when was the last time you walked across the noise in your life and journeyed into the depth of you
when was the last time you just were still and present to your soul your longing your sorrow your joy your hope your anxiety your darkness
when was the last time you closed your eyes and settled into your spirit named the pain let the tears carry away the sorrow
when was the last time you heard your voice when it tore down another soul did it leave you broken did it stab your heart
when was the last time you surrendered you admitted your limits faced your shadows let pride fall away in humility
when was the last time you said thank you i love you i was wrong please forgive me i need help
when was the last time you leaned into your ordinariness you opened your heart to your strengths and weaknesses you listened to feedback you didn’t defend yourself
when was the last time you were you not as you think you are but listened to others and how they experience you
you are an ocean a vast sea of dreams of loss laughter weeping of love fear perseverance sin of cowardice strength power kindness of impotence clarity valor uncertainty and so much more
you are human created by God loved by God seek Him rest in Him receive His love live in His grace receive His forgiveness be alive in Him He knows full well you are human
The last three posts have been about images from my time in New York. Specifically, a meditation on my home and family on Long Island, and my stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge. This post contains a few “leftovers” from my time in Lower Manhattan and features The Oculus and a single subway image. If you enter “Oculus” in the search box to the left you can check out my other images of the amazing Oculus.
I have been on a three month sabbatical that will end at the end of July. One of my goals during this time was to spend time in New York with my dad and siblings. My previous post came out of my time in New York. In all the years spent growing up on Long Island, and then years going back to visit New York – we have lived in the Midwest since 1988 – I never walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. So, I decided to take a stroll on that beautiful bridge. Here is what I saw, part 1. Thanks for stopping by.
I suppose that I will always be – if not always feel like – a New Yorker. My hometown of East Meadow was right next door to famous Levittown. After WWII, returning vets heard the siren songs of suburban living, and Levittown sang loud and proud.
Not quite sure where East Meadow fits in the swift rise of suburbia, but it mostly likely knew the songs that were in the air.
In 1964, Wilfredo and Carmen purchased a small, two story Cape Cod style home on a corner lot in East Meadow. I’ve always loved the name of our street: Wilson Lane. It has a noble sound befitting my mom and dad. They were poor, could hardly speak English, and were uneducated. Their royalty was in their wisdom, their tenacity and, in full measure, their love.
And you would need love to survive the “dawning of the age of Aquarius” in East Meadow, located in Nassau County, on Long Island, in New York State. Ironically, we were a little island of Puerto Ricans in an ocean of Italian, Irish, and Jewish families. And it was wonderful. I mean, where else could you go to school with Carmine Paradisio – is that a name, or is that a name?! – and then, as a high school student, sing in musicals with members of the local Jewish synagogue. I also grew up with the long, cold shadows of the normalization of hatred and racism.
And about that, I will say this: it wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that it was difficult for my mom and my dad to live in that white suburban community. I’ll spare you the details of some of the stories, suffice it to say that, by some, we were not welcome. So much so that messages in the form of dog excrement being tossed in the yard was just one of the ways the turbulence of the times reached our corner lot. My mom and dad were silent about it, as far as I can recall. To this day, I truly believe they were teaching me important lessons. Don’t be a person who hates, even if you feel you have every reason to hate. Don’t order your life around those who have struggles in their hearts. Be a person of peace on a small little island in East Meadow in an ocean of turmoil. Peace would also need to make room for suffering, loss, and sorrow on that island. As much as we all want to live and experience life, this life can take so much from us that, even if we are still breathing, it feels like there is no reason to.
Rosalito was her name. Their firstborn. She lived for a few days. My mom mourned her until her last day. This event was the seed of much of my formation, but that’s a story that continues to unfold.
Which, of course, brings us to the present. My mom passed away in 2023 at the age of 97. She passed in the safety of her corner house… her little island in an ocean of love: my dad.
He still lives in that house and, even though my story is being told on the backlot of the Midwest, far from the Atlantic shore I love – more on that later – I have been returning home to be with my family almost every year for…well… 39+ years. And, following the well worn path of my childhood, those visits often included an eastbound trip on the Southern State Parkway to visit Rosalito.
I find that some childhood memories can show up for a visit in vivid, 3-D, surround sound. I find myself taking in the mysteriously beautiful sound of crunching autumn leaves as we brush them from around her tombstone. I can still feel my body sigh in relief as the cold water from a nearby hose washed away the unbearable heat and humidity of a Long Island summer. I can still smell the fresh, winter air as I huddled in my coat while my mom and dad whispered prayers and shed their tears. Home, family, and our little island in East Meadow will, for me, always be associated with death. And that is not a bad thing. It just is.
On this particular visit, a rainy, cold, late May welcomed me back home. Thankfully, a summer like early June won a toss of weather fronts with May. I set aside more than two weeks to be with my dad. We spent a day heading out to the southern tip of Long Island to greet the lighthouse at Montauk Point. A 3 ½ order lens (it sounds like I know what I’m talking about, but I don’t) built in 1902 was recently restored to the tippy top of that lighthouse. In a culture that places unnecessary value on new and improved, it’s comforting to realize that old and traditional can still guide and lead sojourners to light and safety. Of course, we visited Rosalito and Carmen. My mom was finally resting with my sister. We cleared out weeds, took out the artificial flowers that signaled care and love all through winter, and planted fresh, impossibly red flowers. If my mom could speak, she would tell me what the flowers were.
Though uneducated, she was a brilliant “botanist” who could revive any withered leaf, twig or petal and, as if she named each and every one herself, would tell you the name of just about any flower. God created a unique kind of nurturing spirit within her and I think losing her first child only deepened her longing to give and sustain life. Our house was a greenhouse. Green, colorful life was everywhere. And now, my dad made sure that color and life adorned the resting place of his little girl and his bride of over 60 years.
Any pilgrimage back east must include multiple mini-pilgrimages to the southern shores of Long Island. Specifically, Jones Beach.
Like the faithful ostinato from Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor, this State Park has always been a part of me. Whether it’s a frigid, windswept winter seascape, or the end of a summer day showing off with a dazzling display of clouds and shafts of light shooting into space, or the slow motion blending and mixing of sunrise colors that Crayola never dreamed existed, this shore has been a place for reflection, prayer, worship and peace. And, every now and then, I hear and see the rocks cry out and tell of a Savior alive in this world.
I enjoyed a mid-morning stroll with my dad along the 2-mile long boardwalk. I marvel at his endurance and determination as he struggles to maintain balance and manage pain while he walks on his two artificial knees.
During a quiet, pre-dawn stroll on the shore, as the sun began to work on its morning art project, I am trying to figure out a way to take the colors right out of the sky and put them in my backpack.
thinking about nothing at all while everything is running around in my mind getting acquainted with a dull ache emanating from somewhere in the middle of the center of the core of my tacet anxiety settling down into an emotional complacency trying to find some safety to make sense of it all Immanuel is sleeping in the boat while the weight of my heart makes every step so hard inches are like miles enclosed on every side by confusion and helplessness what can i offer what can i say what can i do awake my soul for the sleeping Man of Sorrows knows this storm my soul comes to rest on a cold lonely shore and i wait the winds and waves are His i wait
I grew up enjoying Eisenhower Park, near my home town of East Meadow. This park is larger than Central Park in New York City. I have wonderful memories of family picnics, winter sledding (my two brothers on top of my dad zooming down a steep hill), the amazing July 4th fireworks, and so much more. On my recent trip back home I once again headed to the park to enjoy a nice long walk. I was stunned to see this massive stadium being built! It is being built for the 2024 ICC Men’s T20 World Cup. The entire work area is fenced off, so this is the best I could do at 5′ 7″! Thanks for stopping by.
i’ll try and tell you why this endless sea and sky brings to me a sense of grace it’s a calming space memories of family my little legs running away from the waves or dancing above the hot sand shivering in the Atlantic cold maybe i’ll be bold and just jump right in and swim on the crest of this swell crashing down now in a swirl of briny sand tossed and thrown upon the shore i always got up and ran in for more i remember dad first taking my hand then lifting me in his arms as he marched into the sea delighted and frightened it’s all right i’ll hold on tight the waves don’t seem to bother him at all and if i stood still at the edge of the arriving and departing ocean i thought it was neat that the sand would steal my feet could it just swallow all of me into the salted sea it tasted so good to me the roar and crashing waves were like a melody and at the end of the day the world felt okay it was so good to be with family by the endless sky and sea
a slow meandering upon the ancient sands the sea reminding me how small i truly am and that’s totally okay
much more behind me than before me a few less steps remain the waves will sing long after my last breath
sometimes i just want to stop and join the clouds and sea just melt into the horizonless dance and stay listen and pray it can all feel so weary
still i journey on back to go forward reaching into the ocean of stories looking for that perfect shell listening for all is well remembering the glory still to come
yesterdays just fly away even memories are fading is anyone staying we are alone ever together with our life and with others we are alone
we used to gather to remain in the vine neighbor sister brother mother father singing our songs Kyrie eleison standing room only we were searching for Holy, Holy, Holy in a time of upheaval we found comfort in the cathedral of our hearts in the neighborhood sanctuary
candles prayers stained glass windows used to tell our stories guiding us toward glory dazzling testimonies told in fragile colors we were lost but we found each other and we found our heavenly Father Kyrie eleison
now just silent songs unsung melodies broken monochrome glass and look the vines enter in perhaps searching for souls maybe a prayer or two God make all this old to be new and begin in me please, Lord tell a story of your glory through all that is shattered in me as i sing the ancient song
rutakintome pictures 
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