Autumn Winds are Blowing

Autumn.  In America.

New season.  New life.  New start.

Again. 

Not completely new for me, however.

I am back in Milwaukee.  It’s where I’m from.  Where the story started.  Where I was standing when the miasma of wind blew into my life and I floated away to another place, another chapter, another life. 

In some ways everything is familiar here.  I know the streets, where to turn, where to walk, where to shop.  In others it’s all different.  I don’t see many of the same people, but I have made many new friends.  I don’t live in exactly the same neighborhoods, so I have new routes to drive.  I don’t go to the same church, but my new church has already welcomed me with open arms. 

I am doing what I love – teaching.  And where I’m teaching is both familiar and strange. 

The students are, of course, familiar.  Kids are kids no matter what uniform they wear or where they are born.  They all want to be loved and acknowledged and helped.  They both reject and accept their teachers on a minute-by-minute basis.   (One day this week I was told I look like Adele.  The next day, Mrs. Doubtfire.  I’m not sure I resemble either, to be honest.)  Their minds and hearts are open and I thoroughly enjoy them. 

The curriculum is different from what I’ve done before and so I am challenged in finding the right ways, the best ways, the most creative ways to present learning.  It requires a lot of energy from me and I see my days overflowing with the demands of it.  My mind and my heart are open to it and I thoroughly enjoy it.

Once again I am doing something I didn’t expect.  This whole idea of living for God and following His lead has some rather unexpected turns.

I thought at 50 I might be teaching, but never expected to come back to Milwaukee.  I thought at 50 I might own a house, but never expected I would own a house, but rent an apartment in another city.  I thought at 50 I might be writing more, but life drains me and writing sits on a shelf with all the other fun things right now.

I wrote once about autumn as a time when everything dies.  Colors are profuse, but for such a short time until the wind and rain destroy them.  I talked of the cooler air blasting the world with its chill. 

Last night I was at a bonfire with some of my new friends from work.  Much like Moscow, I am, again, somewhat of an outsider to their group.  It’s clear they have shared much of life together.  Their familiarity draws them into a tight bond.  They correct and love each other’s children.  Long standing jokes ripple through their conversation. 

The event was quite similar to those enjoyed with my Russian colleagues. I, also, was somewhat of an outsider there.  They had shared much of life together and enjoyed each other’s company.   Commonalities bound them together.

But this time I understood the language and the customs.  The same, but different. 

I wasn’t lonely on the outside looking in.  I didn’t feel left out.  I didn’t wonder what was happening around me.  It was nice, actually, to see my new colleagues through this lens and the warmth of their friendship.  I felt encompassed, surrounded, peaceful.

In the center of the clearing was a large bonfire fed by wooden pallets.  A ring of merrymakers were singing with a box drum, guitars and heavenly voices.  Beyond that circle were tag-playing children whose location could be seen only by the glow-in-the-dark bands about their neck or wrist.  Like neon lights they circled the space.  Above us, tree branch fringe laced the evening sky.

The wind was cool, but not harsh.  Leaves had begun to change, but had not fallen.  Many things have changed in Milwaukee these ten years I’ve been gone.  Especially me. 

It’s a new season, it’s true.  But I am not afraid of it.  I look forward to it with open arms and a curious mind.  What exactly will we learn here?  Who exactly will we meet?  How exactly will this chapter look at its conclusion?

This time, the writer doesn’t mind autumn. It’s nice.

Stairing

A long time after I have taken pictures I like to look through them to see if I can find a theme.  Inevitably one item or another will appear again and again.  For example, several years ago when I was going through a period of major changes, I found bridges in my pictures.  The bridge pictures turned into a series of blog posts and then a book.  It seemed I wasn’t the only one having to make changes and my experiences helped others.

It’s not a surprise to find a new series growing in my pictures.  Although I don’t understand the full scope of the metaphor yet, I do see the small picture growing.

The stair photos begin in Minneapolis, appropriately.  In fact, one staircase in particular is connected to a very pertinent bridge, but that story has already been told. 

Those stairs are blue and reach to the sky, daunting, taunting, pulling my bravery from the deeps in my heart until I conquered them.  I found them to be freeing, actually, once I looked from the top to the bottom.  I scanned a cityscape on one side and an art collection on the other. 

Creativity overload almost shorted my circuits!

Another set of blue stairs beckoned me to another art collection.  But this staircase had a blue glass runner down the middle.  Funny, but I hardly noticed the height of the stairs or what lay beneath them.  My eyes were set on the Kandinsky only attained by climbing. 

For many years a Kandinsky print has graced one wall or another in one home or another of mine.  A gift given with a challenge to one day see the original for myself.  “You would love The Hermitage!  So many beautiful pieces of art from so many amazing artists!  I know you’ll go one day.  This is to remind you.” 

And, one day, I did go.  A sense of accomplishment flowed in my veins as I stood there and considered all that had transpired from the time of the gift to that time.  “Thanks, God,” I whispered.

My current situation in Moscow lends itself to constant stair climbing.  I live on the fourth floor and find it is often easier, and faster, to take the stairs then to wait for the elevator.  Four floors of 8 steps plus two to cross a landing, every day up and down I go.  The first climb?  I could hardly get to the second floor.  Out of breath, legs shaking, I thought I would never get to the top!

Now?  I do have to hesitate at the last flight up, but only because of asthma, not because it’s impossible.  I like to walk the stairs now, actually.  It feels good, healthy, productive.

I have met some of my neighbors because of the stair climbing.  They smile, I smile.  I say hello in Russian.  They respond in English.  Small connection reaching across a globe of political uneasiness.

When given my druthers, the Metro stairs I don’t climb.  I don’t even walk down them.  I allow myself the privilege of the escalator.  There are enough staircases to climb to get in and out and around the Metro to spoil myself on the occasional ride. 

Besides, it’s so much easier to people watch when you’re not walking.

 

So many amazing, interesting, curious stories to wonder at in the Metro.  Odd couples, strange juxtapositions, fashion and political statements abound! 

The stairs one must traverse in the Metro are stories of their own.  Marble dipped by the steps of generations of travelers.  I wonder, sometimes, who has been there before me?  What did they think of the Soviet era?  What was their life like?  And Perestroika.  Did it benefit them or only their children?  What did they day dream about as they trudged home each day?

There is a castle wall remnant in Tallin, Estonia with a staircase I managed, also.  Tricky, scary, steep and with one unmarked, uneven step.  Not my cup of tea!

 “Come on!  You can’t stay down there!  This is awesome!  Come on up!”  I drew courage enough from my young friend’s bravado to climb and it was well worth the effort.

Looking over the red roofs of Tallin, I could see forever!  So beautiful and interesting!  I kept watching for Errol Flyn sword in hand to come rushing down the walk or flying in through the window.  Again, I wondered who had touched that stone wall before me.  Whose handprints were joined with mine?

Pushkin’s gallery, also, but the carpet is hardly seen for the grandeur of the white marble.  Picasso, Degas, Renoir and others await your gaze, but only if you care to climb.

It seems to me the climbing is the lesson.  And climbing must be done one step at a time.  Not jumping, lest you fall and have to begin again.  Rather, one step after the other.  Repeating the climb again and again makes you stronger, more capable.  What at first seemed unreasonable, becomes common place. 

Now after the writing, I think I am beginning to see the metaphor unwrap.  I am making progress, slow, but sure progress.  Thirty years ago my life was a completely different story and then Jesus began a good work in me which He continues to this day.  Ten years ago He began another chapter which is still being written.  I see the progress of this new chapter, but it’s so painstakingly slow!  I want to know what this is all about already!  Get to the top!  Avoid the uneven places.  I want to see the sights and revel in my accomplishment! 

But life doesn’t work that way.  Personal growth and spiritual growth cannot be rushed.  Step, step, step… up, up, up.  Miss a step and slide back a couple.  Sigh.  Try again.  Step, step, step.  Reaching new heights.  Going new places.  Becoming the best possible version of myself for His glory.

Yes, I think I see the metaphor now. 

Dreamy St. Petersburg

I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it....     Emily Bronte

The Dream of St. Petersburgh

I dreamt I took a train to an adventure. My mind was filled with all the possibilities and `'what-ifs" I had always imagined.  I expected to see beautiful things, hear musical voices, see colors and textures and life I had not known before.

The train in my dream rushed through the darkness with only the occasional disturbance.  

I awoke to find myself there, at that place, the place I had dreamed of!  Surrounded by history and meaning, I walked behind my knowledgeable guide.  She told me the story of her city.  "This is where Alexander I lived and this was Catherine's palace.  We have Nicholas's statute over here and the lighthouse over there."  We wound our way through unfamiliar comfortable streets filled with the voices of life.  

The Fortress of Peter and Paul stands chief among the buildings in this dream.  Walking through the walled city I found myself taking pictures and wondering about their story.  Who lived here?  Who walked here?  Who rested in the safety of the mamoth walls?  And Why?  What did they hide from?  I could almost feel their sense of safety, hear their hushed whispers.  

Sometimes it rained - hard, chilly raindrops forcing up the umbrellas and drawing strangers closer together.  Unexpectedly, around another corner, the sun would shine and the skies would clear.  Equally by turns it was cool and warm.  A day which couldn't make up its mind what kind of day it wanted to be.

Still we walked.  Sometimes strolling, sometimes with purpose, sometimes with crowds, sometimes without.  Always surrounded by the story.

We happened on a parade at one point.  WWII veterans and their families holding pictures of those lost in the Great War.  This city felt the cost of the war in devastating fashion.  The survivors are grateful for those who paid the price to hold the land.  They celebrate with intense pride.  The uniforms, the flowers, the pictures, the stories flowed through the street with the rain playing softly overhead.  

We stopped for coffee at another point.  Like Goldilocks we tried first this spot then that before we found a place that was just right.  Hot coffee, sweet treats, gentle conversation refreshed us both.

As we exited the last Metro I caught sight of a painting tossed on the street.  In the broken fragment I could see perfect blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds.  A building grew in the painting it's rounded turret strutting its strength against nature.  "I'm still here!"  It shouted behind the billboard tacked to its face.  "Don't let the modern facade fool you.  I have watched the gate for centuries.  I saw Napoleon and Hitler trying to take me away.  Neither Soviet rule nor winter's blizzard could change my stand.  You may paint me with advertisements or bathe my stone in whitewash.  The fact remains.  I am still here."

As I lay my head down at the end of the day, I realized it was not a dream at all.  I really did come to St. Petersburg.  I really did see, hear, taste, feel these things.  And another day awaits.

I thought I was awake, but found myself still in the dream.

Another swirl of color, sound and smells swished about me.  The sun was out now and shining brightly.  Golden domes atop fortress buildings glimmered in the horizon as I walked a new route. 

“There is Bro. Turner’s favorite bookstore.”  “There is my favorite palace.”  “There is St. Isaac’s Cathedral.”  Over and over the phrases of my friend crowded into my hearing as she tried to show me all of the best and share with me her abundant knowledge. 

Passing The Church of the Spilled Blood, a remarkable piece of architecture, I was caught by the sound of a quiet flute dancing among the trees.  Wearing black and strolling carelessly, the flutist interacted with his audience.  I drank in the peaceful sounds a moment before continuing.

“We were here yesterday.  Remember when we crossed the bridge after the parade?  That’s where we were.”  My friend stood pointing and, to my surprise, I did remember.  The bridge with the four horses prancing above beckoned us to go on.

Another dash of music surprised me upon a wall outside of a hotel.  I didn’t know the song, but gave it a passing glance to honor its existence.

Through this passage and that, winding behind and between the ancient buildings, we finally erupted into a bright square.  “Now we’re here.  There is The Hermitage.” 

Ah!  The Hermitage!  Frosted in mint and cream, the elegance was almost more than one could fathom.  To our right a spare, modernist, clean-lined building humbly held court.  Court isn’t all that it held, however.  It also held a Kandinsky Exhibit. Up a glass staircase, through a winding passageway and then there it was!  The very thing I wished to see. 

Many years ago I had received a print of the Kandinsky painting “Winter Landscape” which has hung in some manner of honor or another ever since.  The colors carried a promise for me that someday I would see the real painting, I would stand before it.  And now, here in my dream, I stood. 

“Thanks, God,” I whispered. 

But Kandinsky wasn’t the only artist present in this dream!  We gazed at Da Vinci, danced with Matisse, rested with Monet, laughed with Van Gogh and a host of many others inside The Hermitage.  Wandering through the labyrinth of rooms my heart was overwhelmed with the beauty and contrasts of expression.

Many tired hours later we were home again.  The welcoming apartment with its fresh baked chicken covered with tomatoes and mozzarella opened its doors.  Wearily we rested.  Sharing again our lives and finding so many commonalities, so many subtle differences.  Born on opposite sides of the Cold War we found kindred spirits.

Sunday dawned early, but not early enough and we quickly made our way to the train which would return me to Moscow.  Brisk steps, brisk breeze and brisk good-byes jumbled together on the platform of the waiting train.  Out of breath, I sat in my seat, closed my eyes and slept.

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Blessings

For the first time in many, many months I am sitting in a Starbucks with nothing required of me.  

I can write if I want.  About anything that fills my mind. 

Bliss.

I considered all the different types of muse I might find about which to pontificate.  I considered the music, books, movies I might review.  I considered the people, places and things which I might discuss.

After all is said and done, all my mind can conjure are the good things in my life right now.  My angelbabies, my sons, my siblings, my friendships, the sunshine, the joy of music sliding along my thoughts, the pattering words dancing in the clouds.  Good things.  Those blessings stand in stark contrast to the hard days of this season of my life.

I’ve come a long way in the last seven years.  I remember dark, dark days when I asked God why He didn’t just let me check out and come on home.  But love held me here.  Angelbaby kisses, friendship hugs, shouts of encouragement from so many places.  Those rich relationships have me driving hither and yon using my last dimes to be where they are to share just one more afternoon, one more cup of coffee, one more chat with them.

After all, you never know when that door will close and I love you cannot be exchanged again.

These seven years have had long winters full of snowy, rainy, closed in days when gloomy clouds filled the sky.  I cherish the feel of sun kissing my skin, Vitamin D drenched moments when I soak up the warmth.  Making like a snake and baking in the sun never gets old to me.  Nothing charges my batteries more than sitting in the sun.  Thanks, God for sunshine.

Silence has shouted to me in these seven years, too.  Profoundly still silence that shook the walls with its resonance.  Today, however, I hear gently the sounds of music from angelbaby laughter, music made by those I’ve watched grow.   The lingering joy in this music makes my heart smile.

All these things give me cause to write.  The words will not remain tucked inside.  They tug and pull and nag for my attention.  All these good things in my life crowd out the quietness of this season.  I know what I would rather, but since I don’t have my druthers, I may as well enjoy what I’ve been given.

Thanks, God, for time to consider the blessings and words with which to share them.

And that, my friends, is what a writer thinks about when they are staring out of a coffee shop window with a laptop open before them and a coffee cooling beside them.

To order a copy of 

A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges 

or A Friend Named Jesus, 

please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Another Stone Laid in the Path

I see myself standing there in the foyer.  Watching.  Taking mental pictures.  Immersed in the give and take of the laying of this stone.

A gentlemen says, “I can seat you now, if you like?”  He knows I am waiting for someone, but wants to take care of his responsibilities.

I smile and respond, “I’m fine.  I’m ok to wait here.”  I try to reassure him and add, “Besides, I’m writing.  Can’t you see the words?”

He smiles in complicity, “Yes, I do.”

And I believe he may.  He is, after all, a reader and understands the importance words play.

I’m back to watching the scene before me.  They say there are six degrees of separation between us all.  If we could extend our lives six people out, we are all connected.  Watching the picture before me, I realize there are far less than six degrees separating all of these lives.  We are a Kandinsky of colors swirling and mixing from north to south, east to west.  A portrait carefully painted by a Master artist.

Aptly, a song rises above the crowd.  Over and again the chorus is repeated, “How are you?  You look beautiful!  I am so glad you’re here.”  Melodies of friendship crescendo as the choir moves slowly into the sanctuary.

I find my particular friends and move inside to wait the perfect moments, the perfect music, the perfect promises.  Together and alone we watch the drama play.  We can’t help but compare this day with other days we have witnessed.  The lace, the flowers, the signed license and kiss for luck. 

Sometimes, like this one, the day is enveloped with laughter.  The kind that makes your sides hurt, your voice hoarse, tears running down your face.  It’s with this laughter we tie our hearts together.  It’s an unspoken promise that should our paths cross elsewhere, we will find a friendly smile, a genuine handshake, a place to rest from the cares of life.  It uplifts us, this laughter, and carries us over the hard days.

I watch the mother of the groom from across the way and see my own happy sadness in her eyes.  I understand the joy she feels of sons grown and the sadness of an empty nest.  The guards are slowly changing in our lives.  We are leaders, it’s true, but ever so tenaciously we hand off the baton to them.  They are the next generation and we trust them with the Good News that changes lives. 

They are beautiful, these grown children.  The platform is decorated with their joy and empty picture frames.  This new family will fill the frames with the story of their life.  To either side of the bride and groom are their closest friends.  Those whose hands have held them up, carried them, and implicitly join these two paths.  The weaving of these many lives has not just begun. They are a strong fabric which has been tested and found to be true.

We measure the days of our lives with these events.  Having the same faces to share the mile-markers gives us identity, purpose, family.  We joke the next event will be a baby shower. 

We don’t share only the ceremony, this band of mothers, but the set-up and clean-up, too.  Not only of the event – but of the lives celebrated by the event.  We are those who will be cheering these children’s successes.  We are those who will stand beside them when they struggle.  We are those who pray and love and hurt with these children.  And with each other. 

This wedding is a perfect day.  The sun shines, the music shines, the brilliance of their pure love shines.  We send them off in a shower of lavender, waving them on to their future.

I see myself again, standing among the crowd.  I am holding the hand of a child whose mother I have prayed with many times while she was yet finding her place.  Over the many years, our paths crossed hither and yon, an example of foundational acceptance.  The child understands this and walks this space with me, also, making my heart smile.

Looking at the portrait the crowd makes behind the newlyweds, I see more than swaying hands.  Each life its own brush stroke.  Survivors, overcomers, those who refused to let the dips of sorrow steal their zest.  I am aware that I am made stronger, gentler by standing in this crowd.  

Together we pave a path for those who follow.  

To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Next Slice of Life

It has flat out been an almighty long time since I sat down to write.

Anything. 

Well, anything not work related.  And even that is mostly someone else’s words to get someone else’s message out to someone else.

But for me to just let my words ramble, it’s been awhile.  Busy living life, I guess.

I bought a house.  That was a bit of a time for me.  Waiting to see if there was any possible way it could happen, waiting for the disappointment which I was sure was to come, waiting for the final straw that would break this camel’s back.

But all those black words were held back by some unseen Hand.

Instead, the mortgage was granted.  The money came through.  The miracle was known.

Then came the packing and the moving and the unpacking.

Well, the unpacking is still to be done.  I figure I have 30 years.  I can take my time.  No one else here seems to mind.

It’s different, this home ownership thing.  I like it, mostly.  I haven’t really been here much, truth be told.  I have work to do and people to see and relationships to build.  It’s a good season, but busy.

Spring has opened its door to us, too.  One day we had snow – lots of it, heavy, slushy wet and chilly snow.  Piled up hither and yon and making the world a dangerous place to drive.

The next day it was spring.  50 and then 60 and then 70 – almost 80 degrees.  We’re not even done with March, yet, and it’s practically summer out there.

But some seasons are like that.  You don’t expect them to end.  You think they are going to be here awhile and you kind of get used to them.  The crowded space gets comfortable.  The negatives surrounding you become bearable, even familiar enough that you don’t try to change them.

Then.

Suddenly.

The season changes.

You wake up and it’s 70 degrees and you own a house with a yard and a garage.  It doesn’t seem possible, this new season, but there it is.  You can’t deny the flowers budding.  You can shut your eyes, but when you open them, the sun will still be shining.

I want to walk on this water to test it out and see if it’s real, but I’m afraid if I push too far the curtain will fall and I’ll realize it was only a short act before the final scene. 

Maybe that’s what’s kept me from writing.  Putting the words on paper gives them credence and life. 

So.  Here they are.  The words that need life.

I own a house.  I have a college degree.  I have a car.  There are two books floating around the universe right now with my name on the cover as author.  Me.  Kris A. Newman.  My kids are grown and amazing.  I have a vast, eclectic collection of friends and kids and people I love.  I have memories of incredible, frightening, hilarious, amazing times through which I’ve lived.

I crossed the bridge.

The season changed.

I’m alive.

Thanks, God.

Ok.  Let’s start the next slice of time…..