Kindergarten, the little girl looked up at the woman who would be her teacher and wondered what it would be like. Her family had moved here in time to have Thanksgiving dinner in their new home and celebrate her fifth birthday. They had come here so she could be in Kindergarten, because there wasn’t one in their old town.
Her mother left and the teacher took her to a table where other children were painting with bright red paint on huge sheets of paper. Bricks, the teacher said. They were painting bricks to make a Santa house. Taking the long brush in her hand, she watched the paint drip off of it and fall in big red splashes before she could pull it across the paper. She watched the puddles of paint, thinking how much they looked like the drops in the bathroom sink when she had a nosebleed. Red was her favorite color, her red blood, her red toothbrush and now her very first lesson in the big kids school. Painting red bricks requires all of your concentration when you are five years old and in your first hour of kindergarten.
After they finished painting, the teacher took her to a table where she sat with two little boys and one other little girl. The little girl wouldn’t talk to her, but the boys smiled. The one with reddish blonde hair handed her a napkin and the one with brown hair passed her a bottle of chocolate milk with a straw in it.
At recess she walked around the big tree, balancing on the roots that stuck out of the ground, trying to see who could go the fastest. At rest time she put her red rug with the red and black fringe in between the two boys’ rugs. The other little girl fell asleep, but they all lay there together looking up at the long rows of lights above their heads. She sat between them in the circle while she listened to the story their teacher told and when it was lunchtime she walked the one short block to her house with the little brown haired boy.
The next day her mother invited him over to play at her house and she won all his marbles, but he didn’t cry and she gave them back. A few days later he invited her over to his house and the little red haired boy was there too. He showed them how to put the chessmen on the board.
Three small children whose last name began with P. At first it was a strange and tenuous connection. Later on, it would be so much more, but beginnings are often deceptively simple.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The Ties That Bind
Growing up I discovered little things that my great grandmother had stashed away. Little mementos of her children and grandchildren, a boxful of red baby curls that belonged to my mother, a bullet removed from her husband’s hip when he was shot at Vicksburg during the Civil War, a penny with the lead melted into it like a tiny bowl memorializing the coin that saved her youngest son’s life when his wife tried to protect him by taking his gun away and it went off and hit the penny. I still have one of the dolls she played with, now wearing clothes that my mother, her granddaughter made for it. And I have one of the Ojibwa moccasins my great, great, great grandmother made for my grandfather when he was a baby.
Families are like pieces of well made cloth, interwoven and folded again and again, touching each other through the creases of a time that does not understand minutes and months and years, but only love.
I am sure my Ojibwa grandmother learned to make moccasins from her mother and poured all the love and skill she had into the moccasin she made for my grandfather, her great grandson. When I hold it in my hand, I am holding over 220 years of love.
I don’t know what she looked like. I wouldn’t recognize her voice if I heard it, but the love we share for our children is a bridge that spans eternity.
Families are like pieces of well made cloth, interwoven and folded again and again, touching each other through the creases of a time that does not understand minutes and months and years, but only love.
I am sure my Ojibwa grandmother learned to make moccasins from her mother and poured all the love and skill she had into the moccasin she made for my grandfather, her great grandson. When I hold it in my hand, I am holding over 220 years of love.
I don’t know what she looked like. I wouldn’t recognize her voice if I heard it, but the love we share for our children is a bridge that spans eternity.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Full Circle
Life is amazing. I go through a period where it feels like I have nothing more to offer. I feel sort of sad and depressed and wonder if I am through being creative. It is an honest and very real period of walking through shadows for me.
Then in the course of a few hours, I am gifted with a new idea and send it out in My Thots, mostly because they have been sort of dismal lately and even though I try to be honest when I write them, in retrospect I am always a little embarrassed by my emotional out bursts. I am the first to admit I write from the heart, but publicly expressing it can be awkward.
Then, I am suddenly inundated with all sorts of wonderful things! I can’t begin to tell you how many people expressed an interest in a book whose conception is still only a whisper in the air. Thank you! Your confidence in me brings tears to my eyes and warms my heart to the very core.
And, to top it all off, someone quoted me! I can’t think of anything more wonderful for my ego than that!
I have jokingly written that “I love your responses to My Thots, well the good responses,” but in all honesty, I need to tell you that you are all more important to me than you probably think.
Thank you again. I love you all.
Then in the course of a few hours, I am gifted with a new idea and send it out in My Thots, mostly because they have been sort of dismal lately and even though I try to be honest when I write them, in retrospect I am always a little embarrassed by my emotional out bursts. I am the first to admit I write from the heart, but publicly expressing it can be awkward.
Then, I am suddenly inundated with all sorts of wonderful things! I can’t begin to tell you how many people expressed an interest in a book whose conception is still only a whisper in the air. Thank you! Your confidence in me brings tears to my eyes and warms my heart to the very core.
And, to top it all off, someone quoted me! I can’t think of anything more wonderful for my ego than that!
I have jokingly written that “I love your responses to My Thots, well the good responses,” but in all honesty, I need to tell you that you are all more important to me than you probably think.
Thank you again. I love you all.
Book Making
Sometimes I just need a vehicle for slipping out of the shadows and back into the world of the living. It appears it will be a book.
No, I'm not reading a new book, or really even writing one, at least not yet. I am designing one! My son's new hobby has reached out and grabbed me.
He made the best little book for Christmas. It is a real, hard back book, complete with a real spine, dedication page, front and back covers and a story with pictures that he and Lennon put together. It isn't some book he had made. He did it all himself and I love it! Now I am learning how to do this and it is fascinating.
There are so many possibilities that the hardest part, in the beginning, will just be deciding what to do.
No, I'm not reading a new book, or really even writing one, at least not yet. I am designing one! My son's new hobby has reached out and grabbed me.
He made the best little book for Christmas. It is a real, hard back book, complete with a real spine, dedication page, front and back covers and a story with pictures that he and Lennon put together. It isn't some book he had made. He did it all himself and I love it! Now I am learning how to do this and it is fascinating.
There are so many possibilities that the hardest part, in the beginning, will just be deciding what to do.
Empathy Digs Deep
I have decided I really don’t like holidays. I haven’t liked weekends for a long time. They disrupt my routine. Everyone pairs off on the weekends. They do that on holidays too. I don’t have a problem with people pairing off, I just decided not to do that a while ago.
Pairing is fine. It is un-pairing that is hard. With all the solvents they have invented, there do not seem to be any that are really effective on pairs. Of people that is. I can separate frozen bread, or beads on a wire. I can pry two pieces of wood apart and even separate the wheat from the chaff, but feelings are just too ephemeral.
Trying to separate feeling is like dissecting the wind, or decanting drinking water. Who knows what the real thing looks like? Who knows what the real thing feels like?
It’s a conundrum that goes beyond paradox. All the definitions in the world cannot describe the “indescribable pain” of separation. It changes person to person, breath to breath, minute to minute. It goes into hibernation and suddenly resurrects itself at the most inopportune moments. It is erratic, it is something that comes from two sides of one thing that has already divided itself into two things before one of them knows it.
Oh, it is easy enough if one side knocks the other up along one side of the head, but that hardly ever happens. It’s more like tearing home made paper apart. There are all these little frayed ends and random little strands that still have pieces of both parts on them. We stay friends. How can we not, but it’s kind of like brushing up against a cactus naked on purpose.
Whittle away all those little pointy feelings and I become too dull to work. Leave them alone and it hurts!
Where did all this come from?
Pairing is fine. It is un-pairing that is hard. With all the solvents they have invented, there do not seem to be any that are really effective on pairs. Of people that is. I can separate frozen bread, or beads on a wire. I can pry two pieces of wood apart and even separate the wheat from the chaff, but feelings are just too ephemeral.
Trying to separate feeling is like dissecting the wind, or decanting drinking water. Who knows what the real thing looks like? Who knows what the real thing feels like?
It’s a conundrum that goes beyond paradox. All the definitions in the world cannot describe the “indescribable pain” of separation. It changes person to person, breath to breath, minute to minute. It goes into hibernation and suddenly resurrects itself at the most inopportune moments. It is erratic, it is something that comes from two sides of one thing that has already divided itself into two things before one of them knows it.
Oh, it is easy enough if one side knocks the other up along one side of the head, but that hardly ever happens. It’s more like tearing home made paper apart. There are all these little frayed ends and random little strands that still have pieces of both parts on them. We stay friends. How can we not, but it’s kind of like brushing up against a cactus naked on purpose.
Whittle away all those little pointy feelings and I become too dull to work. Leave them alone and it hurts!
Where did all this come from?
Sunday, December 27, 2009
This too shall pass away
Depression is a large bird that flies over dimming the light on all parts of my existence. Like a prehistoric pterodactyl it should be, and has been, extinct for a long time. I can’t really see it, only feel the after effects from it’s wings as they alter everything from afar.
I wonder what opened this time warp, how it got through to me here high in the mountains of North Carolina, where life has been so fresh and beautiful for so long, but I suppose there is no one reason. There hardly ever is.
Life changes, people come, people go, people grow and each tiny chink in my armor is an opening for thoughts to seep in and weigh me down. And mentioning weighing down, my weight seems to be stuck here, which only adds to the tightness of my present situation. I am not who I used to be.
I know. None of us are who we used to be. Part of life is living with changes. I should be a pro by now. By the time I was Lennon’s age I had lived in five houses, including three different towns. Before I graduated from high school I had gone to two elementary schools, three junior highs and two high schools, including a new one senior year. I was groomed for change. Most of the time I have learned to thrive on change. New houses, new friends, new experiences, maybe that is part of it. There is a great sameness to living here, but the changes do come. The old ways no longer work for me, I don't know where to look.
I miss friends I no longer see and sometimes no longer even hear from.
I have ideas for writing, but cannot seem to make them gel. Reading takes too much concentration. So I have been watching videos and even those must be specific. I discover I can only focus on those I really care about. Everything else falls by the way side. I find if I focus on a particular person, I can still focus, so I dig around looking for old photos in the archives and find many that snag my interest -- just not enough to draw things into a story right now. The woods are lovely, the mountains and lakes sparkling, the trees used in particularly creative ways, surely my imagination will kick in soon.
The only thing that helps is that I know this too shall pass. All things do.
I wonder what opened this time warp, how it got through to me here high in the mountains of North Carolina, where life has been so fresh and beautiful for so long, but I suppose there is no one reason. There hardly ever is.
Life changes, people come, people go, people grow and each tiny chink in my armor is an opening for thoughts to seep in and weigh me down. And mentioning weighing down, my weight seems to be stuck here, which only adds to the tightness of my present situation. I am not who I used to be.
I know. None of us are who we used to be. Part of life is living with changes. I should be a pro by now. By the time I was Lennon’s age I had lived in five houses, including three different towns. Before I graduated from high school I had gone to two elementary schools, three junior highs and two high schools, including a new one senior year. I was groomed for change. Most of the time I have learned to thrive on change. New houses, new friends, new experiences, maybe that is part of it. There is a great sameness to living here, but the changes do come. The old ways no longer work for me, I don't know where to look.
I miss friends I no longer see and sometimes no longer even hear from.
I have ideas for writing, but cannot seem to make them gel. Reading takes too much concentration. So I have been watching videos and even those must be specific. I discover I can only focus on those I really care about. Everything else falls by the way side. I find if I focus on a particular person, I can still focus, so I dig around looking for old photos in the archives and find many that snag my interest -- just not enough to draw things into a story right now. The woods are lovely, the mountains and lakes sparkling, the trees used in particularly creative ways, surely my imagination will kick in soon.
The only thing that helps is that I know this too shall pass. All things do.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The world today does not understand, in either man, or woman, the need to be alone.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gifts from the Sea.
Alone time is for the brave and truthful among us. It is that time when thoughts come up like, “Am I the only one who ever feels this way?” Or, “Does anyone else ever think about this?” Or, “Do other people want to see these things, do these things, try these things?”
And in the beginning, I think I am unique, perhaps odd, or even damaged in some way because the answers appear to be, “No.”
I separate myself from what I perceive as a judging world and eventually find the courage to be me, discover who I am, let go of the shoulds and musts and oh mys. In the beginning that brings forth all sorts of feelings that are not particularly pleasant, but that is just part of growing into my own skin. I need to be alone to do that.
Finally, coming to a level of comfort that allows me to reach outside of my own perceptions, I even discover someone else who understands, someone else who can ask the questions in my head, someone who I can speak freely to and be confident they will not turn away.
Now, my alone time is richer than you can imagine because it is not consumed by doubts and second guessing myself. A friend who understands the sacredness of being alone, the simple beauty of being who I am, and the joy of knowing a door is always open, is perhaps one of the greatest gifts one person can give another.
Alone time is for the brave and truthful among us. It is that time when thoughts come up like, “Am I the only one who ever feels this way?” Or, “Does anyone else ever think about this?” Or, “Do other people want to see these things, do these things, try these things?”
And in the beginning, I think I am unique, perhaps odd, or even damaged in some way because the answers appear to be, “No.”
I separate myself from what I perceive as a judging world and eventually find the courage to be me, discover who I am, let go of the shoulds and musts and oh mys. In the beginning that brings forth all sorts of feelings that are not particularly pleasant, but that is just part of growing into my own skin. I need to be alone to do that.
Finally, coming to a level of comfort that allows me to reach outside of my own perceptions, I even discover someone else who understands, someone else who can ask the questions in my head, someone who I can speak freely to and be confident they will not turn away.
Now, my alone time is richer than you can imagine because it is not consumed by doubts and second guessing myself. A friend who understands the sacredness of being alone, the simple beauty of being who I am, and the joy of knowing a door is always open, is perhaps one of the greatest gifts one person can give another.
Friday, December 25, 2009
The Gift Of Gab
I have been hearing about all the great gifts everyone got for Christmas and it occurs to me that I have some thoughts about things most people don’t seem to talk about.
For one thing, clothes. Although I like clothes and have been known in the past to spend a great deal on some of them, for the most part I have a very definite idea about the use of them. They are great cover-ups. They hide all those things I would prefer the world no longer see. Other than that, I think the ideal clothes are the ones I never have to think about once they are on. Clothes that do not interfere with what ever I am doing are the perfect ones, clothes that compensate for the fact that not wearing them is my idea of a perfect day. Sadly, those days ended a few years ago for me unless I am very much alone.
Music is another one. Mp3 players and headphones are awesome. You hear your music. I hear mine and any chance we might have at sharing this experience is purely voluntary. I believe with my whole heart that we all have a right to listen to those tunes that turn us on….or off….or however you like to use them. It’s just that if forced to listen to some music for extended periods of time, I have discovered a Mrs. Hyde who dwells deep within me and who is ready, willing and able to leap out, claws bared and teeth gnashing at the bit.
Last, but not least, body art. I have pierced ears. My mother even had twice pierced ears! I think my sister might have thrice pierced ones, but I’m not sure. I know people with pierced everythings and while that is their prerogative, I can only imagine that hugging them is like loving a porcupine. Along with that goes tattoos. My preference for art has changed over the years. The funky posters I hung on my dorm walls gave way to Monet reproductions and have lately transitioned into mostly my own work. Dear god am I glad I only had to patch the holes in the wall when that changed!
The gift of gab is not one that is given as much as endured by others. I am grateful for all those folks who endure mine!
For one thing, clothes. Although I like clothes and have been known in the past to spend a great deal on some of them, for the most part I have a very definite idea about the use of them. They are great cover-ups. They hide all those things I would prefer the world no longer see. Other than that, I think the ideal clothes are the ones I never have to think about once they are on. Clothes that do not interfere with what ever I am doing are the perfect ones, clothes that compensate for the fact that not wearing them is my idea of a perfect day. Sadly, those days ended a few years ago for me unless I am very much alone.
Music is another one. Mp3 players and headphones are awesome. You hear your music. I hear mine and any chance we might have at sharing this experience is purely voluntary. I believe with my whole heart that we all have a right to listen to those tunes that turn us on….or off….or however you like to use them. It’s just that if forced to listen to some music for extended periods of time, I have discovered a Mrs. Hyde who dwells deep within me and who is ready, willing and able to leap out, claws bared and teeth gnashing at the bit.
Last, but not least, body art. I have pierced ears. My mother even had twice pierced ears! I think my sister might have thrice pierced ones, but I’m not sure. I know people with pierced everythings and while that is their prerogative, I can only imagine that hugging them is like loving a porcupine. Along with that goes tattoos. My preference for art has changed over the years. The funky posters I hung on my dorm walls gave way to Monet reproductions and have lately transitioned into mostly my own work. Dear god am I glad I only had to patch the holes in the wall when that changed!
The gift of gab is not one that is given as much as endured by others. I am grateful for all those folks who endure mine!
Christmas Eve
Christmas Eve 2009 and a huge rain and windstorm rages outside my windows! The patio furniture just blew off over the fence! (Just into the big part of our yard, though.) But I am toasty warm and dry inside here, with power and hot chocolate and a computer to write on! So much better than a few days ago. I am feeling very nostalgic as I recall Christmas’s past.
I remember:
Going to Grandma’s house where I was crushed in a pack of dogs, all bigger than me and the piano and harp seemed to take up the whole living room and I got the most beautiful set of doll dishes I had ever seen!
The huge Christmas tree my father always brought home and wired into the corner of our living room so it wouldn’t fall over on his brood of rambunctious kids while we decorated it.
My first Christmas away from home when we decorated our little tree with popcorn, cookies and our pink “floozy” feathered angel that cost 35 cents at the dime store. A little mouse came out at night and ate the popcorn off the strings and I cried when my husband caught it and killed it.
Our first Christmas with our daughter, who we later adopted, and how big her eyes were when she saw all those presents!
Our next Christmas with our newly adopted son and how I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. My heart was so full I thought I would burst!
Now my life is filled with children and grandchildren, scattered all over this country, each one celebrating the holidays in their own special way and I think how much I love my life.
All of us have warm homes, loving families, food to eat, friends and much to look forward to. What could Santa Claus possibly bring that would be better than that?
I remember:
Going to Grandma’s house where I was crushed in a pack of dogs, all bigger than me and the piano and harp seemed to take up the whole living room and I got the most beautiful set of doll dishes I had ever seen!
The huge Christmas tree my father always brought home and wired into the corner of our living room so it wouldn’t fall over on his brood of rambunctious kids while we decorated it.
My first Christmas away from home when we decorated our little tree with popcorn, cookies and our pink “floozy” feathered angel that cost 35 cents at the dime store. A little mouse came out at night and ate the popcorn off the strings and I cried when my husband caught it and killed it.
Our first Christmas with our daughter, who we later adopted, and how big her eyes were when she saw all those presents!
Our next Christmas with our newly adopted son and how I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. My heart was so full I thought I would burst!
Now my life is filled with children and grandchildren, scattered all over this country, each one celebrating the holidays in their own special way and I think how much I love my life.
All of us have warm homes, loving families, food to eat, friends and much to look forward to. What could Santa Claus possibly bring that would be better than that?
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Dream Catcher
I am very late tonight. It has been a busy evening.
This afternoon while Lennon and I were making instruments for his band he found the beads and feathers I use to make dream catchers. Immediately intrigued he asked what they were for and I told him.
A dream catcher is like a spider web only I make them out of waxed thread. They say if you hang it in your room, all your dreams will flow through it and the good dreams will come to you, but bad dreams get caught in the web and evaporate in the morning light.
He usually takes this sort of thing with a knowing smile and a glint in his eye, but he suddenly became very serious. “Gramma, do you think it would work?” It was heartbreaking to see such hope in that tiny face.
“I don’t know Lennon, it might. Would you like me to make you a Dream Catcher? He nodded without any trace of humor at all.
So that is what I did tonight. I made my grandson a dream catcher to catch all his bad dreams, because I know what it is like to be terrorized by my own thoughts in the middle of the night.
If it works for him, that is all that matters.
This afternoon while Lennon and I were making instruments for his band he found the beads and feathers I use to make dream catchers. Immediately intrigued he asked what they were for and I told him.
A dream catcher is like a spider web only I make them out of waxed thread. They say if you hang it in your room, all your dreams will flow through it and the good dreams will come to you, but bad dreams get caught in the web and evaporate in the morning light.
He usually takes this sort of thing with a knowing smile and a glint in his eye, but he suddenly became very serious. “Gramma, do you think it would work?” It was heartbreaking to see such hope in that tiny face.
“I don’t know Lennon, it might. Would you like me to make you a Dream Catcher? He nodded without any trace of humor at all.
So that is what I did tonight. I made my grandson a dream catcher to catch all his bad dreams, because I know what it is like to be terrorized by my own thoughts in the middle of the night.
If it works for him, that is all that matters.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Gather In The Family
I watch Lennon playing with the Nativity scene. He gathers everyone in as close as they can be around the baby and I remember doing the same thing as a child.
My grandmother had a what not stand where she kept an assortment of little figurines, including a manger with baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph, shepherd boy, lambs, kings, the whole bit, out all year. I would play with it when I went to visit, playing out different little fantasies. They were not always holy little fantasies, children are honest little creatures, but they always ended up with everyone gathered together, warm and close and safe.
I inch in closer to Lennon so I can hear him playing, “Hurry Joseph, follow me. Our arch enemy King Herod is coming.” He moves the shepherd boy closer, grabbing the baby in the manger and putting him into a nearby box. “Angel, get Herod’s henchmen, wipe them off the face of the earth! I’ll lock the baby in a secret room where nobody can find him!”
As I lean in listening, it occurs to me that someone probably did the same thing to me. Now, even all these years later, I am mortified to think about that!
Then, as Lennon places all the figures close together into that secret room and locks his door against the invisible bad guys, I realize no one ever censured me for my little thoughts back then. Had they known all along who I was and loved me anyway? It is a difficult thought for me to grasp.
I haven’t changed much at all. I still have the same type of fantasies, still want the same things. I love the idea of the family gathered in close and warm, safe and sound together for Christmas.
My grandmother had a what not stand where she kept an assortment of little figurines, including a manger with baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph, shepherd boy, lambs, kings, the whole bit, out all year. I would play with it when I went to visit, playing out different little fantasies. They were not always holy little fantasies, children are honest little creatures, but they always ended up with everyone gathered together, warm and close and safe.
I inch in closer to Lennon so I can hear him playing, “Hurry Joseph, follow me. Our arch enemy King Herod is coming.” He moves the shepherd boy closer, grabbing the baby in the manger and putting him into a nearby box. “Angel, get Herod’s henchmen, wipe them off the face of the earth! I’ll lock the baby in a secret room where nobody can find him!”
As I lean in listening, it occurs to me that someone probably did the same thing to me. Now, even all these years later, I am mortified to think about that!
Then, as Lennon places all the figures close together into that secret room and locks his door against the invisible bad guys, I realize no one ever censured me for my little thoughts back then. Had they known all along who I was and loved me anyway? It is a difficult thought for me to grasp.
I haven’t changed much at all. I still have the same type of fantasies, still want the same things. I love the idea of the family gathered in close and warm, safe and sound together for Christmas.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Forging Friendships
I open my eyes and lie here in the dark wondering what awakened me? Moonlight glances off the ice on the butterfly bush and tiny flashes chase each other across the walls of my bedroom.
I hear music in the distance, or is that only the hum of some motor too distant to make out clearly? It draws me upright and I gaze into the corner where the shadows have taken on new depth.
Staring, I think I see something move and although every bone in my body says to close my eyes and cower under the blankets, I cannot.
The shadow unfolds from the chair and stands before me as solid as the dresser behind him. I rub my eyes thinking that they must be deceiving me because I see a man, with twinkling eyes and merry dimples, grinning at me.
Stepping out from under the covers, my toes reach the floor, when, gently reaching out with one hand, he invites me into the dance and I find myself beside a lake, tall primordial trees surrounding us, mossy ground beckoning for us to follow a path deeper into the woods. It is a pas de deux beyond imagining with leaps of faith so daring that I would only attempt them with this beautiful manifestation of perfection.
He is bright and bold, a bit reckless and freer than the wind that seems to lift us into the air with every turn. It is a night to remember. A forging of an understanding that will last long after the dream is gone and I wonder how this magic found me, but it has and its echo will forever become my friend and confidante when this night is over.
I hear music in the distance, or is that only the hum of some motor too distant to make out clearly? It draws me upright and I gaze into the corner where the shadows have taken on new depth.
Staring, I think I see something move and although every bone in my body says to close my eyes and cower under the blankets, I cannot.
The shadow unfolds from the chair and stands before me as solid as the dresser behind him. I rub my eyes thinking that they must be deceiving me because I see a man, with twinkling eyes and merry dimples, grinning at me.
Stepping out from under the covers, my toes reach the floor, when, gently reaching out with one hand, he invites me into the dance and I find myself beside a lake, tall primordial trees surrounding us, mossy ground beckoning for us to follow a path deeper into the woods. It is a pas de deux beyond imagining with leaps of faith so daring that I would only attempt them with this beautiful manifestation of perfection.
He is bright and bold, a bit reckless and freer than the wind that seems to lift us into the air with every turn. It is a night to remember. A forging of an understanding that will last long after the dream is gone and I wonder how this magic found me, but it has and its echo will forever become my friend and confidante when this night is over.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
I Chose To Stand And Fight
Holidays are stressful for many people. They over-book, over-buy, over-do, and feel obligated to do so and guilty if they don’t. I have no idea why. It causes unbelievable tension for them and the people around them. I’m assuming some part of them learned this behavior from people in their lives.
I learned a lot from people in my life, but as I grew older I discovered a great deal of it was what not to do. I remember times when it seemed all we did was argue and other times when we barely spoke and even worse times when all I wanted was to be somewhere other than where I was. These are the times when I said things I shouldn’t have said. Oh, sometimes I really meant them at the time, but it was usually because I was unhappy about something and angry, or frustrated and usually not really with the person I acted out upon. They were just conveniently close.
That’s the problem with being around people I love. They are close and often become that little punching bag that helps relieve stress. But, I’ll tell you a secret you might not want to hear. Many of those words and times have come back to haunt me. Distance puts them into perspective, but time has taken many of those people out of my life, indeed, out of this life. It is way too late to sit down and talk it over with them now.
Now? Now I am older and I live alone. Living alone teaches me who is really at fault (and who is responsible too!) It almost eliminates stress unless I choose to involve myself. Of course, that was always the case. I was never in a position where I could not have turned and walked away silently. I chose to stand and fight.
Now I choose to wait. Funny thing about those big personal issues, most of them shrink over time. I don’t want to look back and regret anymore moments in my life. I want to savor them.
There are plenty of ways to love.
I learned a lot from people in my life, but as I grew older I discovered a great deal of it was what not to do. I remember times when it seemed all we did was argue and other times when we barely spoke and even worse times when all I wanted was to be somewhere other than where I was. These are the times when I said things I shouldn’t have said. Oh, sometimes I really meant them at the time, but it was usually because I was unhappy about something and angry, or frustrated and usually not really with the person I acted out upon. They were just conveniently close.
That’s the problem with being around people I love. They are close and often become that little punching bag that helps relieve stress. But, I’ll tell you a secret you might not want to hear. Many of those words and times have come back to haunt me. Distance puts them into perspective, but time has taken many of those people out of my life, indeed, out of this life. It is way too late to sit down and talk it over with them now.
Now? Now I am older and I live alone. Living alone teaches me who is really at fault (and who is responsible too!) It almost eliminates stress unless I choose to involve myself. Of course, that was always the case. I was never in a position where I could not have turned and walked away silently. I chose to stand and fight.
Now I choose to wait. Funny thing about those big personal issues, most of them shrink over time. I don’t want to look back and regret anymore moments in my life. I want to savor them.
There are plenty of ways to love.
Hot Coffee And A Computer!
My power went out yesterday morning due to the snow and cold winds blowing in over the mountains and while it is fun to play in the snow and I love taking pictures of it, some of that paled beside the rest. No gas stoves here, no fireplace down here and no woodstove in my house, just electricity.
It is very cold here without any source of heat at all and the snow was so deep I decided to weather it out rather than trying to make it upstairs. Partly in the hope that it would be a short outage, which it was compared to the winter before last in Illinois where I was stranded behind downed power lines after an ice storm for five, or six, days. Can you believe I no longer remember which?
When my refrigerator started smelling a little off, I took the important things out in containers and stuck them down in the snow, but it froze solid overnight and today when the power came on, I had to chip it out! I dug out my oil lamp and at first it felt very romantic and rustic to be able to read by its light, but soon I began computer withdrawal.
I had one friend on the road and several others I was hoping to hear from, not that any of this really matters I suppose, I just don’t like being out of touch and my computer is truly my window to the world. I survived in spite of myself. I even did some writing by hand, the old way, but the computer deprivation kept stealing my thoughts away.
It finally got so cold I put an extra cover on the bed, added socks and another shirt and climbed under the covers where Chauncey’s doggie breath and my own warmed up my frozen hands and toes.
Then, at last, this afternoon, I heard what seemed like the roar of the refrigerator and it dawned on me, the power was on!
My priorities? First I turned on the heater. Then I booted up the computer while I made a cup of coffee and my own version of MacDonald’s sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich. Yeah, I know, having survived the storm I am now killing myself with food. Oh well, that’s me you know.
Now I’m writing my thots and all is well with my world.
It is very cold here without any source of heat at all and the snow was so deep I decided to weather it out rather than trying to make it upstairs. Partly in the hope that it would be a short outage, which it was compared to the winter before last in Illinois where I was stranded behind downed power lines after an ice storm for five, or six, days. Can you believe I no longer remember which?
When my refrigerator started smelling a little off, I took the important things out in containers and stuck them down in the snow, but it froze solid overnight and today when the power came on, I had to chip it out! I dug out my oil lamp and at first it felt very romantic and rustic to be able to read by its light, but soon I began computer withdrawal.
I had one friend on the road and several others I was hoping to hear from, not that any of this really matters I suppose, I just don’t like being out of touch and my computer is truly my window to the world. I survived in spite of myself. I even did some writing by hand, the old way, but the computer deprivation kept stealing my thoughts away.
It finally got so cold I put an extra cover on the bed, added socks and another shirt and climbed under the covers where Chauncey’s doggie breath and my own warmed up my frozen hands and toes.
Then, at last, this afternoon, I heard what seemed like the roar of the refrigerator and it dawned on me, the power was on!
My priorities? First I turned on the heater. Then I booted up the computer while I made a cup of coffee and my own version of MacDonald’s sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich. Yeah, I know, having survived the storm I am now killing myself with food. Oh well, that’s me you know.
Now I’m writing my thots and all is well with my world.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Just Living
We just had the first snowball fight of the season, which was made much more exciting once the dogs were let out of the house and tried to catch all the snowballs in the air, crunching them into nothing before dashing off to catch others. We made a snowman in the Lennon’s image and then went inside to have hot chocolate topped with lots of whipped cream before making cut out Christmas cookies. It was a grand day all around.
Until I tried to come home this evening! In the middle of this season’s first snowstorm, I found myself stepping off the deck into snow so deep I had trouble taking the next step and when I finally reached my yard? I was barely able to push the gate open far enough to get in. Now, inside, I am enjoying the view out my window of Christmas lights down the mountain and huge snowflakes still drifting down all around me. As long as the electricity stays on, I am fine. If it goes off, so does all my heat! That would mean moving upstairs where there is a wood burning stove though, so all would still be well.
Pretty basic living, but that’s what it is out here.
Until I tried to come home this evening! In the middle of this season’s first snowstorm, I found myself stepping off the deck into snow so deep I had trouble taking the next step and when I finally reached my yard? I was barely able to push the gate open far enough to get in. Now, inside, I am enjoying the view out my window of Christmas lights down the mountain and huge snowflakes still drifting down all around me. As long as the electricity stays on, I am fine. If it goes off, so does all my heat! That would mean moving upstairs where there is a wood burning stove though, so all would still be well.
Pretty basic living, but that’s what it is out here.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Rumi’s Wedding Night
Tonight is Rumi’s wedding night. Rumi, a thirteenth century poet, died on this night in 1273, but it is not his death that drew me to him. His death set him free, his life captured me in the ecstatic poetry that poured out of him.
Coleman Barks translated this poetry that speaks to me like my own heart. I read it time and again, amazed that it was written so long ago by a Sufi poet and teacher. I understand the Divine Beloved, it is a concept most of us can understand even if we never find it, but if we find it? Then nothing is ever the same again.
The perfect man. The complete man. The Divine Beloved. A companion who leads us into an understanding that goes beyond comprehension. It is a way of relating to everything and seeing the order and the beauty that lurks in the darkest corners and explodes out of the brightest lights. It is best explained to me in this poem where I could put the name of my own Divine Beloved in place of Joseph.
Learn about your inner self from those who know such things,
But don’t repeat verbatim what they say.
Zuleikha let everything be the name of Joseph, from the celery seed
To aloe’s wood. She loved him so much she concealed his name
In many different phrases, the inner meanings
Known only to her. When she said, The wax is softening
Near the fire, she meant, My love is wanting me.
Or if she said, Look, the moon is up or The willow has new leaves
Or the branches are trembling, The coriander seeds
Have caught fire or The roses are opening
Or The king is in a good mood today or Isn’t that lucky?
Or The furniture needs dusting or
The water carrier is here or It’s almost daylight or
These vegetables are perfect or The bread needs more salt
Or The clouds seem to be moving against the wind
Or My head hurts, or My headache’s better,
Anything she praises, it’s Joseph’s touch she means,
Any complaint, it’s his being away.
When she’s hungry, it’s for him. Thirsty, his name is a sherbet.
Cold, he’s a fur. This is what the Friend can do
When one is in such love. Sensual people use the holy names
Often, but they don’t work for them.
The miracle Jesus did by being the name of God,
Zuleikha felt in the name of Joseph.
I understand this.
Coleman Barks translated this poetry that speaks to me like my own heart. I read it time and again, amazed that it was written so long ago by a Sufi poet and teacher. I understand the Divine Beloved, it is a concept most of us can understand even if we never find it, but if we find it? Then nothing is ever the same again.
The perfect man. The complete man. The Divine Beloved. A companion who leads us into an understanding that goes beyond comprehension. It is a way of relating to everything and seeing the order and the beauty that lurks in the darkest corners and explodes out of the brightest lights. It is best explained to me in this poem where I could put the name of my own Divine Beloved in place of Joseph.
Learn about your inner self from those who know such things,
But don’t repeat verbatim what they say.
Zuleikha let everything be the name of Joseph, from the celery seed
To aloe’s wood. She loved him so much she concealed his name
In many different phrases, the inner meanings
Known only to her. When she said, The wax is softening
Near the fire, she meant, My love is wanting me.
Or if she said, Look, the moon is up or The willow has new leaves
Or the branches are trembling, The coriander seeds
Have caught fire or The roses are opening
Or The king is in a good mood today or Isn’t that lucky?
Or The furniture needs dusting or
The water carrier is here or It’s almost daylight or
These vegetables are perfect or The bread needs more salt
Or The clouds seem to be moving against the wind
Or My head hurts, or My headache’s better,
Anything she praises, it’s Joseph’s touch she means,
Any complaint, it’s his being away.
When she’s hungry, it’s for him. Thirsty, his name is a sherbet.
Cold, he’s a fur. This is what the Friend can do
When one is in such love. Sensual people use the holy names
Often, but they don’t work for them.
The miracle Jesus did by being the name of God,
Zuleikha felt in the name of Joseph.
I understand this.
Where Is Christmas?
I have lots of thots tonight. For one thing I notice that in every My Thots that I email out lately, there seems to be one error that I don’t catch, no matter how many times I read it. Then, the moment it is gone, that little flaw pops up and glows like Rudolph’s nose. I guess that is just the way it is going to be.
I remember doing community theatre long ago and thinking how funny it was that we called each other, “father, or maid number one, or whatever our character was.” Once more I find myself referring to people under those funny assumed names that come along when the need to connect steps over boundaries that would normally separate us. Only now it is “G in Texas, or Bob in England, or Tundra Chile on Facebook.” People I’d like to know better.
Also I just watched one of the most beautiful films that I have ever seen. It is from India and called Jodhaa Akbar.
And last but not least is a conversation I had with Lennon today while we were baking oatmeal raison cookies.
“Gramma, where is Christmas?”
“What do you think Christmas is?”
“Christmas is not presents Gramma. It is love.”
“How do you know that?”
“Daddy says so.”
“What do you think love is?”
“I know all about love! It’s hugs and kisses!”
“So where do you think Christmas is?”
“At the North Pole!”
“Why do you think it’s at the North Pole?”
“I want to go there!”
“What would you do there?”
“About fifty miles an hour.”
I remember doing community theatre long ago and thinking how funny it was that we called each other, “father, or maid number one, or whatever our character was.” Once more I find myself referring to people under those funny assumed names that come along when the need to connect steps over boundaries that would normally separate us. Only now it is “G in Texas, or Bob in England, or Tundra Chile on Facebook.” People I’d like to know better.
Also I just watched one of the most beautiful films that I have ever seen. It is from India and called Jodhaa Akbar.
And last but not least is a conversation I had with Lennon today while we were baking oatmeal raison cookies.
“Gramma, where is Christmas?”
“What do you think Christmas is?”
“Christmas is not presents Gramma. It is love.”
“How do you know that?”
“Daddy says so.”
“What do you think love is?”
“I know all about love! It’s hugs and kisses!”
“So where do you think Christmas is?”
“At the North Pole!”
“Why do you think it’s at the North Pole?”
“I want to go there!”
“What would you do there?”
“About fifty miles an hour.”
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Finding The True Spirit
During a season where most people seem to be looking for the biggest deals, or the tallest tree, or most elaborate decorations, or even those celebrating Chanukah, or Christmas with great religious fervor; I am most touched by those who simply continue on, doing what they do all year long.
These are the people who continually reach out to those around them, offering support in thought, word and deed. People, not touched by the holiday spirit, but by the spirit of compassionate and loving living. People who help out others as naturally as they eat, sleep, or do any of the other million things that come up every day.
Amazing and beautiful people whose example is often lost in the hustle and bustle of people who feel they are busy doing the important things.
Nothing is more important than another human being.
These are the people who continually reach out to those around them, offering support in thought, word and deed. People, not touched by the holiday spirit, but by the spirit of compassionate and loving living. People who help out others as naturally as they eat, sleep, or do any of the other million things that come up every day.
Amazing and beautiful people whose example is often lost in the hustle and bustle of people who feel they are busy doing the important things.
Nothing is more important than another human being.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Lesson
I just watched Frank Capra’s 1937 film, Lost Horizon. It is the third time I’ve seen it and this time the movie is flawed by lost footage backed only with the audio, still I hang on every word. The first time I saw it was when my Dad allowed me to stay up and watch it with him on a school night when I was eleven years old. One of those rare occasions that seemed special then, but priceless now. I wonder what was so important to him that he wanted me to see it with him that night? I see so much of Dad in Conway and I think how well he would have fit into that mythical place where the main directive for living was be kind.
I am finding myself settling in here after nearly 18 months. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine myself becoming the stereotypical grandmother, but I seem to be doing that. My hours with the Lennon become the main focal point of my days instead of my writing, and it seems to suit me. Be kind, that is how we live here.
I still don’t know many people locally, but my life is fleshing out bit by bit and I am feeling better than I have in a very long time. Partly the lifestyle, partly because of the friendships I can maintain through my computer, and partly because a friend’s gift freed up some money that went directly into healthcare. Be kind.
That theme comes up again and again. I see it in action, experience it personally, watch it vicariously. This lesson is easy and clear. Be kind.
I am finding myself settling in here after nearly 18 months. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine myself becoming the stereotypical grandmother, but I seem to be doing that. My hours with the Lennon become the main focal point of my days instead of my writing, and it seems to suit me. Be kind, that is how we live here.
I still don’t know many people locally, but my life is fleshing out bit by bit and I am feeling better than I have in a very long time. Partly the lifestyle, partly because of the friendships I can maintain through my computer, and partly because a friend’s gift freed up some money that went directly into healthcare. Be kind.
That theme comes up again and again. I see it in action, experience it personally, watch it vicariously. This lesson is easy and clear. Be kind.
Rising
Once upon a time, I dreamed of the perfect man, a writer, a musician, a leader whose every word fell on the avid ears of those who adored him. I thought if I could just meet him, my life would be complete. I not only met him, I became his girl friend for a while and discovered that it is harder to be with real people than with dreams. Still, he was a muse beyond imagining. One who still inspires me.
Generosity, brilliance, compassion, sensitivity, these are qualities I love. Wrap them up in sweetness and the inherent cuteness that goes along with it all and you have extraordinary human beings.
I have met several of these in my lifetime. People who become the spark that sets me on fire. People who open the door to my deepest creativity and force me to write.
Words become cathartic. I write because I must, or I will be eaten alive by the passions of my imagination. The steam rising into the ether is filled with hero worship and a knowledge that I must write the imperfections into the story even if I don‘t believe in them, because without them there is no story.
Muses! I don’t even know if you know who you are! Yet you are my reason to rise in the morning and write in the night and if I could give you a fraction of what you give me, you might begin to understand how I feel about you. You fill me so full that I must find a way to empty.
Generosity, brilliance, compassion, sensitivity, these are qualities I love. Wrap them up in sweetness and the inherent cuteness that goes along with it all and you have extraordinary human beings.
I have met several of these in my lifetime. People who become the spark that sets me on fire. People who open the door to my deepest creativity and force me to write.
Words become cathartic. I write because I must, or I will be eaten alive by the passions of my imagination. The steam rising into the ether is filled with hero worship and a knowledge that I must write the imperfections into the story even if I don‘t believe in them, because without them there is no story.
Muses! I don’t even know if you know who you are! Yet you are my reason to rise in the morning and write in the night and if I could give you a fraction of what you give me, you might begin to understand how I feel about you. You fill me so full that I must find a way to empty.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Be Sharp
People can be proud of the craziest things. It usually seems to manifest when something new comes along. Instead of jumping in there and learning more about it, there is a sort of inherent distrust that masquerades as arrogance, or false pride.
How many people have I heard boast about their ineptness when it comes to using a computer? Don’t they realize that people once did the same thing with calculators, telephones, even automobiles?
The world is going to move forward and anything that facilitates that is going to take root in our culture. Some of it won’t last, but some of it not only will last, it is actually good for the world.
Choosing to be stuck at a particular place in time doesn’t really mean you live more simply. It doesn’t mean you live more frugally, or that the world is a better place because you won’t move forward.
On the contrary, anything that cuts down on the trees we use, or the gas and oil we use is a good thing. Being able to contact a doctor faster that jumping on a horse and riding around the countryside looking for help, is a good thing. Using a simple email that needs no paper, or stamp, or gas to deliver it, is a good thing. Not only is it good for the earth, it makes it easier to keep in touch with friends and family. Digital pictures can be shared in an instant. Grandma no longer needs to wait weeks, or months, to see baby Jean.
Progress is no worse than you make it. You don’t have to answer your phone if you are eating dinner with your family, or visiting with a friend. Messages make it possible to do it at a more convenient time. A reasonable person uses technology for their own purposes.
Continuing to learn new things keeps your mind sharp and keeps you involved in the world. Why would anyone not want that?
How many people have I heard boast about their ineptness when it comes to using a computer? Don’t they realize that people once did the same thing with calculators, telephones, even automobiles?
The world is going to move forward and anything that facilitates that is going to take root in our culture. Some of it won’t last, but some of it not only will last, it is actually good for the world.
Choosing to be stuck at a particular place in time doesn’t really mean you live more simply. It doesn’t mean you live more frugally, or that the world is a better place because you won’t move forward.
On the contrary, anything that cuts down on the trees we use, or the gas and oil we use is a good thing. Being able to contact a doctor faster that jumping on a horse and riding around the countryside looking for help, is a good thing. Using a simple email that needs no paper, or stamp, or gas to deliver it, is a good thing. Not only is it good for the earth, it makes it easier to keep in touch with friends and family. Digital pictures can be shared in an instant. Grandma no longer needs to wait weeks, or months, to see baby Jean.
Progress is no worse than you make it. You don’t have to answer your phone if you are eating dinner with your family, or visiting with a friend. Messages make it possible to do it at a more convenient time. A reasonable person uses technology for their own purposes.
Continuing to learn new things keeps your mind sharp and keeps you involved in the world. Why would anyone not want that?
Saturday, December 12, 2009
My Very Late Thots
Once more I sit here in the wee small hours of the morning. Being a night owl is not something new to me, but tonight I am restless.
I went to bed, but it is cold and I couldn’t get to sleep, not even under a cozy pile of blankets and cuddled up next to one sweetly snoring dog, so here I am.
I played through all the Christmas Carols hoping to warm my fingers up on the piano, but ended up only warming my heart. Pictures of Christmas past spent rehearsing for the local theatre’s holiday productions fill my head and make me nostalgic. Finally leaving the piano, I move onto a blank screen, thinking it is past time to start writing, or maybe re-writing, but my mind wanders.
Sweet wanderings, imaginary adventures, but nothing I can use for real. Imaginations are awkward companions, eliciting feelings that have no place beyond this moment.
I am filled to the brim with love. Over flowing and beyond what I should be at this point in my life, but it is what it is and I guess I should just be grateful. I suppose I could be some dried up old crone, bitter and lonely, but that’s just not who I am. I can’t imagine that ever being me.
Passionate? Yes. Angry? Sometimes. But always alive and immersed in love!
I went to bed, but it is cold and I couldn’t get to sleep, not even under a cozy pile of blankets and cuddled up next to one sweetly snoring dog, so here I am.
I played through all the Christmas Carols hoping to warm my fingers up on the piano, but ended up only warming my heart. Pictures of Christmas past spent rehearsing for the local theatre’s holiday productions fill my head and make me nostalgic. Finally leaving the piano, I move onto a blank screen, thinking it is past time to start writing, or maybe re-writing, but my mind wanders.
Sweet wanderings, imaginary adventures, but nothing I can use for real. Imaginations are awkward companions, eliciting feelings that have no place beyond this moment.
I am filled to the brim with love. Over flowing and beyond what I should be at this point in my life, but it is what it is and I guess I should just be grateful. I suppose I could be some dried up old crone, bitter and lonely, but that’s just not who I am. I can’t imagine that ever being me.
Passionate? Yes. Angry? Sometimes. But always alive and immersed in love!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Dreams
Every infant‘s first breath is filled with his parent’s dreams. The swaddling clothes, wrapped tightly around flailing arms and legs, are woven with expectations that might once have been spread over as many as ten, or twelve children.
No longer fostered by wet nurses who hang their charges up in rows along the wall, today’s children still find themselves on foreign ground. The blacksmith’s son is tended to by the music teacher’s wife and the scribe’s child by a dairy maid. Is it any wonder that conflict arises?
Leaving home at the same tender age as Hansel and Gretel, our children don’t even have the benefit of the old stories. It never occurs to them to take along a piece of bread in order to find their way home. They simply wander off into the world, knowing that their parents are too busy to notice.
Over wrought, over worked, under educated in the most important subject they will ever deal with, parents stumble along hoping that nature will succeed wherever they fall short and by some stroke of luck, these tiny creatures they barely know will turn out to be race car drivers or doctors, lawyers or teachers. And the top few percent do, because they will succeed no matter what.
Unfortunately many children simply flounder on desperately trying to impress the ones who gave them life, trying to get their sea legs under them before they even see the harbor, and being eaten alive by the orcas who throw themselves upon the shore looking for unsuspecting pups. Promising new lives are ended before they even begin.
Tough love is not the same thing as neglect and power plays. Saving face and impressing the neighbors is not the same thing as success. Parenting is not a soap opera chocked full of emotional drama that can be turned off twenty three hours a day.
Slow, steady, consistent and kind, the rules for living must be put in place one at a time until they stick and each child is independent, successful and mature. The formula stays the same, but the data changes all the time.
Dreams, or nightmares? It really depends on the parents.
No longer fostered by wet nurses who hang their charges up in rows along the wall, today’s children still find themselves on foreign ground. The blacksmith’s son is tended to by the music teacher’s wife and the scribe’s child by a dairy maid. Is it any wonder that conflict arises?
Leaving home at the same tender age as Hansel and Gretel, our children don’t even have the benefit of the old stories. It never occurs to them to take along a piece of bread in order to find their way home. They simply wander off into the world, knowing that their parents are too busy to notice.
Over wrought, over worked, under educated in the most important subject they will ever deal with, parents stumble along hoping that nature will succeed wherever they fall short and by some stroke of luck, these tiny creatures they barely know will turn out to be race car drivers or doctors, lawyers or teachers. And the top few percent do, because they will succeed no matter what.
Unfortunately many children simply flounder on desperately trying to impress the ones who gave them life, trying to get their sea legs under them before they even see the harbor, and being eaten alive by the orcas who throw themselves upon the shore looking for unsuspecting pups. Promising new lives are ended before they even begin.
Tough love is not the same thing as neglect and power plays. Saving face and impressing the neighbors is not the same thing as success. Parenting is not a soap opera chocked full of emotional drama that can be turned off twenty three hours a day.
Slow, steady, consistent and kind, the rules for living must be put in place one at a time until they stick and each child is independent, successful and mature. The formula stays the same, but the data changes all the time.
Dreams, or nightmares? It really depends on the parents.
The Price
I am watching the Lennon tonight while his mother does open mike. It is really cold out so we opted not to go count the stars, but we did make ice cream this afternoon and now I am watching him eat it.
He eats every spoonful standing at the coffee table, too intent to even sit down and I sit here watching him with grandmotherly adoration. Then the tears come and I have to look away. I am remembering another young family I learned about today whose parents are so poor they often go hungry and their baby, who is nursing, is failing to thrive because of this.
That baby has grandparents too. They talked his parents out of putting him up for adoption because if you get a girl pregnant, according to them, you pay the price.
Adoption, the ultimate sacrifice, the most loving thing a parent can give a child he is not equipped to take care of. This is how we explained it to our adopted children. “Your parents knew they couldn’t take care of you and they loved you so much, they allowed us to love you too.”
Now that the grandparents have stopped the adoption they refuse to share any of what they have with their children who are doing everything humanly possible to make this work. The father was badly injured last year and still is not totally recovered, but he works at any and all jobs he can get. Unfortunately with his skills, he is often the first to be laid off. Now he not only must work when he feels too ill to get up, but he must watch his baby and wife suffer too. Who extracts this price from their own children and grandchildren?
Lennon looks up and smiles at me, ice cream dripping off his chin, "Gramma, are you crying?" I just shake my head and smile at him. Then I have to get up and go hug him.
He eats every spoonful standing at the coffee table, too intent to even sit down and I sit here watching him with grandmotherly adoration. Then the tears come and I have to look away. I am remembering another young family I learned about today whose parents are so poor they often go hungry and their baby, who is nursing, is failing to thrive because of this.
That baby has grandparents too. They talked his parents out of putting him up for adoption because if you get a girl pregnant, according to them, you pay the price.
Adoption, the ultimate sacrifice, the most loving thing a parent can give a child he is not equipped to take care of. This is how we explained it to our adopted children. “Your parents knew they couldn’t take care of you and they loved you so much, they allowed us to love you too.”
Now that the grandparents have stopped the adoption they refuse to share any of what they have with their children who are doing everything humanly possible to make this work. The father was badly injured last year and still is not totally recovered, but he works at any and all jobs he can get. Unfortunately with his skills, he is often the first to be laid off. Now he not only must work when he feels too ill to get up, but he must watch his baby and wife suffer too. Who extracts this price from their own children and grandchildren?
Lennon looks up and smiles at me, ice cream dripping off his chin, "Gramma, are you crying?" I just shake my head and smile at him. Then I have to get up and go hug him.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
One Long Picnic
Once upon a time, a young girl packed up a picnic basket and left the castle she was born in. She only intended to sneak away and go to school in the next castle over and that is exactly what she did for the first couple of years. Since school was considered a good thing in her kingdom, her father and mother did not put up a fuss. In fact they put up a great deal of money so she could continue on.
The money might not have been the best idea, because it freed the girl from having to join the ranks of pot scrubbers and boot blackers in the kitchen. She used that time to hob knob with the court jesters and poet laureates, even the local bard once in a while. The people she met were astounding. She might have stayed there forever, but one day an angel swooped down and carried her off to his kingdom. In order to preserve her good name she married him and spent the next thirty years trying to be happy in a castle called Heavenly bliss.
In his castle they allowed jesters and poets and other entertainers, but one was expected to keep her distance from them and the girl was not good at that. She put on the obligatory balls and spent hours with her ladies in waiting in chapel, but her heart kept walking the countryside with those kindred spirits she missed.
One day the angel brought home a new girl and the old one packed up a picnic basket and left the castle she had lived in for so long. She avoided mirrors and never sang in public, but bit by bit, she found that the people she liked enjoyed her almost as much as she did them. What a revelation that was!
In fact it was almost unbelievable. She forgot she was old and not perfect and began to just do the things she loved. She still could not look in mirrors, or sing in public, but she could tell great tales and because of her schooling, write them down.
Finally she had her own home where there were no jesters, or entertainers, just friends of the heart and she never packed another picnic basket the rest of her life.
The money might not have been the best idea, because it freed the girl from having to join the ranks of pot scrubbers and boot blackers in the kitchen. She used that time to hob knob with the court jesters and poet laureates, even the local bard once in a while. The people she met were astounding. She might have stayed there forever, but one day an angel swooped down and carried her off to his kingdom. In order to preserve her good name she married him and spent the next thirty years trying to be happy in a castle called Heavenly bliss.
In his castle they allowed jesters and poets and other entertainers, but one was expected to keep her distance from them and the girl was not good at that. She put on the obligatory balls and spent hours with her ladies in waiting in chapel, but her heart kept walking the countryside with those kindred spirits she missed.
One day the angel brought home a new girl and the old one packed up a picnic basket and left the castle she had lived in for so long. She avoided mirrors and never sang in public, but bit by bit, she found that the people she liked enjoyed her almost as much as she did them. What a revelation that was!
In fact it was almost unbelievable. She forgot she was old and not perfect and began to just do the things she loved. She still could not look in mirrors, or sing in public, but she could tell great tales and because of her schooling, write them down.
Finally she had her own home where there were no jesters, or entertainers, just friends of the heart and she never packed another picnic basket the rest of her life.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Good Egg
Christmas is coming and the Lennon is excited. He remembers last year, but this year is still a brand new experience for him. He carefully explains everything to me as if he thinks it is also a brand new one for me too.
And it is! Because I am seeing it through his eyes, and through the eyes of my child, seeing it through his child’s eyes. It doubles the wonder for me.
Looking at the world from his point of view is exciting and sweet and sometimes very difficult.
Yesterday he must have chewed one bite of scrambled eggs for nearly two hours! I told him he could spit them out, but that if he did there would be no candy. That was in the beginning. I would rue those words later on. He chewed and chewed. Could he go play on the computer? I told him not until his mouth was empty. Could he go lie down? I said not with eggs in your mouth. He drank some juice to help wash them down to no avail. He ate a bite of toast to help make them go down and that only added to the ordeal.
I finally asked him why he couldn’t swallow them (I remember one time when I discovered five raisons in his mouth hours and hours after I had given them to him and he loves raisons!) We discussed this problem at great length without any real solution. He finally told me he had swallowed some of the eggs and now the bite in his mouth was only medium sized.
Eventually I said, “Please just go spit the eggs out.”
His answer? “I am not spitting them out and I am not swallowing them.”
He wasn’t trying to be difficult, at least not any more and I was wishing I had never put that bite of eggs on his plate. He tried another drink of juice and I heard this exultant little voice from the kitchen, “Gramma! I have something to tell you! The eggs are gone!” He’d finally swallowed it!
We celebrated with two pieces of candy! He was not angry, or sulky, just glad those eggs were gone. And so was I! Who can think children are bad at this age?
And it is! Because I am seeing it through his eyes, and through the eyes of my child, seeing it through his child’s eyes. It doubles the wonder for me.
Looking at the world from his point of view is exciting and sweet and sometimes very difficult.
Yesterday he must have chewed one bite of scrambled eggs for nearly two hours! I told him he could spit them out, but that if he did there would be no candy. That was in the beginning. I would rue those words later on. He chewed and chewed. Could he go play on the computer? I told him not until his mouth was empty. Could he go lie down? I said not with eggs in your mouth. He drank some juice to help wash them down to no avail. He ate a bite of toast to help make them go down and that only added to the ordeal.
I finally asked him why he couldn’t swallow them (I remember one time when I discovered five raisons in his mouth hours and hours after I had given them to him and he loves raisons!) We discussed this problem at great length without any real solution. He finally told me he had swallowed some of the eggs and now the bite in his mouth was only medium sized.
Eventually I said, “Please just go spit the eggs out.”
His answer? “I am not spitting them out and I am not swallowing them.”
He wasn’t trying to be difficult, at least not any more and I was wishing I had never put that bite of eggs on his plate. He tried another drink of juice and I heard this exultant little voice from the kitchen, “Gramma! I have something to tell you! The eggs are gone!” He’d finally swallowed it!
We celebrated with two pieces of candy! He was not angry, or sulky, just glad those eggs were gone. And so was I! Who can think children are bad at this age?
Honesty
I am the dream, the biology, and the reality, all mixed up together.
The stories come into my head. I write them down and they change the next day, but the dreams are the same until they are shattered. Then like eggs filled with new life they grow again.
And underneath it all is the force that carries these thoughts and hopes, fears and dreams, my life force. This body with its own challenges and needs, it’s own drives to carry on in ways as ancient as time, shoulders the burden of living as best it can.
I am a whole being. I’ve always been one and I am pretty sure I will continue on this way until the day I die. I am wiser than I was at twenty five, but not really all that different in most ways. My heart still soars and breaks. Only the shell becomes thinner, weaker, opening, I suppose, the way for learning new things every day.
As a child I needed the protection of something heavier and stronger, but now, as the rest of me becomes stronger, I can afford to be less on the outside, because there is so much more on the inside.
The stories come into my head. I write them down and they change the next day, but the dreams are the same until they are shattered. Then like eggs filled with new life they grow again.
And underneath it all is the force that carries these thoughts and hopes, fears and dreams, my life force. This body with its own challenges and needs, it’s own drives to carry on in ways as ancient as time, shoulders the burden of living as best it can.
I am a whole being. I’ve always been one and I am pretty sure I will continue on this way until the day I die. I am wiser than I was at twenty five, but not really all that different in most ways. My heart still soars and breaks. Only the shell becomes thinner, weaker, opening, I suppose, the way for learning new things every day.
As a child I needed the protection of something heavier and stronger, but now, as the rest of me becomes stronger, I can afford to be less on the outside, because there is so much more on the inside.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
My Friend
If everyone reached out as far as he does, there would be no wars, no poverty and no hunger, of spirit, or body. The world would be one of compassion, love and those random acts of kindness that keep people slightly off kilter and in line.
How does one grow a man like this? Intelligent, kind, creative, reasonable? Do we give the credit to his mother, or someone else? Surely he did not get here alone and yet, knowing what I do, I find that quite possible. Whatever the formula, we need to discover it before one more child grows up without it.
Perhaps it was a series of helping hands along the way, each one adding just a bit more to a man who is already generous beyond understanding. He seems to give back to this world with an abandon that would leave most of us fearing for ourselves.
I am hard put to find any fault in him at all. Yet, I know it is there because he is so very exquisitely human. Both his tears and his rants adding to the perfection of his humanity, making him one of the most approachable people I have ever met.
I call him my friend, but the reality of that leaves me in an almost constant state of wonder.
How does one grow a man like this? Intelligent, kind, creative, reasonable? Do we give the credit to his mother, or someone else? Surely he did not get here alone and yet, knowing what I do, I find that quite possible. Whatever the formula, we need to discover it before one more child grows up without it.
Perhaps it was a series of helping hands along the way, each one adding just a bit more to a man who is already generous beyond understanding. He seems to give back to this world with an abandon that would leave most of us fearing for ourselves.
I am hard put to find any fault in him at all. Yet, I know it is there because he is so very exquisitely human. Both his tears and his rants adding to the perfection of his humanity, making him one of the most approachable people I have ever met.
I call him my friend, but the reality of that leaves me in an almost constant state of wonder.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A Call To Smiles
Absolutely perfect day! First of all a call from someone we’ve all been waiting to hear from. If nothing else had happened, I’d still be smiling.
But something else did happen. We had the Lennon’s birthday party and it was so much fun. Little boys from ages two to five are the best party goers anyone could ask for.
The Lennon Band got together for their first jam session, with Lennon on drums, Indio on small guitar, Swanee on tambourine and the Martin backpacker and Will dancing with great abandon as the Dads joined in too! The paparazzi went wild! Everyone was nearly blinded by the flashes of cameras coming from all corners of the room!
We ate calzones, chicken Alfredo, and ziti. had cake and ice cream, opened presents and finished up by decorating little gingerbread houses. Well, most of us decorated. Will ate his way through his.
Like I said, a perfect day!
But something else did happen. We had the Lennon’s birthday party and it was so much fun. Little boys from ages two to five are the best party goers anyone could ask for.
The Lennon Band got together for their first jam session, with Lennon on drums, Indio on small guitar, Swanee on tambourine and the Martin backpacker and Will dancing with great abandon as the Dads joined in too! The paparazzi went wild! Everyone was nearly blinded by the flashes of cameras coming from all corners of the room!
We ate calzones, chicken Alfredo, and ziti. had cake and ice cream, opened presents and finished up by decorating little gingerbread houses. Well, most of us decorated. Will ate his way through his.
Like I said, a perfect day!
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Wrath Of Khan
I took my first run in a long time chasing Chauncey from the Groomer’s front yard, down a busy boulevard, across the park and onto the trail this morning. I might still be chasing him if some kind woman had not stopped the little beggar and caught him for me! He has no conscience at all. He would stop every so often and grin at me while wagging his tail and cocking his head as if to say, aren’t I just too cute? I alternated between firm commands and embarrassing pleading.
At home he responds to commands pretty consistently (in a Shih-Tzu sort of way.) Out in the world he evidently thinks they no longer matter. It’s funny how scared I can be one moment and how angry the next. Never again will we go anywhere without a collar on.
I have never had a child who did not respond to my super quiet threatening command voice after the age of two, even my teenagers sensed that the wrath of Khan was about to descend upon them at that point. I’m not sure what they thought I was going to do, but no one ever pushed me far enough to call my bluff. Chauncey could have cared less.
I am not generally a slow learner, but it might have cost him his life today.
At home he responds to commands pretty consistently (in a Shih-Tzu sort of way.) Out in the world he evidently thinks they no longer matter. It’s funny how scared I can be one moment and how angry the next. Never again will we go anywhere without a collar on.
I have never had a child who did not respond to my super quiet threatening command voice after the age of two, even my teenagers sensed that the wrath of Khan was about to descend upon them at that point. I’m not sure what they thought I was going to do, but no one ever pushed me far enough to call my bluff. Chauncey could have cared less.
I am not generally a slow learner, but it might have cost him his life today.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Remember
Once in a rare while two people meet who should not have met, good people who appear to have nothing in common, but who find a kindred spirit out of place and time.
In the space of that anomaly, there is a brightening of everything that is and ever was and both of them realize it must be preserved.
Yet it is an anomaly and so far out of step with the rest of the universe that to share it with them would be a tragedy of misunderstandings, tarnishing perfection for no good reason at all.
So an agreement is reached to preserve what is and that agreement cannot be broken by either one, no matter what, even if it is a one sided agreement. It is right and good and important to them both.
Only when a person, whose incredible heart reaches out to both of them, comes along, does this agreement become difficult to maintain. It is important to remember his unfailing generosity and goodness. He deserves to be remembered with the same compassion and love that he extended.
ET phone home.
In the space of that anomaly, there is a brightening of everything that is and ever was and both of them realize it must be preserved.
Yet it is an anomaly and so far out of step with the rest of the universe that to share it with them would be a tragedy of misunderstandings, tarnishing perfection for no good reason at all.
So an agreement is reached to preserve what is and that agreement cannot be broken by either one, no matter what, even if it is a one sided agreement. It is right and good and important to them both.
Only when a person, whose incredible heart reaches out to both of them, comes along, does this agreement become difficult to maintain. It is important to remember his unfailing generosity and goodness. He deserves to be remembered with the same compassion and love that he extended.
ET phone home.
Hold Fast
My thots tonight are caught up in the wild sounds of highland music and the deep, sometimes dark passions that rise out of the rugged mountains and cold winds that make up that forbidding country.
In contrast to the unforgiving nature of the land, the people found their lives like that of the fires in their huge hearths. Lusty, loud, and loving on the outside, roaring through one tragedy after another, unable to yield even the tiniest amount if they were to survive. Soft and sentimental on the inside, so warm and in love and loving that their great hearts broke even as their claymores slashed down with frenzied fierceness upon those who would destroy them.
The women bore one child after another while defending their homes and fields, weaving their plaids and never knowing which man, or son would not come home next. They were a hardy lot, hiding their tears in their work, appearing much sterner than they felt.
And after Culloden, many came to this new world where my distant ancestors, related to Thomas Boyd who died shortly after 1469, but was described by his wife, Princess Mary of Scotland, as “the most courteous, gentlest, wisest, kindest, most bounteous knight and fairest archer, devoutest, most perfect and truest to his lady.“ were drawn by the Highlands of the Carolinas and settled their proud bodies and brave hearts into the city of Charleston.
Just a piece of me, but a piece I am proud to own. Good people with more honor than wealth.
In contrast to the unforgiving nature of the land, the people found their lives like that of the fires in their huge hearths. Lusty, loud, and loving on the outside, roaring through one tragedy after another, unable to yield even the tiniest amount if they were to survive. Soft and sentimental on the inside, so warm and in love and loving that their great hearts broke even as their claymores slashed down with frenzied fierceness upon those who would destroy them.
The women bore one child after another while defending their homes and fields, weaving their plaids and never knowing which man, or son would not come home next. They were a hardy lot, hiding their tears in their work, appearing much sterner than they felt.
And after Culloden, many came to this new world where my distant ancestors, related to Thomas Boyd who died shortly after 1469, but was described by his wife, Princess Mary of Scotland, as “the most courteous, gentlest, wisest, kindest, most bounteous knight and fairest archer, devoutest, most perfect and truest to his lady.“ were drawn by the Highlands of the Carolinas and settled their proud bodies and brave hearts into the city of Charleston.
Just a piece of me, but a piece I am proud to own. Good people with more honor than wealth.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Small Gifts
The smallest moments in my life are some of the richest. I say it doesn’t take much to make me happy and yet, that tiny bit is sometimes more unexpected and extraordinary than almost anyone else could ever understand.
Not knowing is the hardest thing in the world. One adjusts to it, because there are no choices, but when that changes….
Precious moments are meant to be savored and sometimes shared, but promises must be honored too. Otherwise the gift of a moment might truly end forever. I don’t think I could bear that.
Tonight I am just grateful…and joyful…and more content than anyone can imagine.
Not knowing is the hardest thing in the world. One adjusts to it, because there are no choices, but when that changes….
Precious moments are meant to be savored and sometimes shared, but promises must be honored too. Otherwise the gift of a moment might truly end forever. I don’t think I could bear that.
Tonight I am just grateful…and joyful…and more content than anyone can imagine.
Contentment
A young father sits holding his son in his arms. Bone weary, tired beyond imagining, he would not trade this moment for anything else in the world. This baby, this beautiful boy, whose clear eyes stare back at him, makes all of this worthwhile.
The baby clings to his father’s finger, comforted by the strength of the arms cuddling him, lulled by the familiar tones that read to him, talk to him, sing in short little bursts. This is his world, his security, all that he knows.
The father has given up much for this child. He has left the valley where he was born, traveled thousands of miles so that his son’s mother might have a roof over her head and food in her belly. He has left behind the familiar landscapes of his own childhood and the faces too, all in order that he might find work and keep his promise to his own son.
The baby’s eyes close and he nods off, tiny face smiling, sweet little body snuggling against the great heart he is so familiar with.
The father’s eyes close too, his young face smiling quietly as he promises, one more time, never to leave this tiny creature he loves more than life itself. He is content. This is all he ever wanted and he will preserve it at any cost.
And so it is that the young mother comes in a few moments later to see them both sound asleep and gently snoring in a rough old chair on a cold December night.
The baby clings to his father’s finger, comforted by the strength of the arms cuddling him, lulled by the familiar tones that read to him, talk to him, sing in short little bursts. This is his world, his security, all that he knows.
The father has given up much for this child. He has left the valley where he was born, traveled thousands of miles so that his son’s mother might have a roof over her head and food in her belly. He has left behind the familiar landscapes of his own childhood and the faces too, all in order that he might find work and keep his promise to his own son.
The baby’s eyes close and he nods off, tiny face smiling, sweet little body snuggling against the great heart he is so familiar with.
The father’s eyes close too, his young face smiling quietly as he promises, one more time, never to leave this tiny creature he loves more than life itself. He is content. This is all he ever wanted and he will preserve it at any cost.
And so it is that the young mother comes in a few moments later to see them both sound asleep and gently snoring in a rough old chair on a cold December night.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Too Much Of A Good Thing
I can’t honestly say that I feel great, but I am feeling much better than I have in a long time and I have an energy that has been absent for even longer.
For the first time in years, I got out an old picture album to check something out and actually enjoyed going through it! I am making gingerbread houses for the Lennon’s party. I made them for my classes every year, but haven’t done so since. The children can decorate them at the party.
Also, the Lennon and I are making gingerbread cookies tomorrow. I wonder if he will like the taste? I know he will love making them. He’s been making them out of moon sand and play dough for over a year.
I wrapped his present, my way of course. No bought party paper, but lots of imagination and his favorite colors, then hid it away until his party on Saturday. His parents are spending his real birthday with him alone. They both took the day off work to be with him. I think he is one little boy who will grow up knowing he is much loved and valued in this world.
After seeing so many boys in their late teens wandering through this world almost abandoned by the parents who surely loved them too, I want to be extra sure he is never one of those. It is absolutely impossible to love anyone too much. It can be done wrong, but there is never too much of a good thing.
So, tomorrow morning I go shopping and then we spend the rest of the day playing while Mommy performs at the Orange Peel. I can’t wait.
For the first time in years, I got out an old picture album to check something out and actually enjoyed going through it! I am making gingerbread houses for the Lennon’s party. I made them for my classes every year, but haven’t done so since. The children can decorate them at the party.
Also, the Lennon and I are making gingerbread cookies tomorrow. I wonder if he will like the taste? I know he will love making them. He’s been making them out of moon sand and play dough for over a year.
I wrapped his present, my way of course. No bought party paper, but lots of imagination and his favorite colors, then hid it away until his party on Saturday. His parents are spending his real birthday with him alone. They both took the day off work to be with him. I think he is one little boy who will grow up knowing he is much loved and valued in this world.
After seeing so many boys in their late teens wandering through this world almost abandoned by the parents who surely loved them too, I want to be extra sure he is never one of those. It is absolutely impossible to love anyone too much. It can be done wrong, but there is never too much of a good thing.
So, tomorrow morning I go shopping and then we spend the rest of the day playing while Mommy performs at the Orange Peel. I can’t wait.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Reaching Out
When someone I care about is hurting, I have an almost unbearable desire to jump in and try to save them from whatever it is, or might be. Experience, though, has taught me not to do it.
There are times when no action is the only right one.
Mourning is one of those times when it takes as long as it takes. Hearts cannot be rushed no matter what. All of our parts must come together to build the bridge across the emptiness of a space that once held someone we loved.
Transitions are another. They come along, appearing as log jams, when they are simply opportunities for a new awareness to step up and take over. No one else can do it for us. In fact, any attempt to do so only lengthens the process.
The formulas remain the same. Even if we don’t know what they are, or were, eventually, they will realign themselves and all will be well.
I’m here. Don’t think I’m not. Sometimes love comes disguised as space.
There are times when no action is the only right one.
Mourning is one of those times when it takes as long as it takes. Hearts cannot be rushed no matter what. All of our parts must come together to build the bridge across the emptiness of a space that once held someone we loved.
Transitions are another. They come along, appearing as log jams, when they are simply opportunities for a new awareness to step up and take over. No one else can do it for us. In fact, any attempt to do so only lengthens the process.
The formulas remain the same. Even if we don’t know what they are, or were, eventually, they will realign themselves and all will be well.
I’m here. Don’t think I’m not. Sometimes love comes disguised as space.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The Ultimate Gift
Life is so short. Wasting a moment of it seems like a shame.
As this holiday season descends upon the shoppers of our country it puts an unnecessary burden upon many of those already bowed down by unemployment, bills and illness.
I have lived a long time. My children are grown, independent, employed and successful enough for me. But there are a lot of children still coming up. Children bombarded by an world that makes empty promises about buying happiness with an electronic game, or super doll, or new dvd. Promises that are bound to fall through, creating only disappointment and disgust and distrust in the long run. You simply cannot buy real happiness.
It can’t be done. If anything, buying things only adds weight to the problems most of us already have. And children are smart. They know when they tire of a toy. You may fool yourself, but you can’t fool them for too long. Children know when something is missing in their lives even when they don’t know what it is. That is one of the reasons they beg us to play with them.
This year, why not try something new? Instead of capitulating to the American scheme of buy, buy, buy, try something more substantial, something that will last a long time, maybe even a lifetime.
Give your children traditions and the gift of yourselves along with whatever toys you feel are absolutely necessary. Show them that happiness is a personal thing, something that comes from within each one of us. You cannot give them happiness, you can only hope that by finding it for yourself, you can point them towards finding their own.
It is a lot harder, takes a lot more work, a little chutzpah, a commitment to yourself, your family and their future, but what could be more important than that?
As this holiday season descends upon the shoppers of our country it puts an unnecessary burden upon many of those already bowed down by unemployment, bills and illness.
I have lived a long time. My children are grown, independent, employed and successful enough for me. But there are a lot of children still coming up. Children bombarded by an world that makes empty promises about buying happiness with an electronic game, or super doll, or new dvd. Promises that are bound to fall through, creating only disappointment and disgust and distrust in the long run. You simply cannot buy real happiness.
It can’t be done. If anything, buying things only adds weight to the problems most of us already have. And children are smart. They know when they tire of a toy. You may fool yourself, but you can’t fool them for too long. Children know when something is missing in their lives even when they don’t know what it is. That is one of the reasons they beg us to play with them.
This year, why not try something new? Instead of capitulating to the American scheme of buy, buy, buy, try something more substantial, something that will last a long time, maybe even a lifetime.
Give your children traditions and the gift of yourselves along with whatever toys you feel are absolutely necessary. Show them that happiness is a personal thing, something that comes from within each one of us. You cannot give them happiness, you can only hope that by finding it for yourself, you can point them towards finding their own.
It is a lot harder, takes a lot more work, a little chutzpah, a commitment to yourself, your family and their future, but what could be more important than that?
Friday, November 27, 2009
Being Me
Everyone draws strength from something, or someone. I am no different. I have always loved the idea that life can be whole and independent, yet compact and snug in ways that most modern situations do not really allow.
As a young child I imagined myself with a full sized mechanical elephant. Big enough to hold my entire family on top, it would have room inside to carry our bags of rice and flour so that we could live anywhere. I would make him move with levers that worked his legs from the top. As a child being that high up seemed very safe and secure.
Later I lived, for a short time, in the country miles and miles from the nearest town, simply to experience the aloneness and now I choose to live with the barest of necessities because it feels right. I have been experimenting by putting my bed in the living room so that I am only heating that part of my house to see what it is like to live in a cabin. Of course I have huge windows overlooking the most beautiful country around, but it is fun to play at this.
Now tonight a friend writes that he actually lived this way for several years long ago and that fills my imagination with so much food for thought. He too had a piano, an important part of who I am. Even if I go months without touching it, the fact that it is here is important to me. My piano has been my comforter, counselor and best friend more times than I can remember. Now it is battered from being moved so many times during the past five years, but it still plays and it still satisfies a deep and primal part of me.
It’s good to know where my strengths lie and how to access them. It is even better to know that there are good and kind people out there still wanting and willing to talk to me just because I am me. I think that is important for anyone.
As a young child I imagined myself with a full sized mechanical elephant. Big enough to hold my entire family on top, it would have room inside to carry our bags of rice and flour so that we could live anywhere. I would make him move with levers that worked his legs from the top. As a child being that high up seemed very safe and secure.
Later I lived, for a short time, in the country miles and miles from the nearest town, simply to experience the aloneness and now I choose to live with the barest of necessities because it feels right. I have been experimenting by putting my bed in the living room so that I am only heating that part of my house to see what it is like to live in a cabin. Of course I have huge windows overlooking the most beautiful country around, but it is fun to play at this.
Now tonight a friend writes that he actually lived this way for several years long ago and that fills my imagination with so much food for thought. He too had a piano, an important part of who I am. Even if I go months without touching it, the fact that it is here is important to me. My piano has been my comforter, counselor and best friend more times than I can remember. Now it is battered from being moved so many times during the past five years, but it still plays and it still satisfies a deep and primal part of me.
It’s good to know where my strengths lie and how to access them. It is even better to know that there are good and kind people out there still wanting and willing to talk to me just because I am me. I think that is important for anyone.
Mountain Musings
Morning dawns, bright and sunny, here in the mountains and I rise from my bed wondering how Thanksgiving dinner went?
I remember an old priest who once said it is a sin not to feast on a feast day. Funny how many folks are eager to suffer with joy, but not celebrate the same way. It is a rather dark way of being. A left over from our Puritan underpinnings I suppose.
First thing I did yesterday was go to the local grocery store and buy a turkey pan for my son’s family. It seems the sacrificial bird would not fit in anything we had. I was surprised how many others were already at the store, but it was a good day to buy foil turkey pans.
Returning I realized my stomach was making growling sounds and just assumed it was hungry, but a few hours later discovered that I had the Lennon’s flu. So, I spent the rest of the day and night trying to get warm under a pile of blankets, dreaming odd dreams of swimming pools whose currents were trying to pull me out to sea and of a hunt for souvenirs that took me to Maui markets with their brightly colored cloths and carved statues.
Finally, about six this morning, I woke up with water running down my face from my hair, thinking that I desperately needed to get out of the water. Now I sit here, drinking a cup of tea, feeling like I’ve been on the rack for the past eighteen hours instead of in bed.
I remember an old priest who once said it is a sin not to feast on a feast day. Funny how many folks are eager to suffer with joy, but not celebrate the same way. It is a rather dark way of being. A left over from our Puritan underpinnings I suppose.
First thing I did yesterday was go to the local grocery store and buy a turkey pan for my son’s family. It seems the sacrificial bird would not fit in anything we had. I was surprised how many others were already at the store, but it was a good day to buy foil turkey pans.
Returning I realized my stomach was making growling sounds and just assumed it was hungry, but a few hours later discovered that I had the Lennon’s flu. So, I spent the rest of the day and night trying to get warm under a pile of blankets, dreaming odd dreams of swimming pools whose currents were trying to pull me out to sea and of a hunt for souvenirs that took me to Maui markets with their brightly colored cloths and carved statues.
Finally, about six this morning, I woke up with water running down my face from my hair, thinking that I desperately needed to get out of the water. Now I sit here, drinking a cup of tea, feeling like I’ve been on the rack for the past eighteen hours instead of in bed.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
First Get Paid, then do no harm
Imagine a doctor looking at a three year old with a one hundred three degree temperature and refusing to treat him because his mother could not find her current insurance card and she did not have enough money in her checking account to pay up front.
It happened in Asheville, NC tonight and they didn’t bat an eye.
Just a reminder that no one is safe from the rampant greed that is creeping across this country, revealing the true face of one of the richest countries in the world.
It happened in Asheville, NC tonight and they didn’t bat an eye.
Just a reminder that no one is safe from the rampant greed that is creeping across this country, revealing the true face of one of the richest countries in the world.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Birth Days
It took me so many years to become a mother that I began to think it would never happen. Now I am a grandmother and I can’t begin to tell you where the years have gone to.
On Mother’s day, four years ago, I received a Fed Ex package on my doorstep. Opening it up I found a note that said, “We couldn’t afford to buy you anything for Mother’s Day, so we thought we’d send you a little something homemade!” A sonogram was attached to it and that was my first look at Lennon.
Now, as I celebrate my birthday, along with Lennon and Chauncey, I am so excited to announce that my other son, the one in Denver, and his wife are expecting a baby in June.
My oldest grand children, Brooke and Tiffany are in high school and junior high now. How can that be possible?
I adore my children and I’m not ashamed to say so. The years I spent rearing them were some of the hardest and very best of my life. I take parenting very seriously and feel it is the greatest adventure a human being could ever have.
You receive this tiny little creature who is totally dependent on you and are given the opportunity to bring it up to maximize its potential in every way possible. Child rearing is the finest art on earth and the rewards never end.
I have only to think the name of one of my children and my heart overflows.
On Mother’s day, four years ago, I received a Fed Ex package on my doorstep. Opening it up I found a note that said, “We couldn’t afford to buy you anything for Mother’s Day, so we thought we’d send you a little something homemade!” A sonogram was attached to it and that was my first look at Lennon.
Now, as I celebrate my birthday, along with Lennon and Chauncey, I am so excited to announce that my other son, the one in Denver, and his wife are expecting a baby in June.
My oldest grand children, Brooke and Tiffany are in high school and junior high now. How can that be possible?
I adore my children and I’m not ashamed to say so. The years I spent rearing them were some of the hardest and very best of my life. I take parenting very seriously and feel it is the greatest adventure a human being could ever have.
You receive this tiny little creature who is totally dependent on you and are given the opportunity to bring it up to maximize its potential in every way possible. Child rearing is the finest art on earth and the rewards never end.
I have only to think the name of one of my children and my heart overflows.
Growing
Me.
This is where it all starts. For me, at least. For you, it starts with you, but not for me.
Everything I do, think, feel, act upon, or dream, all comes through this thing called me, whatever that all is.
I try to keep it simple, but I’m not really a simple creature at all. I am a collection of experiences held together by a body that is increasingly unreliable and I find that frustrating.
My mind and my feelings are as sharp and tender as they ever were, more so perhaps, but the rest no longer represents who I feel I am. It is like false advertising to walk around in this casing no matter how much I dress it up and deck it out. But I’m stuck with it, that is becoming increasingly obvious.
My first impulse is to hide away and only let out the parts of me that I like, but that is turning out to be a bit restrictive. First of all, there is an awful lot of me to hide away anymore. I’m twice the woman I used to be and that is no joke. I need to just embrace the fact that I am who I am. Slinking around trying to camouflage it just isn’t my style.
I have a birthday coming up tomorrow, November 25th. It is a big one for me, the first one I have ever dreaded, but I realize I could live another forty years. That is a long time if I can’t come to terms with both my age and my body.
In reality, my life is good. In fact, it is very very good. I have had the chance to experience things many people never do and I have a number of awesome people in my life, people I respect and love very much. So I suppose I need to just keep going forward, assuming the rest of my life will be the same. After all, it’s not like I’m a super model, or anything. Nothing in my life really relies on me looking good. It is more important that I feel good.
It is said that discomfort and inconvenience promote growth. Some of us have more opportunities than others. Please let me take advantage of the ones I have.
This is where it all starts. For me, at least. For you, it starts with you, but not for me.
Everything I do, think, feel, act upon, or dream, all comes through this thing called me, whatever that all is.
I try to keep it simple, but I’m not really a simple creature at all. I am a collection of experiences held together by a body that is increasingly unreliable and I find that frustrating.
My mind and my feelings are as sharp and tender as they ever were, more so perhaps, but the rest no longer represents who I feel I am. It is like false advertising to walk around in this casing no matter how much I dress it up and deck it out. But I’m stuck with it, that is becoming increasingly obvious.
My first impulse is to hide away and only let out the parts of me that I like, but that is turning out to be a bit restrictive. First of all, there is an awful lot of me to hide away anymore. I’m twice the woman I used to be and that is no joke. I need to just embrace the fact that I am who I am. Slinking around trying to camouflage it just isn’t my style.
I have a birthday coming up tomorrow, November 25th. It is a big one for me, the first one I have ever dreaded, but I realize I could live another forty years. That is a long time if I can’t come to terms with both my age and my body.
In reality, my life is good. In fact, it is very very good. I have had the chance to experience things many people never do and I have a number of awesome people in my life, people I respect and love very much. So I suppose I need to just keep going forward, assuming the rest of my life will be the same. After all, it’s not like I’m a super model, or anything. Nothing in my life really relies on me looking good. It is more important that I feel good.
It is said that discomfort and inconvenience promote growth. Some of us have more opportunities than others. Please let me take advantage of the ones I have.
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Thread of Our Friendship
Deep inside of me is a thread of thought that goes all the way from my side of the world, to yours. Fragile and invisible as it is, it is a place where I can be myself without any shimmering images to cover up my flaws.
Our name for it is friendship, but I think that this word, like the word, love, can be a very loose interpretation of something very precious.
It may seem as if our connection was damaged when that proverbial egg rolled out of the nest, but I think that is actually when I realized exactly how much I really value it.
Now the thread needs time to stop vibrating, time to settle down, so that I can become comfortable holding my end again.
I just hope you’ll hang on until I do.
Our name for it is friendship, but I think that this word, like the word, love, can be a very loose interpretation of something very precious.
It may seem as if our connection was damaged when that proverbial egg rolled out of the nest, but I think that is actually when I realized exactly how much I really value it.
Now the thread needs time to stop vibrating, time to settle down, so that I can become comfortable holding my end again.
I just hope you’ll hang on until I do.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Dabbler
I am a dabbler.
As early as ten one of my music teachers told me to be careful, I might become a jack of all trades and master of none. It seems he might have been right.
Today I felt the need to create something. That is always a good sign. It means I am full and overflowing and need some sort of creative outlet.
Often writing is enough. Writing is the one thing I admit I am pretty good at. I love it, but it isn’t enough today. Other times my camera becomes the way I share my good fortune with the world. I’m not too bad at that either, not because I have any great skill. I have a good eye and am fortunate to be given many opportunities to use it. A picture presents itself and I push the button.
I play around making cards, mostly because people seem to get a kick out of them and it satisfies that preschool urge to cut and paste I never outgrew.
Today, though, I wanted to paint. I haven’t really painted much at all in the past few years. The last really big canvas I finished was the Great Turtle, a dream creature who invaded my life for almost five years. I also have my version of The Kiss, but my version is so different I never really got into it, so maybe that is what I will do tomorrow. I’ll re-gesso the canvas and paint over it.
Tonight, though, the wee tyrant and I made an airplane out of a cardboard box, aluminum foil and paper plates. Tomorrow he can sit in it and fly it around the house.
I am a dabbler.
As early as ten one of my music teachers told me to be careful, I might become a jack of all trades and master of none. It seems he might have been right.
Today I felt the need to create something. That is always a good sign. It means I am full and overflowing and need some sort of creative outlet.
Often writing is enough. Writing is the one thing I admit I am pretty good at. I love it, but it isn’t enough today. Other times my camera becomes the way I share my good fortune with the world. I’m not too bad at that either, not because I have any great skill. I have a good eye and am fortunate to be given many opportunities to use it. A picture presents itself and I push the button.
I play around making cards, mostly because people seem to get a kick out of them and it satisfies that preschool urge to cut and paste I never outgrew.
Today, though, I wanted to paint. I haven’t really painted much at all in the past few years. The last really big canvas I finished was the Great Turtle, a dream creature who invaded my life for almost five years. I also have my version of The Kiss, but my version is so different I never really got into it, so maybe that is what I will do tomorrow. I’ll re-gesso the canvas and paint over it.
Tonight, though, the wee tyrant and I made an airplane out of a cardboard box, aluminum foil and paper plates. Tomorrow he can sit in it and fly it around the house.
I am a dabbler.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Awakening
Do you know that I am writing to you? Do you see yourself in these words that crawl across the page in this strange communion of fingers and mind? Do you know how important you are to me?
The Muse left some time ago, but he didn’t disappear until recently. One day he landed gently in my life and then another day, he simply floated away. It is the nature of muses I suppose. Brilliant flashes of light, opening doors and windows, airing out rooms that might become musty if left closed too long. Mysterious creatures, sweet and gentle but with a power that is beyond imagining.
Alone. Bereft. I had no will power left. Sinking down into the mossy grass around me, I spun myself into a soft cocoon. Resting. Waiting. For what I wasn’t sure. I only knew there was nothing else I could do.
I might have stayed there, but your tears woke me up. Your hand reached out and I rose to stand beside you.
Opening my eyes, I watched the light return to the sky, allowed myself to feel the wind once more upon my face, and mingled my tears with yours.
Perhaps that is all the Muse came to do.
Bring me you.
The Muse left some time ago, but he didn’t disappear until recently. One day he landed gently in my life and then another day, he simply floated away. It is the nature of muses I suppose. Brilliant flashes of light, opening doors and windows, airing out rooms that might become musty if left closed too long. Mysterious creatures, sweet and gentle but with a power that is beyond imagining.
Alone. Bereft. I had no will power left. Sinking down into the mossy grass around me, I spun myself into a soft cocoon. Resting. Waiting. For what I wasn’t sure. I only knew there was nothing else I could do.
I might have stayed there, but your tears woke me up. Your hand reached out and I rose to stand beside you.
Opening my eyes, I watched the light return to the sky, allowed myself to feel the wind once more upon my face, and mingled my tears with yours.
Perhaps that is all the Muse came to do.
Bring me you.
Friday, November 20, 2009
You
I hear your whispers falling gently upon my ears like raindrops on a soft Fall night. Crisp and clean, soft and warm, a cluster of wholeness unhampered by tradition. A taste of sanity in a world gone mad.
You are thunder storms and crashing waves, tumultuous winds and trees leaning menacingly low to the ground. You are ice storms and tornados, hurricanes and passion in its wildest forms, but you are also the dog who lies quietly by the hearth on long cold nights, wanting only the warmth and companionship of those you love.
Looking into the lake I see your reflection in my face, knowing that if I dip my hands deeply enough, I will find only myself. Still, I dangle my fingers in the water, playing like a cat with a willow wisp, thoughtlessly chasing the beauty of you in and out of the light and think I see the glancing shadows of fingers playing back.
Elusive children of parallel universes, we are only characters in each other’s storybooks, but these are the good books, the enduring stories that pass down through the ages as legends and myths. More than lovers we are adorers whose depth is unfathomable, whose presence is never recognized, but ever present.
When I am hungry, I look to you. When I am afraid, I look for you. When I am alone I am you.
You are thunder storms and crashing waves, tumultuous winds and trees leaning menacingly low to the ground. You are ice storms and tornados, hurricanes and passion in its wildest forms, but you are also the dog who lies quietly by the hearth on long cold nights, wanting only the warmth and companionship of those you love.
Looking into the lake I see your reflection in my face, knowing that if I dip my hands deeply enough, I will find only myself. Still, I dangle my fingers in the water, playing like a cat with a willow wisp, thoughtlessly chasing the beauty of you in and out of the light and think I see the glancing shadows of fingers playing back.
Elusive children of parallel universes, we are only characters in each other’s storybooks, but these are the good books, the enduring stories that pass down through the ages as legends and myths. More than lovers we are adorers whose depth is unfathomable, whose presence is never recognized, but ever present.
When I am hungry, I look to you. When I am afraid, I look for you. When I am alone I am you.
You
I hear your whispers falling gently upon my ears like raindrops on a soft Fall night. Crisp and clean, soft and warm, a cluster of wholeness unhampered by tradition. A taste of sanity in a world gone mad.
You are thunder storms and crashing waves, tumultuous winds and trees leaning menacingly low to the ground. You are ice storms and tornados, hurricanes and passion in its wildest forms, but you are also the dog who lies quietly by the hearth on long cold nights, wanting only the warmth and companionship of those you love.
Looking into the lake I see your reflection in my face, knowing that if I dip my hands deeply enough, I will find only myself. Still, I dangle my fingers in the water, playing like a cat with a willow wisp, thoughtlessly chasing the beauty of you in and out of the light and think I see the glancing shadows of fingers playing back.
Elusive children of parallel universes, we are only characters in each other’s storybooks, but these are the good books, the enduring stories that pass down through the ages as legends and myths. More than lovers we are adorers whose depth is unfathomable, whose presence is never recognized, but ever present.
When I am hungry, I look to you. When I am afraid, I look for you. When I am alone I am you.
You are thunder storms and crashing waves, tumultuous winds and trees leaning menacingly low to the ground. You are ice storms and tornados, hurricanes and passion in its wildest forms, but you are also the dog who lies quietly by the hearth on long cold nights, wanting only the warmth and companionship of those you love.
Looking into the lake I see your reflection in my face, knowing that if I dip my hands deeply enough, I will find only myself. Still, I dangle my fingers in the water, playing like a cat with a willow wisp, thoughtlessly chasing the beauty of you in and out of the light and think I see the glancing shadows of fingers playing back.
Elusive children of parallel universes, we are only characters in each other’s storybooks, but these are the good books, the enduring stories that pass down through the ages as legends and myths. More than lovers we are adorers whose depth is unfathomable, whose presence is never recognized, but ever present.
When I am hungry, I look to you. When I am afraid, I look for you. When I am alone I am you.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Just Itching
What a year this has been. Last week I had pneumonia, not all that uncommon for me, but it turned out I was allergic to the antibiotic. I would never have guessed this on the first day, or even the fifth day, but by the sixth day there was a teeny tiny warning sign that I ignored.
On the seventh day there was no rest at all. I woke up after a fitful night, scratching! Finally getting out of bed and looking in the mirror I saw this red lumpy, bumpy creature staring back at me. Tons of Benedryl later I was covered head to toe in a torturous, hideous red rash.
Today I went to the doctor and she asked if I wanted to just wait it out? It was the first time I ever wanted to throttle her. Obviously she has never spent three days with almost no sleep, scratching. Even my ears are infected now, so I came home with Prednisone and ear drops and I’m still itching!
I’m sitting here with two ice cubes on the floor under my burning toes and every few minutes I stop to put more anti-itch cream on, or go swallow another Benedryl. Actually the ice works better than anything else, but I’d have to submerge myself in a tub of it to get much relief.
I tried to write something else, but obviously I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. Let me make it through the night, because surely tomorrow is going to be better!
On the seventh day there was no rest at all. I woke up after a fitful night, scratching! Finally getting out of bed and looking in the mirror I saw this red lumpy, bumpy creature staring back at me. Tons of Benedryl later I was covered head to toe in a torturous, hideous red rash.
Today I went to the doctor and she asked if I wanted to just wait it out? It was the first time I ever wanted to throttle her. Obviously she has never spent three days with almost no sleep, scratching. Even my ears are infected now, so I came home with Prednisone and ear drops and I’m still itching!
I’m sitting here with two ice cubes on the floor under my burning toes and every few minutes I stop to put more anti-itch cream on, or go swallow another Benedryl. Actually the ice works better than anything else, but I’d have to submerge myself in a tub of it to get much relief.
I tried to write something else, but obviously I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. Let me make it through the night, because surely tomorrow is going to be better!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
“Second to the right and straight on to morning!” By J.M. Barrie
The first time I met Pan, I was fifty and he was twenty five, but still, it was a propitious meeting and one that seems to have set the course for the rest of my life. A meeting of minds over matter, of thoughts versus rules, of life over mundane-ism.
I saw him but a few times and the innocence of those times was legendary. We watched the sun rise over the trees at Miller Park, the stars rise over Fairview Park and said good-bye when the geese flew off into the northern sky.
Wendy that I am, I continued to grow up and older until I found myself placed on consignment, to be dusted once daily and put away on a shelf where life was viewed through a distant window and the sounds of laughter and love were only echoes from the people in the hallway. Not so dreary as it sounds, but certainly not Never Land.
Thinking I was banned forever from that magical place, I became content enough until the day I met Peter! Not Pan, nothing like Pan at all. Peter was so beautiful inside and out that he practically glowed and whenever I stood near him, my face reflected all the light of the universe. I could no longer stay on that shelf. Each time I was placed back up there, I simply floated away!
Now I believe! Knowing what I know now, I believe! Whenever that thought begins to falter, I simply think of Peter’s face and his extraordinary philosophy of life.
“Second star on the right and straight on till morning!” By Peter Pan.
Once I was found, but now I am lost forever in that place where good thoughts and good actions make anything possible.
I saw him but a few times and the innocence of those times was legendary. We watched the sun rise over the trees at Miller Park, the stars rise over Fairview Park and said good-bye when the geese flew off into the northern sky.
Wendy that I am, I continued to grow up and older until I found myself placed on consignment, to be dusted once daily and put away on a shelf where life was viewed through a distant window and the sounds of laughter and love were only echoes from the people in the hallway. Not so dreary as it sounds, but certainly not Never Land.
Thinking I was banned forever from that magical place, I became content enough until the day I met Peter! Not Pan, nothing like Pan at all. Peter was so beautiful inside and out that he practically glowed and whenever I stood near him, my face reflected all the light of the universe. I could no longer stay on that shelf. Each time I was placed back up there, I simply floated away!
Now I believe! Knowing what I know now, I believe! Whenever that thought begins to falter, I simply think of Peter’s face and his extraordinary philosophy of life.
“Second star on the right and straight on till morning!” By Peter Pan.
Once I was found, but now I am lost forever in that place where good thoughts and good actions make anything possible.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thank You
She spotted the note immediately. It was one of her life’s little pleasures, a simple thing that brought a smile to her eyes as soon as she saw it.
Opening all the mundane, work-a-day mail first, she saved it for last, a treat for getting the chores out of the way.
Wondering what might be in it today, she settled back, took a sip of her coffee and carefully opened it. Who knew what might be in there. It was one of the delights of her life that almost anything might pop up. That was one of the beautiful things about this writer, who seldom minced words. He made her laugh and think and sometimes, like today, cry.
Generous beyond belief, he took care of the people around him, making sure the hungry had food, the sick had medical care and medicine, juices and broths. He’d been known to pay utility bills when the temperature was 120 out and the AC was about to be cut off. He hired lawyers for some and had even provided a temporary apartment for those who had no roof over their heads. Doing good deeds was not unusual, it was part of who he was. Just a part, but a large part.
Today, though, he brought tears to her eyes with a small paragraph slipped in among the news and chit chat. Today he touched her so unexpectedly and kindly that she didn’t even know how to respond, so she sat there, heart overflowing, tears in her eyes and smiled for a very long time.
And then she wrote back. Thank you. It wasn’t enough, but the feelings behind it were huge. He would know that. It was one of the things she loved about him.
Opening all the mundane, work-a-day mail first, she saved it for last, a treat for getting the chores out of the way.
Wondering what might be in it today, she settled back, took a sip of her coffee and carefully opened it. Who knew what might be in there. It was one of the delights of her life that almost anything might pop up. That was one of the beautiful things about this writer, who seldom minced words. He made her laugh and think and sometimes, like today, cry.
Generous beyond belief, he took care of the people around him, making sure the hungry had food, the sick had medical care and medicine, juices and broths. He’d been known to pay utility bills when the temperature was 120 out and the AC was about to be cut off. He hired lawyers for some and had even provided a temporary apartment for those who had no roof over their heads. Doing good deeds was not unusual, it was part of who he was. Just a part, but a large part.
Today, though, he brought tears to her eyes with a small paragraph slipped in among the news and chit chat. Today he touched her so unexpectedly and kindly that she didn’t even know how to respond, so she sat there, heart overflowing, tears in her eyes and smiled for a very long time.
And then she wrote back. Thank you. It wasn’t enough, but the feelings behind it were huge. He would know that. It was one of the things she loved about him.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Three
I am reading three books right now.
Founding Mothers by Cokie Roberts, The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown and a little Nora Roberts romance that I use to go to sleep at night. Of course all this reading means I am not writing. I can’t really read someone else’s work and write my own. It just doesn’t work for me.
Normally I would not be reading the first two books at the same time, but circumstances made it impossible to keep my curiosity at bay. The first one is a birthday gift from a friend and I picked it up just to peruse a few pages, then had to go on. The second was loaned to me by someone who knows I love Brown’s books.
It came with a bookmark containing a favorite quote from the book, written in long hand, a tradition for the one who gave it to me. “Don’t tell anyone, but on the pagan day of the sun god Ra, I kneel at the foot of an ancient instrument of torture and consume ritualistic symbols of blood and flesh.” I love descriptions like this.
But, I have to admit that when I read Brown’s books I also feel very close to my father who was the only other person I’ve ever known who could tell a tale with all the attending scientific data wrapped around religious and mythological themes and make it into something that seemed modern and possibly true. You need an incredible amount of knowledge to do that.
Dad had degrees in physics, chemistry, and English. He was born to be a student and he was born with an imagination! He could read and write in four languages, or so he said. I can’t read in four languages, so I just had to take him at his word. I learned early on never to ask him anything I didn’t really want to know because he would research it down to the nth degree and present a dissertation on it, whether I liked it, or not.
So, I’m reading one book to put me to sleep, one that I find fascinating and one that makes me feel like I’m cuddled up next to my Dad being read a grown-up fairy tale and I don’t want to finish any of them too soon.
Founding Mothers by Cokie Roberts, The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown and a little Nora Roberts romance that I use to go to sleep at night. Of course all this reading means I am not writing. I can’t really read someone else’s work and write my own. It just doesn’t work for me.
Normally I would not be reading the first two books at the same time, but circumstances made it impossible to keep my curiosity at bay. The first one is a birthday gift from a friend and I picked it up just to peruse a few pages, then had to go on. The second was loaned to me by someone who knows I love Brown’s books.
It came with a bookmark containing a favorite quote from the book, written in long hand, a tradition for the one who gave it to me. “Don’t tell anyone, but on the pagan day of the sun god Ra, I kneel at the foot of an ancient instrument of torture and consume ritualistic symbols of blood and flesh.” I love descriptions like this.
But, I have to admit that when I read Brown’s books I also feel very close to my father who was the only other person I’ve ever known who could tell a tale with all the attending scientific data wrapped around religious and mythological themes and make it into something that seemed modern and possibly true. You need an incredible amount of knowledge to do that.
Dad had degrees in physics, chemistry, and English. He was born to be a student and he was born with an imagination! He could read and write in four languages, or so he said. I can’t read in four languages, so I just had to take him at his word. I learned early on never to ask him anything I didn’t really want to know because he would research it down to the nth degree and present a dissertation on it, whether I liked it, or not.
So, I’m reading one book to put me to sleep, one that I find fascinating and one that makes me feel like I’m cuddled up next to my Dad being read a grown-up fairy tale and I don’t want to finish any of them too soon.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
No Rush
I see what I want to see.
Driving down the highway, on my first outing since Sunday, I watch the cars around me. Hundreds of people from all over the country surround me, but my eyes are really only looking for one. It’s what I do. It’ll wear off.
Construction pops up and traffic slows down. Usually a reason for me to feel annoyed. Gawkers, no other reason for the hold up. There are still two lanes open, but people seem to automatically slow down way below the required fifty miles per hour. This time it doesn’t bother me. I see a flash of blonde hair, a bit wild and unruly. Could it be? No.
Turning on the computer I read my email, check out my blog, look at a few other things. A recently discovered site catches my attention, the stories are well written, with a familiar style, but again I wonder if it is only my wanting that makes them seem so.
So, is it better to live in the land of hope and possible make believe, or is it better to grab reality by the scruff of its neck and force myself to move on?
It doesn’t really matter. I will do what I will do no matter what. And since it doesn’t really hurt anyone, why not? I’ve always allowed my imagination full reign.
It’s been a beautiful year, but gone by too quickly. Now it is over and time will take care of the moving on, it always has. No need for me to rush things along.
Driving down the highway, on my first outing since Sunday, I watch the cars around me. Hundreds of people from all over the country surround me, but my eyes are really only looking for one. It’s what I do. It’ll wear off.
Construction pops up and traffic slows down. Usually a reason for me to feel annoyed. Gawkers, no other reason for the hold up. There are still two lanes open, but people seem to automatically slow down way below the required fifty miles per hour. This time it doesn’t bother me. I see a flash of blonde hair, a bit wild and unruly. Could it be? No.
Turning on the computer I read my email, check out my blog, look at a few other things. A recently discovered site catches my attention, the stories are well written, with a familiar style, but again I wonder if it is only my wanting that makes them seem so.
So, is it better to live in the land of hope and possible make believe, or is it better to grab reality by the scruff of its neck and force myself to move on?
It doesn’t really matter. I will do what I will do no matter what. And since it doesn’t really hurt anyone, why not? I’ve always allowed my imagination full reign.
It’s been a beautiful year, but gone by too quickly. Now it is over and time will take care of the moving on, it always has. No need for me to rush things along.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Missing Twin
I dreamed my life was a huge jigsaw puzzle. Each piece vital to the whole, but each one thinking it was the whole picture. No matter where I turned I saw myself standing posed like the living statues at Bele Chere.
I could move around. I could even talk, but I had the worst ache inside of me. I missed something, craved it, needed it and all the pieces stood between me and whatever “it” was. I was afraid that if I found it and acknowledged it, all the other pieces might turn and walk away. There I stood, in a beautiful park like setting, surrounded by people and so lonely I thought I would die.
Then, just before I woke up, I felt someone helping me put the puzzle together. He was like my other self, the part that filled in the hole and stopped the ache. A twin brother who was not afraid to be who he was and who allowed me to be all of me without any fear that he would turn and walk away. It was so rich, so perfect, so whole.
And then I woke up.
I could move around. I could even talk, but I had the worst ache inside of me. I missed something, craved it, needed it and all the pieces stood between me and whatever “it” was. I was afraid that if I found it and acknowledged it, all the other pieces might turn and walk away. There I stood, in a beautiful park like setting, surrounded by people and so lonely I thought I would die.
Then, just before I woke up, I felt someone helping me put the puzzle together. He was like my other self, the part that filled in the hole and stopped the ache. A twin brother who was not afraid to be who he was and who allowed me to be all of me without any fear that he would turn and walk away. It was so rich, so perfect, so whole.
And then I woke up.
Friday, November 13, 2009
My, by now, rather common recovering from pneuomia, Thots
I was going to write that we need to be careful not to over react, like three year olds, but Lennon is three and he tends to view most things very calmly and closely. He is interested in what is going on and does not jump to conclusions quickly. Of course that is how his father responds too. Children mirror the people around them. Hysterical child generally means hysterical grown-ups behind him. Most of us are no longer children, that gives us some responsibility to consider.
We have become a country of people who run around looking like that kid in Home Alone. Our eyes bug out, our mouths hang open and we are ready to be shocked, upset and over react. Ready to leap into action at the slightest provocation, shout out whatever is on the tip of our tongues, and throw rocks before asking questions. Not a particularly attractive thing if you ask me.
There is a time to leap into unthinking action. When a burning car falls on someone, the baby has one foot over the edge of the grand canyon, or Aunt Maisie‘s cat is about to lick the sugar bowl. Most other dire emergencies respond better to a more rational approach.
One small teaspoon of calculated hype from the newsroom of a well known television station, or an Internet email and people fly into a panic. It is almost like we thrive on hate and despair. As if the chance to vent does not come around every three seconds or so.
For example: there is a billboard on I 26 near Charlotte, SC that says, “Do you believe in god? If you don’t, you are not alone.“ Contrary to popular belief, not believing in god is not the same thing as believing in the devil. In fact, believing in a devil is more likely to come from religious people. Not that this is the question any way. The question is tolerance, understanding and a willingness to allow other people to express their own views. A rational approach might include dialogues, meetings, even debates if you feel so inclined. A more common approach seems to be hurling accusations and a hateful refusal to consider anything more than angry, unthinking invectives.
In order to get cattle to run up the ramps to the abattoir, someone with an electric prod just stirs them up and they begin mooing and snorting, sometimes stamping their feet, but still rushing straight up those ramps where they are supposed to go. Isn’t that a horrible thought?
We have become a country of people who run around looking like that kid in Home Alone. Our eyes bug out, our mouths hang open and we are ready to be shocked, upset and over react. Ready to leap into action at the slightest provocation, shout out whatever is on the tip of our tongues, and throw rocks before asking questions. Not a particularly attractive thing if you ask me.
There is a time to leap into unthinking action. When a burning car falls on someone, the baby has one foot over the edge of the grand canyon, or Aunt Maisie‘s cat is about to lick the sugar bowl. Most other dire emergencies respond better to a more rational approach.
One small teaspoon of calculated hype from the newsroom of a well known television station, or an Internet email and people fly into a panic. It is almost like we thrive on hate and despair. As if the chance to vent does not come around every three seconds or so.
For example: there is a billboard on I 26 near Charlotte, SC that says, “Do you believe in god? If you don’t, you are not alone.“ Contrary to popular belief, not believing in god is not the same thing as believing in the devil. In fact, believing in a devil is more likely to come from religious people. Not that this is the question any way. The question is tolerance, understanding and a willingness to allow other people to express their own views. A rational approach might include dialogues, meetings, even debates if you feel so inclined. A more common approach seems to be hurling accusations and a hateful refusal to consider anything more than angry, unthinking invectives.
In order to get cattle to run up the ramps to the abattoir, someone with an electric prod just stirs them up and they begin mooing and snorting, sometimes stamping their feet, but still rushing straight up those ramps where they are supposed to go. Isn’t that a horrible thought?
Perfection
Count your blessings, instead of sheep. That is supposed to be a good way to go to sleep. It doesn’t work for me. It never has. I don’t go to sleep easily unless I am very sick, then I can barely stay awake, but most of my life I have put off going to bed in order to avoid the hours of lying there awake.
Focusing on anything, no matter whether it is sheep, or blessings, only keeps me awake. My mind is guaranteed to eventually wander. I will start to think about what a chore real sheep are, or how cute cartoon sheep seem. I will remember how Dale Evans once had a lamb in a movie that she kept bows on like a stuffed animal. My mind just grabs some aspect and runs with it.
Same thing with blessings. I think about all the really good people I know and pretty soon I am off on another tangent, imagining what they are doing now, or just did, or how they relate to other people in their lives and soon I am writing stories in my head that can keep me awake all night.
The only way I can go to sleep easily is to reach out to an imaginary place about three inches in front of my forehead. Here I focus on feeling the love and being of someone I love. I imagine myself being enveloped by that love and then expanding myself to fill in that space until we are only one.
I imagine it being similar to a cloud, or mist creeping gently into infinity and becoming something like that primordial space where creation began. It fills me with a sense of wonder and oneness. It is security and warmth, comfort and peace. It is like laying my head against the chest of the consummate lover, knowing all is well and all is truly well.
Focusing on anything, no matter whether it is sheep, or blessings, only keeps me awake. My mind is guaranteed to eventually wander. I will start to think about what a chore real sheep are, or how cute cartoon sheep seem. I will remember how Dale Evans once had a lamb in a movie that she kept bows on like a stuffed animal. My mind just grabs some aspect and runs with it.
Same thing with blessings. I think about all the really good people I know and pretty soon I am off on another tangent, imagining what they are doing now, or just did, or how they relate to other people in their lives and soon I am writing stories in my head that can keep me awake all night.
The only way I can go to sleep easily is to reach out to an imaginary place about three inches in front of my forehead. Here I focus on feeling the love and being of someone I love. I imagine myself being enveloped by that love and then expanding myself to fill in that space until we are only one.
I imagine it being similar to a cloud, or mist creeping gently into infinity and becoming something like that primordial space where creation began. It fills me with a sense of wonder and oneness. It is security and warmth, comfort and peace. It is like laying my head against the chest of the consummate lover, knowing all is well and all is truly well.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
What Do You Think?
Consumer spending is down. That does not seem surprising to me at all. In fact, it seems only right. I am sorry for the small businesses, like the one I worked for in Illinois for a while. It was a family business and I was not family, but they took really good care of us. When I couldn’t find insurance, they found it for me…and…they paid half of it! They treated us like family.
I am not so sorry for the big businesses who lay people off right and left, cut salaries, eliminate bonuses, or make them almost impossible to get. Nor, the ones who jack up interest rates without any provocation except that the people at the top are greedy.
People have to have money in order to spend it.
And having a little money, good people are sharing it with their friends and family who are not so fortunate, rather than buying extra junk, or even extra necessities. Those of us who live at the bottom of the tank need to band together if we are going to survive this little American adjustment.
Those at the top are not going to give up their life styles, or deeply ingrained beliefs without a fight and they are experienced fighters. The idea that they are entitled to their multi-million dollar homes, personal jets and special treatment while those who work for them sometimes don’t even have enough food, or health care is not something they like to think about. It is pretty easy to justify who you are if it has always been that way.
As changes go, this has been a gentle revolution so far. No riots in the street, no storming the halls of justice, no brandishing of arms in front of the magnate’s homes, but life in America is changing, as it had to do. There is always an end to the cornucopia and with more billionaires digging into it, that has become apparent to everyone. Now the top few percent grapple for what’s left and then we will really get down to business.
I see good people trying to care for those around them and I worry they will give until they too are in dire straits. What a strange and long spectrum this is.
So, what do you believe? Are there people out there who should not have the right to eat, or receive medical care, or even have a decent place to live? And if there aren’t, doesn’t something need to change?
I am not so sorry for the big businesses who lay people off right and left, cut salaries, eliminate bonuses, or make them almost impossible to get. Nor, the ones who jack up interest rates without any provocation except that the people at the top are greedy.
People have to have money in order to spend it.
And having a little money, good people are sharing it with their friends and family who are not so fortunate, rather than buying extra junk, or even extra necessities. Those of us who live at the bottom of the tank need to band together if we are going to survive this little American adjustment.
Those at the top are not going to give up their life styles, or deeply ingrained beliefs without a fight and they are experienced fighters. The idea that they are entitled to their multi-million dollar homes, personal jets and special treatment while those who work for them sometimes don’t even have enough food, or health care is not something they like to think about. It is pretty easy to justify who you are if it has always been that way.
As changes go, this has been a gentle revolution so far. No riots in the street, no storming the halls of justice, no brandishing of arms in front of the magnate’s homes, but life in America is changing, as it had to do. There is always an end to the cornucopia and with more billionaires digging into it, that has become apparent to everyone. Now the top few percent grapple for what’s left and then we will really get down to business.
I see good people trying to care for those around them and I worry they will give until they too are in dire straits. What a strange and long spectrum this is.
So, what do you believe? Are there people out there who should not have the right to eat, or receive medical care, or even have a decent place to live? And if there aren’t, doesn’t something need to change?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Fringe Benefits
I should have my picture taken right now. It is a sad fact that I never seem to look better than when I am really sick.
I lose a little weight, my eyes take on a darker hue and the area around them is darker, the fever gives me a bright blush and all this steaming for my lungs has the secondary benefit of making my skin look really soft and clear.
Hurrah for pneumonia! Now if I only felt good, it would be wonderful. I feel like I could sleep forever even when I am sleeping. I dreamed I was too tired to climb up the steps in my dream.
It is amazing what a little boiling water can do. An old Hungarian Doctor once told me that steaming is what they used to do in the days before antibiotics. Make a tent over a pan of steaming hot water and it clears up the pain in my lungs for a couple of hours and even helps my sinuses. Don’t worry though. I have an antibiotic too.
Someone had the gall to mention that whenever I am really sad, I get sick. This is not that. Somewhere I caught this germ up front and in person!
I lose a little weight, my eyes take on a darker hue and the area around them is darker, the fever gives me a bright blush and all this steaming for my lungs has the secondary benefit of making my skin look really soft and clear.
Hurrah for pneumonia! Now if I only felt good, it would be wonderful. I feel like I could sleep forever even when I am sleeping. I dreamed I was too tired to climb up the steps in my dream.
It is amazing what a little boiling water can do. An old Hungarian Doctor once told me that steaming is what they used to do in the days before antibiotics. Make a tent over a pan of steaming hot water and it clears up the pain in my lungs for a couple of hours and even helps my sinuses. Don’t worry though. I have an antibiotic too.
Someone had the gall to mention that whenever I am really sad, I get sick. This is not that. Somewhere I caught this germ up front and in person!
My Thots Laid Up With Pneumonia
Wake up and smell the coffee! Better yet, wake up and smell that five dollar a cardboard cup coffee you can buy with whipped cream and caramel! You, the perfect American couple! One perfect man and one perfect woman with two perfect children, the all star football quarterback and the Homecoming, Prom Queen, cheerleader. Both high school valedictorians who go off to good colleges and graduate cum laude to move onto top level jobs. Five years later, while Mom and Dad retire to the well earned glory of southern golf courses, these children will marry other perfect children and continue on with the American legacy, upping the ante just one notch for the gipper in each generation of course.
It is the American nightmare, brought to you by those lovely people who gave us Humvees and psychoanalysis, and dedicated to the proposition that no problem is ever insurmountable given enough money and backed by a brash and aggressive American.
The reality of course, is that most of this is a bunch of hooey, so we spend our lives beating our heads against the window trying to get into a house that doesn’t exist.
Life is not about perfection. Life is about imperfection and the wonderful ways that human beings deal with it. Perfection is a concept right up there with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, an idea that makes no sense at all if you think about it. Nobody except maybe your mother ever wants your old teeth and anyone who dared to slide down a chimney in the middle of the night anymore, would immediately end up in jail. And while these guys make for a good story, they also make many people feel inferior and left out when the reality falls through.
Life is about secretly shoveling the snow for the widow down the street and taking a box of “extra” groceries to the family across the street and helping Uncle Harry get up the street to buy those cigars we all hate to smell, because he loves them and we love him. It is about bailing cousin Chris out of jail for the umpteenth time knowing he’ll be back in there next week. Then having to deal with those who rightfully say we are enablers, because we did it and we are.
Life is about compassion and love and all the imperfections that accompany them. It is about learning and growing and all those by-passes we take along the way. Life is real.
It is the American nightmare, brought to you by those lovely people who gave us Humvees and psychoanalysis, and dedicated to the proposition that no problem is ever insurmountable given enough money and backed by a brash and aggressive American.
The reality of course, is that most of this is a bunch of hooey, so we spend our lives beating our heads against the window trying to get into a house that doesn’t exist.
Life is not about perfection. Life is about imperfection and the wonderful ways that human beings deal with it. Perfection is a concept right up there with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, an idea that makes no sense at all if you think about it. Nobody except maybe your mother ever wants your old teeth and anyone who dared to slide down a chimney in the middle of the night anymore, would immediately end up in jail. And while these guys make for a good story, they also make many people feel inferior and left out when the reality falls through.
Life is about secretly shoveling the snow for the widow down the street and taking a box of “extra” groceries to the family across the street and helping Uncle Harry get up the street to buy those cigars we all hate to smell, because he loves them and we love him. It is about bailing cousin Chris out of jail for the umpteenth time knowing he’ll be back in there next week. Then having to deal with those who rightfully say we are enablers, because we did it and we are.
Life is about compassion and love and all the imperfections that accompany them. It is about learning and growing and all those by-passes we take along the way. Life is real.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Come Visit Me
What would you think if I wrote a bad thought, would you toss it and walk away from me?
Why do you come here? To read my poor thoughts? Do you care what is happening to me?
Or do you wonder, what I’m thinking of? Do you doubt that you’re still in my mind?
Can you imagine that I’d ever stop loving -- loving you all of the time?
What do you do at the end of the night, do you ever think twice about me?
Do you remember our very own moments? The ones just for you and for me?
Yes, I still love you, there’s never any doubt. You are part of this heart of mine.
And I won’t forget you no matter how far, you walk past this place and this time.
But my heart is a haven for loves in my life. The ones that are special to me.
It has no brick walls, no fences, or boundaries, to separate you from me.
You’re in good company whenever you’re here. So sweet and so good and so fine.
And if you still love me, you’re always welcome, to have tea in the mountain sunshine.
Why do you come here? To read my poor thoughts? Do you care what is happening to me?
Or do you wonder, what I’m thinking of? Do you doubt that you’re still in my mind?
Can you imagine that I’d ever stop loving -- loving you all of the time?
What do you do at the end of the night, do you ever think twice about me?
Do you remember our very own moments? The ones just for you and for me?
Yes, I still love you, there’s never any doubt. You are part of this heart of mine.
And I won’t forget you no matter how far, you walk past this place and this time.
But my heart is a haven for loves in my life. The ones that are special to me.
It has no brick walls, no fences, or boundaries, to separate you from me.
You’re in good company whenever you’re here. So sweet and so good and so fine.
And if you still love me, you’re always welcome, to have tea in the mountain sunshine.
Pete and Repeat
I arrived to watch Lennon today and he was playing Lego Star Wars. Pulling up a chair beside him, I asked if I could join him? It was a purely rhetorical question, of course. I always sit right beside him when he’s playing and I baby sit.
This time he glanced up and said, “Sure, if you can just sit there and be quiet. Don’t talk.” It was so hard not to laugh, but I promised to be quiet. Of course three seconds later he was chattering to me and we were off.
Three years old and he plays with the intensity of someone far older, leaning into the direction he’s going, shouting at the screen, moaning and groaning, whooping and cringing.
Thank goodness these men don’t die, they’re blocks that just fall apart, then reassemble! It is made for children and for a video game is really well done, but it is still very real for him. I have dreams about it after watching him play, so I can only imagine that he does too.
We have good imaginations in our family. Really good!
This time he glanced up and said, “Sure, if you can just sit there and be quiet. Don’t talk.” It was so hard not to laugh, but I promised to be quiet. Of course three seconds later he was chattering to me and we were off.
Three years old and he plays with the intensity of someone far older, leaning into the direction he’s going, shouting at the screen, moaning and groaning, whooping and cringing.
Thank goodness these men don’t die, they’re blocks that just fall apart, then reassemble! It is made for children and for a video game is really well done, but it is still very real for him. I have dreams about it after watching him play, so I can only imagine that he does too.
We have good imaginations in our family. Really good!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Come One! Come All!
What are the Western Highlands of North Carolina?
Mountains and trails, bears and llama trains, waterfalls and pine forests, meandering streams and overgrown deciduous woods, surrounding small towns, rural homesteads and the city of Asheville.
Tourist areas that supplement the economy, by bringing in people who have a lot of money and are ready to spend it on over priced antiques, and even higher priced cottage arts and crafts. Who can say if they are fair, or not? It takes a lot of time to weave a basket, carve a statue, or piece a quilt and the money from selling these things must last long enough to buy food and gas and school necessities for the children. These things might make interesting and romantic movies, but there is really nothing romantic about being hungry, or cold and that is the reality for some of the families around us.
Kitschy little shopping areas that wow the retired set with their 1950’s settings, small shops filled with dolls and fairies, bakeries and restaurants. Elegant art galleries and chic boutiques for the young jet setters. Tie dye and incense for the hippies, potheads and poor, or perhaps those just wishing to reach back into their college days in the seventies. We have novelty in every from, from cute to exotic.
For me this is home now, rocks and rills mixed in among the trees and clouds. Small town living in the twenty first century where the people are mostly good and simple, ready to help each other out and living without many of the frills some folks consider so necessary in today’s world.
My guests come and in three days they can eat in turn of the century ice cream parlors, twentieth century pubs and even the Mellow Mushroom. We have it all!
Mountains and trails, bears and llama trains, waterfalls and pine forests, meandering streams and overgrown deciduous woods, surrounding small towns, rural homesteads and the city of Asheville.
Tourist areas that supplement the economy, by bringing in people who have a lot of money and are ready to spend it on over priced antiques, and even higher priced cottage arts and crafts. Who can say if they are fair, or not? It takes a lot of time to weave a basket, carve a statue, or piece a quilt and the money from selling these things must last long enough to buy food and gas and school necessities for the children. These things might make interesting and romantic movies, but there is really nothing romantic about being hungry, or cold and that is the reality for some of the families around us.
Kitschy little shopping areas that wow the retired set with their 1950’s settings, small shops filled with dolls and fairies, bakeries and restaurants. Elegant art galleries and chic boutiques for the young jet setters. Tie dye and incense for the hippies, potheads and poor, or perhaps those just wishing to reach back into their college days in the seventies. We have novelty in every from, from cute to exotic.
For me this is home now, rocks and rills mixed in among the trees and clouds. Small town living in the twenty first century where the people are mostly good and simple, ready to help each other out and living without many of the frills some folks consider so necessary in today’s world.
My guests come and in three days they can eat in turn of the century ice cream parlors, twentieth century pubs and even the Mellow Mushroom. We have it all!
Saturday, November 7, 2009
At The End Of The Day
Another wonderful day except that today I didn’t feel well enough to keep up. What an eye opener that was!
We started out at a charity flea market, put together to raise money for those folks in our county who need help heating their homes, and then moved on to do some antiquing. My sister secretly slipped me some money, just to be sure I didn’t feel left out and I was touched. We ate lunch at an awesome little place where I ordered a Monte Cristo and the raspberry jam was superb! Then we took off for a quaint little town nearby.
It was straight out of the 1950’s and a lot of fun to look through. We even stopped in an old fashioned ice cream store for hot fudge sundaes with whipped cream, eaten under painted tin ceilings with long spoons and laughter.
They shopped and I joined in here and there, sitting on the elegant little park benches along the way in between, just enjoying the weather and the sights. We spent some time upstairs tonight, visiting with my son and Lennon, then watched a movie and played Bunco before getting ready for bed.
Time is passing so quickly. There just aren’t enough hours in the day, but I am so tired that this day must end now!
We started out at a charity flea market, put together to raise money for those folks in our county who need help heating their homes, and then moved on to do some antiquing. My sister secretly slipped me some money, just to be sure I didn’t feel left out and I was touched. We ate lunch at an awesome little place where I ordered a Monte Cristo and the raspberry jam was superb! Then we took off for a quaint little town nearby.
It was straight out of the 1950’s and a lot of fun to look through. We even stopped in an old fashioned ice cream store for hot fudge sundaes with whipped cream, eaten under painted tin ceilings with long spoons and laughter.
They shopped and I joined in here and there, sitting on the elegant little park benches along the way in between, just enjoying the weather and the sights. We spent some time upstairs tonight, visiting with my son and Lennon, then watched a movie and played Bunco before getting ready for bed.
Time is passing so quickly. There just aren’t enough hours in the day, but I am so tired that this day must end now!
Friday, November 6, 2009
Climbing Chimney Rock
Happiness is hearing my sister’s laugh echoing off the rocks above me!
The mountains are gorgeous! Painted every shade of orange and red, gold and brown, all stippled against the stark dark bones of trees whose arms reach up from every conceivable angle. And we are working our way skyward, trying to reach the summit before legs and lungs give out.
I finally give in. I can go no farther, so I sit down on a rock, watching a young raccoon family playing in the small cave nearby, trying to take pictures of the buzzards floating over the valley below and visiting with those who stop to sit beside me for a while.
The rest go on, they want to claim the top before we head home and I am glad for them, but the beauty of being with kindred spirits is doing what I want and I want to sit here for a while, enjoy the day.
The mountains are gorgeous! Painted every shade of orange and red, gold and brown, all stippled against the stark dark bones of trees whose arms reach up from every conceivable angle. And we are working our way skyward, trying to reach the summit before legs and lungs give out.
I finally give in. I can go no farther, so I sit down on a rock, watching a young raccoon family playing in the small cave nearby, trying to take pictures of the buzzards floating over the valley below and visiting with those who stop to sit beside me for a while.
The rest go on, they want to claim the top before we head home and I am glad for them, but the beauty of being with kindred spirits is doing what I want and I want to sit here for a while, enjoy the day.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
It’s Time!
Timing is everything.
I’ve heard that phrase all my life. It was definitely true at recitals and concerts. Important at social occasions and when speaking in public. Valuable in class, good when trying to make a point and on and on.
Well, it is also true when paying off credit cards with balance transfers. My bank had no trouble charging me the extra, but they have yet to pay the card off that they said they would.
And…it is also true when trying to feed incoming guests who turn out to be hours late. Because? Because they went hiking! Yikes, be nice Linda, be nice!
And… it is also true when mailing a letter across the country. Normally takes three to four days, but not this time!
The Gods of Time are all against me. Out to get me! Driving me nuts!
I just hate it when I have no control over my life like this.
I’ve heard that phrase all my life. It was definitely true at recitals and concerts. Important at social occasions and when speaking in public. Valuable in class, good when trying to make a point and on and on.
Well, it is also true when paying off credit cards with balance transfers. My bank had no trouble charging me the extra, but they have yet to pay the card off that they said they would.
And…it is also true when trying to feed incoming guests who turn out to be hours late. Because? Because they went hiking! Yikes, be nice Linda, be nice!
And… it is also true when mailing a letter across the country. Normally takes three to four days, but not this time!
The Gods of Time are all against me. Out to get me! Driving me nuts!
I just hate it when I have no control over my life like this.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Rescue Squad
Family and friends swooping in to save me tomorrow! Not that I need to be saved, mind you, but that’s what they do.
They left today and will arrive tomorrow afternoon sometime, to lift me up and carry me away for a few days. I suppose I really do need this and I am looking forward to them, but I just don’t have the energy to really get ready right now.
I know that won’t matter either. Last year they washed windows, built a rock garden and we hit every antique barn within a hundred miles. I’ll be busy, so might not be able to write every night. I haven’t had much to say anyway, so maybe this is a good thing.
It is a good thing! As I always say, you can never have too many people who love you.
They left today and will arrive tomorrow afternoon sometime, to lift me up and carry me away for a few days. I suppose I really do need this and I am looking forward to them, but I just don’t have the energy to really get ready right now.
I know that won’t matter either. Last year they washed windows, built a rock garden and we hit every antique barn within a hundred miles. I’ll be busy, so might not be able to write every night. I haven’t had much to say anyway, so maybe this is a good thing.
It is a good thing! As I always say, you can never have too many people who love you.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Beware! I am sick today.
I’m not feeling good, but I also think I am becoming a cynical human being. Sitting here today, the thought popped into my head that if anyone is helping anyone out for any reason, other than it being necessary for the keeping and maintaining of their own heart and soul (and I use these strictly as metaphors for sanity and well-being) they haven’t really “got it.”
I don’t think being able to, or trying to, buy my way into anyone, or anything’s good graces is a good enough reason to feel good about myself. Those actions don’t speak about the true nature of loving and giving.
It they did, all rich men/women would be at the top of all lists, which many people do believe is true. The richest person could give the most, pay people to do the most, get to heaven faster and be considered wiser than everyone else. The most fanatic of the fanatics could also be at the head of the class when it came to doing good deeds, but I don’t believe these are truly valid requisites for being a deeply good person.
Likewise, I don’t believe that I, giving my paltry few dollars, am any better than the guy giving ten. I may be, but if I am, it is not because of the amount I am giving, no matter how hard it was for me to come up with it. I don’t believe it is possible to measure goodness in anything except the feelings behind them. Suffering doesn’t count no matter how noble it is. If someone is truly completely altruistic in every single way, they are the best.
Who can measure that? No one that I know of and that is probably just as well, because a lot of good is done by a lot of people for all the wrong reasons and most of it works just as well as otherwise. Thank goodness for our selfish needs, they can benefit mankind and just about everything else -- they just don’t benefit us to the nth degree.
I don’t think being able to, or trying to, buy my way into anyone, or anything’s good graces is a good enough reason to feel good about myself. Those actions don’t speak about the true nature of loving and giving.
It they did, all rich men/women would be at the top of all lists, which many people do believe is true. The richest person could give the most, pay people to do the most, get to heaven faster and be considered wiser than everyone else. The most fanatic of the fanatics could also be at the head of the class when it came to doing good deeds, but I don’t believe these are truly valid requisites for being a deeply good person.
Likewise, I don’t believe that I, giving my paltry few dollars, am any better than the guy giving ten. I may be, but if I am, it is not because of the amount I am giving, no matter how hard it was for me to come up with it. I don’t believe it is possible to measure goodness in anything except the feelings behind them. Suffering doesn’t count no matter how noble it is. If someone is truly completely altruistic in every single way, they are the best.
Who can measure that? No one that I know of and that is probably just as well, because a lot of good is done by a lot of people for all the wrong reasons and most of it works just as well as otherwise. Thank goodness for our selfish needs, they can benefit mankind and just about everything else -- they just don’t benefit us to the nth degree.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Simple Goodness
I have spent most of this day doing really nothing at all. I don’t seem to have the energy, nor the motivation to get up and get going. I am feeling tired. The cloudy day was perfect for holing up and hibernating. Allowing myself the indulgences of doing nothing and I mean really nothing. I did not watch television, or read, or meditate, or really even think. Somehow this day just passed me by.
Tonight, as I took the garbage and recycling bags up to the front street, I noticed the moon. Bright yellow and almost glittery, but with a rainbow-like nimbus around it. A strange looking phenomena that I’m sure people would have attached great significance to in the olden days. Heck, for all I know, someone is still doing that, dancing around in some meadow, beating drums and chanting because the clouds have left a hole for the moon to peek through.
In the midst of incredible greed, horrific hidden prejudices, and a million other plagues. People are doing anything to make things better. Their idea of better that is, not necessarily really better.
Only a few people I know are doing good just because it is the right thing to do, but these few are the ones who give me the energy to write my thots at the end of a day like this. People who willingly give others what they need simply because they love them, really love them. People who put their money or their actions or their thoughts where their heart is, no strings attached. From those who sit rocking their babies and singing them to sleep, to those who make that action possible, I am grateful. What beautiful people they are!
I pick Chauncey up and give him a cuddle. It is really a surrogate cuddle, a hug for all those good folks I cannot reach, the ones who make this night not just bearable, but sweet.
Tonight, as I took the garbage and recycling bags up to the front street, I noticed the moon. Bright yellow and almost glittery, but with a rainbow-like nimbus around it. A strange looking phenomena that I’m sure people would have attached great significance to in the olden days. Heck, for all I know, someone is still doing that, dancing around in some meadow, beating drums and chanting because the clouds have left a hole for the moon to peek through.
In the midst of incredible greed, horrific hidden prejudices, and a million other plagues. People are doing anything to make things better. Their idea of better that is, not necessarily really better.
Only a few people I know are doing good just because it is the right thing to do, but these few are the ones who give me the energy to write my thots at the end of a day like this. People who willingly give others what they need simply because they love them, really love them. People who put their money or their actions or their thoughts where their heart is, no strings attached. From those who sit rocking their babies and singing them to sleep, to those who make that action possible, I am grateful. What beautiful people they are!
I pick Chauncey up and give him a cuddle. It is really a surrogate cuddle, a hug for all those good folks I cannot reach, the ones who make this night not just bearable, but sweet.
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