Serenity of Saint Louis

"Let me show you something...", I urged intently, gliding her embraced hand into mine as we strided down the side path of the aged, stone corridors of Jackson Square. The French Quarter festival was in full swing with merchants and visitors clamoring equally for their fair share of the revelry playing out on the beautiful Saturday afternoon. The streets were packed, albeit without vehicles, as is often the case in New Orleans during celebrations where the pedestrians far outweigh the flow of traditional traffic. City streets become nothing more than free-flowing sidewalks to balance the density of the entertainment. Loud music, colorful tourists, bold artwork, alcohol and Cajun food seemed to ooze from every pore of this magical crescent city. Like a pasta machine on full power, the richness extruded forth effortlessly and the flavors of fun permeated the air with an uncommon ease. This city was truly a sight to behold. We were both proud to call it home.

As our walk eased to the far corner of the square, I slowed our pace as we neared my planned destination. The black iron gates stood menacingly and protective in front of this large tower row house built in 1838. As we both stared at the brass historical marker emblazoned on the aged column reading its bold text, the once forcefully loud music playing nearby dimmed to a silent whisper. "This was my great-great-great Grandfather's home, Victor David" , I mentioned with a slight hint of pride and homage. "He was from Bordeaux, France and he met his wife Ann Rebassa and married when he was only 19. The number 19 immediately echoed within my soul since that age is precisely where our lives were permanently altered. I made no comment about this irony. The iron work is studied in architecture classes since each landing is unique and hand-crafted."

I ceased my historical dissertation. Sounding like a cheap tour guide, I chided myself inwardly for my excessively prideful commentary and waywardness. Leaving out parts about his travels, success and even his marriage in the nearby St. Louis Cathedral, I took her hand in mine and eased across the street. We turned back briefly, looking up at the four-story home. Now showing some of its 175 years of age, but looking amazingly well preserved, its slight leaning and aging burgundy paint adding nothing but character to its glorious facade.

Summing up the moment as complete, we turned down the nearby alley, the same in which my ancestors certainly walked upon, and headed back towards Jackson Square. The sidewalks here were more like gray stone streets with a curious draining cistern trench carved out in the middle. The concrete narrow trench made it difficult to walk without consideration, especially in collective stride abreast with one another. This was when sober. I could not imagine how arduous this would be when sipping on the nectar of the city that flowed in greater quantity than tap water. Alcohol kept this city afloat nearly as much as the Mississippi River itself ever did. We continued our walk turning south towards the Square, the white Cathedral wall to our immediate left. We both smiled without words at the whimsical placement of our steps in order to maintain our pace. We smiled for so many reasons, every moment just as perfect as the one prior. We smiled just to reflect the beauty of our souls.

Reaching the sea of the colorful populous before us, I turned left without knowledge nor intention but my heart guided us towards the front of the Cathedral. Reaching the vertical surface of the white facade, its mighty height and steeple overwhelmed. Triple sets of aged, castle height doors towered nearly twenty feet towards the mid-day sun. The center set, a bit more decorative was fenced off with iron gates, obviously reserved for special events such as funerals and weddings, with the opposing pairs allowing access for all those intrigued enough to enter its formidable walls. Knowing my relative across the alley was married within these walls just a few years after its completion make this journey that much more personal. Wondering how amazing following in that tradition would be, I smiled briefly.

As we ascended the stone steps, our hands remained intertwined, as is always the case when we are together. Like two soul-seeking adventurers, we know our greatest strength lies not in our intrepidly adroit and capable selves, but in the magic that unification brings forth within our aged spirits. We are simply just better together, and it is demonstrated in each moment we share as one. Upon the sixth step, our feet reach the marble floor landing and immediately a sense of tangible awe encompasses the vestibule. A gift shop to the left is sealed with a small black iron gate with only an unleveled crude plastic sign marking its purpose and  superfluous revelation that it is not opened for business. To the immediate right is a large black candle rack that seems to have been in place for hundreds of years, continuously burning the faith that so abundantly pours into the air. Flames and glass, an aura of spirituality hovers over the candles.

After a few moments to gather our spiritual bearing, we proceed to the inner pairs of wooden doors separating the vestibule from the main worship area. Stopping briefly, I place my right hand into a stone vessel coating my skin with holy water. Unconsciously, I make the sign of the cross in perhaps an effort to quickly wash my sins. Perhaps in an effort to make myself worthy enough to enter this sacred place and stand before God. Pushing upon the mighty wooden barrier, our bodies move forward. Reaching the back walls of the church, we cease our walk and tighten our embrace.

The first emotion felt upon entering is the sheer immense size of the St. Louis Cathedral. 50 rows of aged wooden pews stretch our endlessly before the casual visitor, separated by an aisle nearly 10 feet wide, hand painted murals tower a hundred feet into the air. Scenes depicting Angels, Heaven and Hell equally span out across the arched ceiling supported by tremendous stone columns with thick gold caps emblazoned upon their stately Corinthian architecture. Memories of the Sistine Chapel immediately filter into view within my mind, but this is New Orleans not Vatican City. A scaled down version not stylized by Michelangelo, perhaps a cheaper rendition offering flattery to his glorious work. In any case, it has stood on its own and elicits similar emotions of humility and grandeur ; truly a testament to the reverence of God.

The hoarding masses numbering in the dozens are quiet and respectful. Choosing to remain in the rear alcove of the church, perhaps not to offer disrespect to those here for worship, perhaps feeling uneasy about their own lack of willingness to do the same. Photos snap. Right, left, center everyone capturing this moment, but  not upon their hearts. iPads, phones, professional and disposable cameras alike point towards the ceiling, the rear facade, the alter. Everyone seizing the aesthetics and not the spirituality of the moment. For a brief instance, it forces me to wonder how blasphemous this scene would have been even 20 years ago, much less  back in 1794 when it was first erected. Times have changed. Certainly, not all for the better.

Instinctively, I move us to the right rear of the room and choose to proceed down the right aisle towards the alter. I pause at the first large column and decide to make rest here, slightly isolated behind the immensity of the towering stone support. As we glide into the warmth of the smooth antique skin of the oak pew, I am cognizant that this will truly be a magical moment. We sit in quiet reverence of both our own love and the respect we have for God, for our home here in this place, for our souls that have known such abandonment of peace over the last twenty years apart from one another. Intently, I stare into her eyes and smile while exclaiming, "I love you. Let us give thanks to God for this love. Let us be thankful that we have been faithful enough to believe that He would restore this love back into our lives." I pause my impromptu sermon and laugh inwardly at my own pastoral debut. We sit in near silence and observe everything individually, but feel the weight of this moment - truly as one. Scanning the ceiling, the floors, the walls and the casual pedestrians. Everything in motion, I feel nothing but stillness.

Without words, I reach for the kneeler and she assists me to lowering it to its intended position. The Catholic upbringing in both of us manifests forth effortlessly, as we smile into each other's eyes and I ask humbly, "Do you want to pray?" She nods perhaps startled that I would choose to share such spiritual intimacy with her and obliges. We kneel before God, before this love that has taken so much away from our lives two decades prior but we are still here together, side by side, ready to reclaim the serenity that this conversation elicits forth so joyously. Silently, we uncouple our hands and become unique souls before God. For a brief moment, I feel alone. Not abandoned. Isolated. Removed from everything else in the world that has ever existed, released from the rigors of the world, exiled from the noise and clamor of the masses nearby. An aura of understanding and peace hovers over us both and I feel its tangible warmth and embrace. God is truly in this place, and He is so blessed that we have maintained our faith in this love. His love.

As I pray, I close my eyes before God and ask for forgiveness. I humbly offer the deepest praise for the woman beside me. My spiritual counterpart. My dearest friend. My most beautiful angel. As we complete our reflection, we both return to the pew in silence. We smile and gaze into each other's eyes knowing without question this moment is truly life-changing. Grasping her hand, I steady my stare. "Do you feel like you are home?", I ask with a direct, almost palpable inquiry. She nods with an immediate and steady rhythm coupled with smiles and deep reflection of appreciation. "Yes, Andrew. I am home. I am finally home", her words flow sweetly like honey through her angelic lips. Smiling, we hold onto each other and continue to feel mesmerized and protected equally at the marvelous revelation that our faith in God, our faith in love, has led us back as two servants ready to choose God, to choose love always.

"Only one more circle left to complete in this lifetime", I whisper, leaning in close while staring at the fingers on her empty left hand. She immediately understands my cryptic message and grins, "Yes, Andrew. One more circle."

"Indeed. One more circle. One lifetime of love.", I proclaim inwardly in silence reading each word as it crosses the backdrop of my mind. I hold her tightly, embracing her body and soul equally. Smiling while soaking in the warmth and serenity of God, we depart with an uncommon peace. Releasing ourselves back to the grandeur of this city. The city that unites our souls, both now and twenty years prior. The city we both proudly call home.

The Choice.

Tears flowing, heart racing...her voice cracks abruptly across the miles and my soul wrestles with the sensitivity of the moment. "I am in a very bad place........", she exclaims with the soaked syrupy coating of sadness barely enough to balance each word she utters forth. I pause. Knowing she just departed from legal proceedings was stressful enough, knowing how the canvas is now painted emotionally, my heart sinks to understand the weight of the recent sentencing. I listen. She chides herself outwardly, "Why does this happen to me? Why is life so difficult and unfair? I am a good person. Why is nothing ever easy?" I am moved by her expressions of somberness. I ponder the words to state in response, when every inclination within my soul is simply to hold her close. I begin to sob silently, but choose words of support instead of adding my weight to the moment. I am torn. My arms are not that far-reaching, physical touch and comforting embrace is what she needs, not my idle words, you idiot...... Impotently, I reassure her the only way I can here in these scenes. I respond to her pleas of despair, "You will be fine. We both knew this could happen. At least you have this conversation and so many friends and family members who love you dearly....Be strong. I am holding your hand....."

My words sound as hollow as the shell casings lying in disarray from the the recent ambush she has just endured. I feel her uneasy, weakened frame as vividly as I feel myself falling deeper into the depressive nature of the scene playing out on center stage. She is distracted repetitively during the conversation, and this leads itself unintentionally to a disjointed and non-linear sequencing of events. Causing me to I feel inept and incapable of balancing the darkness with my words, I shutter from the knowledge that I may need more time to contemplate the way to lead her back to the light. I just wish I could hold her....

"I love you", softly rolls off my tongue. Knowing it is not profound, I am still captivated by the magic contained in those words. Those three little words. 3w always, I remind myself. Love has always been enough, always been sufficient for us both. It is has always been the road not chosen. Painfully holding us both hostage to the barren pathways that have elicited nothing but thieves and hidden truths, love has kept us searching for peace in spite of our own unworthiness.

I reach for her hand in the darkness and find it immediately. She is here. She is still believing in the sanctity of love, the beauty and simplicity of this conversation. I smile knowing that even in darkness, she can sense the uplifting spirit that unifies and washes an indelible wave of understanding and peace between the shores of our souls....I intertwine our fingers together immediately feeling the warmth that only this love could ever provide..... I am at peace knowing that this time the only limitation on love is what we choose.

Whatever the cost, I choose love.
Whatever the cost, I choose you.

Sword of Peace

Peering down my arm, I glance at the wounds on my hands from the recent abundance of manual labor.
The locations of the wounds are always identical, top ridge of inner palm just below the point where my fingers stretch out from my hand. Never seeming to heal completely, the repetitive insistence of their nature concerns me and why my own body never feels a need to protect itself from further harm is another aspect of deep wonderment.

Healing. A process by which something is renewed and restored to health. This process continually escapes me in my physical, emotional and spiritual walk. The wounds I have felt throughout the course of my journey are indeed reminders of the steps that I have taken and the scars from the battles that I have had to endure.
Reaching deeper into my soul each time, I have yet to uncover the source of the unsettled spirit that guides me through the waters but never allows me to bathe naked, released in full to the sanctification of the moment that could afford me this elusive perpetual solace.

Perhaps I believe in silent admission that I am deserving of the anguish and continued upheavals in my own life. Never settled to walk in peace with trust and love as my balancing allies, but instead choose the arduous path that is marred with recent razing, darkness and solemnity. Alas, I didn't choose to be here; my spirit was  summoned, commanded to return to this place. Return to the only place that I knew certain love, certain trust, certain understanding. I question the logic of this conversation always unfolding in opposition to time and reason. Always promising the path to serenity, reflections of streets of golden hues shining ever so brightly in the midst of the coldest and darkest storms I have ever realized.

Physically, I am weakened by the emotions playing on the stage forefront in my mind. Strength, still present and apparent, is harder to maintain at times, as I continue to walk forward. The proverbial walls slowing closing in, forcing me to choose. Forcing me to raise my own blade of reckoning and lay judgement to those who wait patiently in the gallows awaiting their bewildering state of execution. The steps remaining are heavy and the path truncated by the length of the journey already traversed.

I pause. Knowing the weight of the moment and the immediacy of the decision to be calculated, I breathe in slowly. I close my eyes, squinting out the last bit of the afternoon sun, and guide my right hand to my hip tracing the outline of the hilt. I roll my fingers just below the pommel and clench the weapon forcefully, bringing it to life.

As the sword is unsheathed, I raise it forward abreast of my face and tilt its blade in the sunlight; the finely crafted mirrored surface is etched with words of peace, love and comfort. I am momentarily mesmerized by its unexpected warmth and divining nature. Irony indeed for a weapon of chiseled destruction, but then a bold thought overwhelms my soul. What if....this is truly...the sword of peace? Instead of laying destruction to those who would fear its pruning and absolution of sin, what if this talisman was used to instead defeat the darkness?

The heft of the moment overwhelms me, and I fall to my knees, sobbing. Thrusting the sword with both hands into the gravel laced soil, it is buried nearly up the guard; the entire blade shrouded from sight. As I guide my hands to my face to clear the flow of tears, I notice my wounds are no longer visible. Healed perhaps by the understanding of where I am proceeding and what choices I have left to make in this life to complete the journey. I know I will one day lie in death, a victim of the sword that now lies impotently within the earthen substrate nearby. But, not today. Today, I choose the path of peace; the path of love, understanding and promise for better days.

I raise my hands to the sun, my palms illuminated and accept the healing that I have gone without for far too many sunsets. A prayer of thankfulness, hope and peace unexpectedly rolls off my tongue, and I bathe in the warmth of this moment. A moment of healing. A moment of choosing love over fear. A moment of choosing peace over darkness.

I raise to my feet slowly and smile. Better days, Andrew. Better days. I echo to myself in silence.

Drafting Destiny.

As I sit before the antique 1910 industrial engineer cantilever drafting table, I am mesmerized by its form not its function. Its sleek, metallic, immoderate lines draw an immediate congruency with an item to be discovered in Asimov's laboratory used to devise sinister plots of world dissolution or perhaps the creation of the neutron ray gun.  The table is adorned with faded cast-iron arch supports coupled with the reflective patina from a century of natural aging of its broad, wooden working surface. Drawn to antique artifacts from this industrial age, I ponder as to why the ideal for quality-driven focus and invention has long departed our disposable mindsets. Procuring these relics is a fascinating hobby of its own, seeking out that which still remains long after those who considered its usefulness or even possess the ability to master its utilization have long had their innards masticated by worms, their souls long departed from this place of emptiness and greed. Their fate sealed in accord with the tools and ideologies of those who no longer breathe our common air. Alas, the path still remains for those who dare to cross the social media picket fences and campaign for the truth in understanding.

Inventiveness has been superseded by lackadaisical composition and transient whimsy, bringing joy has long carried more weight than contemplative and meaningful design. Bringing forth epic change now is akin to designing not the essence of flight, nor the distribution of electrical current, but a polka-dotted collegiate snuggle available in all sizes to withstand the essential vagaries of common sense, so often amiss but truly a perfect fit for the Epicurean in all of us.

Laurel branches sit, in idle on the surface of my work table...aged from the weight of the generations who admonish those who remain loyal to the values of hard work and dedication to quality. The satiated masses continue to feed from the protuberances left by our gracious forebears. Arid, the veins have grown feeding the undeserving and unappreciative.

Reaching into both my mind and my soul in tandem, I draw my intentions forward as I glide my chair into position directly abreast with the edge of my sturdy new friend. Chuckling outwardly at the cliche echoing forward from my lips, before its release, I relent to a simple smile. "Back to the drawing board.....", I state even as much as I marvel at the stupidity of my own words. I pause briefly with an unforeseen sagacious grin, momentarily losing sight of my discounted words from a just a moment prior.

That phrase has definite meaning for a rudderless captain in search for a calming coastline.
Drawing a new future is my destiny.

As I reach for my pencil and begin to plot a new destination on the parchments lying before me, the words of Goethe immediately enter into my mind with a forceful vengeance:

Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. 
Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. 

Begin it now.

Alligators, anyone?

Reeling from relinquishing the truth of my words to the spoken air, I tremble in the darkness with deliberate pausing of breath, waiting for the faithful jesters to carry forward my admonishment. I listen intently as her voice fades into silence, and now, I hear nothing more. "I am processing", she states with obvious concern and deliberation in her voice. Slumping into my seat, I slowly attempt to retract my words in vain. Silence fills the moment once again adding weight to my heart. Deciding to carry forth the judgment on my own terms, I step down from my vehicle and walk back towards the familiar stone wall that has haunted my dreams for the last several nights. Now, completely lucid --- I am painfully aware of the stage, the performances remaining to be conducted by those who exemplify and mirror the darkness within my soul. The reptilian beasts remain in hiding waiting for my arrival. I can sense their presence even as much as they too sense the apex of this confrontation. Counterbalancing the heft of this moment with my own exposed culpability, I cannot help but envision that their continued presence indicates a showdown is approaching. The moonlight gleams across the aged brick building to my immediate right adding another layer of suspense and visibility to the scene that I simply want to conclude without bearing witness.

As my heart rate quickens, I increase my gait and clinch my fists firmly in preparation. As I approach, the silence is broken by guttural sounds of fear and warnings of danger which rumble forth as growls from the edges of the jagged stones where the beasts remain in hiding. I continue, shaken, but assured by a force more driven that my own in this moment. Suddenly, the scene fades to gray before my eyes. I reach out with my hands to touch its bleakness. Simultaneously, I halt upon hearing a familiar voice which shatters the night air, "Tell me of your alligators. There were four present, not just one. Tell me what they are." Her voice, her words slice through the layers of flesh and bone, and sever directly to my rippling soul still in awe that someone has visibility to this depth of my existence. Shuttering from pure disbelief of the accuracy of her statements, I murmur a few trite words before taking pause and choosing to reveal more of my buried truth.

Akin to Arthur freeing his weapon from stone, I instantly feel empowered to slay these demons in earnest for their continued perpetration of despair and prophetic subversion to my happiness. Gifted from a place of unconditional love, and not judgment nor disappointment, I am humbled in her presence, as always.

Cautiously, I unravel more of the truths into the open night air, allowing each one to hover before our souls as a discussion, an explanation of its own standing, its own existence. Knowing all the while, my paltry notions and attempts to clarify are weightless against the guilt that I feel which permeates all surfaces of my own soul here in this moment. Inwardly, I begin to sob at the purity of her heart and the understanding that unshackles every conceived notion that my sins were not only forgiven, but not even being quantified against our conversation. With certain immediacy, I begin to question my own significance against her overwhelming love and nurturing spirit.  How could someone love me this much? How could someone have the awareness to feel my spirit completely? When did I become this worthy of her greatness?

I fade in and out of the remainder of the conversation. Reeling from the emotions being expressed, I stumble to my knees on the cold, concrete ground. I take a deep breath and breathe in the purity of her love as my strength and faith are replenished. As my eyes regain their ability to focus, recognition of change abounds... Sunlight now beams over my shoulder warming my naked skin and ensuring comfort and solace to previously dismal and stressed composition. I stretch my arms, raising them towards the promising blue skies and smile. Erased from view are the stone walls, the demons, along with the fear that I have been harnessing in my emotional satchel, now emptied and weightless.

I stand to my feet, pausing to marvel at the context of what has unfolded before my eyes this evening.
I gaze hastily in all directions attempting in vain to locate her, but she is no longer visible.
She is with me in my heart. Her voice -- always soothes my soul. Her intentions -- always pure and loving.

I remain motionless, in awe.
For even in the midst of her continued struggles, she chooses love, not fear.
Even through the pains of despair, loneliness and strife, we will choose love, not fear.
As long as I have breath within my lungs, I will call out her name in joyous remembrance of promises made.

Made at times when the only thing of permanence through the darkness was faith in the belief that this love will see us through and the gentle murmuring of her angelic voice,

"Choose love, not fear......"

Too Happy to Write...

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Preserving Appearances.....

Sheets of plywood lie unused and piled high in the garage just as I had remembered. Nails purchased were now rusted and sprawled out across the aged and pitted concrete floor beneath my feet. An old but sound hammer lay poised but never used. The wood now split, rotten and covered in dust is merely used to support other casual collectibles and junk, so invaluable, that it hardly justifies their continued preservation.

But, all things have value to those who treasure nothing.

Walking around this old garage as a child I felt nothing but neglect. Never once was I content nor happy here in this abandoned refuge. The faded orange paint was just as tired and unwelcoming as I felt the majority of the time living in this place. Afraid of the tattered wooden door that had rotten past the point of providing security, loose wooden strips were all that remained to provide the framework. Holes and decay had rotten its outside surface and it shook like a dried-out corn husk in late December when you attempted to push against it.

The twin garage doors which were supposed to house vehicles never functioned in the nearly two decades of my existence living at that home. Instead of repairing the defunct and decayed pieces, mere cover-up and facade building was in order. Pieces of new wood and brick were simply stacked in front of the decay. Even as a child, I was certain that this was only done to enhance the view from the street. One could surmise quite assuredly, that this was not the only part of this home that was receiving that same unique form of touch-up.

The decay ran deep in this family but there was always something that could cover it up to preserve appearances. After all, no one could know the truth. Not even those who resided here.

If imaginable, the sides and rear of the garage were in far worse shape. The wooden paneling had completely rotted at the ground and access for stray mice and cats were in abundant supply. I will attest that I often wondered with the rampant termite, rodent and weather damage how this building ever maintained structural stability at all. Figuring that the sense of malevolence that permeated from all aspects of this property was probably strong enough to overcome mere physics, I allowed my reckless thoughts to wander elsewhere.

Standing inside the garage, I always felt the same dark, cold presence of evil. Hanging in the corner, I would never forget the dusty plastic hanging bags holding my father's military dress uniforms that remained motionless and untouched for my entire span of memories at that home. The bags, opaque and clouded in debris seemed to shroud another lifetime, perhaps even a lifeless body within their wrappings. I was always too freightened to touch, to even come close. I knew that this was just another aspect of my father's life neglected and abandoned to rot in its own painful suffocating demise.

As I learned later in life, those garment bags would not be the only ones hanged in that place.

I tire of appearances merely to hide the truth......
Facades are those foolish enough to believe people don't really know who they are.....
or that people truly care at all in the first place, not busy enough masquerading in their own performances.

Wood.
Nails.
Hands.
Hammer.

You always had the ability to improve, you choose neglect.

Is it not ironic that those same items once sealed the mortal fate of a lowly carpenter?