Bringing people together
Our neighbor’s front yard is tiny but welcoming. Alexandria, May 2015
“Gardens and flowers have a way of bringing people together, drawing them from their homes.” — Clare Ansberry
As a context for visiting with neighbors, I think gardening is second only to walking a dog. Whenever I’m out working in the yard or the flowerbeds, I always end up having friendly chats with neighbors who stroll by. And when I’m out walking, I love to greet others who are tending their lawns and gardens. We cheer each other on, swap tips and information, and commiserate about the woes of the weather, or hungry rabbits and squirrels and deer and insects, or anything else wreaking havoc with our efforts to beautify our little corner of the world. From neighbors I’ve learned about so many delightful shrubs and annuals and flowering vines, marveling at how much fun it is to enjoy the fruits of someone else’s efforts.
I think Ansberry used an apt phrase when she wrote of gardens drawing people from their homes, and in our era, we need that as never before. I can still remember the days before air conditioning, when adults would sit outside in the evening to enjoy cooler temperatures after heating up the kitchen with cooking dinner, and my neighborhood friends and I would play outdoor games until dark, or even later. For better and worse, those days are gone and I doubt they will ever return.
Now that we are ensconced in climate-controlled comfort, surrounded by abundance and our favorite furnishings, foods and fun, it’s hard to want to leave our indoor nests. We need not feel isolated when we can so easily talk, text or Skype with anyone anywhere in the world, even if we are still in our pajamas and robe. Being at home can combine the best of privacy and sociability, connecting us to each other from the safety of our separate cocoons. Weather, distance, gas prices– none of these things spoil the joy of staying home. But as much as I love spending time inside, I still think we are missing out if we never go outdoors and get to know our neighbors.
Gardening is an ideal way to meet people in a casual, unplanned setting. Whether we tend a flowerbed or just a single plant, we end up with much more than what we start with, even if our botanical results are less than optimal. Scientists agree that it’s therapeutic. For those who live where springtime is on its way, it’s the perfect time of year to get started. If you’re heading into autumn, remember that each season brings fresh delights (and specific tasks) that might be calling your name.
Our weather is expected to be chilly this week, but when I wrap up and work outdoors, I almost always end up peeling off my outer coat because the chores, strenuous or not, warm me up quickly. So I expect to be spending some more time outside over the next few days. I hope you enjoy a some sunny days this week or very soon. Tell us what you are planning and planting– and tell your neighbors hello for us!
This post was first published seven years ago. The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Do something
“The Strawberry Thief” print by William Morris.
The Victoria and Albert Museum, via Wikimedia Commons
“A good way to rid oneself of a sense of discomfort is to do something. That uneasy, dissatisfied feeling is actual force vibrating out of order; it may be turned to practical account by giving proper expression to its creative character.” —William Morris
William Morris certainly earned the right to give us this advice. He turned his creative gifts toward practical uses as an architect, furniture and textile designer, artist, and writer. His textile, wallpaper and home furnishing prints remain popular to this day. In fact, I have some lovely placemats and a mug that feature the design pictured above, which is one of his most famous.
Those who have been reading this blog for a few years might recall that I’ve featured three other quotes from Morris in various posts. I admire how he championed the art of making beautiful, practical things, filling homes with items that are both useful and attractive.
His Kelmscott Press brought beauty back to the printed book, inspired by the illuminated manuscripts of centuries past. During graduate school I did a presentation on the Kelmscott Press and and the role Morris had played in publishing over a century ago. My professor arranged for the Rare Books collection of the Hamilton Library (at the University of Hawaii) to loan a few original Kelmscott volumes for use in my lecture. I was familiar with how closely guarded these items were, and how many restrictions were attached to their viewing– nothing could brought into the examination room, gloves had to be worn, and so forth. So I was surprised they agreed to have my professor borrow them temporarily on my behalf.
Wouldn’t you know, I was so nervous about handling them in front of the class that I dropped one of the books! I was immensely relieved to find, on close inspection, that no damage was done whatsoever. This century-old book was still durable and sturdy. So Morris was certainly practical about the binding of this piece of artistry, designing it to endure long years of use.
Aren’t we fortunate that Morris understood the value of useful action as a channel for creative energy? I lack his genius, but I too have learned the wisdom of having many functional ways to occupy myself, each of them creative in its own way. During the many times of crisis and grief I’ve survived the past twelve years, I have never yet seen a time when doing something did not immediately improve my inner climate. It might be taking a walk, washing the dishes, writing a friend, organizing my books, working on crafts, or exercising to some favorite lively music. If weather allows, working outside in the flower beds is perhaps the best therapy of all. And of course, it’s always a good idea to put the kettle on for a fresh cup of tea!
What kinds of activity do you keep on hand in your “defeat despair” arsenal? Have you explored any new ways to give expression to your own creative character?
The fog of the future
Tre Cime di Lavaredo, Italy, photo by Matt Sclarandis via Unsplash
“Today is mine. Tomorrow is none of my business. If I peer anxiously into the fog of the future, I will strain my spiritual eyes so that I will not see clearly what is required of me now.” – Elisabeth Elliot
I’ve heard it said that anger is really fear in disguise, and I’ve seen a good bit of evidence that this must be true most of the time. Our greatest animosity tends to focus on people or things we perceive, accurately or not, as a threat to our lives, our loved ones, or even more trivial things such as our time, space or convenience.
For most who will be reading this blog, the truly urgent or immediate threats are relatively rare. Yet we still find ourselves anxious about the future, even if what we fear is vague and undefined. I’ve noticed, for example, that I tend to get most frustrated on days when I can’t seem to get as much done as I hope to do. I usually can’t pin this down to a looming deadline, since I long ago retired from work outside the home. I have the luxury of structuring my time according to the daily changes and fluctuating requirements of my own life rather than those of a corporation or a demanding boss. Why, then, do I feel such fear (which almost always manifests itself as frustration, impatience and finally anger) when I am unable to meet some self-imposed goal usually based on generalized worries about the future, whether “the future” is later this week or years from now?
As I work through the layers of grief over the losses of the past few years, one of the most important survival tools is granting myself permission, again and again, to go as slowly as I need to go, and to rest as much as I can, whether or not there are tasks awaiting (as there always are, for all of us). Staying focused on the present allows me to pay more attention to what am doing right now than to what I haven’t yet done. It’s surprising how therapeutic most tasks can be, if I don’t allow my mind to wander and ruminate about how many other things I have left to do.
For some people, the skill of staying in the present seems to come more easily than it does to those of us who are anxious types. If the task at hand is a fairly mindless one, I’ve found that listening to lively music, an interesting podcast or an engaging audiobook can reign in my tendency to let my mind wander into stressful territory. So does making a list of what I want to get done, which somehow seems to transfer the good intentions to a confined space on paper rather than letting them stroll around my psyche calling attention to themselves when I’m busy with something else.
How about you? A few minutes ago, when you read the words “tomorrow is none of my business,” did you find yourself reflexively arguing with that claim, as I did? Do you fear the future, or look forward to it, or some combination of both? How do you avoid spiritual eyestrain so that you can see clearly what most needs your attention now?
Daffodil update:
For those who read last week’s blog, here’s a photo of how they looked when I pulled them out of the refrigerator one week later. As I write this, they look every bit as perky as when I picked them. Now the doubles are blooming out front, and tomorrow I plan to make another bouquet.
One week later, still bright and cheery!
This post was first published seven years ago. The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Wonderful silence
Detail from “Sunshine in the Living Room” by Carl Holsøe.
Public domain image from Wikimedia Commons
“Have you ever heard the wonderful silence just before the dawn? Or the quiet and calm just as a storm ends? Or perhaps you know the silence when you haven’t the answer to a question you’ve been asked, or the hush of a country road at night, or the expectant pause of a room full of people when someone is just about to speak, or, most beautiful of all, the moment after the door closes and you’re alone in the whole house? Each one is different, you know, and all very beautiful if you listen carefully.” ― Norton Juster
After so many years living mostly alone, which followed decades of living with a man who was very quiet in his speech and habits, I have learned to depend on having quite a lot of silence. I’ve never watched television, and I can’t tolerate commercials. I seldom play the radio except when I’m driving. I don’t even talk on the telephone very much, which is something that puzzles and sometimes annoys a few of my friends. Audiobooks, streamed period dramas or favorite music are the sounds I enjoy most often. But I love silence, and I’ve never felt the need to fill it with any sort of background noise.
I know this is fairly unusual; most people are unable to indulge in long periods of quiet even if they want it. If silence is rare for you, or if you’re someone who adores the flurry of activity that makes up a busy life, there will nonetheless be opportunities to grab moments of quiet to savor. Juster points out some that are often overlooked, especially when they come sandwiched between periods of prolonged auditory stimulation or stressful demands. At such times, it can be all the more important to listen for these gifts of stillness. What beautiful things will you hear in the silence today?
One day
These little flowers brightened my kitchen all week, February 2018.
“I have wandered far upon the desert plain, but in my heart a bird keeps singing, and the daffodils beckon and blow, — and one day I shall wander back.” — Muriel Strode
Last week was a good one for me, but it began on a gloomy note. I spent most of the week at our York home, where I had hoped to get some yard work done in the unseasonably warm weather. But the first day I was there it was rainy and overcast, and there was little I could do outdoors. The rain exacerbated my sad and lonely mood.
I decided that I would at least begin to prioritize what to do if it turned sunny. Taking advantage of the 60-degree temperature that made the soggy ground more bearable, I strolled around the wooded area behind our back yard, which comprises about a third of our lot. This area lies outside the fence, and I jokingly dubbed it the Lower 40 when we first moved there almost 14 years ago. It was only the second time I had been back there since Jeff died. As with so much else, it is still redolent of dashed dreams and lingering loss.
The setting was fraught with that peculiar melancholy common in late winter, when much is dead and bare, left messy and moldering by the weeks of cold. Jeff’s long illness meant that the woodland we had once tended so lovingly was neglected for several years, and I silently resigned myself to the very real possibility that it would remain so as long as I own the property.
As I neared the creek that forms the back boundary of our lot, I was flooded with joy at the unexpected sight of daffodils blooming in mid-February. There is a tiny patch of them on the creek bank that have been growing wild there for as long as we’ve lived nearby. For some reason, though they are growing in full shade, they always bloom earlier than the larger daffodil bulbs I planted in various sunnier spots in the front and back yard.
I love to see them each year, and I’m always tempted to pick them or dig them up and transplant them, since the only eyes likely to see them are mine and those of the deer and other creatures who come to the stream to drink. Usually I decide to leave them where they are, gracing an otherwise drab scene. If I’d had my camera with me, I probably would have taken a photo or two, and left them alone.
But that day, it seemed they had appeared just for me, almost calling out my name. I picked several of them and brought them inside where I enjoyed them all week. They were still blooming when I left, so I changed out the water in the little vase and put them in the fridge to see if they would keep while I was gone. I’ll let you know how that turns out.
By morning light…
I think I’ve mentioned here before that daffodils have always been my favorite flowers. I still have a dried one from the bunch Jeff brought to me at the hospital on the morning Drew was born. They seem irrepressibly cheerful to me, their yellow color and unique form putting a smile on my face no matter how I might feel before I first spot them.
…and when the late afternoon sun hit them.
More than any other flower, they beckon me to believe in the springtime to come, literally and figuratively.
I hope that your week will hold everyday surprises that brighten your days as my little flowers have brightened mine.
This post was first published seven years ago. The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Neatly-arranged and well-provisioned
Just the beginning of a sumptuous daily breakfast at Gables Guest House, Oxford, June 2017
“Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly-arranged and well-provisioned breakfast-table.” ― Nathaniel Hawthorne
I certainly agree with Hawthorne. Perhaps the beautifully bountiful breakfast was as special in his age as it is in ours; likely even more so. I’m sure the time to enjoy a leisurely morning meal was a luxury for his generation, and fresh food was far more scarce and dependent on seasonal vagaries during his era. In any case, sheer delight at the chance to begin the day with a savory selection of tasty fare is a pleasure we have in common with countless people throughout the centuries and all over the world.
My favorite vacation destinations– bed and breakfast inns, cruise ships, and the homes of dear friends– all feature memorable moments lingering over coffee or tea along with an assortment of items such as fresh fruit, eggs, cereals, sides and baked goods. Though it starts rather than ends the day, I’ve always found that a full breakfast feels more relaxed, even when the table is graced with fine linens, crystal and china. I can’t recall ever worrying about which fork to use, or wondering whether anybody noticed that I spilled a few drops of tea every time I poured more into my cup.
Maybe a nice breakfast feels more special because most of us rarely take time for it. Regardless of the age-old (and largely disregarded) advice that it’s the most important meal of the day, I’m guessing that time constraints, less appetite, or force of habit usually mean that many of us eat less in the morning than we do at noon or evening meals. If that’s true for you, I hope that you find the time on weekends or days off to make breakfast a special occasion.
You may have read here that Jeff loved to cook a full breakfast every Saturday, a habit he formed nearly 20 years ago. I’m thankful for each and every weekend he insisted on taking the time for it, right up to the morning he entered the hospital for the last time. It would have been easy for him to say “someday when I retire I’d like to cook breakfast every day.” Instead, he made it a point to enjoy the ritual on the one day each week when he did not have to be up and out too early to allow cooking.
These are now fond memories, and I hope someday to return to cooking breakfast, for friends, family or just myself, complete with a pretty table setting and maybe a fresh flower in a bud vase. I don’t need to tell you the tea kettle would be on, with coffee at the ready. Who knows– maybe some of us now reading this blog together will find ourselves face to face at breakfast someday, again or for the first time. Until then, Sheila and I have the Virtual Verandah Special ready when you are, complete with eggs any style, biscuits, country ham, grits and all the southern favorites, along with the croissants, whole wheat toast, fresh fruit, quiche, crepes and other delights that some of y’all might be more used to. Pull up a chair and get ready to start the day with a smile.
This post was first published seven years ago. The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
A failure of seeing
If you think bare trees are ugly, look again.
A winter sunrise from my bedroom window, March 2024
“If you think something is ugly, look harder. Ugliness is just a failure of seeing.”
― Matt Haig
I bought the lot on which my current home was built because it had trees on three sides. I take a lot of fabulous sunrise photos out the east-facing windows of my home, toward the Potomac River. But the back windows have glorious views of blooming trees in spring, bright flowers in summer, and dazzling foliage in the autumn. Winter? Not as spectacular most times of the day. But those sunrise colors are stunning in that direction, too, with the bare trees in dramatic silhouette.
One reason I love to take photographs is that it helps me to focus on beautiful aspects of things that I might otherwise miss. With a camera, I go hunting for lovely images to save. We really do find what we are looking for, and beauty is no exception. So looking out at those gray, leafless trees on a gloomy winter day, I appreciate them. I know that they’ll be green soon enough, and in the meantime, they put on quite a show each morning.
Hopes rise blooming
The five of us at our San Antonio home, 1998.
Matt is at bottom right.
Our sweetest hopes rise blooming
And then again are gone,
They bloom and fade alternate,
And so it goes rolling on.
I know it, and it troubles
My life, my love, my rest,
My heart is wise and witty,
And it bleeds within my breast.
— Heinrich Heine
Recently, several of you asked me to update you on Matt. I asked him whether he had anything to say to you, or something he would like me to write about, but he was noncommittal. Unlike Jeff used to do, however, Matt did not specifically ask me not to write about himself.
I haven’t written a great deal in this blog about his teenage years, but going through some recently scanned photos, I found several that I want to share with you. Looking at the photos below, all of which were made before his first manic episode changed our lives, I realize that everyone, each one of us, leaves behind so much of our youth when we enter adulthood. The dreams and goals change, tempered by hard realities, and enthusiastic hope gradually matures into acceptance of life’s limitations.
Matt is no different from anyone else in this regard. His teen years were full of activity, effort, achievement and fun, despite the painful surgeries he endured, and the frustrating disabilities that made goals more difficult to reach. It is a bittersweet experience to look back at the happy photos of those years, whether I am recalling Matt’s youth or Drew’s. Yet, where Matt is concerned, I now wonder how I found the energy to spend hours with him every single day on homework, piano practice, OT, PT and speech therapy exercises, church youth projects, and most of all, daily working to help him overcome his motor skills deficits to become independent with basic living skills that others had mastered with little to no effort during early childhood.
Here’s a side of Matt that many of you have not seen before. I hope you will like these photos.
Drew and Matt with a very young Pasha, 1997
Drew is 16 months older than Matt, but Matt hit puberty first, and for a time he was taller than Drew. That’s hard to imagine now that Drew is over six feet tall, and Matt is only 5’5″– but this photo was made during those years.
Matt and I played a duet at a spring recital in 1998.
When Matt was in middle school, his teacher immediately noticed his ear for music, and put us in touch with a gifted woman who taught students with disabilities to play piano and other instruments. Though previous school staff and therapists had told us Matt would never learn to move his fingers separately, this amazing music teacher proved them all wrong, and soon Matt was playing fairly well.
He loved being able to make music, and his teacher had high expectations, scheduling performances three to four times every year for all her students, and insisting that they compete in juried guild auditions alongside their non-disabled peers. At these auditions, Matt had to play scales, chords and arpeggios, along with several memorized pieces, and he always passed with high marks. I don’t even want to think about how many hours it took, though.
For the most part, Matt never complained about the hours every day we had to practice for him to get the fingering and timing right. Best of all, this endless exercise for his fingers opened the door for him to be able to use computer keyboards– another thing school IEP teams had formerly told us he could never do. He ended up being able to keyboard all his school assignments at the rate of about 17 words per minute, which was useful since his handwriting has always been illegible.
Here’s a close-up of Matt with his braces.
Matt and Drew each wore braces for nearly three years. Sometimes I got really sick of driving back and forth to the orthodontist weekly in heavy afternoon traffic. Since I was working full time for much of that time, life was pretty stressful. I certainly don’t miss that aspect of having teenagers!
Matt with his all-time favorite girlfriend, Katherine, in 1998.
Our years in San Antonio were filled with social activities for Matt. During that time I once remarked that our entire calendar was built around his many scheduled and unscheduled outings with friends. Luckily, I really enjoyed being with all the other Moms, since we ended up playing chaperones. I had the blessing of friendships with some of the strongest and liveliest women I had ever known, and Matt loved his friends’ mothers almost as much as he loved me. It was wonderful, a golden time that I missed so much when we moved to California in 1999.
Matt was chosen “Most Inspirational” at his middle school graduation in California, 2000.
Despite having to leave his friends and spend his final year of middle school at a new campus in northern California, Matt continued to bloom, staying very active in a music conservatory with another gifted piano teacher, singing in the school chorus (even singing a solo at one performance) and making friends everywhere he went. Jeff and I both noticed that after only a few weeks in California, we could hardly go to any store or fast food place in our little town without someone excitedly calling “Hi Matthew!” I will always be grateful for what an easy transition he had from a fantastic situation in Texas to a very different but equally rewarding time in California. Things were far from ideal in either location, but both times were filled with blessings for him despite the hard work and continual challenges.
Matt has long been a favorite topic of mine, so I could go on and on, but perhaps this is more than enough. I hope you have enjoyed getting to know him just a little bit better. Whenever my heart is bleeding inside, I have to remind myself that even the happiest times were far from easy, and though we bloom in different ways as we grow older, yet still we bloom. I really believe that.
This post was first published seven years ago. During that time, Matthew has endured three more heart surgeries, a broken arm and subsequent diagnosis of cardiac-related cirrhosis, a near-death bout with endocarditis during which he coded for the first time in his life, and an ever-increasing round of “routine” medical appointments to monitor his increasingly complex health situation. Despite his worsening prognosis and quadrupled cardiac medications, he remains essentially the same sunny, indomitable self, with occasional bouts of sadness the only clue that he does understand more than he tends to express. His presence in my life becomes more and more precious to me, and the two of us enjoy our time together more than ever, thankful for the blessings that remain.
The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Strenuously in Search
It was only a short hike to this lovely spot.
Rocky Mountain National Park, September 2024
“The traveler was active; he went strenuously in search of people, of adventure, of experience. The tourist is passive; he expects interesting things to happen to him…”
—Daniel J. Boorstin
No doubt about it, I’m a traveler. I prefer to go with a friend, but I’ll go by myself if no one is free to join me. And there are special joys to traveling alone, although age is beginning to lessen my enthusiasm for leaving my cozy home where everything is designed to accommodate my individual preferences. As with other trade-offs in life, the risk-to-benefit ratio of traveling alone is usually favorable enough to induce me to set out on yet another adventure.
I’ve never liked taking tours of any kind. I’ve tried them, but they are far too one-size-fits-all for me. And when I read this quote, I realized another reason I don’t like tours. They are a form of entertainment, where everything is pre-packaged in advance to provide the traveler with a series of “sights” that are often rightly famous. But there is little of exploration or discovery about a pre-planned tour.
Granted, I enjoy cruising, because I like having no worries about finding restaurants or hotels. But still, my purpose on a cruise is either to relax in a different climate, or to explore the ports. I almost never go to any of the shows or other entertainments. I’d far rather sit on the verandah and gaze out at the sea (or, okay, go get some ice cream or another cup of tea).
But by far, my most memorable travels have been treks of discovery, where I met people, saw new places, and had all sorts of interesting experiences. For me, travel has never been about entertainment. There is nothing passive about the way I travel, even when I’m on a plane or a train or a bus. I’m always taking it all in, making mental or physical notes, and often taking pictures to go with those notes.
Sometimes people ask me why I chose to continue my schooling at Oxford. It’s because I love the combination of stimulating classes and assignments in a setting that is rich with undiscovered paths and many centuries of history still evident, carefully preserved. And of course, those English breakfasts and teas are famous for a reason. But also, it’s a great setting in which to meet people of all ages from all over the world. At school I am part of a group where I belong, yet am undeniably different from everyone else. I’m a perennial newcomer, a traveler, an explorer, no matter how familiar I have grown with parts of London or England over the years.
I’m not sure how much longer I’ll manage to travel extensively in person, but even if I grow too old to go comfortably on foot, my mind will always go “strenuously in search” through books, art, music and conversation. How about you? Do you prefer being a traveler, or a tourist?
Bursting the bounds
The Great Rift is a section of non-luminous clouds within the Milky Way.
Rattlesnake Lake, Washington, photo by Nate Rayfield via Unsplash.
Because today’s quote is long, I’m going to save it for the end and try to keep my comments relatively short. I found myself unable to find any part of the passage that could be cut out into a short sentence or two.
In addition to sharing a birthday with each other, Jeff and I shared a birthday with three of the most remarkable authors I ever read: C. S. Lewis, Louisa May Alcott, and Madeleine L’Engle. The “baby boomers” among us may remember L’Engle as the author of the Newberry Award winner A Wrinkle in Time, a book which made an unforgettable impression on me during my childhood. Long before George Lucas gave us Star Wars, L’Engle took us to other worlds in the story of Meg Murray and her family, in what one biographer called “her most audaciously original work of fiction.” I’ve resolved to read it again soon, along with the other books in that trilogy. For now I’m enjoying a daily devotional book that is a compilation of passages from L’Engle’s works.
Reading the quote below, I thought how A Wrinkle in Time quite possibly began germinating in the tiny child whose earliest memory of the stars was deeply etched into her psyche. If you’ve ever experienced seeing a starry sky on a clear night, especially from a mountain top or from out on the water, you likely will identify with at least part of what L’Engle describes here. I hope you enjoy her reflections as much as I do.
One time, when I was little more than a baby, I was taken to visit my grandmother, who was living in a cottage on a nearly uninhabited stretch of beach in northern Florida. All I remember of this visit is being picked up from my crib in what seemed the middle of the night and carried from my bedroom and out of doors, where I had my first look at the stars.
It must have been an unusually clear and beautiful night for someone to have said “Let’s wake the baby and show her the stars.” The night sky, the constant rolling of breakers against the shore, the stupendous light of the stars, all made an indelible impression on me. I was intuitively aware not only of a beauty I had never seen before, but also that the world was far greater than the protected limits of the small child’s world which was all that I had known thus far. I had a total, if not very conscious, moment of revelation; I saw creation bursting the bounds of daily restriction, and stretching out from dimension to dimension, beyond any human comprehension.
I had been taught to say my prayers at night: Our Father, and a long string of God-blesses, and it was that first showing of the galaxies which gave me an awareness that the God I spoke to at bedtime was extraordinary and not just a bigger and better combination of the grownup powers of my mother and father.
This early experience was freeing, rather than daunting, and since it was the first, it has been the foundation for all other such glimpses of glory. And it is probably why the sound of the ocean and the sight of the stars give me more healing, more whole-ing, than anything else.
This post was first published seven years ago. The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Paradoxical
I knew the wild, remote beauty of Minuteman Beach, but just the same, I had forgotten it.
Vandenberg Space Force Base, California, February 2024
“Creativity is paradoxical. To create, a person must have knowledge but forget the knowledge, must see unexpected connections in things but not have a mental disorder, must work hard but spend time doing nothing as information incubates, must create many ideas yet most of them are useless, must look at the same thing as everyone else, yet see something different, must desire success but embrace failure, must be persistent but not stubborn, and must listen to experts but know how to disregard them.”
— Michael Michalko
Maybe it’s because I’m in the middle of working on an especially difficult paper for school, but when I read this quote, I felt it captured a good bit about the challenge of any creative pursuit. I don’t know anyone who creates anything worthwhile out of occasional whims from some imaginary muse. It’s hard work, and there’s nothing glamorous about the process. And most of us who try to write, or paint, or make music, or engage in any sort of artistic process must go into it knowing that failure will be far more likely than success, at least in terms of monetary reward or widespread recognition.
For me, and I suspect for most others who try to create anything, the work is its own reward. That’s not to say that sometimes we won’t have to force ourselves to do it, whether we’re in the mood for it or not. But as Michalko says, I know so much that I have forgotten. I find connections between seemingly unrelated things, but have never (as of yet) been diagnosed with any sort of psychosis or mental lapse. I have more ideas than I know what to do with, and I’ve never found anyone who sees the world exactly as I do. And of course, I often fail, and though I respect “expert” information, I don’t feel bound by it.
What else is there for me to do, but keep writing?
Singularly moved
Not beloved by many, but lovely nonetheless.
Photo by Steve Halama via Unsplash
I, singularly moved
To love the lovely that are not beloved,
Of all the seasons most
Love winter.
– Coventry Patmore
If you read the comments section, you may recall that I mentioned this verse to Marlene when she said she loved winter. This is the post I told her I would write for her.
I can’t say I most love winter, but I do enjoy many aspects of it. However, the line of Patmore’s verse that captured my imagination was “the lovely that are not beloved.” There are all sorts of things that can fit that category, winter among them, and I wonder what else he might have had in mind when he described himself as having an affinity for what is disregarded by others.
Have you ever found yourself protesting, “Oh, but I love _____” (fill in something everyone else is criticizing). In that category, I think first of certain animals– crickets, or lizards, or mice, or squirrels– creatures others might see as pests, but ones I see as more cute than irritating. Or it could be dandelions, or radishes, or other plants nobody seems to appreciate. Maybe you actually like to eat liver or zucchini. You might like a book or movie others found boring. Maybe you secretly appreciated a school teacher that everyone else hated, or thought that oddball classmate was interesting because he was different. Did you feel strange because you liked something others denigrated? Or were you happy that you found joy where others could not?
I think if we keep an eye out for beauty with the awareness that it may be hidden, we will find it in unlikely places. And we might discover that others share our enjoyment of something most people miss completely. Do you have any tips for us about where you’ve found examples of “the lovely that are not beloved?”
Ray Stevens is known mostly for his funny songs, but if you’re old enough, you might remember his 1970 Grammy-winning song that wasn’t joking when it declared “everything is beautiful in its own way.” Despite the arguments against this philosophy, if you’re feeling irritable enough to make Grumpy Cat look like an optimist, zoom back to the groovy year of 1970 and enjoy a much-younger Ray Stevens singing his song. I bet it will make you smile.
This post was first published seven years ago. In re-reading it before I scheduled it to be posted again, I did take a few minutes to enjoy the lovely Ray Stevens song, and found myself (like the audience) swaying side to side with its lovely, happy message– a message needed now more than ever.
The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Winter heals
Haanja Upland seen from Suur Munamägi, the highest peak in Estonia.
Vaido Otsar, via Wikimedia Commons
“There’s relief in not having to be outside. No gardening, no mowing the lawn, no tyranny of long daylight hours to fill with productive activity. We rip through summer, burning the hours and tearing up the land. Then snow comes like a bandage, and winter heals the wounds.” ― Jerry Dennis
I don’t know whether it’s my imagination, or just wishful thinking, but I think I’ve experienced significant healing this winter. And I have to agree with Dennis– it seems to be at least partly related to the weather.
The last time we had a snowstorm here was just over three years ago, and my sister and her husband were visiting. Their return home was delayed, and there were all the usual hassles with transportation and cancelled flights. But also there was that excitement at the beauty snow brings, and as it softly yet furiously continued, the wonder at how very MUCH of it there was.
You’d think the memory of that last snowfall would have made the weather more emotionally difficult this year. And there was that pang of absence that is so familiar to anyone who has lost someone dear. But this year, the snow truly has felt like a bandage, covering my hurt and ordering me to be still and cease the endless drive to get things done. I have taken solace, as always, in tea, books, school, correspondence and spending time with Matthew. But this year, all these things had a feeling of special benediction, a willful slowing down and acceptance that this chapter in my life will bring new and different rhythms that will be exactly what I need right now.
People of faith– and I count myself among them– see Divine wisdom in the cycle of the seasons that seem, despite occasional inconvenience and even hazard, to be uniquely suitable for the regulation of human activity that sometimes goes too far, too fast.
So I’m taking the return to regular activity more slowly than usual. There’s still lots of snow on the ground, but I’m able to safely take my walks each day. And next week promises warming temperatures that will at least climb high enough above freezing to eliminate that last bit of ice on the sidewalks. The days grow gradually longer, and springtime calls me. I’ll answer gladly– but perhaps I’ll take a wistful glance back over my shoulder at the cozy psychological cocoon in which I’ve so happily spent the past few weeks.
How about you? Are you enjoying the winter? Remember, our Club Verandah is open all year, and Sheila and I never run out of hot beverages and conversation. Sit a spell and take your shoes off – we’ll leave the verandah to the critters and stay by the fireside looking out through the windows. If you forgot your slippers, no worries– we keep fluffy warm footies on hand.
My state of general wonder
Owen was filled with wonder at the flowers Aunt Peggy sent.
This photo was taken just hours before Jeff died, October 2016.
“Not until years later would I realize that my state of general wonder throughout this process, peppered though it was with fear and doubt, would help preserve my sanity through the events that followed.” — Hilary Tindle
Sometimes I will hear or read a sentence that rings so true in my own experience that I feel I could have written it myself. That was how I felt when I read Dr. Tindle’s words quoted above. She was describing the open heart surgery she underwent as a young woman, long before she became a physician herself. When she sought medical help for what she thought was a routine complaint about feeling tired, she was shocked to be told that she had lived all her life with an undiscovered, life-threatening congenital heart defect that required immediate correction.
What Tindle describes as a “state of general wonder” has been a powerful ally for me. In fact, at 61 years and counting, I think that one of the best metaphors for my life is an image of myself being perched on a three legged stool. One leg would be fear and doubt, one would be conviction and determination, and one would be pure wonder, the memories of which go back at least as far as any others I can remember. Though that three-legged stool sits on the firm foundation of faith and trust, each of those three legs are closely related to the foundation, and have been integral to my existence.
The fear and doubt have forced me to rely upon what meager courage and critical thinking I can muster. As with any skill, these traits grow stronger with use, even when they start in complete inadequacy. The conviction and determination have enabled me to keep going even when I thought I would never last. But the wonder is arguably the best of all: a source of refreshment and delight, making it all worthwhile. Even in the worst situations, some part of my mind is awed by the complexity of human survival, and inspired by glimpses of grace and courage that hardly anyone else will ever know about.
I first noticed wonder partially offsetting my fear when Matthew, as a tiny infant, had his baseline echocardiogram. The doctor was able to see and describe his beating heart (with large atrial and ventricular defects, and two bad valves) in amazing detail. Despite the dread of my baby’s impending open heart surgery, and our very reasonable fears for his life, there was a fascination of what might be possible that transcended the panic I felt. In a similar way, Matthew’s developmental challenges opened my eyes to the stunning intricacy of “typical” early child development, which I had taken for granted with our first son. The therapeutic exercises and tasks that might have felt like drudgery became an absorbing new world to explore, and ordinary milestones became delayed but usually victorious crossings of one marathon finish line after another.
Despite the devastating sorrow of Jeff’s terminal diagnosis, and as painful as it was to watch all that he suffered, I was often carried away with wonder at his physical, spiritual and mental stamina. My awe of his exceptional nature has only grown over time, as moments that were lost to conscious awareness during times of urgency and crisis come back to me now in vivid detail, often without warning. These “flashback” experiences, which I imagine are common among survivors of anyone who fought a hard battle over several years, continue to flood me with grief and panic. But tucked amid the anguish and anxiety, there sparkles the ever-growing wonder at how blessed I was to be married to such an extraordinary person for all those years.
Wonder is not limited to traumatic situations, of course– and how thankful I am for the everyday moments that surprise me with humor, joy, beauty or mystery. The ability to notice and marvel at magnificent details, cleverly disguised as normal aspects of ordinary life, is a skill that most of us are born with, I believe. Just watch any toddler closely and you’ll see what I mean. But sadly, we often fail to cultivate that trait as assiduously as we do the more prestigious or marketable talents, and it tends to atrophy as we age.
Dr. Tindle is right, though– wonder is a sanity-preserver in bad times, and multiplies our happiness in good times. I encourage you to incorporate into each day a few moments to exercise your “state of general wonder.” Besides being good for you, it’s fun and remarkably easy, once you get the hang of it. As Marlene says, I wish you a wonder-filled day! Feel free to share some of your wondrous observations here.
This post was first published seven years ago. Recently, we lost our beloved Aunt Peggy, the last of the six siblings in Mama’s family to leave this earth. But abundant reminders of her generosity and her appreciation for beauty remain with us.
The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Handles and hinges
Come on in, but mind the hardware. An inviting doorway in the Cotswolds, England, July 2017
“To the optimist all doors have handles and hinges; to the pessimist, all doors have locks and latches.” — William Arthur Ward
As soon as I read this quote, I thought “I’m a handles and hinges person.” But on reflection, I realized that I also rely on locks and latches, increasingly so the older I grow. It’s not just the need for physical security that is understandably felt by a widow living mostly alone. The handles and hinges, locks and latches all have symbolic meaning as well.
As we grow older, experience teaches us that not everyone is worthy of the trust granted by open doors and windows, whether to our homes or to our hearts. I’ve come to understand that the privacy guarded so closely by my husband and our older son does have a measure of wisdom, provided it does not become purely selfish, as it all too easily can.
I’ve learned to cultivate an appreciation for boundaries and privacy, but I remain convinced that a healthy and happy heart must remain open to new possibilities. My continued hope now is to maintain a cheery, inviting doorway that will draw people in, whether that be a door to my home, or my blog, or my life. And I hope that the handles and hinges will see far more use than the locks and latches. But there’s a reason for all that hardware, and I’m keeping all of it.
Snow helps
Hirzel, Switzerland by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash
“I believe that snow helps strip away the things that don’t matter. It leaves us thinking of little else but the greatness of nature, the place of our souls within it, and the dazzling whiteness that lies ahead.” ― Charlie English
If English is right about snow, it may help to explain why the final years of life are often compared to winter. No matter how long I might live, most of my life is unquestionably behind me now. Time, like snow, acts as a great filter that separates the trivial from the substantive. The years reveal aspects of our lives that were only masquerading as important, eating up time and giving us the illusion of permanence and security. It can be a very difficult lesson to learn; sometimes even heartbreaking.
Yet there is an unquestionable beauty to a snowy landscape, which paradoxically conveys the impression of freshness and purity layered over dead vegetation and nature in hibernation, awaiting rebirth. It’s a fitting milieu in which to close our eyes, breathe deeply, and rest. It’s a time for sleeping soundly and dreaming sweet dreams. Get ready to awaken rejuvenated and restored.
This post was first published seven years ago. Now, as I schedule it to be republished next week, we have a foot of snow on the ground that will not be melting away anytime soon. I have shoveled my walkway, driveway, and the street in front of my mailbox. Today I’ll tackle the deck, but will work in stages, without the need to get it done entirely. Despite the vigorous effort, it still has been a restful time, full of deep sleep and pleasant dreams. Snow indeed helps.
The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Life, waiting
A new day, like a new year, brings fresh possibilities.
This is sunrise as seen from my bathroom window a few days ago. It has not been digitally altered in any way; it really is this beautiful. January, 2025.
“And what does January hold? Clean account books. Bare diaries. Three hundred and sixty-five new days, neatly parceled into weeks, months, seasons. A chunk of time, of life, waiting to be filled…those first notes like an orchestra tuning up before the play begins!” — Phyllis Nicholson
At my age, holidays come and go with little fanfare. New Year’s Day is no different. Aside from a few tax-related deadlines, I don’t do anything special to mark the beginning of another year. But is is refreshing to contemplate what the coming months might hold, however much I have to fight the understandable tendency to feel a bit of dread about what may lie in store.
It’s reassuring to remind myself that, by the time January rolls around, the days are growing just a bit longer each day. And the bare trees allow for stunning views of spectacular sunrises that will be partially obscured by the foliage that will soon appear.
Whether your personal orchestra is tuning up for a full scale symphony this year, or just a delightful waltz or an invigorating etude, I wish you moments of sweet anticipation as we dream of brighter days ahead.
A poet in January
January bliss: a comfy chair, poetry, and tea in a lovely cup given by a dear friend.
You’re invited to drop in and tell us your favorites– poets, teas, or both!
“When one reads a poet in January, it is as lovely as when one goes to walk in June.”
— Jean Paul Friedrich Richter
If you’ve been reading this blog very long, you know how much I love walking, especially in mild weather. But I think Jean Paul was right about poetry and January, which seem to go together like soup and snowy weather, or friendships and firesides.
Many of us who live north of the equator have been enduring record-cold temperatures. Some have been hit with a particularly nasty flu or other seasonal aches and pains. Power outages, weather delays and traffic snarls, along with wind chills below zero, can make wintertime something to dread. So let’s get cozy and enjoy what’s good about this season.
Brew a cup of your favorite cold-weather beverage. Pull up a comfy chair, light a crackling fire, or if you don’t have that kind of fireplace (alas, I don’t), try switching on your gas or electric fireplace, or just snuggle up with a warm fuzzy throw. Take out your favorite poetry book, or grab your laptop, tablet or phone and go on a poetry scavenger hunt for some wonderful undiscovered gems, or lifelong favorites you can’t fully remember.
If you find anything lovely, funny, thought-provoking or heartwarming, we’d love to have you share it with us here. For every comment that links us to a poem, I’ll answer with a favorite of my own for us to read. Our high school English teachers would be proud!
Let’s bring our virtual Verandah indoors while it’s too cold to be outside. What we lack in sunshine and warm breezes we can more than make up for in congenial online company and realtime hygge. Cookies, pastries and savory snacks optional.
This post was first published seven years ago. Little did I dream, when I first wrote it, that I’d be working on putting together a portfolio of my own (new) poems as one of my assignments at Oxford. I hope January is as good for writing poems as for reading them. But I find that reading poems is very good for writing them, or at least getting something down on paper that I hope resembles poetry.
The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
A powerful solace
This was either Alaska or Canada. In the sky, boundaries disappear. May 2024.
“Mountains seem to answer an increasing imaginative need in the West. More and more people are discovering a desire for them, and a powerful solace in them. At bottom, mountains, like all wildernesses, challenge our complacent conviction – so easy to lapse into – that the world has been made for humans by humans. Most of us exist for most of the time in worlds which are humanly arranged, themed and controlled. One forgets that there are environments which do not respond to the flick of a switch or the twist of a dial, and which have their own rhythms and orders of existence. Mountains correct this amnesia. By speaking of greater forces than we can possibly invoke, and by confronting us with greater spans of time than we can possibly envisage, mountains refute our excessive trust in the man-made. They pose profound questions about our durability and the importance of our schemes. They induce…a modesty in us.” ― Robert Macfarlane
In the profound and continuing grief over the unexpected loss of my sister Carla, it’s easy to forget that many joyful things happened this past year. For example, Carla and I were able to take two of the trips together that I had booked for the year. I was able to attend my summer session at Oxford, and to visit my dearly loved friends on the central coast of California, and to return for the first time to Ohio, where Jeff and I lived with our baby sons during his first tour of duty in the Air Force. I was honored to enjoy a delicious luncheon hosted in the beautiful home of one of my church sisters, where I was surrounded by many other beloved sisters who have remained in my heart for nearly 40 years.
And I finally was able to do something I had planned to do at least two or three times, but somehow had always been forced to cancel: I visited my dear friend Jena at her home in Anchorage, Alaska, and met her husband Matthew for the first time, though I soon felt as if I had known him much longer. Jena and I became friends when she was still single, but the two of them are such a perfect match that now it’s hard to imagine her without him.
The week I spent with them was remarkable in many respects, and I might be blogging about that visit again in the coming year. But nothing prepared me for the amazing sights of the overnight flight back to the east coast. The photo above was taken at about ten p.m. This was in late May, when there are only a few hours of darkness each day in the far north. I had planned to sleep on the way home, and got a window seat, thinking it would be easier to sleep against the wall of the plane. But I spent at least the first hour mesmerized by the astoundingly close mountaintops and glaciers that I could never have seen from the ground. They were stunning, and seemed to go on and on.
At some point I realized that we could not possibly still be in Alaska, and were now flying over the Canadian Rockies. I took dozens of pictures; when I went to transfer them from my phone to my computer, I think the total was 83. Though my camera phone is inferior to the one I would have used if I’d had the sense to keep it in my carry on bag, it will give you an idea of the grandeur. The daylight, like the mountains, seemed to go on and on, stretching toward midnight.
As I gazed down in wonder, I had no idea of the grief that was in store during the coming year. But I do believe that in some way, the powerful solace Macfarlane describes has stayed with me since then, banked deep in my unconscious as a reminder that whatever is troubling or grieving me is only one tile in a beautiful mosaic. Those mountains, and the consolation of remembering them, are a fitting metaphor of my happy time with Jena and her husband Matthew. The gift of their friendship keeps on giving, sustaining me through the remainder of the year and continuing into the future.
This post is the first new one I’ve written in awhile. When I went to schedule the re-posts for January, I realized that 2018 was the year I dropped to posting just once a week (something I mentioned doing in the “About this blog” section). So I challenged myself to try to intersperse new posts in between the old ones, to keep the schedule to Wednesday and Saturday. I have no idea whether I’ll be able to keep doing it, but we’ll see how it goes. As always, thanks for being here!
Perceptibly nearer
Jeff’s mother, Johnnie Ruth Denton, at the celebration of her son’s life.
With Matt and Drew at Arlington National Cemetery, March 2017
“New Year’s eve is like every other night; there is no pause in the march of the universe, no breathless moment of silence…yet no man has quite the same thoughts this evening that come with the coming of darkness on other nights. The vast and shadowy stream of time sweeps on without break, but the traveler who has been journeying with it cannot be entirely unmindful that he is perceptibly nearer the end of his wanderings.”
— Hamilton Wright Mabie
As I write this post set to publish in just a few hours, I find myself once again taking part in a somber vigil, this time from a distance. Jeff’s mother, who was at his deathbed with us less than 15 months ago, is expected to pass from this life within hours. She is surrounded by her daughters and grandchildren who will stay with her, as she stayed with us during Jeff’s last two days of life.
Those who have been reading this blog for several years already know that our family’s losses have come with a regularity that inevitably deepens the comprehension of mortality hinted at in Mabie’s quote. In October 2014, we experienced the unexpected death of Larry, who was frequently with us here. In September 2015, we lost Daddy just as suddenly. In October 2016, Jeff died; his burial ceremony was held at Arlington National Cemetery in March 2017. Then, in May of this year, Mama died. The tearful farewells and graveside visits leave us unavoidably aware that each of us, whether we live a relatively long life or die young, are moving ever closer to the end of our own time on this earth.
If you are thinking that this is a gloomy way to begin a new year, I don’t blame you for wanting to shift focus a bit. Accordingly, I invite you to re-visit the post I published two years ago on this date. Reading over it tonight, I was struck by how scarcely I imagined the crises and ultimate heartbreak that would face me in 2016, and yet how relevant my thoughts about that year remain when seen in retrospect, however ignorant of forthcoming events I was at the time I wrote.
At this particular moment, I have little to offer in the way of sunny thoughts or bright resolutions. Instead, I pledge to you my steadfast appreciation for your presence, our shared gratitude for the abundance of life, and our determination to make this an online refuge where all are welcome, and where we can gather without fear, condemnation or anger, united in our common resolve to defeat despair.
I pray that all who read these words will be blessed with a year of growth, compassion, connection and deep joy. In that spirit, I wish you a Happy New Year!
This post was first published seven years ago. The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Of reflection
I photographed this ornament at the Gaylord Hotel at National Harbor, 2011
“Christmas is a season not only of rejoicing but of reflection.” — Winston Churchill
Merry Christmas! Chances are, this will be a busy day for you, coming on the heels of a busy season. For most of my adult life, it was that way for me, anyway. I love the Christmas season, with all the festive activities and joyful sharing. But it can be exhausting, too.
As simple and quiet as this year’s Christmas has been for Matt and me, it has kept us busy enough that the unscheduled times of relaxing at home have been a welcome balm for the strange, ineffable pressure that seems so pervasive in today’s world. Having more than the usual amount of quiet time this season, I’ve come to realize that staying hyper busy on holidays can be a sort of mind-numbing drug or clever distraction that keeps us from paying attention to uncomfortable realities such as worry, sadness or conflict.
I’ve never believed that positive thinking consists of ignoring the difficulties and traumas of life. This blog is called “defeat despair,” not “deny despair” or “delay despair.” And it’s almost impossible to defeat despair by ignoring what is in need of resolution. But the urgent call of daily tasks and obligations often drowns out higher priorities.
For this reason, times of reflection are crucial to staying sane and healthy. Balancing the focus of our reflection to acknowledge both blessings and struggles can keep us from delusional optimism on the one hand, or self-perpetuating despondency on the other.
So, whatever is on your schedule for today, I hope you will set aside some time to reflect. No matter who or where you are, I’m pretty sure that the things on your mind will represent a very human mixture of happiness, sorrow, frustration, excitement and hope. May the final days of this year bring you gifts of both rejoicing and reflecting. Merry Christmas!
This post was first published seven years ago. The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
A little at a time
Look closely– we’re still festive, and still in the picture!
Matt, Susan and me (with cameras in hand) are reflected in the ornament.
Springfield Mall, Virginia, November 2017
“I sometimes think we expect too much of Christmas Day. We try to crowd into it the long arrears of kindliness and humanity of the whole year. As for me, I like to take my Christmas a little at a time, all through the year.” — Ray Stannard Baker (David Grayson)
Even more than last year, this has been and will be a very different Christmas season for us. I realized this year will be the first time in all my 61 years that I will be spending the holiday with only one other family member.
Before I married, I spent every single Christmas with a large and loud family for whom the holiday was a major event. After marriage, and until we had children, Jeff and I spent every Christmas visiting both his family and mine, often traveling the five hours between their homes on Christmas Day itself, so that we could spend Christmas morning with one set of parents, and Christmas evening with the other. Then after we had kids, we were our own family of three and then four, still traveling often to see our extended family. Last year, Matt and I spent Christmas Day at Drew’s home, and I spent the days leading up to it with my sister and my “other Mama and Daddy” about whom I wrote a post on this blog.
This year, it will be just Matt and me. We will be joining close friends at various points in the season, as we have already done, but there will be no family with us at any point in the season. We considered traveling to my sister’s home, and to see Jeff’s mother, but Matt requested that he and I spend Christmas at York this year rather than traveling. I understood his need to be at home where the memories are warm and there are none of the stresses associated with travel to distant points. I also knew that we are living a different reality now, one to which we must grow accustomed.
So far, it has not been as dismal an experience as it may sound. To be sure, there is sorrow that so many things are forever changed, and both Matt and I are definitely “sadder but wiser.” Yet there have been unexpected joys and loyal friends to stand beside us, many of whom will be reading these words– you know who you are!
And it has been, thus far, the most stress-free holiday of my adult life. Not a bad trade-off. Christmas, after all, is the underlying reason for the merriment, not the other way around. In fact, Christmas stands alone quite nicely. As the Grinch found, “He didn’t stop Christmas from coming – it came! Somehow or other, it came just the same.”
At this stage of my life, coming off of the incalculable stress of the past six years, it seems an appropriate time to step back from the cooking, decorating, gift-wrapping and party-hosting that have been woven into Christmas for as long as I can remember. Much of that festivity has been pictured and celebrated on this blog, and you can find those posts simply by entering the word “Christmas” in the search box. If you’re unfamiliar with my deep love of the season, or just want to re-visit those years, you’ll find no shortage of holiday posts to explore.
I look back on my years of celebrating Christmas with equal parts happiness for all the memories we made, and wonder that I was somehow able to accomplish as much of it as I did. I couldn’t have done it, of course, without Jeff there to help me. Even though he tended to leave all the planning in my hands, he funded all of it, and was there with his reliable eye for detail and his much better sense of time, making sure I didn’t forget this or run too late for that.
I don’t expect much from Christmas now, and that’s OK. It begins with expecting less from myself, especially at this time of year, and that’s not only OK; it’s vital. The heartfelt card sent out later than I meant to get it into the mail; the leisurely cup of tea by a friend’s Christmas tree; the wrapping of half the number of gifts with as much or more sentiment as went into the 100+ I used to wrap each year (yes, over a hundred every year, most of them small)– all these alterations are creating for Matt and me, in the words of a dear old song, “a Christmas far more glorious than grand.”
Whether your holiday season this year is an extravaganza, or a quiet, contemplative respite from everyday life, or somewhere in between, I offer you my deepest gratitude for being with us all year long, taking Christmas a little at a time. I toast you all with a cup of good cheer (which for me means tea) and wish you bountiful year-end blessings. Joy to the world!
This post was first published seven years ago. The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Such an honest thing
Another photo for my collection of pictures of people taking pictures:
Susan on the Mount Vernon Trail, November 2017
“What I like about experience is that it is such an honest thing. You may take any number of wrong turnings, but keep your eyes open and you will not be allowed to go very far before the warning signs appear. You may have deceived yourself, but experience is not trying to deceive you. The universe rings true wherever you fairly test it.” – C. S. Lewis
Lewis ought to know, if anyone does. His life had more than the usual share of twists and turns. Losing his mother to death when he was a young child, he suffered a nightmarish experience of boarding schools that he later declared to be worse than the trenches of World War I, where he was gravely injured. His military service granted him an exemption from testing requirements that would likely have kept him out of Oxford due to his well-documented struggles to learn basic mathematics. He went on to achieve fame, fortune (almost all of which he gave away), and a lifetime of scholarship at Oxford and Cambridge.
Though he had been a nominal Christian during childhood, he spent years as an atheist before converting in earnest to Christianity, unintentionally establishing himself as one of the most influential apologists of his century. And he lived most of his life as a bachelor until being surprised, near the end of his life, with a brief but joy-filled marriage to a woman who was believed to be literally on her deathbed as the wedding ceremony was performed. Through it all, he had the honesty to keep his eyes wide open to the evidence around him when his own firmly held convictions were tested and found wanting.
I think Lewis is right that we often deceive ourselves. When the photo above was taken, Susan and I were walking the Mount Vernon Trail on a lovely November day. It was chilly, but not so much that we didn’t enjoy being out. However, I somehow got it into my head that it would be an easy walk from the Belle Haven Marina, the parking lot near my home where we left the car, to Fort Hunt Park. I based my impression not on experience, but from the rough estimate of comparing a straight-line scale of miles to the winding trail pictured on the map. Mostly, however, I think I just wanted to believe it would be an easy walk.
Even though we kept stopping to make photos, I started thinking that it was taking us far too long to get through the marshlands to the park, which was, ahem, the first place there would be a ladies’ room available. (I shouldn’t have been drinking so much tea.) We asked a few hikers coming from the other direction how far it was to the park, and I confess I was a bit dismayed that the first ones we asked didn’t seem to know. Finally, Susan got out her cell phone– why didn’t I think of that before?– and announced that we were still about 1.5 miles to the park. Yikes, not even half way there! And then there would be the “easy” walk all the way back to the car. A quick change of plans took us back up the trail down which we had just come. Luckily it looked a bit different coming from the opposite direction.
Well, at least Susan had her cell phone with her, or no telling when we would have either gotten to Fort Hunt, or given up and gone back. Let that be a warning to anybody who ever decides to let me plan an itinerary. I am hoping that Kelly will tactfully refrain from describing in detail our similarly unpredictable and much crazier afternoon AND evening in DC. Hint: it was supposed to be just an afternoon.
I’m not sure I like the honesty of experience as much as Lewis does, but I suppose it’s at least a little comforting that reality checks are always out there waiting for us when we lead ourselves astray. No doubt about it, experience will eventually offer some much-needed course correction if we allow it. Just remember to keep your eyes open. Especially if you’re with me.
This post was first published seven years ago today. Reality continues to remind me– sometimes forcefully– how often I engage in wishful thinking or outright denial. Still, even with the course corrections, I remain stubbornly optimistic. But I’ve learned how often hope can be thwarted.
The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Knowing how to be
Solitude, but not too much: I walk to Herrenchiemsee, November 1972.
“…many of us seek community solely to escape the fear of being alone. Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving. When we can be alone, we can be with others without using them as a means of escape.” ― bell hooks
The photo above was taken in 1972, during one of the most otherworldly experiences of my life. My family and the couple we were visiting had traveled in late November to the tiny Bavarian island of Herreninsel, to visit the unfinished palace of mad King Ludwig. Our hosts had told us that during the summer, thousands visited this spot where Ludwig’s intention to build a full replica of Versailles ended tragically.
That day, however, it was hard to imagine anyone but ourselves in that remote location. We reached the island on a small ferry boat accompanied only by the skipper and an elderly nun traveling back to the convent on another island, Frauenchiemsee.
The walk from the dock to the palace was about a mile, through a snowy woodland that felt like a Currier and Ives lithograph come to life. Savoring the haunting seclusion and beauty of the most snow I had ever seen, I strolled ahead of our group to feel more fully immersed in the fascinating history about which we’d all been reading.
It would not have been nearly so enchanting if I had truly been alone. I probably would have been too frightened to even take the boat. Who would have been there to help me if I had needed it? And if I had been by myself, how I would have longed for someone with whom to share the the outing! Our day combined the best of both worlds; a fabulous but deserted palace that we toured in complete privacy, with only a caretaker present rather than the thousands there in summertime, and the reassurance of sharing that isolation with trusted loved ones.
My bookish childhood and my years as a military spouse have strengthened the already strong tendency I have to enjoy being alone. I didn’t realize how important that skill would be for me one day. Learning to be alone has been absolutely crucial to my survival this past year. I’m very grateful to be able to endure and even enjoy long periods of solitude.
Yet the presence of friends and loved ones is just as important, if not more so. With that in mind, I’d like to take a moment here to share a short video tribute to three remarkable women who, for the second year in a row, made sure I was not alone on the birthday Jeff and I had shared for 38 years (yes, we had the same birthday, though he was two years younger). Some of you may recognize Renee, Mitzie and Myra as the friends who sat at my side during Jeff’s funeral and stood by me (literally and figuratively) at his graveside. You may remember Robert (Mitzie’s husband) as the friend who read the touching letter to Jeff and gave the benediction at his funeral. On my birthday this year, they continued the unwavering support that has enabled our family to keep going since Jeff’s cancer diagnosis over 5 years ago.
In what was the closest thing to a birthday party I’ve had since I was eight years old (when my Mama gave me the one and only birthday party I had during childhood), these wonderful friends fixed my favorite foods to share at dinner, showering me with cards, gifts, a cake, and a touch of Hawaii in the music. I’ve never liked the song “Happy Birthday to You” when it was being sung to me. But this occasion was the exception.
Far from being a means of escaping solitude, these friends have granted me my space for the past year while recognizing there are some times when we neither need nor want to be alone. I am forever grateful!
This post was first published seven years ago. Watching the video of my long-ago birthday party has become a gift that keeps on giving. It brought great joy to me during a time of grief and loss. This re-post is lovingly dedicated to Renée, Mitzie, Robert and Myra, whose support has never waned in spite of the distance that now separates us since I sold my York home.
The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
A tree in a story
Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel via Unsplash
“Victor Frankl whispered in my ear all the same. He said to me I was a tree in a story about a forest, and that it was arrogant of me to believe any differently. And he told me the story of the forest is better than the story of the tree…I asked God to help me understand the story of the forest and what it means to be a tree in that story.”
— Donald Miller
Today we have more ways to stay connected with others than ever before, but I continue to see headlines and read stories about how isolated many of us feel. Not so long ago, survival demanded that we be in face-to-face contact with other people on a daily basis, but technology has made it possible to do almost anything without speaking to another human. It is undeniably quicker and easier, in many cases, to choose interaction with a device over dealing with an unpredictable person– someone who, like ourselves, will rightly expect a level of courtesy from us that we need not offer a machine.
Little wonder, then, that our sense of life becomes distorted, seen through the fish-eye lens of individual experience that magnifies what is closest to us and confines the wider world to compressed edges at the circular border of our vision. Our view of the world is dominated by the disproportionate appearance of our own immediate circumstances. Meanwhile, what looms large to us may appear to others, if they see it at all, as only constricted details at the periphery of their individual worlds.
This solipsistic existence can work very well for us as long as things are going our way. We relegate and delegate much of what seems unappealing, constructing custom-built lives for ourselves that place us in command and in control– or so it seems until something goes wrong. Then we may find that crucial traits such as patience, humility and compassion have atrophied for lack of use, leaving us frustrated and floundering.
The trials of the past five years, and especially of the past 12 months, have reminded me again and again that the surest cure for despair is to step away from the stage of my own life and get a more accurate sense of the larger reality within which every life is situated. It’s not that my problems are unimportant, and my challenges do not become easier simply because I break their stranglehold on my consciousness. But just as Miller says, the story of the forest is better than the story of the tree. All of us are blessed to be part of that story.
This post was first published seven years ago. As happens so often, it seems more relevant to my life now than ever. The world has become increasingly isolated for me, as so many people communicate (if at all) by electronic means. In response, I have made a concerted effort to prefer the handwritten letter, the phone conversation or the in-person visit to the disconnect of electronic, truncated texts and emails that often get buried in the digital junk mail that never seems to stop coming.
I recently had a real-life demonstration of what people miss when they default to electronic communication. Visiting in person with my Oxford cohort this summer, I was pleasantly surprised by how much more dimensional they became to me when we were face to face, discussing, sharing meals and laughter, and walking through town together. Though I felt I knew them after hours of online discussion over the past year, seeing them in person was an entirely different, and much richer, experience.
But the part of this message most relevant to me now is the message of being a tree in a story about a forest. As I reflect on the almost unbelievable number of catastrophic crises and losses of the past seven years, there is no doubt that, at least in my case, the story of the forest is a much grander tale than the often tragic story of my own struggling little tree. I continue to journey forward in faith that the grander tale I can only imagine will one day be our shared reality, and I will know– perhaps for the first time– the true extent to which my tree was part of that surpassingly magnificent forest.
The original post, comments and photo are linked, along with two other related posts, below. These links to related posts, and their thumbnail photos, do not appear in the blog feed; they are only visible when viewing the individual posts by clicking on each one. I have no idea why, nor do I know how they choose the related posts. That’s just the way WordPress does things.
Defeat Despair 