. This attempt seemed to embolden the cactus which simply dug in deeper. The battle was on. I did not move faster as we had been instructed to walk at a steady pace. I did not want to disrupt the rhythm of the line, but my attempts became more vigorous in trying to jiggle the cactus off. Eventually I was hopping on one foot and shaking my leg violently, but to no avail. This had to stop. I could not even imagine what my fellow walkers were thinking. I bent down and tried to brush it off with my hand, but all this did was force a few thorns into my fingers. I was contemplating my dilemma when I spotted a forked stick lying ahead on the path. On reaching the stick, I picked it up and pried the cactus off with the fork at the end of the branch, and eventually reached the safety of the meeting room and sat on my cushion.

During the afternoon sitting sessions, when the irritation of the thorns embedded in my fingers was more than I could stand, I was relieved by the opportunity to meet with Father Pat in a one-on-one session to reflect on my experience of the day. This was the one and only time we broke silence and it lasted only minutes. I told him of my attempts at paying attention during the walk, how difficult it had been after my encounter with the cholla cactus. “I don’t think I learned anything today. I have these thorns in my fingers that I want to remove, but I can’t as all I do is sit. I learned nothing about my nature today.” He smiled and looked kindly on me. “Perhaps,” he said, “but today you understood the nature of the cholla cactus.” 

I went back to my cushion, meditating on his brief reflection and the next thing that popped into my head was a joke my brother had once told me.

            “Dad was a man of few words. One day he came up to me and said: “son...”’

That was father Pat. Quiet. A man of few, yet profound words. And then something seemed to make sense. Father Pat was as he was, just as the cactus is as it is and just as I am as I am. 

Saving Jesus: A Confession

I was raised Catholic. This fact is relevant to the story but more of it later. On a late afternoon run in mid-December, I headed up Highland Ave and across to the grounds of an old convent not far from my house. At one time the religious community had been home to a thriving kindergarten and grade school but the secular life had taken its toll on interest in a spiritual education. With dwindling enrollees and finances, the nuns had to sell off many of the buildings no longer in use. Today, the main building is the last one in use, and functions as a retirement home with nursing care.

One of the buildings on the grounds is the former school and I read in our local rag that the town had recently bought it with the idea of creating more public-school space. I decided to jog around the building before continuing on my regular route and stopped at a window to see if there was anything of interest. I am by nature a very curious person.

There is an excitement that comes with curiosity, which, when added to the cold weather of that December afternoon, led to a sudden filling of my bladder and an overwhelming need to pee! 

I started to squirm. Desperate, yet worried that I would be seen by the nuns or the elderly residents of the retirement home and with no easy toilet solution in sight, I walked to the other side of the school where the bushes, the building and the low light of winter's early dusk would provide enough cover to answer nature's very insistent call.

As I relieved myself behind a bush, and looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was coming, I noticed a white “something” in another bush maybe twenty feet away. 

After I was done, I walked over to the bush and parted the branches. There, standing at four feet  tall and with wide open arms was a statue of Jesus on a pedestal facing the school. He did not seem happy and I don't think it was just me. Years of neglect in this suburban wilderness had left the white paint peeling all over his body. He had a discoloration under his eyes that gave the appearance of him crying and immediately I put my hand on his head and said “sorry Jesus.” I noticed a twinge of guilt at having relieved myself in front of him, but I knew he would forgive me.

Fast forward a few weeks to Christmas Eve: I hadn’t been to Mass in a long time. My relationship with Catholicism had been and remains complicated and not relevant to the matter of this entry, nevertheless I thought that it would be great to go to midnight Mass and connect with the community of faithful who were celebrating. I asked my 17 year old if he wanted to come with me and I was pleasantly surprised when he said “yes.”

After Mass, he said “hi” to a few of the young people he recognized from school and overall, despite the lateness of the hour, seemed in bright spirits. We got in the car and an unexpected thought popped into my head. It may have been best for it to have stayed in my head but instead I blurted it out “Hey! I have an idea! Do you want to go and save Jesus??” I told him about my run and finding the statue of Jesus slowly decaying at the abandoned school.

I knew that there was something wrong about my idea but there also seemed something right.  He smiled and said "alright," but then as we approached the convent he asked: “Dad, if you think we are doing the right thing, why are you turning off your headlights?” He had a point.

I parked as far away from the main building as I could. We got out of the car and quietly closed the doors. I walked him over to the appointed bush and Jesus had not moved. Instead he stood, sad and cold on his birthday. “What are we going to do?” whispered my son. “Let’s take him and put him in the gardening shed at home,” I suggested excitedly. “That way, he’ll be out of the cold and then maybe we can find some paint and fix him up!” "Shhh," he said pressing a finger to his lips, "too loud."

We tried to lift Jesus. He was heavy but movable, but just then the voice of reason emerged from my son: “Dad what the heck do you imagine will happen when mom opens the shed and finds a statue of Jesus staring back at her from inside?” Another good point. “Also, there is something wrong about stealing Jesus, and leaving him in the shed especially on Christmas Day!”

“We’re not stealing him; we’re saving him so that that he can be restored to his glory!” Jesus was getting heavy so we put him back on the pedestal. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we put him in the car and take him to the Church? We can leave him on the front steps!”

He thought about it for a while and finally said “Dad, it’s a good idea, but it’s too weird. Can you imagine the parishioners finding Jesus on the steps on Christmas morning? What if the cops stop us? What are you going to say to them? That you were bringing Jesus back to Church? Let's leave him. He’ll be OK here. He’s been through a lot over the past two thousand years, he’s going to survive a little snow and rain and flaking paint.”

My boy! 17 and so wise. With that, we wished Jesus a happy birthday and headed home, my heart filled with the joy of the shared experience with my son on the blessed night.