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The last few nights, an owl has perched in a tree outside my bedroom window. I don't know what kind of owl it is--I'm not an expert--but I do know it's not a screech owl. It's call is very subdued, the sort of who who who I learned from watching Saturday morning cartoons and campy horror movies. Rather than being a distraction, the owl's song is very relaxing. I've grown to expect it in the waning hours of my waking day. And each time I first hear it for the evening, I smile. A smile in the dark is a precious thing. It is the most genuine of smiles. It can have no forced or ulterior reason to be. It is, I think, among the deepest-seated of my emotions--coming unbidden, a pure involuntary reaction to something pleasant. Perhaps it’s a kind of joy, unspoiled and untainted, as if the best part of me were awakened for a moment and I allowed free rein over my feelings.  (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi Although I am an avid nature photographer, I've never seen an owl in the wild. For some outdoor photographers, myself included, a good photo of an owl is like finding the Holy Grail. I've often been tempted to rouse myself from my warm and dark room and step outside to see if I might catch a glimpse of it. But I haven’t, and I think I won’t. Part of the allure of the owl outside my window is my smile in the dark. The image of the owl--my imagination--is part of the magic of the moment. I wonder if actually seeing my night visitor would spoil things. So I am content when I hear it to listen and to allow its song to replace annoying or fretful memories of the day. My mind and soul are attentive to the silence between the hoots, as if the invisible God had sent the unseen owl to preside over my night prayers. Gratias tibi ago, Domine!*  (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi *I give you thanks, Lord! (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi
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Holy Saturday in the church. Empty, bare, stripped, dark. Even the “Jesus-is-in” light is out, He’s in repose, somewhere. Cold, dark and even dank Except for the faintest lingering whiff of incense, A hint of sweetness, smoky and warm, But only in my mind’s eye, More a memory than a sense. This is my Holy Saturday soul, Empty, bare, stripped, dark. No Liturgy, no sacrament, No clinking, billowing incense-prayer, Just the faintest lingering whiff, The remains of what was, More a memory than a sense. But even the memory is fading, And nothing I do entices it back.  (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi And tomorrow is Easter. Will I wake the dawn? I want to, but I can’t find my lyre, my harp. They are asleep somewhere. Awake! More of a plea that a shout, Its echo fading with the incense, More a memory than a sense, My Holy Saturday soul. (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi  (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi With apologies to Herman Melville, Call me Ivan. When I retired last year, I did so with fears and misgivings that, I am told, often accompany a dramatic change in life. I did, however, have hopes and dreams and the beginning of a plan to turn them into reality.  (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi But new realities, all the more harsh because I could never have anticipated them, dashed those plans. Now I'm faced with grieving losses and accepting new realities. I feel much like Ivan, the middle brother of Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. His hopes and dreams were smashed. The pain of plans gone badly awry resulted in a kind of depression:
 (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi To go on means kindling new hopes and dreaming new dreams. Given my grief, disappointment, and fear of the unknown, my self-confidence, not very strong to begin with, is shaky. But I find hope in, of all things, my fireplace: The fire is noisy tonight. Deep inside the old, dry logs Long-dormant sap explodes Again and again Sending embers crashing into the screen And sparks careening up the chimney. The boiling sap entertains me But it makes me think. I wonder, Lord, After more than sixty four years, Is there any dormant sap in me, Waiting for a fire? God, I hope I have a few explosions left. But I won't, Without your fire. Kindle me.  I take great comfort in the belief that the author and finisher of my faith also meets me in my hopes and dreams. We meet. I learn. We move on.  (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi (c) 2017 Larry Pizzi
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Larry Pizzi50 years of photographs and 35 years of keeping a commonplace book. Archives
March 2018
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