The Conjuring of a Miracle

This post was begun on September 5, 2017, finished on August 2, 2018, and posted on July 22, 2021.

September 5, 2017...
I cannot correct my sleep patterns.

No matter how I try, I am living my life six hours ahead of the central standard time clock. I have just returned from my first trip to Ireland ~ actually, my first trip anywhere abroad ~ and I can't seem to undo the time difference within my own metabolic clock. At 1:15 a.m., I am bright-eyed, ready to explore. At 4:00 p.m., the yawning starts. Last night, I forced myself to stay up until 9:00 p.m., which would have been 3:00 a.m. in Ireland. Thankfully, I slept late this morning. I made it all the way to 3:45 a.m.

So, at this early hour, I decided to get out of bed and write. My first thought was to document each day in Ireland before I forgot the small details. Then I thought about chronicling the journey of 5,000 miles and the lessons learned along the way. I even pondered citing all the reasons I haven't written anything in two years and somehow address that disregard by enumerating the events of the last two weeks.

And yet one word crept into the dense fog of my brain: Conjure. I looked up synonyms in the thesaurus for a better word. According to the thesaurus, conjure has two specific meanings: verb - to implore, to appeal, to beg, to beseech, to pray, to importune, to adjure, to crave and verb - to cast a spell, to invoke, to bewitch, to summon, to charm, to enchant, to perform magic.

Along with the modified sleeping behavior, my mind is also out of step. Almost like I'm dancing, but I can't direct the rhythmic movements from my mind to my feet. For the past two days, I have experienced irregular pulses, disjointed thought processes, and a disruption of the normal ebb and flow. Not only can I not sleep on cue, I literally can't think straight. I can only hope this post has some coherence once it is written.

My daughter and I began the trip of a lifetime to Ireland on Tuesday, August 22, 2017. I lugged my heavy laptop all over Ireland, as I planned to post a blog each day of the trip. I determined to upload pictures to Instagram and Facebook on a daily basis. I even had this ridiculous notion of keeping a travel journal. With one or two Facebook exceptions, I documented nothing. I could not relinquish the fleeting present long enough to waste precious time recording the experience. In other words, I was too busy savoring the moment to save the moment.

I wanted to relish the sights, scents, and sounds of Ireland, not just remember. However, I do recall one particular moment with perfect clarity. My daughter was driving along the scenic roads ~ sheep on both sides and in the middle. She looked at me on the second day of the trip and said, "I can't believe this is a normal Thursday afternoon, and I am driving around Ireland on the wrong side of the road with my mom. You did this, Mom. You conjured every bit of this, and it came to pass. No matter how it all came to be ~ who planned it, who paid for it, who played a part in it ~ you summoned this miracle trip from nothing. With your little Google Map Man, you visualized yourself traveling these roads, seeing these sights, being in this place, and here you are. It is just the most surreal thing I have ever experienced ~ how it all came into being."

That word conjure kept entering my mind throughout the trip ~ as I walked on the beach in Ardmore, or along Grafton Street in Dublin, or through the woods of Ashford Castle with a Harris Hawk on my gloved hand. Even if I tried to dismiss it, I knew it was true, and I knew it wasn't the first time.

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines conjure in two ways: (transitive verb) to charge or entreat earnestly or solemnly, to summon by invocation or incantation as to contrive or imagine, to bring to mind, and (intransitive verb) to summon a devil or spirit by incantation or invocation, to practice magical arts, to use a conjurer's tricks, and to treat and regard as important ~ as to conjure with. The two definitions are important in this short English lesson. Transitive verbs always require an object. Transitive verbs transfer the action. For example, she emptied the cup. Intransitive verbs don't need an object. For example, she winked. The action stands alone.

This area of explanation is important. Most people associate the word conjure with voodoo or divination, or rituals, or even magic spells. I do not practice trickery, or exorcism, or sorcery of any kind. I am not a magician or a seer or a psychic or a witch, even though I have been called one by the man who mowed (past tense) my yard. Despite that unfortunate name-calling, I do not conjure (intransitive); however, I do conjure (transitive). "You conjured this trip, Mom."

I do believe in a transitive faith. Faith requires a transfer of action, such as to move a mountain. I charge or entreat earnestly. I summon by invocation. I contrive or imagine and bring to mind. I have even been known to importune and implore. And I always require an object to transfer the action. I think the phrase "the object of my affection" must be part of the process. For example...

Wisteria Hill. I am not sure if I first saw the small piece of property six or seven years ago; however, I do remember clearly what I felt ~ love, at first sight, instant and pure. I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I would own it one day. Almost immediately, I began to make inquiries within the small community where we reside. I discovered that the property belonged to an out-of-state owner who planned to one day build a small retirement cabin at the top of the high hill and would never (EVER) sell...as long as he lived. I obtained his name and telephone number, contacted him about the property, and asked him if he would ever consider selling. With a resounding NO, he confirmed every negative report I received. In what could possibly be recorded as that shortest telephone conversation in my lifetime, he dashed all my hopes and dreams in thirty seconds.

At this point, I will attempt to explain a manifestation that has marked my life more than once. I hope that I do not lose any of the fascination, immediacy, or assurance during the telling. When I finished that telephone conversation, I KNEW that he would never build a cabin on that property. I was sure ~ absolutely sure. A strong alteration or transposition had moved within me like a tectonic shift in the earth. Once this change in position occurred, it could not be redirected. My course was set. I do not completely comprehend the process. Did I conjure the events that followed? I am not sure. I almost believe that I follow the events before they happen. As always, patience plays a part.

For the next few years, I continued to hear rumors about the hilltop property. I heard that the property had been sold to the highway department for the tall mound of dirt. I heard that the neighbor's son had purchased the property and that the seller's son now owned the property. Every tidbit of gossip always led to another negative report.

On March 21, 2016, at 2:00 p.m., my husband and I bought that piece of property. The owner did not sell the five acres. He died in February 2016, and his wife sold the property the following month. His son placed a FOR SALE sign in front of the tract of land on a Sunday afternoon. I had to make an unplanned trip to the neighboring town. When I drove past the property en route to my destination, the sign wasn't there. On my way home ~ fifteen minutes later ~ the sign was posted.

I was absolutely giddy with excitement! My apologies to Stephen King, who detests the use of adverbs and adjectives in sentences; however, there are not sufficient words in the entirety of the English language to describe my physical reaction. I ran through the door flailing my arms and shouting incoherently. "David! There's a sign! It's for sale! Get up, get up! Hurry! We have to call the number! It was just posted! I'll tell you on the way! We have to be quick before anyone else sees the sign!"

David was leaned back so far in his recliner, I had a sudden urge to tip it over. He made no quick motion but continued an infernal questioning that was chewing up precious minutes. Finally, I screamed, "Just get up! We have to go pull up the sign! Come on! NOW!" That last NOW did the trick. My husband and I called immediately, made an offer, and purchased the property over the phone. As far as I know, no one else saw the sign which still remains in my possession.

What I remember most about the entire process, from the moment I saw the sign until the moment I walked out of the bank, was the suffusion of energy that enveloped me...even more than a small child on Christmas Eve. I felt such an alarming furor of anticipation and total abandonment of decorum ~ an excitable frivolity that is not easily duplicated. I felt the same intense elation from head to toe the night my daughter called me and said, "Mom, it's done! We are going to Ireland!" I did not understand why, until I considered the heady effect of conjuring.

January 5, 2018

To conjure creates some illogical, yet potent force. I recently returned from another trip which did not affect my sleep patterns but did require some altitude adjustments. I, along with my husband and son, traveled across the United States by way of Louisiana, Texas, and New Mexico to Fort Collins, Colorado for Christmas. Of course, traveling with Inspector Gadget, I was pretty much required to download an altitude app. Somewhere near the New Mexico-Colorado state line, I checked our altitude and the reading was 7853.80 feet. Looking out the back seat window, I viewed the snowcaps of the Rocky Mountains still hundreds of miles away! At that moment, I just blurted out ~ without forethought ~ God of the Universe, You cannot be too big for me! I challenge You to be as Great and Awesome as You want to be, and I will receive it all!

With a child-like lilt in his voice, my husband turned around and said, "Okay...?" He and Matt looked at each other and laughed out loud. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a neurological unsteadiness  ~ vertigo born out of vitality! I felt a conjuring faith, a total abandonment of telluric control, an irrepressible desire to engage, an intoxicating wave of gratefulness, an earnest entreaty to participate fully with the unseen and abundant, and a deliberate charge to the Giver to choose me as the Recipient.

Those Great Rocky Mountains seemed to move all around us during that one-week trip...to the north, south, east, and west, to the right and left, both near and far. At some times, the mountains were close enough to touch, and at other times, the mountain range was too far away to view. I believe we all follow that same ambivalent course in life. For me, Ireland is now as close as the scent of lemongrass and bergamot; it is also 5,000 miles away. Ireland's mighty cliffs are still standing where they have always stood, as are the majestic Rocky Mountains. And yet, with a bit of persistent conjuring and unspoken certainty, I can still move those mountains.

August 2, 2018

Today, I am working at a small-town library ~ a quiet diversion from the large municipal library that consumes my days. Today, I am actually afforded time to think, to ponder, to conjure. On August 30, 2012, I pasted a black and white copy of a house in My Last Best Nest journal. The house plan is entitled Banning Court, and I no longer have to look at a small copied picture in a journal. I own the actual Southern Living house plans. The not-yet-constructed home has been the object of my affection for six years. Six years! So unbelievable! But not to me...

That matchless magic of which I am so familiar is crystallizing. A conjuring is at work inside me, assuming the distinct form of the house, developing into something tangible with walls and windows, having all the required and desired elements, falling into perfect place from somewhere unknown and unseen. A patient work in answer to an earnest entreat and to which understanding is known through perception rather than reasoning ~ a proof that is observed to exist or to happen, yet whose cause or explanation is in question. It is not an elusive phantom or incomparable phenomenon. It is the unseen evidence and the hoped-for substance placed in resolute reserve for those of us who conjure.

Dianne ;)

The Parlor Walls

Before Covid-19, I belonged to a book club that met the second Tuesday of each month at 2:00 p.m., thus the name 2-TUE-2 Book Club. What began as a library goal became one of my favorite hours of the month. Last year, the January focus of the meeting was 2020: Books That Give Us Clarity. As I began placing a selection of books on display, I stopped with a singular book in my hand -- Fahrenheit 451. I read the book in 1977 ~ my senior year in high school and the futuristic year in which the story took place. The novel was written by Ray Bradbury and was published in 1953. I chose it for my book with the thought that if I couldn't find time over the holidays to read, I would at least remember some of the main points of this one to share. I found these notes for that book club, dated January 21, 2020 ~ today. As they say, hindsight is 2020.

Wow. What a difference forty years makes. I can hardly believe what I am reading. I'm sure that in 1977 with our small RCA color television, antennas that provided two or three channels, and a shut-off time at 12:00 midnight, the idea of interactive televisions that covered an entire wall seemed both futuristic and fantastical. I certainly did not imagine 24-hour television. I am not sure how a 17-year-old high school student defined the concept of  "parlor walls" or "parlor families". After reading the book for the second time, I feel as though an anvil has been placed upon my chest. I read a passage to the book club and begin to cry ~ completely engulfed by this sinking desperation clawing its way through my thoughts. I feel it swirl around in my head and body until it finally speaks: Welcome to 2020.

What are parlor walls?  Finding the "Expert Answer" on the enotes website prompted me to read the book a second time. As I scanned the main characters, setting, etc. in an attempt to jar my memory and after reading two entries without a subscription, I knew that I dare not skim my way through this book. 

DESCRIBE the "Parlor" and the "Family" in Fahrenheit 451. The following are the two responses.

HOLLIS SANDERS eNotes educator | CERTIFIED EDUCATOR

In the world of Fahrenheit 451, the typical modern home designates entire walls to be occupied by enormous television monitors. The most popular programs played are loud, bombastic, and in some cases, interactive. One of the first things we notice about Mildred's character is her all-consuming preoccupation with these programs. The "parlor walls" and "family" are the often interchangeable terms that represent the object of Mildred's obsession. When Montag is gaining his first notions of free thought and doubt toward the authoritarian complex, he becomes particularly resentful toward Mildred in regard to the value that she places on her "parlor family." The parlor walls are, to some extent, responsible for Montag's expulsion from the city. In a rage, Montag reads "Dover Beach" to Mildred and her friends in an attempt to elicit any sort of higher emotion. It is implied that Mildred phones the authorities out of fear of losing her parlor walls because of Montag's seeming insanity.

GRETCHEN MUSSEY eNotes educator | CERTIFIED EDUCATOR

The parlor walls are massive, interactive televisions that take up the entire wall of a home. In Bradbury's dystopian society, the citizens are obsessed with meaningless entertainment and install massive television screens the size of entire walls in their homes. Montag's home has three parlor wall televisions, and Mildred spends the majority of her leisure time watching interactive television shows. The majority of shows displayed on the parlor walls are shallow, extremely loud, and violent. There are bright, fast-moving colors, massive explosions, and a myriad of senseless things happening during each show that keep the viewer engaged. One of the interactive television shows includes a family. Viewers like Mildred follow along with the script and participate in the interactive program by reading lines at certain designated moments. The plots of the shows are depicted as meaningless and confusing, but Mildred finds them fascinating.

I was so intrigued by the description of parlor walls that I re-read the novel. Big sigh. The world we live in has yet to employ firemen who burn books, but I know beyond any shadow of a doubt that we are reaching the fringes of that world. The conversations between Clarisse and Montag could take place in my own living room with my adult children. 

As a life-long devotee of the written word, I felt a shock of recognition as Whitman, Faulker, and Millay were tossed in the fire on their specific days ~ recognition because I see these books in boxes headed to a dumpster on a daily basis. These books don't check out, they don't sell, and they don't matter to the fast-paced world of 2020. Even contemporary attempts at reviving literature, such as Outlander and Game of Thrones, are only partially received by our 2020 society. Have you read the books? The answer is emphatically NO! Always accompanied by the qualifying explanation that the books are hundreds of pages or I'll just wait and watch the series on my parlor wall television.

In 1977, I did not understand the novel's concept of the "blur". When I read the book during the same year as the setting, I was introduced to an unrealistic existence. Both of my parents worked, and my time in front of a television was limited. My family was my family - my grandmother, my aunts and uncles, my cousins. I never considered any family on television as a parlor family, and our parlor wall was a once-a-week trip to the local movie theater. 

One of my favorite passages in the book is a conversation between 17-year-old Clarisse and Guy Montag, the main character who is a book-burning fireman. She is walking (another foreign concept in the book), and he joins her. The following is an excerpt from that conversation:

"Well, doesn't this mean anything to you?" He tapped the numerals 451 stitched on his sleeve.  

"Yes," she whispered. She increased her pace. "Have you ever watched the jet cars racing on the boulevards down that way?"

"You're changing the subject!"

"I sometimes think drivers don't know what grass is, or flowers, because they never see them slowly," she said. If you showed a driver a green blur, Oh yes! he'd say, that's grass! A pink blur? That's a rose garden. White blurs are houses. Brown blurs are cows. My uncle drove slowly on a highway once. He drove forty miles an hour and they jailed him for two days. Isn't that funny and sad, too?"

"You think too many things," said Montag, uneasily.

"I rarely watch the parlor walls or go to races or Fun Parks. So I've lots of time for crazy thoughts, I guess."

A friend once made an odd statement to me. He said, "There is one place that I pass on my drive home, and I always think about you. Not sure why, but I do." I replied that I was afraid to ask. He continued, "Nothing weird or anything, just a wide-open pasture of green grass. For some reason, every time I pass that field I think of you."

I know I am more open pasture than parlor walls. My first realization of that fact happened during my time in Ireland - not in Dublin, or Galway, or any of the larger cities, but traveling the one-lane roads through the Irish countryside. Stopping on the side of the road to eat blackberries. Following sheep who had no concern for our check-in time or next destination. No parlor walls, no blurs, no fast-moving cars.

Another quote from the book: "Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending...Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume...Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click, Pic, Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh?, Uh? Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bang, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests....Then, in mid-air, all vanishes."

As a librarian, I hear one sentiment over and over, especially from a certain age demographic. Reading is a waste of time. I can't imagine sitting for two or three hours and just reading books. One final 1950 quote for 2020 insight (now hindsight): "Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them at all. The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us." 

Preserving a Bad Apple, EPILOGUE

Then the magicians said unto Pharaoh, This is the finger of God...EXODUS 8:19 KJV

~EPILOGUE~

I live for the infamous epilogue! Actually, there is a not-so-literary and not-so-nice term for readers like me who are addicted to the epilogue at the end of a romance novel. I won't repeat it, but I will admit that I am an epilogue junkie and I will never recover. According to Merriam-Webster, the epilogue is defined as a concluding section that rounds out the design of a literary work; one additional chapter at the end of the book, which continues the life after the happily-ever-after ending of the main story. Some readers despise epilogues, complaining that they are too predictable and formulaic. In most cases, the heroine gets pregnant, usually within the first year after marriage. CHECK. She delivers a baby girl ~ angelic and lovely ~  followed by a tough and tumble baby boy the next year. CHECK, CHECK. Everything about normal life is upended, as the happy couple makes continual adjustments. The hero and heroine learn to willingly sacrifice all for the sake of love, home, and family. TRIPLE CHECK.

No matter how much one is tempted otherwise, the reader must wait until the very end for that well-written epilogue. Afterward, the reader can close the romance novel and smile for a few minutes ~ thoroughly smitten, captivated, charmed, and entranced. I have literally read the book a second time, just to experience the epilogue again. So...here's the epilogue to this series of posts ~ the life after the happily-ever-after ending of the main story. No author could have written it more perfectly.

David turned 51 this year, and I will celebrate my 57th birthday in December. We have both spent the major portion of our lives together. David adopted our daughter one year after we married, and we gave her a little sister and brother within the next two years. Our three children have grown into successful adults and have made us proud more times than we can count. After the babies were born, we moved out of the cozy little cabin and built our first family home. Altogether (children and college moves included), we have moved various members of our immediate family 41 times. We have lived in a hundred-year-old shack, a newly-constructed brick home, a church parsonage (twice) and a single-wide mobile home that we gave to my parents as a place to retire. We bought a hundred acre farm, a two-story home with a swimming pool, and the original honeymoon cabin ~ after an absence of 17 years. Some people say we are gypsies. How exciting is that! I like to think we are pilgrims still moving towards our desired haven ~ our last best nest. As a couple, we have been crushed, and we have been cured; we have been filled, sealed, and bound together. We have understood the sacrificial elements required to establish a bond that stands the test of time. Over time, we have created a family of mortar.

No epilogue is sufficient without a few twists of irony, usually in the form of revelation to the reader. Use of paradox or discovery is not simply an unveiling of the writer's technique; the device is necessary for the reader's close-the-book feeling of complete triumph. For David and me, the unexpected and unlikely divergence took place at a faith-healer's revival in Jackson, MS in May of 1989 ~ our third year of marriage. I attended the revival meeting on a Friday night with my mother. She had suffered greatly with back problems and had heard about the fantastical healing testimonies. A former Miss America had claimed the miraculous healing of a limp, in which a shorter leg grew during one of the services. Mom and I set out on an adventure with one singular thought ~ what could it hurt? That night, Mom took her place in the long healing line after the great and glorious sermon of faith; however, she did not receive the instant healing which she sought. I, on the other hand, was chief among the cynics. Despite an unsettling reservation, I watched the evening's events with awe. On the way home, I realized that the miracle had occurred in me ~ a spiritual transformation ~ unexplainable, unbelievable, and undeniable. The following Saturday night, David and I attended the service together. He, too, felt the tugging force of the reigns, and our lives were changed forever. We both had been touched by the finger of God.

When I first began this series of posts, I stated that David was my equal yoke. I didn't understand what that meant until recently. My grandpa had a wagon and two mules, so I understand a yoke. It is important when plowing a pair of mules or leading a team of horses that they are equally-yoked together. In other words, the paired horses must stay in line or "equal" with each other as they travel down the row or the path ahead of them. When one horse turns, the other horse must move with the same adjustments. If this movement does not occur, then the one holding the reins must gently tug and guide the pair back in line. If the adjustment does not happen, then the yoke becomes heavy, strained, and weighted. Once the animals' symmetry of movement is realigned, the yoke becomes lighter and less burdensome on the animals. Even the Rolling Stones understood this concept with the lyrics, "I'll never be your beast of burden." Being equally-yoked is not about marrying someone who is just like you. Being equally-yoked is moving together in agreement, always willing to honor the pull of the reins and to make whatever adjustments are necessary.

I love this verse in Psalms: Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them. That's why I love romance novels. The author keeps adjusting the reins throughout the book, and if he or she is successful, the yoke is equal by the end of the book. The beginning substance is unperfect; however, the planning and ordaining has begun in the author's thoughts even before the characters have met ~ even before the characters are born! We, the readers, witness the continuing fashioning as the days and deeds are recorded on each page and the chapters of life flow into a seamless, fluid movement leading up to the expected end.

Even the magicians ~ those who understand fascination, illusion, allurement ~ know that this is the finger of God. Writers understand the process all too well. They create, conjure, and craft until the lives leap off the page and into our hearts. We relish the twists and turns, we weep as our heart breaks and laugh as our heart sores, and we never lose hope even in the midst of the most difficult conflicts.

So you see, the bad apple was preserved for me, and I was preserved for him. Our story is being written by the finger of God. David and I came from two totally different starting points, and no one would ever imagine that our paths could intersect at any point. We should have never met, matched, or married. When I was in high school, he was in grade school, When I was a senior in college, he was a high school junior. When I was an editor of a newspaper, he was a bad apple. I was called Cotton by a beloved basketball coach ~ a name of endearment for my light blond hair and easy-going personality. David was known as Caveman ~ a name which defined his brutish behavior and ruddy physique. And yet, he was preserved for me.

David is the bi-vocational pastor of a small Baptist church now, and he lives a life of strength, honor, faithfulness, and devotion. I am more the Cavewoman in my role as a preacher's wife. And yet, we continue to feel the tug of the reins as we find that easy, equal yoke ~ the essence of the epilogue. Once the book is complete, the autograph is signed by the Author ~ the finger of God. What a divine book-signing!

For our 30th anniversary, my husband wanted to buy me a brand new car. Over the years, I had always driven used cars or the kids' throwbacks. I had been looking at one car in particular for over a year. I even knew the exact color I wanted. He located that perfect car for me at an area dealership, bought it on the spot, and drove it home.

The name of the car...

a ROGUE, of course. How romantic!

Dianne ;)