Happy 2012!

I came upon this old poem of mine quite by accident and thought it was fitting to post for the new year. May all your dreams and wishes come true in 2012!

The Broken Fence

The broken fence
calls to me
‘round the bend
’midst the trees
shading the path.
It moves me to tears.
I don’t know why.

This imperfect scene
would lose its appeal
should the fence
be made whole
I don’t know why.

It gives me pause.
It gives me hope.
I don’t know why.

On my cloud shrouded road
littered with broken dreams
uncompleted work
so much to do
the broken fence
along the way
is all I need
today.
I think I know why.

© E.M. Ramos 5/26/2009

The Hurricane

The hours before Irene’s arrival were eerily quiet; I believe in the calm before the storm.

After so much worry and anxiety, it was as though nature was forcing us to rest before the big fight…. that she would win. And a poem came.

The Hurricane

Asleep, awaiting Irene,
dread drudged down deep
beneath a numbing calm.

Perhaps they’re wrong.
Perhaps she’ll pass us by.
Perhaps the storm of reckoning
is yet another day ….

Time, inscrutable time
races as slowly as death,
drawing incredibly near.

Irene will surely come
to claim her crown of victory
over mere mortals.

© E.M. Ramos 8/27/2011

Happily there was not much damage in our area. The media can sure make you crazy. Then again, it’s always wise to be prepared. As always, prayer helps. I kept thinking of the gospel of Jesus asleep in the boat and the apostles panicking. Help me, Lord!

December Dreams

In the midst of this cold Advent season, I feel grateful. Grateful for the peace and nourishment of Mariandale Retreat Center, for the cold clear nights when the stars dazzle my soul. Grateful for family celebrations - the happy birthday dinner for Tina last week. For the creativity and splendor of the Botanical Gardens Train Show and for the gift of sharing it with friends and family: Sister Pat and Terry, Angel, Kathy, Rich, Braden and Dylan.

And I am grateful for the gift of a poem which I share with you.

December Dreams

Am I the bright red leaf clinging
to the bare branch for dear life?
Why can’t I let go like Freddy the Leaf?

Am I the cold December sun sinking
fast into the dusk?
Why can’t I shine one more time?

Am I the silent Yuletide carol?
Why can’t I be the living bird
perched high atop the Christmas tree?

My spirit longs to soar free,
to snap the thoughts that chain me to
my self.

Oh let me rise on eagle’s wings
until You hold me in the palm of Your hand.

© E.M. Ramos 12/2/2010

Inspiration

What INSPIRES us? What is there that might give us a “kick start” to live life to the fullest?

Last Spring the New York Botanical Garden had a wonderful exhibit on Emily Dickinson, the 18th century poet. Throughout the blossoming gardens were excerpts from her poems. At the entrance to the Children’s Garden was this thought:

Be inspired. Inspired: to fill with enlivening emotion; to stimulate to action; to motivate; to breathe life into.

What fills us with “enlivening emotion”? What stimulates us to action? What motivates us? What breathes life into us? And what do we do with this inspiration? How do we take action? How does this “breath of life” manifest itself in our works, our relationships?

I get inspiration from some very familiar sources and some that are a bit atypical.

NATURE - especially my walks in the Botanical Garden, Central Park, the Bronx Zoo, and vacation trips (the Pacific Coast, the German Alps, Florence, and Death Valley, to name a few).

BOOKS - and not just spiritual books or poems, although I am big on Henri Nouwen and Anthony De Mello. I’ve discovered that even novels sometimes provide the words or phrase that set my heart spinning and my imagination soaring.

TV and MOVIES - Star Trek has some very “spiritual” episodes that have clarified real life mysteries for me in a real way and helped to deepen my faith.

PEOPLE - Throughout my life I have been blessed to know good, ordinary, and extraordinary people who have inspired me. Some older, some my age, and some much, much younger.

Inspiration has enabled me to write poetry, to paint, to design programs and projects in my work, to start a blog, to look at my relationships in a new way. The list goes on and on. And changes from year to year. As it does in each of our lives.

What INSPIRES you?

A Poem for Spring

It's Spring! And I get inspired just strolling amidst the fresh new green of the trees. The feel of Spring this year brought back a memory of a park near where I grew up. When I was a kid, I was convinced there were fairies and woodland creatures in Forest Park, it felt so magical. And a poem came to me, which I share with you.

Along for the Ride

Who rides inside of me?
This fine Spring day
When trees blush
Prettily in pink
And grin frizzy green.

Who rides inside? My Dad,
His love of nature
Rooted deep in me.

Who rides inside? My
Grandfather’s garden
Where once I dug in delight
And now each bud and bloom stir
Smiles inside my heart.

Who rides inside
My deep dark woods?
A Forest Park elf
Behind an old stone wall
Up to some sweet mischief.

I feel the brush
Of fairy wings
Dusting me with mystery.
I hear the hidden creatures
Call from some faraway
Place … or time …

Spring takes the stage again
With a trumpet blast
And a drum roll.
Winter’s dead dread is
But a distant dream.

Spring ignites the great
White Way of my life
And makes her abode
Deep inside … for the ride.

© E.M. Ramos 4/11/2010

Memories of Dad #4

Memories of Dad continued .....

My Dad was the quiet, observing person who loved nature and sunsets and clouds and trees. He would rise at 5 a.m. and drive hours to a lake or river and fish quietly all day. He liked a buddy with him, whether it was Uncle Bill or his cousin Gene or a friend from work or me or Kathy or one of the boys.

He was also the one who couldn’t watch a sentimental program on TV or hear a beautiful song on the “relaxing” station WPAT, without tears coming to his eyes. I’m like him in that way, the least thing gets me all choked up and teary eyed. Mom never cried at a movie; at least she never let me see her cry.

Dad was concerned with our education but not in the same way as Mom: he was proud when we brought home good marks but I think it was more of a vindication. Dad was a high school dropout, while his oldest brother was a college graduate. Dad never got over this and would always let me know if he thought I was getting boastful or conceited about my academic achievements. And when I was in college, he resented my “know-it-all” attitude and took it personally. He must have “hurt” from his relationship with his older brother. So our marks must have proved in some way that Johnny Lovas was not so dumb after all!

Dad was a powerful teacher in his own quiet way. He taught me a lot about faith and beauty and constancy. He was the ultimate responsible person. He was the cool head in a crisis. He never panicked, you felt so safe with Dad. He could fix anything - around the house, and more importantly, when Jeff had all his accidents and Mom was hysterical, Dad knew just what to do.

Dad never missed Sunday Mass but he would go himself to the early Mass. He didn’t like crowds and often shared that he thought worship should be a private affair. Every night, he sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed, and said his prayers silently before going to sleep. His favorite spot to think about God was out in God’s creation. Dad had a picture of a Mass being offered on the shores of Jackson Lake in the Teton Mountains when he was in the CCC’s. That was the perfect church for Dad.

Memories of Dad #3

Last Tuesday, February 16th was the 45th anniversary of my Dad’s death. I think I will continue my memories of him by starting with the basics.

My father, John James Lovas, Jr. (12/28/1909 to 2/16/1965)

Dad was tall, about six foot, well-built until middle age when he got a bit flabby around the middle. But he was so-o-o handsome, with his wavy dark hair (later silver at the temples), his piercing gray eyes that always seemed to be squinting, his long nose and perfect mouth. The pipe, perennially perched at the side of the mouth, was the final touch. It gave him a peaceful look and comforted me greatly. I thought he would never lose that terrifying temper while he had that pipe in his mouth.

Dad was the opposite of Mom in many ways. While her walk was hurried, her appearance a bit disheveled, her manner spontaneous, my father’s actions were slow, deliberate, carefully organized and planned, never in a rush.

His walk was slow, with long powerful, unhurried steps. The only time I remember him running was to pull Kathy and me from the lake when we almost drowned. I used to wait for him to come home from work - he’d walk, straight and powerful, up the block. I would run up to him, but he never altered his pace.

Mom was always in a rush, always last minute, often late. Dad was early to bed, early to rise, probably never late to anything in his life, absent from work only twice - for severe poison ivy and a burst appendix. He was on his way to work the day he died of a heart attack.

Dad went about his work on the job and at home in an organized, cool and deliberate manner. He planned a project at his workbench, which was always neat, clean and impeccably ordered. Everything in its place. Even the screws and nails in the baby food jars whose caps were nailed to the workbench so he could unscrew the right jar as he needed it. I think the only one of us kids to take after him is Kathy.

His appearance was always just right. Not a hair out of place. Well-groomed. He never left a piece of clothing on a chair - everything was hung up, in its place.

His speech was reminiscent of the Pennsylvania twang of Erie where he grew up. I didn’t realize this till later in life when I heard some people from Pennsylvania talk and realized how much their accent sounded like Dad’s. His voice was a deep bass, very masculine. He usually spoke slowly and calmly but that temper would cause a roar that could be heard “all the way down the block”.

That Hungarian temper was the tragedy of this gentle man because it could flare up so suddenly and unexpectedly. It made me fear him, which is sad because I loved him so and because he was really such a teddy bear at heart.

In fact, I often compared Dad to a bear. When he hugged me (till I thought I would smother) it was truly a “bear” hug. He was a big old lovable bear, ferocious at times, funny, lumbering, overwhelming, dangerous, but oh, so cute.

TO BE CONTINUED ---

National Parks - The Best Idea

A few weeks back, I watched all six episodes of Ken Burns PBS epic on the national parks. Many parts of this series relate to Michael Moore’s film "Capitalism" (See my blog below). "National Parks" covered history, conservation, natural science and the politics of launching and maintaining our magnificent National Parks System. So many Americans were involved in that struggle: ordinary citizens and wealthy businessmen, politicians and conservationists, young and old. A true coalition. Some like John Muir faced personal attacks in the quest to save our wilderness areas of incredible beauty from blatant exploitation.

The war is never won. If you lose a battle, that valley – like the one in Yosemite – is lost forever; if you win, you know that future generations will have to fight all over again. Greed goes on.



One episode focused on the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC’s), one of FDR’s New Deal programs to help America out of the Great Depression. The CCC was aimed at helping young unemployed men, and at the same time, sprucing up the National Parks System. It gave them structure, an army barracks style discipline, and job training. They fought forest fires, built ranger stations, planted trees. For many, it was their first glimpse of the natural wonders of the West and they developed a deep love of nature. The interviews with three CCC veterans were poignant. But I know personally how great this program was because my Dad was in the CCC’s and told us how it changed his life.

And here’s where the National Parks series touches on the "Capitalism" film. The CCC was the kind of "win-win" project I had hoped the president would promote to get us out of the current economic decline. Not a bail out of the villains who got us into trouble in the first place! FDR’s New Deal put Americans to work and helped the nation in innumerable ways. Why haven’t we learned this history lesson?

By the way, you can still catch re-runs of the Ken Burns National Parks series on PBS. It’s worth a watch.

A Gift from all the rain

We have had lots of rain this summer. I am a true believer in the "every cloud has a silver lining" theory. Both in nature and in life. Last week as I sat outside the Botanical Gardens café, under their awning, a summer storm rose up out of what had been a sunny sky a few moments before. And I received the gift of a poem.

Summer Storm



I love to watch a summer storm
- from a safe dry space, of course -
Pounding the pavement.
Creating instant rivers.
Filling the awning above
me to drip-right-throughness.



In just a blink the sun
regains control. Its steamy
breath sends will-‘o-the-wisps
slithering skyward.
Brooding clouds evaporate.
Rain-made rivers disappear.
The path is dry and I can
walk embraced by cool breezes,
inhaling grassy air,
holding the storm in my heart.


© E.M. Ramos 7/9/2009

Lessons I've Learned

In one of her blogs last week, my daughter posed an interesting quiz on learning and self-education and challenged her readers to take the quiz themselves.

What is a memory you have of learning with your Mom?

My Mom took a very active role in our education. She "heard" our lessons every night. My memory improved dramatically under my Mom’s tutelage because if we did not recite the catechism or history answers back to her "perfectly", we were sent off to study "until you know it!" My sister can attest to many homework papers that were torn up because she had crossed out or erased. OK in fairness, a few times she had erased holes in the paper. Maybe my success in school was a direct result of Mom’s encouragement, because she would not settle for less. She taught me to always strive to do my best.

I also learned many other life lessons from her. Like how to be a savvy shopper, hunting out bargains way before it became stylish. I will never forget the trip in-between dress racks to a remote corner in Bloomies to find a lone hidden rack of sales items. Now in those days, it was pretty awesome for us to find something affordable in Bloomingdale’s but Mom managed to find bargains in the classiest places. Just to negotiate her way around that store was admirable to me, who, like many others, finds it a major challenge just to find the exit out of Bloomies!

What is a memory you have of learning with your Dad?

On the meandering car vacations, which brought American history and geography alive for me, my Dad taught me a love of traveling, visiting new places and reading maps! I was not geographically challenged, as many Americans are today, because I had personally visited capitals of states or spent many car hours searching for them on road maps.

Dad also taught me to appreciate and reverence nature. He would point out interesting cloud formations and instruct me to take pictures out of the car window as we traveled the highways to some vacation destination. He never failed to point out sunsets, whether on a fishing expedition upstate or looking out the window from his easy chair. We spent many quiet hours in row boats on lakes, waiting for fish to bite. Now I realize I was learning to observe nature; in a way it was my first lesson in meditation. And it felt so peaceful.

What kind of education do you think you gave yourself?

Like my daughter, I loved to draw when I was a kid. It certainly spurred a lifelong love for art. In school, I did not enjoy history – it seemed to be all about dates and wars. Ho Hum. So after I graduated from college, I took on a project to find out about everyday life in other times. I was especially interested in medieval times and Barbara Tuchman’s classic "A Distant Mirror" got me started. I discovered that history was very interesting indeed and found a different perspective. I especially enjoyed the book by Bonnie S. Anderson and Judith P. Zinsser, two Columbia University professors. "A History of Their Own" approached history from a woman’s point of view, not chronologically but categorically: Women of the Fields, Women of the Churches, Women of the Castles and Manors, etc. I learned that women did yield power even way back when and my love for history was born. As a result, I have a sizable collection of history books, especially Medieval History focusing on everyday life. Any one can get an education by reading. Just ask my granddaughter, Marina!

Winter Poems

To celebrate this balmy January day, I will share one of my favorite winter poems.

A Walk in the Warm Winter Wood

Springtime in January
feels like an old friend
clasping me in her arms.

Shivering stillness drapes me
in velvety pine while
silver tongued twigs
beckon in the moonlit sun.

River paths come alive
with gray radiance,
bursting to spew secrets
I'm not yet ready to receive.

Not in January.
Not in winter.
Not yet.
Let's wait awhile longer.
Just be still.

Too soon the sun grows cold,
chilling me to my feet.

As I hurry away
stillness slips gently
from my shoulders
like a lost scarf.

copyright E. Ramos 1/11/2000

Good "Old" Summer

I wrote the following article many years ago for a parish newsletter to the homebound. And wouldn't you know! It's just how I've been feeling lately.

Good "Old" Summer

The season of summer sometimes reminds me of the season of late life --- old age! Just as the heat of summer weighs us down heavily and demands that we slow down, so too the losses of aging weigh us down and slow us up.

When I pause to rest and enjoy the lazy days of summer, I notice nature at peak productivity. There’s almost too much beauty to take in. We need time to see the butterfly on the blade of grass or the tiny flowers growing out of the hollow of the towering oak. Summer is God’s gift to us, an invitation to hang out with His creation and praise Him in His glory!

Can it be much the same with our experience of “old age”? When we need to walk slower because of arthritis, is this an opportunity to see what we once missed as we hurried on by? When friends and loved ones are no longer with us, we are left with our memories, our life stories. And perhaps, like with summer’s bounty, there is too much to take in all at once. One of the blessings of later life is time --- time to consider our own unique story, time to heal the hurts and celebrate the joys, time to grow in wisdom and to simply “hang out” with God.

Ministers to the homebound have a special role to play in this process of life review. They can listen to the stories of those they visit, without judging, fixing or giving unasked for advice. It helps to have a caring companion as we review our life journey with all its pain and laughter, triumphs and sorrows.

And as we discover that throughout our lives, God has been there holding us, supporting us and loving us, even when we were least aware of it, we thank Him for His gift of life.

Summer Concerts

Summer concerts, especially on a warm July evening, are among my most treasured memories. Last night, my husband and I attended a Waterlily concert at the Botanical Gardens. At first I was disappointed because the threatening weather forced it indoors. "I come to this place to be outside!" And I love the Gardens so much, it's wonderful when I can hang out there as late as possible. However, the concert, albeit inside, turned out to be a treat, featuring Renaissance era viols and recorders. It felt like I was at the Renaissance Fair.

Some years back, the New York Philharmonic held concerts on the Garden lawn. We would take a blanket and supper, sit on the grass, and listen to music of the masters, sometimes accompanied by overhead jets. We even got to see Shakespeare plays and operas. Being lucky enough to live in New York, I've also enjoyed the summer evening concerts at Central Park.

It seems that this tradition - summer evenings + music + the great outdoors - cuts across most cultures and is a unifying opportunity. There's also a magical feeling attached to the experience for me. I think it comes from the times, many years ago, when my mom took me to the summer Seuffert band concerts in Forest Park, Queens. The band leader was my piano teacher and inherited his position from his father. It was my introduction to John Philip Sousa and classical pieces, along with popular music of the time. The magic was that I truly believed that fairies lived in Forest Park. Maybe they do!

August First

Many of my poems are inspired by nature. The one I am sharing today came to me during one of my daily walks in Central Park, New York City. And it's another of my "summer" poems from the year 2000.

August First

The worms are drowning
in the earth
and creep up on the path to die
where I
step softly, striving not
to crush them underfoot.

The heron swerves and
dives across
the tranquil skin of Turtle Pond,
dipping in and out
of fertile waters
while I
pause to hear
an unfamiliar cry
buried deep within
the leafy overgrowth.

Who is this new bird
that teases my heart
on a mysty August
morn?
Copyright Eleanor M. Ramos 08/01/2000

Longwood Gardens

I love exploring nature, wherever I find myself. Last weekend my husband, Angel and I visited Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square, PA with my sister and brother-in-law, Kathy and Rich. We met our cousin Janice there. Longwood features scrumptious, colorful gardens, most with fountains. There are wooded paths, meadows, waterfalls and a medieval Bell Tower. (Rapunzel! Rapunzel!) The conservatories are breathtaking. For anyone who appreciates art and nature, it is worth the trip - longwoodgardens.org.

My favorite garden is the Italian Water Garden; it has a European feel, dozens of dancing fountains and water cascading down a staircase. I especially love the earthen jars that seemingly breathe water out and over their outer skins, almost like their innermost being was melting outwards. Maybe it's a good analogy of letting God's love for us work out of us towards others. Anyway, it felt great sharing Longwood, especially with first time visitors, Angel and Rich. I like being alone in nature but there is something to be said for being in a beautiful place with others - loved ones, friends, even strangers. You always get a new perspective through another pair of eyes.

And so it was a peaceful, happy trip, despite the encroaching heat wave. We enjoyed a delicious meal at Longwood's fine dining restaurant. My grandson Chase and I agree that eating out is always part of the experience! To close out the luckiest day of the century (07/07/07), we saw the fountain show, complete with colored lights and classical music.

It gives me hope when the extremely rich, in this case Pierre Dupont, use their wealth to conserve a place of natural beauty, create a setting for artistic expression and then share it with the rest of us considerably less affluent folk.

The Gift of Nature

Nature is inspiring, renewing and healing for me. I love being out of doors, in beautiful places. Every weekend finds me walking in the New York Botanical Gardens or the Bronx Zoo. And now that I'm retired, I get there during the week too. When I was working full time in the city, I would get off the express bus at the Met on 84th Street and 5th Avenue and walk through Central Park to my job on East 55th Street.

These sacred places of nature have inspired most of my poems. During difficult times (transition again!) I have found consolation just walking and being in nature. I once shared with my friend Sister P. that I could not understand how some people are so unmoved by sunsets, mountain views, flowers, etc. And she told me that my appreciation of the beauty of nature was a special gift. What a lovely way of looking at it. How grateful I am for this gift.