To put it simply, our vision is created by every member of our community.  We believe that when people express their passion, creativity and vitality, they connect with others and communities are formed.  That’s why the atmosphere at The Watermark is as vibrant and unique as our residents themselves. Dr. Al Laster, resident of The Watermark at East Hill, personified what we mean.

It’s one thing to have the ability to compile words and phrases that ring true and burn with the depth, joy and gravity of Dr. Laster’s poems.  To be passionate about sharing those talents with aspiring poets is another thing entirely.  This nationally acclaimed writer led the East Hill Poet’s Circle and packed the house with his readings.  We’re amazed by his accomplishments as well as his poetry.  For an array of accolades, achievements, links to recent interviews and a wealth of poems you’ll turn to again and again, visit his website at www.lasternet.com/aml/.

We’re honored that a poet of his stature chose to live at The Watermark at East Hill, but we’re even more grateful for the contributions he brought to our community by expressing his true self.

A heartfelt thanks to Dr. Laster for permission to post his writing here on our site.  While reading it, we invite you to consider your own passions and ways you celebrate self expression. Dr. Laster is deeply missed here at The Watermark. To read more about the impact he had on residents, friends and people around the globe, click here.

REFLECTIONS by Al Laster
November, 2011


Let’s face it   We are all engaged in a search for happiness.  It is a complex subject to analyze, since it often resides in the mind.

Though age has taken its physical toll on most of us, I tend to consider myself a happy man. I’d like to feel joyful and carefree more often, but I know one would have to be foolish to think happiness could be attained as a steady state of being.

Having someone close to me to love and reciprocate my affection lights up my world.  Sit me down to a performance of a symphony orchestra. a Bob Fosse ballet, a ripping progressive  jazz concert, a serious play. a good book... and my cornucopia of joy will spill over.

I am happy when I am embraced by family, when I see the achievements of our offspring, when nature opens its sorcerers box and lets me indulge in its wonder, beauty and majesty.  

I tend to be joyous when I can feast on the beauty of green and the fragrance of honeysuckle.  A walk around the Watermark campus with its lovely plantings by Marc, our horticultural artist, will do it for me.

We all spend some days living in a balance between felicity and gloom.  I know that some unexpected incident can tip the equilibrium.  A Yoga class or a dip in the Watermark pool can restore the equation.

Those fuzzy maxims like, “Happiness is a soft slipper” or “Happiness is a full shopping bag,” that  may work for some folk, but I am turned off by clichés.  When the sun shines, the weather is warm and the trees are in full autumn color, I feel like this day was made for me.

I know there are terrible calamities unfolding in the world.  I know there are millions of children who go to bed hungry every night, but there are legions of caring people devoting their time and energy to put smiles on the faces of unfortunates.  

I am happy when I am with other residents of East Hill.  They are among the most gracious and caring people I have ever known.  

There is an army of people in our mutual home, who see to it that the house is filled with flowers.  We call them Florabundians. There are people who bring cheer with the blossoms they take to the sick and pleasure to shut-ins.

Each fall, in my “Reflections” I repeat a little prayer to celebrate Thanksgiving and issue a plea for self-improvement.

_______________________________________________________________    

Dear Lord,

I know that I am growing older.  Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject, every occasion.  Release me from craving to straighten everyone’s affairs.  

Make me thoughtful, but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but you know, Lord, that I want to have a few friends in the end.

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details, give me wings to get to the point.  Seal my lips on my aches and pains.  They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them grows sweeter as years go by. I do ask the grace to endure the organ recitals from other’s with patience.

I dare not ask for improved memory, but for growing humanity and less cocksureness when my memory clashes with the memories of others. Teach me that the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet, I do not want to be a saint -- some of them are so hard to abide -- but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of evil.

Give me the ability to see good things in reticent people, and give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.  Amen



Reprinted with permission of the poet or author, as the case may be.

TURNING CARTWHEELS
The earth, grooved in its habitual orbit,
is spinning toward summer.
Warmed by the nearing sun, the days
are lengthening like shadows
before the dying light,
and on the lawn, a child,
two generations removed,
is turning cartwheels.

Sitting in a peel-paint lawn chair,
I think I see his mother in some
past performance, displaying
the same agile gymnastics;
and this grandfather wonders
that life repeats the way spring,
and tulips, and terror
cartwheel predictably through time.

A few thousand miles from this lawn,
in any direction, there are places
where winter seems stuck,
stuttering its doom like a broken record;
places without love, where children
are huddled in shattered houses,
eaten by hunger and flies,
alien to joy and the careless
practice of the cartwheel.

When exuberant Martin spins
through the air, the world of his
childhood turns upside down,
and he is walking on bouncy clouds,
dipping his young feet in the
blue of sky, so that he might write
his name on the earth, the minute
his vaulting shadow spills upright
on the soft belly of summer.

So, let it be.  May each spin bring
him joy, and give him lift for
the turn yet to come.
May he be spared the earthbound
tug of pain and calamity,
and may the force of the feet
of all the young cartwheelers
steady the world and bring
summer and healing in its turn.
           Alvin M. Laster