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A Joyful Noise

philosophy

Light-filled doorways and full disclosures

February 3, 2016 by Melodye Shore

In the gauzy hour before sunrise, our shuttle pulls into the circular driveway of Ronald Reagan Medical Center. Streetlamps twinkle on shiny poles, and polished travertine gleams in our headlights. My husband collects his pre-op instructions; I give his hand a gentle squeeze. Sirens wail. Paramedics lower a gurney from an ambulance, and the hospital doors whoosh open, bathing everyone in light.

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Hollywood-style glitz, more often associated with its namesake than your typical hospital

Here, staff members treat surgical patients with the same accord as trauma patients, who get the same level of care as celebrities who roll up to the entrance in chauffer-driven Bentleys. Stretched by limited space and overwhelming demand, staff members nevertheless find a way to share a deep appreciation for the human beings that occupy their beds. “What’s your story?” finds its harmony in the oft-repeated, “How can I help you?”

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Several hours later, I find myself pacing the length of the recovery unit. A grizzled man clings to an IV pole, winces as he shuffles past me, pivots, and matches his steps to mine. “Way to go,” I say, and he gives me a wan smile.

“I was born in the original UCLA hospital,” I say.

“Don’t date yourself,” he warns.

We walk together in silence, but before long, he’s describing for me a harrowing tour of duty in Vietnam. He’d signed up for the military after high school—same as his daddy, and his granddaddy before him. But while he didn’t expect a hero’s welcome when he returned home as a decorated paratrooper, neither did he expect to be pelted with glass bottles, verbal expletives, and spit. He shrugs, scratches the tattoos that span the length of his arms, says his heart transplant was probably caused by stress. But he is quick to reassure me that the protesters hadn’t broken his spirit. He is proud of his children, and several grandchildren look up to him, now.

We linger in my husband’s doorway, talking softly while he emerges from his anesthesia haze. A nurse swoops in, repositions the cotton gown around his shoulders, offers him water, and fluffs his pillows. Eric opens his eyes, gives me a weak smile that says, roughly translated: “I love you. We made it.”

They are worlds apart, my husband and this wounded veteran. Their paths converged in this hospital because of health concerns, nothing more. Their prognoses are good. They have everything in the world to live for, and they know it.

Believe it or not, the same can be said for the people who huddle inside these temporary quarters, parallel-parked on a road less travelled.

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You’ve perhaps seen this kind of encampment on your way to work: a derelict dwelling that afflicts the comfortable. Most people avert their eyes as they hurry past…but I don’t.

What I’m about to tell you might come as a surprise to some, given that I most often blog about hummingbirds and butterflies, wonders of nature and writerly stuff.

As the daughter of an itinerant preacher, I’m intimately familiar with the musky odors of makeshift quarters like these. I’ve experienced poverty so severe that it creeps into your psyche, have endured hunger pangs so severe that they feel like a shank to the belly. I spent a good portion of my childhood in the margins, wholly dependent on the kindnesses of strangers. Despite–or maybe because of all this–I cling to the comforting words of my Nana: “In the darkest nights of winter, watch the skies and listen for the robins.”

Nana taught me to lean in the direction of things that are “lovely, honest, and true,” to believe, without wavering, that “joy cometh in the morning.” She never stood in the pulpit, but by her example, I learned the simple elegance of the Golden Rule. It’s the gold standard, when it comes to taking the measure of your life.

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I’m not afraid to venture into neighborhoods best known for crumbling sidewalks, ghost signs and hazard cones, and curbs so steeped in garbage that you turn your ankle when you step into the street against the light. Call me reckless if you will, but I’m not afraid to venture into darkness to serve “the least of these.” I love the whirr of iridescent wings, but this is the pulse of my life.

Rarely has any of this made its way into my blog–not explicitly, anyway–for reasons I’d rather not go into right now. Mary Oliver once said: “Write for whatever holy things you believe in.” I’ve always done that, sometimes in broader strokes than others. But the events of this past weekend have inspired me to put a finer point on things this morning.

All that to say: when I sprinkle candies over a swirl of frozen yogurt (to celebrate my husband’s homecoming), I also toss a large wedge of gourmet Swiss cheese into the grocery cart. An impulse buy, for total strangers.

I keep a respectful distance, smiled as I peer into the shadows. “Hi, my name is Melodye,” I say, “Do either of you like cheese?”

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Four hands, light and dark, stretch beyond the portal of the tent. A wordless answer, easily translated.

We exchange names, share a few pleasantries, and then I retreat to the warmth of my car. New friendships need oxygen, and grace.

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In Inky and Starr’s mirrored sunglasses, I see reflections of our shared humanity.

Storm clouds cover the sun with a wooly-gray blanket. Heavy winds lift the edges of the tarp. My husband’s discharge process takes longer than expected, and as I tap-tap-tap my fingers on the steering wheel, my heart tugs me in the direction of their curbside home. Again. I cut the engine, shove my keys into my purse, grab my camera, and cross the street.

“May I sit with you for a while?” I ask. The answer is yes!

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We warm ourselves around a makeshift grill, spin yarns about our childhoods, and muse about the events that brought us all together. They’d met two years ago, Starr tells me, at a bus stop in Hollywood. Inky gives her shoulders an affectionate squeeze, “I’ve been looking for her for all my life,” he says, “and we’ll be together for always.”

“Would you mind if I take your picture?” I ask. “And maybe take a short video, so I can share your story with my friends?”

Inky flings his arms open, fingers splayed, and flashes an open-mouthed grin. “Sure,” he says. Starr nods, with no hesitation whatsoever. So I switch my camera to video mode, and press the shutter button. The result is this unedited clip–not inclusive of everything we covered in our earlier conversation, but enough for you to get better acquainted. Roll straight through to the end, and you might learn something new about me, too. I’ve never fielded this question publicly, but his curiosity was genuine, and disarming…

Call them serendipitous, call them happenstance or good luck. But the truth is, these seemingly random encounters occur more often than anyone (aside from my closest friends and family members) might guess. My husband calls them “a Melodye thing.” I call them shivery magic–miracles that come of flinging your heart’s door wide open, and basking in the light.

Posted in: Am I my brother's keeper?, Blogging, Butterflies, CAN I GET A WITNESS, childhood, Golden Rule, grace, homelessness, Hospital, hunger, Inky and Starr, joy, joyful noise, Mary Oliver, philosophy, Religion, Ronald Reagan Medical Center, The least of these, UCLA Medical Center Tagged: blogging, homelessness, hope, joy, joyful noise, memoir, photography, the least of these

Art Challenge of the Week: Liminal Moments

November 6, 2015 by Melodye Shore

Time and again, my camera leads me to the threshold of discovery, that shimmery place where boundaries dissolve and new worlds reveal themselves to the willing traveler. Today’s photo challenge, liminal, is new to my vocabulary. I explored its depths and breadth by reading, took notes, and then translated my findings into words and pictures that make sense to me.

Liminal comes to us from the Latin word limen. In the literal and figurative sense, it refers to some kind of boundary or threshold. And as you know, we encounter lots of jumping-off, stepping-over, and slipping-through, liminal moments in our lifetimes.

Sometimes we find ourselves drifting in a place that’s neither Here nor There, perhaps waiting on some unseen hand to lift the misty veil of uncertainty. So it is with many things, the creative process among them. It’s a shallow place, with dangerous undercurrents. Our inner critic calls out from the rocks, sings to us the siren songs of despair and disillusion. If we’re the impatient optimistic sort, this quickly leads us to the liminal point where we haul in the anchor and set sail for the Uncharted Place where anything is possible.

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Weathervane on red tile roof (San Clemente, California)

Forest openings and locked gates, prison towers and poisoned apples…the hero’s journey is fraught with choices. Real and imagined dangers lurk around every corner. Read another way, it’s these liminal moments that shake us awake at dawn and–assuming there’s a fairy tale ending–lead us from Once Upon a Time to Happily-ever-after.

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Saddleback Mountain, silhouetted by the dawn’s early light

Liminal points can also be literal. Stucco archways that frame the ocean, mosaic tiles that arrest your eye, and the staircase that meanders down a flowery path before finding its sandy terminus at the water’s edge…all liminal.

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Casa Romantica (“Spanish Villa by the Sea” in San Clemente, California)

A liminal space invite you to step over the threshold, to knock on the door between Here and There. Maybe it’s inside, maybe it’s outside. It all depends on where you’re standing when the door swings open.

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Liminal things: India ink, spilling from the nib of a storyteller’s pen; plumeria buds, unfurling into snowy white pinwheels with yellow centers; and water that bubbles and bursts, escape and return to their oyster shell existence.

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Liminal events are the portals of transformation, the handmaidens of sacred rituals.

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Always and Never, Everywhere and Nowhere…liminal points open up for interpretation the concepts of time and space. Perspectives shift. Feelings are transient. We listen for the space between the notes, and the things we once took for granted are now recognized as ephemeral.

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Piano tuner at Casa Romantica. I’m fascinated by the placement of his hat. It occupies a liminal space.

Camouflaged as it is by dappled shade, this leaf suggests the liminal qualities of life itself…the interplay of shadow and light, and the interstices between being and not-being. Whoa, that’s deep.

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Window Leaf Philodendron

Liminal. I rather like this word, don’t you? It’s mental yoga for people like me, who do some of their best thinking behind the camera lens.  I’ve only just brushed the surface, so please, weigh in with your own definitions and examples!

For previous photography challenge entries, click here.

On a more personal note: During my brother’s illness, I didn’t give much thought to my promise to do a write-up about Father Serra’s canonization ceremony. It got reprioritized again, in that liminal time after Roger’s passing. But while it’s more succinct than I originally envisioned, it’s ready now. I’ll post it after the weekend.

Posted in: art, Blogging, joy, liminal, liminal spaces, philosophy, Photography, writing Tagged: beach, casa romantica, oyster shell fountain, plumeria blossoms, saddleback mountain, san clemente california, viking ship weather vane, weather vane, window leaf philodendron

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