splendidspring2013

The Small, Still VoiceDiscover Beauty Give Strong The Art Around YouOff the Beaten Path

VOL. 2 NO. 2

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SPLENDID CONTENT

InsideWhat’sa peek at

Look down, look ahead. Dismiss threats, discover beauty ............. 2Off the Beaten Path: A writer's journey........................................ 4Give Strong: What it really means to be a hero ..........................10The Art Around You...................................................................14The Small, Still Voice ................................................................20Goods & Services...................................................................... 22

Splendid Magazine Volume 2, Number 2 Spring 2013

Our journeys. Heroic or contemplative,alive with music or still in prayer,a lifetimeor a dawn long. No matter — they representour true selves and speak to our personalpower to celebrate the good in life. - Amy George Rush

We welcome your participation: Contributeideas, share personal stories and artwork, andinteract with fellow Splendid readers online.We are reading comments on our website,www.MakeLifeSplendid.com. Connect withthe Splendid community via Facebook, too.

EDITOR’S NOTE

Publisher: Jean Lopez

Editor: Amy George Rush

Contributing Editor: Suzy Farren

Design: Jean Lopez

Contributing Photographers: Larry EmersonAdam WilliamsAnnette Wilson

Contributing Writers: Larry EmersonKaren GlinesDiane Guerra

Advertising Information:[email protected]

Printed on recycled paper.

© 2013 Dancing Dog Productions

Share the WealthDo you have something splendid you’d like to share? Contact us at editor@ makelifesplendid.com

Splendid magazine is committed to celebrating the good things in life through engaging stories and compellingimages that illustrate the extraordinary qualities of ordinary people and everyday life. We believe characteristicslike courage, tenacity, resourcefulness, creativity, resiliency, generosity, kindness, compassion, perseverance,tolerance, flexibility, etc., are not reserved for a special few but are available to all of us all the time — if wechoose to embrace them. We hope you’ll find Splendid an inspiring testimony to this reality.

On the cover: Journalist Karen Glines shares her story (page 4) of self-discovery that led to a book about Missouri’smost off-the-beaten path treasures. Pictured is Missouri’s state flower, the White Hawthorn Blossom.Photo by Rex Rover.

4 10 14

2 • www.makelifesplendid.com

SPLENDID AWARENESS

“Keep your head down,” my dad would sternly instruct my childhood self as we hiked our familyfarm in Jefferson County, Missouri. “Keep your eyes focused on the path ahead of your feet

at all times!” I was highly trained — still am — to spot copperheads, camouflaged holes that twist ankles,poisonous vines. Threats, my father made me well aware, lurk everywhere. Foresight is survival.

On a recent trip to southwest Florida’s Sanibel Island, I found myself again always looking down, myinternal dad-dialogue muffled only slightly by breaking waves. But this time, I was looking down forbeauty — beauty that I didn’t want to miss a glimpse of. A perfect lightening welk shell, a scrap of a sanddollar, a molted casing of a horseshoe crab. As my little boys and I canvased the island’s beaches, I foundmyself yelling to them, “Look! Look down here! A starfish!” “A hermit crab!” “A live conch!” They’dscamper over and we’d crouch in a huddle to study it, thrilled by its very existence. Here, foresight is a delight. – Amy George Rush

Photo by Larry Emerson, www.theartaroundyou.com

Look down, look ahead. Dismiss threats, discover beauty.

www.makelifesplendid.com • 3


SPLENDID JOURNEY

Beaten PathOff the

By Karen Glines

a writer’s journey


of the new centurythat I ventured on a personal project rather unexpectedly.Enjoying the quaintness of small towns with an old-fashionedfeel, I heard about a “special offer” at a Western Massachusettsinn. The deal included several nights of lodging and guidedhiking of the Appalachian Trail in the region that includeda journey to Mt. Greylock — the highest point in Massachusetts.“Hmmm,” I thought. “I’m not a pro by any means in hikingbut love the freshness of the outdoors and that part of thecountry.” After questioning the innkeepers, I made thereservation wondering how this trip would evolve. Havingtwo sons on their own and an independent husband, I ven-tured out solo for a long weekend. I had taken to heart thatmanaging a family is one of the best — yet unrecognized

as so — of all professions, but still wasn’t really certain orsecure in what the future held.

On that weekend, I visited a new museum that had recentlyopened in North Adams — MASS MoCA, MassachusettsMuseum of Contemporary Art — along with the WilliamsCollege Museum of Art and the Sterling and Francine ClarkArt Institute in Willliamstown — not far away from NorthAdams. And I signed up for the trek to Mt. Greylock. It turnsout that the “group” organized to make the hike ended upbeing a group of one — me — led by an amazing youngcouple in their 30s — Ed and Shelley. I could tell from theget-go they weren’t going to treat me as a middle-agedweakling, yet also not as a carefree 20-year old. Good thing,for although in the best shape of my life then from regular

It was at the beginning

PHOTO: HANDMADE PICTURES

workouts, being a city girl, I wasn’t familiar with the realruggedness of the forest. Maybe it’s because my father’sname was “Ed” that Ed, the guide, seemed extra kind andcaring — traits of my father. Regardless, I made the hikeand loved every minute of it. Reaching the top of the mountainfelt as though I had made a trip to Mt. Kilimanjaro, forthis was indeed a personal victory of sorts in more waysthan one. I had hoped it would give me strength for futuredirection in my life. It accomplished that and much more.

This singular success inspired me to hike the trail ineach of the remaining seasons. And so it happened overthe next two years or so that Ed, Shelley, and I, who hadbecome friends by this time, hiked in summer, fall, and

winter. I experienced staying overnight in a log cabin witha real “old-fashioned” stove and in another season campedin a tent. We saw beautiful wildflowers in spring, smelledthe clear air particularly strong in summer, saw a black bearin the fall, and snowshoed in winter. Endurance, patience,tenacity. It was splendid.

Little did I know that my journey had really just begun.In 2000, I heard about a project founded by artist BillyoO’Donnell. He had plans to travel throughout Missouriand paint on location — or en plein air. He and I met andtalked for just a few minutes to learn that we could worktogether. He was similar to the Pied Piper in that artistsacross the state would gather to paint with him, develop-ing a camaraderie that was both educational and inspiring.

And so I conducted over 300 interviews of artists acrossthe state, took pictures, and told stories for the St. LouisArtists’ Guild’s website project, “Artists Along the KatyTrail.” Artists and viewers of the website would come to locations across the state to participate or simply watchcreation happen. A local St. Louis high school used the site for its art classes.

During this time, I was determined to attend writingworkshops to sharpen my writing skills. And at a workshopat Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, the idea for abook, Painting Missouri: The Counties en Plein Air, cameabout. Billyo would serve as the artist and I as the writer tocreate what became a seven-year project. From 2001 through

2008, he painted on location each of Missouri’s 114 countiesand the city of St. Louis, while I researched and wrote histor-ical descriptions on the same regions, secured a publisher,and kept the momentum going. The energetic endeavortook off and became far more than we ever imagined. In2009, the Missouri Humanities Council granted our bookthe Governor’s Award, and the exhibit of 115 original oilpaintings is still traveling throughout the state accompaniedby presentations. From hikes to highest points in a state, tobecoming an author of a book and receiving a major stateaward, this too was all about endurance, patience, tenacity— and more.

The “more” includes the curiosity that came about fromall of these journeys. How many more hidden jewel museums


Bales of hay dot a farm in St. Charles County, Missouri

Opposite page: Early morningaerial view of farm fields andtrees in mid-west Missouri

PHOTO: KAREN GLINES

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Eastern Bluebird, Missouri’sstate bird

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across the country await visitors? What other projects lieahead for writers and artists? How many small-town USAlocations crave exploration? It didn’t take long to learnthat there was so much to see beyond the beaten path ofInterstate 70 from St. Louis to Kansas City.

My research and writing thankfully forced me to turnmy car off that boring, concrete path and onto winding,cattle-filled, serene country roads. Wildflowers blowing onthe prairie in early spring, the greener-than-green trees ofMissouri summers, hay stacked neatly in the fall along oldfarms, and newly fallen snow outlining architecturally per-fect historic towns throughout the state are all reminiscentof those long drives to research and learn about the statewhere I was born.

Some locations stand out. In Dent County, near Salem,there is a segment of the Trail of Tears — the White RiverTrace Conservation Area. Here you feel surrounded by theCherokee, who were forced to leave their land by the In-dian Removal Act of 1830. Whether alone or with a group,

I have felt their presence eachand every time I am there. It remains an eerily peaceful yet somber region.

I had heard about the wildhorses in southern Missouri’sShannon County and clung tothe concept of the horses releasedduring the Depression due tofarmers’ inability to care forthem. Where were they? Howdid they look? Could I findthem? One trip to do just thatwas unsuccessful, until I followeddirections from a man in an oldtruck — those country-type directions: “Go a little forward,

make a right at the rickety mailbox, and then a quick leftabout a mile near the barn.” It worked. There they were,majestically present in all their glory.

In northern Missouri, the son of slaves and the first AfricanAmerican Catholic priest was baptized in a quaint churchin Ralls County — Saint Peter’s Catholic Church, also knownas Brush Creek. Father Augustine Tolton attended seminaryand was ordained in Rome due to the racial prejudice inAmerica at the time. Next to Brush Creek Church are twocemeteries — one for slaves with simple crosses and theother with engraved stones for townspeople. The grounds -keeper’s wife explained how she hears the slaves singingtheir hymns. Like the Cherokee experience, it is reminiscentof embarrassing periods in our nation’s history.

Walt Disney’s Dreaming Tree, the tree where Walt sat asa boy and dreamed of cartoon characters like Mickey Mouse,is located in Linn County’s town of Marceline. When webegan the book project, the tree was stately. But time, as ittends to do, is taking its toll on the tree with lightning andwear virtually tearing it down. Still the image of Walt as aboy, under the tree and dreaming of the characters we allknow too well, remains vivid.

Over the many seasons of the past years, thanks to myhikes to Mt. Greylock and my work on Painting Missouri,I’ve grown to learn how to appreciate the things in life thatmatter. I’ve signed up for the unexpected, turned off thebeaten path, and delved more deeply into experiences thathave transformed my perspective. Simply put, I’ve learnedto live and celebrate the good in life that is all around.Maybe I had tried for years, but I needed to take thosechallenging journeys, both far from home and as close asthe neighboring county, to become stronger and chart thecourse for an even more splendid future.

Karen Glines is a journalist and the author of Painting Missouri: The Counties en Plein Air (www.paintingmissouri.com). She takes pride in working on projects that make a difference.

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Billyo O’Donnell’s painting of Walt Disney’s dreaming tree locatedin Disney’s boyhood home of Marceline, Missouri

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Above: Curious cows inOsage County, Missouri Left: Wild horses can befound in Shannon County,Missouri

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SPLENDID GIVING

Give Strong:What it really means to be a heroStory by Amy George Rush | Photos by Adam Williams

"The beauty and charm of selfless loveand service should not die away from

the face of this earth. The world shouldknow that a life of dedication is possible,

that a life inspired by love and serviceto humanity is possible."

~ Mata Amritanandamayi, or “Amma” spiritual leader, philanthropist, conservationist


y five-year-old recently asked me, “What’s ahero? Is that the same thing as a superhero, likeSpiderman, or is that something else?” I smiled,

and then I told him about his great-grandmother. Maria Sansone was conceived in Sicily and born in the

United States to immigrant parents charting a new life in anew land. She entered kindergarten knowing not one wordof English but excelled at school so adeptly as to skip secondgrade. She was a May Queen and music major at FontbonneUniversity, and it was during her studies there that she metmy grandfather. Instead of becoming the New York Cityconcert pianist that she had once dreamed she might, shebecame Mrs. Marie Zucchero — loyal, supportive wife, andloving mother to four.

Years later, when Marie’s mother began suffering gravelyfrom Alzheimer’s, Marie moved her into Bethesda Dilworth

nursing home in Webster Groves. Marie and her sister Sarahtook daily turns visiting, feeding, and otherwise comfortingtheir mother. On one of those visits, Marie sat down at thehome’s piano and started playing old Italian tunes familiarto her mother. She noticed her mother listening — andthen perking up — and then gently moving and quietlysinging along. Her reactions were uncharacteristic givenher dementia and therefore all the more beautiful anddeeply touching.

That one visit at the piano morphed into regular visitsat the piano. Word — and the sound of music — spreadthroughout the home, and soon volunteer singers joinedMarie. The hodge-podge group of musicians made a com-mitment to perform together weekly, every Thursday.“The Ding-a-Lings” were born.

That was 36 years ago.

The Ding-a-Lings perform everyThursday at Bethesda Dilworth M


Every Thursday for 36 years — barring only the occasionalillness or minor injury — Marie has played the piano forBethesda’s residents. She schedules her entire life, even vacations, to protect Thursdays, Ding-a-Ling days; they aresacrosanct. Over the years, her singers have come and gone;many have passed away, and their funerals make her verysad. But Marie has become even more deeply rooted to thepiano bench, a constant fixture there for almost four decades.

The residents sing along, clap along, nod, and smile asshe plays. They react to the music in animated, emotionalways that defy their diagnoses. They become young again— even if only in their minds. Simply put, they delight inMarie’s music. It is a simple thing, to play the piano for others,but it is a beautiful thing. She did not go to Carnegie Hallas she had once dreamed she might, but she didn’t need to.As the matriarch of the Ding-a-Lings, she has affected morelives in deeper, more meaningful ways than she wouldhave otherwise.

She’s 91 now — a great-grandmother to five. She’s olderthan many of her audience members. Still, she lives by herselfand drives to and from her weekly gig. She practices for herperformances at the Steinway in her living room, a gift fromher father, who lived to be 90; her mother lived to be 93.She spends time every week reviewing song lists and creat-ing new line-ups for holidays and special occasions. Simplyput, she doesn’t stop. She never has.

That, son, is what a hero is. She is one of mine, no doubtabout it.

Like Mama Dia, my heroes are sensible ones, predictablemaybe in that they are folks I personally know and respect— but unconventional in that they don’t fall into our society’scommonly embraced definition of hero. They aren’t athletes,billionaires or politicians; they aren’t movie stars or pop stars;they aren’t “famous.” But perhaps they should be. Perhapsthe world should know about these everyday folks. As anantidote to antiheroes — to the narcissism, deceit, and greedthat runs amok in front of all of us all too frequently.

For years, I meant to read Lance Armstrong’s autobiog-raphy, “It’s Not About the Bike.” Like many around the world,I was drawn to his story — his self-spun narrative of resilienceand dedication, of triumph over life-threatening illness andother seemingly insurmountable challenges. Now we knowthat narrative is a lie. A total fraud of unimaginable scope.For instead of reading Armstrong’s memoir, I ended upreading the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency’s report on his decadesof drug use, cheating, and cruelty. Page after page of gory

details left me surprised, stunned,and sickened.

For decades, Armstrong dupedeveryone from elite athletes tocancer patients and cancer sur-vivors to five-year olds buckingtheir training wheels for the firsttime. I’m thankful I never spentmy money on his book and mytime reading it. I’m thankful I still have those few dollars andfew hours to call my own. I’mthankful that I never called himmy hero, and I am heartbrokenfor so many who did.

The fall of Armstrong is a gift,in a way, to our society. Egos likehis are so huge as to block thesun from shining on deserving,good souls — those among usinspired by love to be of serviceto one another. With Armstrongand his ilk out of the way, we can bring to light real, true,everyday heroes. They are common folk, in that their namesare not engraved on the Walk of Fame. Rather they walkamong us and without the help of doping or endorsements— and they don’t shoot webs from their palms or wear capesemblazoned with their initials. They are everyday people,yes, but they are extraordinary in that they share, in a purelyselfless way. They serve. They lift up others’ needs; they putothers first. And it is in this dedicated, committed, unfailingsharing — this service — that we are inspired to becomebetter people ourselves. Not faster or wealthier, or morewinning or more famous. Better.

My grandma has made me a better person. In her dedi-cated love and service, she has taught me to live my gifts.Whatever your gifts are, discover and uncover them, nurturethem, share them with the world. Live your gifts. Live strongand above all, no matter what, give strong. Give — and thengive more. Keep on giving, and never stop. Of course it’s notabout the bike. It never was. It’s all about the giving.

Amy George Rush is a freelance writer from St. Louis, Mo. She lives and works to tell stories, which she believes are thequintessential human experience, with great care and feeling.E-mail her at [email protected].

Mrs. Marie Zucchero

Live strong give strong.and above all, no matter what,


ArtAround YouT he

IT HAPPENS EVERY MORNING. I brew our coffee, wake up a little, dawnbreaks and I get the paper. Usually in that order.

What also happens is that magically, when I open my door, everything is alittle different from the day before. Light, shadows, flora and fauna have changed.I often get my camera and capture what Mother Nature has decided to present.

You can travel to the sea, mountains, deserts and far away places to see beauty,but you also can enjoy the extraordinary things that surround us every day ofour lives.

Stop for a minute; look closely and then look again, this time in a differentway. What you’ll see is The Art Around You. It’s everywhere.

By Larry Emerson

SPLENDID ARTIST

Larry Emerson’s images capture the extraordinary essences of his subjects — frommicroscopic plant life to large corporations, bustling cities, and entire ecosystems.He believes that art is everywhere — and that the ordinary is anything but. Visithis website, www.theartaroundyou.com.


SPLENDID SILENCE

After my son’s second deployment to Iraq, whichincluded the horrific battle of Fallujah in 2004, I went on a long retreat. St. Benedict’s Monastery is located in a valley high in the Rockies in Snowmass,Colorado. The snow-capped Mount Sopris dominates the landscape, makingthe monastery look like a tiny piece on a Monopoly board.

The retreat center is nestled in the hills overlooking the valley, with awinding path to the monastery below. The scene is breathtaking: sage brushand scrub oak sharing the space with aspen, pine and cottonwood trees, andlupine, larkspur, phlox, bluebells, wild daisies and sunflowers providing thecolor. I halfway expected Julie Andrews to run up with her arms outstretched,singing, “The hills are alive …”

I have always loved retreats. When my children were little and I wasraising them alone, I was so mind-numbingly weary that the retreat housebecame my Emerald City. I was Dorothy, running through the poppy fieldsjust to get there a moment sooner.

As my car would pass through the main entrance of the retreat center, I would let out a heavy breath, my shoulders would drop, my grip on thesteering wheel would ease. I would enter the quiet foyer, drop my bags onthe floor, and smile. Silence. Peace.

I loved the tiny retreat rooms, so sparse and utilitarian. A single bed, achair, a lamp, a desk. No television, no radio, no newspaper, no telephone.No distractions, no expectations. So different from my regular life.

At longer silent retreats, we did not speak, even at meals. Each day, wewould do three hours of Centering Prayer — a Christian meditation — intwenty- or thirty-minute sessions, beginning early in the morning.

I would always feel a deep bond with others who were on retreat, eventhough we spoke to each other only at dinner on the first evening. Throughhours and hours of silent prayer over many days, we came to know eachother in a different way, on a different level. I had no idea what they did for

a living, what their family was like or how they hadgrown up, but when the retreat was over, I didknow them — at a deeper place than I understood.

The retreats were a gift. When I returned home,I coped better with difficult situations, was less

judgmental of others, and was more peace-ful, enjoying silence and solitude. I hadbeen told once that the spiritual journeywas like the peeling of an onion, layerby layer, until we reach the core of our

true selves, the part of us that is most likeGod. Every retreat I attended felt like

another layer of the onion hadbeen peeled away.

Retreats are about gettingaway from the stress and

strain of life, but they also are about moving toward the small, still voiceof God. Thomas Keating, a Trappist monk who lived at the monastery inSnowmass, said that silence is the language God speaks, “and everythingelse is a bad translation.”

Several days into that retreat in Snowmass following my son’s deploy-ment, I had a private conference with Father Thomas. We met in a smallnondescript room, and he greeted me with a smile and a simple, “Well,hello, how are you? What would you like to talk about today?”

“Well, Fr. Thomas, I’m going toask you a question I know you can’tanswer, but I would still like to ask it.”

He smiled broadly. “All right, then.”“My son just got back from his

second tour in Iraq. He had twofriends killed in the war, one standingright next to him. And I know this isthe question of the ages, but why thatyoung man and not my son? It was a matter of inches. Why did he die, andnot my son?”

Fr. Thomas paused a moment longer than I would have expected. “I’msorry to hear that.” Another pause, and then: “I’ve always believed that weenter this earth and leave this earth not a moment too soon or a momenttoo late.”

And that was it. No theological pronouncement, no long explanation,no platitudes. Just that simple statement. The clarity of his response leftme without a follow-up question.

As I walked back up the long sloping hill to the retreat center, I realizedhow profound his statement was, a reminder of the divine order of things:Nothing happens a moment too soon or a moment too late, even if we don’tunderstand why.

Although my children — even as grownups — provide me with a regularhelping of worry, I have less to worry about these days. My son left the Marinesand he and my daughter are wonderful, productive members of society.But when worries begin to weigh heavily, I realize it’s time for a retreat.

Right now I’m overdue for one. But I know the retreat center is waitingfor me when I’m ready for the silence and solitude. And then I’ll drop mybags on the floor, and smile.

Diane Guerra has written a memoir, Braver Than They Know, that is waitingto be published. You can read the introduction in The New York Times bysearching “Diane Guerra” at www.nytimes.com

Opposite page: View of Mount Sopris from the chapel at St. Benedict’s Monastery,Snowmass, Colorado. Photo by St. Louis photographer Annette Wilson, who haspracticed Centering Prayers for more than 20 years and often attends retreats atSt. Benedict’s.

The small, still voice

The retreats were a gift. WhenI returned home, I coped betterwith difficult situations, was lessjudgmental of others, and wasmore peaceful, enjoying silenceand solitude.

By Diane Guerra


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