like trying to hold the sands of the shore moments slipping away swallowed by tide and time like jumping high to swing from the clouds only to fall through the sky i tried to keep a moment or two
like a sunset over a soybean field or at the end of the road or a monochrome lighthouse showing the way to giant icicles on climbing day or two little girls on a summer swing with nana in the middle all is well or a grand city that rises and falls while a grand old bridge anchors it all or our two sons walking by the river or coffee starlings dancing in the air safe from the wind farm or the fire in the sky above a river flowing like time through fields and towns and seasons and lives until it joins the the moments in the sea and sand that still are slipping through my hands
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.
waiting
keeping watch
searching
scanning horizons
i didn’t realize
that i was looking
for you all my life
waiting
for our
once upon a time
to begin
when i saw you
i ran to meet
you on the shore
of our journey
after all these years
i now know
i would choose to wait
and let a thousands tides
come and go
and let the lonely time
pass me by
if it meant
i could be near you
hear you say my name
yes i would
search for you
night and day
and
wait
this voyage called life
a perilous quest
under storms at night
and bright mornings of peace
living out vows
that we said
when we were kids
you’re still choosing to stay
beside me
i’m still choosing to stay
beside you
across all the wild wild seas
that are behind us
we found treasures
a guiding grace
that will lead us
a slower pace
that will ground us
a grateful space
that settles our minds
navigating
these later years
we get to wait
together
love
together
sitting here
with you
waiting here with you
remembering here
with you
we wait
for one day
the journey will end
until then
we get to wait
together
love
together
be
together
and in the waiting
practice staying
come what may
you’re still choosing to stay
beside me
i’m still choosing to stay
beside you
we
wait
This was taken near the end of my walk around the Montauk Point Lighthouse. Along the right edge of the image you can make out the “road” that was made when these giant boulders were laid along the shore to protect it from erosion.
What I didn’t expect to see at the end of my walk were these stone markers along the edge of the sea. Suddenly I felt like I was in some kind of sacred space where each of these represented a story or some kind of memorial.
Back to Long Island and Montauk Point Lighthouse for today’s post. On the north and south side of the lighthouse you can walk down to the shore, as you can see in the image above. When I turned to take this image I noticed the large rocks in front of the lighthouse featured a shelf – like a path – in between the two sloping sections of rock. I thought to myself, “I don’t see any signs… so…”
So, I started walking around the lighthouse. It was low tide, so I was grateful to stay dry while at the same time wondering what it would be like to walk around the lighthouse at high tide!
It was a short, but beautiful walk with the mighty Atlantic Ocean filling my view. Thanks for stopping by.
At the end of the spiral staircase inside Montauk Lighthouse you step into a small chamber directly beneath the panels of glass (the lantern) that surround the guiding light that shines across the waters. A state park employee greeted my entrance into the chamber by informing me that I am not permitted to stand in the glass enclosed area above us. I can only take 4 or 5 steps and peer into the very top of the lighthouse. In the black and white image above you can see the small Fresnel lens (beneath the triangle plate) that currently sends light to signal ships and sailors. Compare that lens to this one! – https://rutakintome.com/2019/05/17/fresnel-art/
I was SO tempted to step into that lantern area, but, I chose to behave. The exit into the lantern wasn’t the only way out of the chamber. There was a small archway that faced north outside to a small space large enough for one person to stand and lookout. Here is what I saw:
Turning around and walking east across the chamber I was surprised to see this:
Just another day at the office. Thanks for stopping by.
I indicated in my previous post that I would post what I saw at the top, forgetting that I had a few images of the windows I passed as I wound my way up through the lighthouse. These two images are the same window with different “moods” and perspectives. Thanks for stopping by.
It was a dizzying climb to the top of the lighthouse. The relatively small space and limited field of vision was disorienting, in a fun kind of way.
The Lighthouse was completed on November 5, 1796 and is the oldest Lighthouse in the State of New York and the 4th oldest Lighthouse in the United States. The Tower is 110′ 6″ tall and there are 137 iron steps to the top of the tower. Thanks for that Google.
rutakintome pictures 
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