Hidden inside
Cactus flowers in an Amsterdam floral shop, March 2007
“Sometimes what you want is hidden inside what you don’t want.” — Ashleigh Brilliant
Just as the prickly cactus produces beautiful blooms, so harsh circumstances can result in positive change and growth. This does not negate the pain of grief and loss, but it does provide a way through darkness. Christians believe “in all things God works for the good of those who love him” (Romans 8:28), a verse that is sometimes misinterpreted to mean “everything that happens is for the best.” Not everything that happens is good, but God promises us that no matter what happens, we can find a way to bring blessings from sorrow.
My husband’s stage IV cancer is a nightmare; we could never see it as being “for the best.” Yet even with the suffering, we have been blessed with unexpected joys:
The outpouring of love and support from people we are close to, as well as those we had not heard from in years, is a continual encouragement. And many people we have never met strengthen us daily with their prayers and expressions of concern.
A lot of frustrations or concerns that once held a false sense of importance have been rendered powerless to bother us, seeming minor in comparison to the challenges we face now. We have a sharply focused picture of what really matters; many truths we understood intellectually before, we now know with our hearts.
And I have spent more time with my husband in recent weeks — despite that time being mostly in medical settings — than we were ever able to spend together before. As strange as it may sound, I have been so glad to be with him even when the reason we’re spending time together is because of the “worse” part of “for better or worse.”
Whatever trials or challenges you may be facing now, my prayer is that there will be hidden blessings that emerge from the pain.
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
Talk of mysteries!
Jeff snapped this photo of me on Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park, June 2012
“Talk of mysteries! — Think of our life in nature, — daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, — rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! The actual world!” — Henry David Thoreau
I hope nobody’s getting tired of my going on about nature, but the natural world is a marvel to me that never loses its wonder. There is simply nothing more effective at ridding me of the frustration, anxiety or depression of whatever burdens are weighing me down. Getting outside and paying close attention to the things God created puts everything into perspective.
The great thing about it is, I don’t have to travel to a faraway feast of nature such as Acadia or other national parks (although I highly recommend doing that as much as possible). I can go to a local park, or my back yard. I can re-pot plants or water my flowers and shrubs. Even digging weeds while listening to a book on tape is a balm for my spirit (and my neighbors have joked that I’m welcome to dig weeds in their yard anytime!)
Next time you’re at the end of your rope, make time to visit a nearby park, or take a walk in your own neighborhood and try to name the different birds, trees and plants you encounter. Take along an MP3 player loaded with your favorite music, or a great mystery or an inspiring classic. Tune in and rejoice!
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
The ordinary arts
At the Hearthside Bed and Breakfast, Bar Harbor, Maine 2012
“The ordinary arts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.” — Thomas Moore
There are small details– inexpensive or free– that make our homes a more nurturing environment. For me, some of the minimal efforts that have maximum impact include making the bed daily, keeping things tidied up, and adding touches of color with flowers, books, or other attractive items of personal significance. What are some of the simple ways you can brighten your life by enhancing your home?
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
An island in itself
The atrium of the Diamond Princess on her maiden voyage, 2004
“The most fascinating island you’ll ever visit on a big ship is the ship itself.”
— Ashleigh Brilliant
Count me among the people who are hooked on cruising with their first voyage. Beyond the allure of waking up in new surroundings each morning, or the convenience of unpacking and checking in only one time, there is the undeniable marvel of the ship itself. Modern cruise ships are floating cities, and each year the cruise lines seem to compete to see which can produce the most superlative ship. Some go for size or “bells and whistles” while others emphasize luxury and elegance. All offer unlimited food and a wide variety of activities.
No matter your travel preferences or tastes, there seems to be something for everyone who can afford the fare. While cruising is actually a cost-effective way to see many places in a short time, travel is expensive at best. But even if you can’t afford to cruise this year, it’s fun to spend some time browsing the websites and ship plans of the various lines, or reading about the many itineraries and ports of call. In fact, the anticipation of planning for a cruise– for months or even for years– is one of the best aspects of going on one.
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
An authentic style
Scarves on display at an Istanbul market, 2008
“People with an authentic style know what they are, but even more important, they know what they are not. They don’t care about labels. They care about personal expression.” — Sarah Ban Breathnach
I have always admired women who know how to use accessories to create beautiful outfits. Usually, a woman whose style I admire does not rely on the latest fashion fad to create an eye-catching look; rather, she knows how to pull colors, garments and costume jewelry together to highlight what is most beautiful about her own personality and character. This talent does not require spending a lot of money. Some of the most stylish people I know are frugal and creative, unafraid to try something different.
The same is true for other forms of art incorporated into everyday life. The most memorable homes and living spaces I’ve seen are the ones that are unique, expressing the essence of the people who live there, accentuating the most interesting aspects of their lives.
Not all of us are gifted at dressing or decorating with artistry, but we can appreciate those who add beauty to the world in this way. When you see people whose clothing or home style brightens your day, tell them so! And if you have a talent for creating with style, know that others enjoy and benefit from your efforts to make the world more attractive.
This post was originally published seven years ago yesterday. You can view the original with comments here.
Everybody can be great
Our son Matt in June 2012, with one of his favorite people, Tilly, who comes from England
each summer to help young people with disabilities have a great time at camp.
“Everybody can be great… because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”— Martin Luther King, Jr.
These beautiful words are being quoted more frequently in recent days as the nation prepares to honor Dr. King’s memory with “A day on, not a day off.” Community service projects are planned throughout the USA as a way to honor Dr. King’s call to service. As a minister, King took seriously the words of Jesus in Matthew 23:11-12: “The greatest among you will be your servant. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
Some of the greatest people I know will never be famous, powerful or rich. They are the women and men who prepare meals for church potlucks and homeless shelters. They teach in a variety of locations, from school classrooms to prisons. They clean our buildings, drive our buses, fly our airplanes and watch over our loved ones who are sick or disabled.
I have seen many of these people up close for years, because our younger son was born with multiple disabilities. As an adult, he depends on the kindness of countless people: doctors, nurses, job coaches and respite providers, and many others too numerous to mention.
The high point of his year is always a week or two at summer camp, where he and other young adults with disabilities gather with non-disabled peers who come from many countries to provide a safe and caring place to have fun. Because of the wide range of disabilities among the campers, these camp staffers work long and often gruelling days, with tasks most people would shun, but their enthusiasm and love for the job is always evident. It would be impossible for me to put into words the gratitude I feel for these wonderful people.
The really great thing is that the campers also serve. Their humor, forgiving spirit and persistence through frustrating obstacles are an inspiration to those who have the heart to interact closely with them. Though we all have different gifts, “anybody can serve.”
Next time you are working hard and feel taken for granted, remember the people who count on your service, and know that you are appreciated more than you may realize.
This post was originally published seven years ago on Martin Luther King Jr. day. You can view the original with comments here.
All sorts of folks
Our California church family gathers around us to sing, pray and wish us well on the Sunday before our move to Virginia, July 2004
“I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you.” — Woody Guthrie
I’m fairly new to the world of blogging, and I find the scope and size of the blogosphere amazing. While linked in some cases to traditional publishing, it stands apart for its unprecedented accessibility and ease of entry; a great many people all over the world can blog without paying much to do it (even those who don’t own computers can access them through public libraries, schools or benevolent friends).
This morning as I was marveling over this, how I can turn on my computer and hear from people literally all over the world who have read my words, and I can go and read theirs, I thought of Woody Guthrie and his devotion to the people who were seldom heard of through the media of his day. It seems to me that blogging is to literature what folk songs are to music.
Because blogging belongs to the people at large and not to the gatekeepers of traditional publication, it is seen by many as unsophisticated and ephemeral, somehow less important than “real” publishing. But just as folk songs capture and record the invaluable history of everyday people, so the countless blogs published online daily are forming an unparalleled record of the entire world; who we are, what we think, how we feel.
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
Infinitely healing
Green hills near our northern California home, 2003
“There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature– the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter.” — Rachel Carson
Among the things I miss most about living in northern California is being able to see the beautiful green hills on a daily basis — but only for a relatively brief time in the spring. The famed California sunshine quickly burns them to a golden brown for the rest of the year.
On the coastal regions of California, we experienced winter as the rainy season. The rains would begin in December and continue steadily until February or early March. Although the rain would become annoying at times, we always needed it badly after going months without it. Whenever I would find myself complaining about the rains tripping the breaker and turning my outdoor Christmas lights off, or soaking my shoes and keeping the skies a gloomy gray for weeks, I would remind myself of the glorious green hills that soon would follow.
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
Mad with joy
A garden in Colonial Williamsburg, May 2009
“People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.” — Iris Murdoch
Go a little mad with joy today. Visit a florist or plant nursery, or just the floral department of a grocery store, and take a few minutes to see– really see– the flowers. Or, if you cannot get out, enjoy the flowers here and here and here. Or just google “flowers” and click on “images.” Bloggers, please feel free to post links to your favorite flower photos in the comments! As we used to say in the 60’s: FLOWER POWER!
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
Perfect Picture
An island of beauty in a cobblestone square, Germany 2007
“I’d started playing another game, one I kept a secret…I called it the Perfect Picture game. The goal was to find snapshot-sized scenes in my town that showed absolutely no sign of Katrina. The game had been especially challenging right after the storm. Broken limbs, torn streets, and mangled houses relentlessly assaulted the eyes. With the Perfect Picture game, I’d discovered I could turn off my peripheral vision and focus on one small area…Much later, I would understand why the game seemed so important to me. The miraculous gifts of the storm were those of the spirit…Yet it was difficult to pair any image with those inspiring qualities. Meanwhile, the losses of Katrina were imminently visible, branding the brain with panoramas of despair and pain…Finding even a small visual balm — like a small garden planted by a neighbor — gave us the power to heal our dreams and restore our peace.” — Ellis Anderson
In her award-winning book Under Surge, Under Siege, Ellis Anderson writes movingly of her small Mississippi town surviving the ravages of Hurricane Katrina. Faced with overwhelming loss and grief, the residents of Bay St. Louis pulled together and rose above sorrow through their relentless determination to overcome despair with optimism and strength. The Perfect Picture game was one of my favorite parts of Anderson’s engaging book, and probably was an influence in the creation of this blog. Just as Anderson managed to frame islets of perfect beauty amid massive destruction, so we can create mental places of refuge from pain by focusing our eyes (literally and figuratively) on what is beautiful and inspiring. In 2013, try creating your own “perfect pictures” with your camera, your eyes, or your heart.
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
Permit yourself the luxury
Neighbors on a winter afternoon stroll, York County, Virginia 2010
“Winter is the time of promise because there is so little to do – or because you can now and then permit yourself the luxury of thinking so.” — Stanley Crawford
Each year, I enter January with delusions about how much I will get done — I will clean out my closets, sort through old letters, put my photographs into albums or digitize them to send to others. I never seem to accomplish all that I plan to do in the winter, partly because that season is rarely as idle as I imagine it will be, and partly because, more than any other time of year, I permit myself the delicious pastimes associated with the dormant season: browsing through books, strolling on a cold, sunny day, and daydreaming about the coming spring. I wish for you the wonderful winter luxury of taking a break while nature itself is half asleep.
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
Practicality with pleasure
A Piazza Navona café, Rome 2008
“He has gained every point who has mixed practicality with pleasure…” — Horace
Treat yourself today to some wholesome indulgence. Whether it’s a cup of tea, a piece of fruit or an afternoon nap, savor the enjoyment of things that are delightful as well as beneficial. If the weather is gloomy, browse in a bookstore or library; if it’s sunny, take an afternoon walk. A small break in the normal routine can brighten up a winter’s day. What are some of your favorite practical pleasures?
This post was originally published seven years ago today. You can view the original with comments here.
Every exit
Garden Gate, Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia 2005
“Every exit is an entry somewhere else.” — Tom Stoppard
Sometimes a painful change can be eased by choosing to have faith that good things may lie ahead. Perhaps we can re-frame a forced or unwanted exit — from a job, a relationship or any phase of life — as the beginning of a new direction. If we focus on the discovery of hidden possibilities, we will face the future with optimism instead of dread.
This post originally was published seven years ago today. To view the original post and comments, scroll down in the archives at the right hand side to January 2013, or use the search bar to search for the post by date.
Primitive purity
Here’s the post that was published seven years ago today. I noticed immediately how much shorter my entries were in those early days. Maybe that’s why I was able to post every single day for those first two years. I have re-posted entries a few times in the past (which Raynard humorously and accurately referred to as “re-runs”) but with a total of 1116 posts over 7 years, I can’t begin to remember all of them. I’m guessing if I can’t, nobody else can either. Should I continue to re-post entries from seven years ago, now that I’m not writing any new ones?
Its own measure
The brick path to the river was inviting in the warm October sunshine.
“A journey implies a destination, so many miles to be consumed, while a walk is its own measure, complete at every point along the way. There are things we will never see, unless we walk to them.” – Thomas A. Clark
On the last Sunday of October, it was an amazing 80 degrees outside at the warmest part of the day. The morning had brought hard and steady rain, but by noon the sun emerged and the landscape was quickly transformed. It was the perfect excuse to get out and walk.
At the end of that day, my Fitbit told me I had walked about five and a half miles. Since I typically walk the equivalent of two miles even on days when I don’t take walks, I estimate that my strolling amounted to about three miles. I wasn’t really paying attention. My walk, as Clark says, was its own measure.
I’ll let the photos do the talking from here on in. All these were taken on my walk that day, in my northern Virginia neighborhood on the Potomac River. Join me for a quick virtual tour!
The moment’s impermanence
Seventy degrees on our deck– the flowers linger, and the leaves begin to add festive color.
It won’t last, but while it’s here, it’s beautiful. October 2019
“What solidity of sentiment it takes not to let an awareness of the moment’s impermanence dilute its richness, its sweetness, but purify it and saturate it with the utmost ‘fullness of being’.”― Maria Popova
There’s a brief interval each year when many of the flowers, though fading, are still in bloom, and the weather is deliciously cool, turning the foliage into dazzling colors. Each year I long for these days to last. I want the temperatures to stay comfortably above freezing, and the flowers to find a second wind after the heat of summer dissipates. But golden moments never last long enough.
Popova is right: the knowledge of impermanence can distract us with premature grief at the inevitable passing of what we cherish. I can remember noticing this about Christmas when I was very young. My favorite day was always Christmas Eve, not Christmas itself. On Christmas Day the high point passed all too quickly, giving way to what seemed to a child an unbearably long time before it would come again.
When Jeff and I were mired in the numb anger, shock and devastation of a diagnosis that gave him only two years to live, I begged him to hold onto hope that he would beat the odds and be in the 5% who survived for at least five years. Though I really believed he would make that milestone, I knew he was a realist who would have difficulty buying into hope as I did. So I argued another approach, one that turned out to be more valid than the idea that he would survive the cancer. “Even if you only have two years to live,” I told him through tears, “these can be the best two years of our lives.” I wanted to believe that, too, but mostly I was just trying to be brave. I was determined to make the best of whatever time was left to us.
They weren’t our best years, of course, but they were full of sweetness nonetheless. During the nearly four years he did survive, his tremendous suffering through surgeries and chemotherapy were set firmly aside during times he wasn’t actually at the hospital. We took lovely, brief vacations and made happy memories that are among my most cherished. We welcomed two grandsons. And though I didn’t think it possible to be more bound up in each other than we already were, the intimacy of such an ordeal fused us ever more tightly together, even as it separated us from others to whom we once felt close.
In the realm of earthly joys, everything is impermanent. I know this, and I don’t want to let grief over all the painful losses of the past seven years blind me to the blessings that I still have, and still take for granted. Popova refers to “solidity of sentiment” as the remedy, and it’s an interesting concept, because sentiment is too often ephemeral and fragile. The very word “sentimental” often hints of disdain for shallow and fleeting emotions, but it need not be so.
Awareness of impermanence may sting, but in the long run it can nurture more joy in simple, daily graces, and deepen our appreciation for the goodness of life. May we all grow up enough to find contentment in what lies within our reach, right now, today.
Reading opened the world
Books can create a closed space where our minds can roam openly.
Province of Pesaro and Urbino, Italy. Photo by Eugenio Mazzone on Unsplash
“Books were once my refuge…To read was to disappear, become enrobed in something beyond my own jittery ego. To read was to shutter myself and, in so doing, discover a larger experience. I do think old, book-oriented styles of reading opened the world to me – by closing it. And new, screen-oriented styles of reading seem to have the opposite effect: They close the world to me, by opening it. In a very real way, to lose old styles of reading is to lose a part of ourselves.” – Michael Harris
Solitude is rarely a preference, though it may seem to be one because people sometimes choose literal isolation over the dismay of feeling unwanted or misunderstood, lonely even in a crowd. For many of us who have felt the sting of ridicule or censure, our anxiety and fear of rejection draw us into the world of reading, which offers both safety and discovery.
In the old world of printed books, authors who were good enough to be traditionally published and widely read seemed to understand that writing speaks most directly to a reader when there is a bond of mutual trust. By refusing to spell out every detail in condescending dictation, the author allowed her reader to create and follow the details of his own imaginative trail, moving at his own pace. By allowing room for each imagination to re-create its own narrative, the best authors lead readers into a wider world where mindful discovery, understanding and acceptance become possible.
Does digital content accomplish the same thing? I wonder. Digitization encourages a kind of racing through, leapfrogging as one link after another beckons us on in rapid-fire sequence that leaves us little time for reflection. It also creates separate but conflicting echo chambers to accommodate various dogmas and preferences, where anger can fester and feed on itself, and ultimately spill over into off-screen life.
I find the closing sentences of Harris’ quote chilling because I do believe the screens that open the world to us can ironically shut us off from others, even as they create the illusion of being present in human discussion and activity. In the video format, it’s all laid out for us in full color. In online text, messages may be spelled out emphatically, in repetitive ranting. In either format, we can accept or reject content without really being involved at all. It’s easy not to participate by exercising our own judgment or imagination, which is allowed a free ride as all the gaps are filled in with whatever conclusions the content creators want us to see and hear.
When we do interact with the screen, it’s usually in the form of impulsive clicking, jumping from one author to another as we skim furiously and cherry-pick the parts we most want to read– which often means reading only those things with which we already agree. Does this form of open access, this ability to make quantum leaps from one topic to another, paradoxically leave us with narrower ideas and understandings? Does it allow our minds to close off whatever is less flashy and compelling as we dart after the sensational or self-affirming?
Harris observes that screens seem to close the world to him by opening it. I suspect this is an intuition that will resonate with many of us. If so, perhaps it’s partly because, aside from the anxiety and anger, the screen-oriented world simply overwhelms us with link after link, leaving us apt to shut down or gravitate to what is useful and functional and familiar.
When I read the article (linked to Harris’ name above) from which this quote and last week’s quote were drawn, I realized that there is a significant difference in how I feel after I’ve spent a half-hour or more online, and how I feel after I’ve been absorbed in an old fashioned print book. I’m noticeably less calm, sometimes even a bit agitated, after screen time. Yet a book slows me down, psychologically and physically, even when it engages my imagination.
The reasons for the contrast are many, not least of which is that it’s much more difficult to curl up in an easy chair with a computer. I suspect it also has to do with the random nature of online content, where I am forced to encounter (through ads, pop up windows and “helpful” suggested articles) offerings I never intended to buy with even a few seconds of my valuable time and attention.
There’s no easy answer to all this. I have no intention of shutting myself off from cyberspace; in fact, I’m participating in the cacophony by writing this post, as I have done for nearly seven years now. But I believe, with increasing certitude, that one way to defeat the ever-increasing despair of today’s world is to step away from it all as often as possible, and to build– one book, one activity, one friendship or one project at a time– a sanctuary from the dominion of mechanical mind control.
Time-machine powers
The Last Bookstore, Los Angeles, photo by Jaredd Craig on Unsplash
“Books have always been time machines, in a sense. Today, their time-machine powers are even more obvious – and even more inspiring. They can transport us to a pre-internet frame of mind.” – Michael Harris
It’s really a bit frightening how quickly the widespread use of the internet, for everything from business to education to socializing, has taken over almost everybody’s life. Even those who were reluctant to embrace it have been sucked into the vortex by more and more businesses and social contacts who expect everyone to be digitally available if we want to maintain any sort of professional or personal relationship.
I have a few friends who didn’t use the internet, or even texting, until recent months. I confess it was often difficult to stay in touch with them until they finally did cave, because it meant scheduling a phone time, or writing and mailing– imagine!– postal letters. I’m sure I must have communicated the same subtle pressure to them that I once sensed from others who wanted me to have an always-on cell phone back in the late 1990’s.
The funny thing is, I don’t feel any closer to those friends now that they finally are available digitally. It’s a bit less frustrating to reach them sometimes, but whatever time I might save in being able to reach them instantly via text or email is lost to other (usually digital) tasks. Immediacy, I’ve found, does not automatically make for a tighter bond. In fact, I would argue that in some cases it weakens it.
Here we all are, in this brave new world, and more than a few of us are starting to question how we got here and whether we took a wrong turn somewhere. Michael Harris, who is quoted above, refers in his work to our current state of “continuous partial attention,” and that phrase certainly describes the way many of my hours are spent.
But as Harris points out, books belong to an earlier era. It’s not easy to give a book only partial attention, unless it’s an audio book. Even then, unless I’m doing something truly mindless with my hands, I find myself replaying the last couple of minutes more often than I care to admit, having lost the thread amid distractions. Somewhere awhile back I started spending more time with print books, and I found it a curious combination of relaxing, absorbing, calming and stimulating all at the same time. Perhaps what I am experiencing is the (now) sadly rare occurrence of directing my full attention to one silent pursuit, not pulling myself in several directions.
Distractions have always been with us– just ask any school teacher, stay-at-home parent or busy executive. But then as now, the good old-fashioned book can whisk us away from everything, if only briefly, to another time and place– and a totally different state of mind.
Do you remember the pre-internet days? When, if you wanted to know something, you pulled out an encyclopedia or dictionary, or went to the library, or asked your father or mother? When, if you ran out of something after the stores were closed, and needed it soon, you borrowed it from a friend or neighbor instead of ordering it from Amazon? When you played board games, cards or croquet with friends, instead of online gaming with people you’ve never met face to face? When you gave to others through school, church and community groups instead of a Go Fund Me page? When your friends were people you hung around with on a regular basis in real life, and your conversations consisted of text-free spoken exchanges?
It’s a mistake, of course, to romanticize the past. The options described above were not without problems, and most of us appreciate the improved efficiency that we have learned to expect from computerized systems. Convenience and independence are valuable assets. But is it possible that we lost something valuable along the way?
The common denominator in most non-digital activity is real world contact with at least one other human. Robots, in the long run, leave much to be desired.
It’s interesting that reading, which we think of as a solitary pursuit, can re-set our brains to the not-so-long-ago world before there were microchips, when direct connection to others was woven into the fabric of daily activities. Next week’s post will be a follow up quote from Harris about that very paradox. This two-part post on the same topic, with consecutive quotes from the same author, is a first for this blog. After 1118 separate posts, I sometimes think there are very few “firsts” left here. But the two quotes from Harris seem designed to be considered together, so I decided to break my usual pattern.
Meanwhile, I invite you to join me in taking a break. Put aside the distractions and enter the time machine. Punch in any past, present or future dates you like — an author has been there before you, and will be your expert guide. If we end up in the same century, maybe I’ll see you there.
Any wonderful unexpected thing
I took this photo from my front porch during my first autum in Potomac Shores, 2019.
“After the keen still days of September, the October sun filled the world with mellow warmth…The maple tree in front of the doorstep burned like a gigantic red torch. The oaks along the roadway glowed yellow and bronze. The fields stretched like a carpet of jewels, emerald and topaz and garnet. Everywhere she walked the color shouted and sang around her…In October any wonderful unexpected thing might be possible.”
― Elizabeth George Speare
Finally we are experiencing the first true autumn weather, and if you live in the northern hemisphere, I hope you are too. Something about that cool fall air does seem to be filled with endless possibilities for joy. So many activities of October anticipate delights soon to come, whether choosing Halloween costumes for kids, or wrapping the first gifts for Christmas, or planting bulbs for spring blooms.
I wish you all the usual enjoyment of October, plus a few wonderful and unexpected surprises. Don’t forget to make time for walking, now that the temperatures are so pleasant. As Speare observed, the colors are shouting and singing for us over the next few weeks. All we have to do is watch and listen.
Practices that sustain life
Laundry in Venice. Photo by Marco Secchi via Unsplash
“After a day of too much information about almost everything, there is such a blessed relief in the weight of wet clothes, causing the wicker basket to creak as I carry it out to the clothesline. Every time I bend down to shake loose a piece of laundry, I smell the grass. I smell the sun. Above all, I smell clean laundry. This is something concrete that I have accomplished, a rarity in my brainy life of largely abstract accomplishments…So is digging in the garden, cleaning the chicken pens, washing the potatoes, doing the dishes. I know there are people who would give anything to do these things, people whose bodies have become so numb, too busy, too old or painful to do them. These are the practices that sustain life – not only my life and the lives entwined with mine, but the lives of all human beings.” — Barbara Brown Taylor
One recent morning I began by doing a load of laundry. It might seem counter-intuitive, but it was a perfect way to start the day. As I went about the task, I thought about how fortunate I was, to be able to go as slowly as I wanted to go while doing it. I enjoyed it in the same way I enjoy doing the dishes, and for the same reason.
Somewhere around 20 years ago, Jeff grew impatient with how infrequently I did the laundry (he couldn’t stand letting it pile up too much) and rather than nag me about it, he took over that particular chore by his own choice. There were times when I offered to take back the responsibility for getting the clothes washed, but he always refused, and now I believe he probably enjoyed it. So, apparently, does Taylor.
How mindful of her to point out that many people would give anything to have the time, resources, or physical ability to go about these simple but necessary tasks. In a world where humans are increasingly fragmented into special interest groups and adversarial factions, it’s refreshing to engage in an activity that unites us with others all over the world, through our common necessary chores.
Next time you are feeling blue, perhaps a movie or shopping trip or similar escape might be less fulfilling than giving yourself the gift of as much time as you want to accomplish a seemingly mundane household duty. With awareness, it can become an act of meditation, a chance to sing your heart out with only yourself to hear, or a time to ponder and pray. What humble assignments await your creative transformation today?
But you knew
The Highlights conference center at Boyds Mills, Pennsylvania, October 2018–a nice mix of
coziness amidst gloomy weather, and challenges faced with camaraderie and hope.
“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.”― Ernest Hemingway
I don’t know whether this quote was always true for me, but it certainly has been so in recent years. I lost both my beloved Daddy and my one-and-only love Jeff in the early autumn, just a little over a year passing between their deaths. And my Mama’s September birthday reminds me of her death seven months after Jeff’s. Yet, even now, autumn probably is my favorite season. It is at least tied with springtime as the time of year closest to my heart.
Hemingway touches on why this may be. Despite the sadness of death and decay in the natural world, we know that this passage marks only a transition, not an ending. It is as if nature itself is reminding us that death never bats last. Even as we prune our shrubbery and rake up our fallen leaves, we imagine the blooms of April and the greening of the landscape that seems to return all the more quickly as the passage of time speeds up in our distracted, overly-busy era. Fall creates a respite, a time for clearing away and preparing for an unknown but inevitable renewal.
Meanwhile, the season’s sadness, which is no less acute for being predictable, does carry other consolations. The cooling temperatures remind us of mercy, and the abundance of harvest crops promises that our needs will be met. The rich hues of autumn dazzle before gradually fading, and the cold months beckon with holiday festivity and the coziness of hot beverages and home-baked goodies. We look forward to the weeks of lessened daylight as a trade-off that will give us extended hours for reading, crafts, sleep, or guilt-free time spent daydreaming of plans for the year to come.
Perhaps you, too, expect to be sad in the fall. If so, you have lots of company. May the solace of comforts tucked away in the coming months bring you the bittersweet but persistent joy of knowing there always will be a spring.
Like fragments of heaven
Fall is approaching, but nature is still putting on a show.
I photographed these flowers at home or nearby, September 2019
“It is strange how deeply colours seem to penetrate one, like scent…They look like fragments of heaven.” – George Eliot
I’ve always marveled at how some scents can bypass the conscious mind and go straight to memories we didn’t even know were there. Until I read this quote (from one of my all-time most admired fictional characters, Dorthea Brooke of Middlemarch) I had never thought about how colors do the same thing, but I agree that they do.
The varied greens of woodland settings are always a balm to my spirit, restful and calming. The jewel tones of fall are rich and evocative, and the subdued colors of winter, especially with snowfall, speak of silence and temporary repose. When springtime bursts forth in a seeming riot of new blossoms, my spirit awakens and feels hopeful. And the summer colors, both natural and man-made, seem full of lighthearted fun, with sun umbrellas and beach towels and Popsicles in a rainbow of vivid hues.
I think color can be therapeutic, especially for a tired or discouraged spirit. Yet I seldom deliberately seek out its palliative benefits, other than as a perk of pastimes that incorporate color, such as gardening, crafts or other creative pursuits. Perhaps when I’m feeling blue and it’s too stormy for gardening or too late in the day to start a craft project, I should make it a point to sit down with a book of beautiful artwork, or travel photographs, or perhaps a few of the old calendars I can never quite bear to throw away because their pictures are so gorgeous.
Do you ever seek out color for the purpose of lifting your mood? What are some of your favorite ways to enjoy the endless hues that light up our days? I wish you a colorful week this week, with many visual surprises to brighten up your world.
The dew of little things
Matt and I enjoyed the refreshment of being with friends on a hot summer day.
With Jena and her brother Andy at the Michie Tavern, Monticello, July 2019
“In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.”― Kahlil Gibran
I have always appreciated this particular passage from Gibran’s work, because it has proven true in my own life for as long as I can remember. Whether one is navigating a particularly difficult phase of life, or enjoying relatively happy years, no grand event or special occasion can surpass the simple pleasure of a heart-to-heart chat with a trusted and reliable friend. During times of grief and stress, such everyday sharing is an anchor for the soul.
Jena and I first connected through this blog. We quickly found that we shared much in common, including our faith, our love of writing in general and poetry in particular, and a special fondness for all things related to tea. Jena also is a gifted visual artist who takes the time to share some of her work with me via our digital correspondence, and we occasionally swap videos via Marco Polo, along with corresponding by postal mail.
Despite her exceptionally busy life as a teacher, writer, artist, wife, sister, daughter, and various leadership roles related to her professional talents, she manages to stay in close touch, encouraging me in countless thoughtful ways. She makes the effort to initiate contact with me at least as often as I reach out to her, so I don’t feel as if I’m the only one who has anything to gain from the friendship. There’s a nice reciprocity to our exchanges, and that’s a trait that has been especially important to me in the years since Jeff’s death, when I’ve sometimes grown resentful of having to be the one doing all the asking of others.
Remarkably, though Jena lives in faraway Alaska, we have managed to be together in person once every year for the past three years, and even took a trip together. As others who connected by blogging have observed, when we get together face-to-face it is as if we have always known each other, because the foundation of the friendship is already in place. I guess that love of writing pays unexpected dividends sometimes!
I am so grateful that, whenever Jena is planning to come to the eastern USA for business reasons, she gives me plenty of notice so that we can plan times and places to get together. Our first such meeting came during a particularly difficult time after Jeff’s death, when it appeared that Matt was going to lose all of his disability services and supports, and I had no idea how we would cope.
“Refreshed” is a perfect description for how I felt after being able to meet Jena face to face for the first time, to chat and laugh and drink tea together in person after years of corresponding. The simple joy of sitting in a cafe together was a balm for all the trials and worries and grief. Sometimes, a little bit of lighthearted fun can go a long way to defeating despair.
Do you have friends who share their lives with you on a regular basis, adding to your joy and pulling you away from whatever might be troubling you? If so, I hope that you will stay close to them over the years. The investment of time in friendship involves the discipline of being there for another person, even when you might be busy or simply not in the mood. But whatever you sow in the garden of friendship, you will reap tenfold as your enduring affection will be repaid abundantly in ways you cannot now foresee.
Wonders of everyday life
I have no memory of taking this photo, but obviously, I did. Owen Ramon, December 2016
“Remember, looking at bad news doesn’t mean good news isn’t happening. It’s happening everywhere. It’s happening right now. Around the world. In hospitals, at weddings, in schools and offices and maternity wards, at airport arrival gates, in bedrooms, in inboxes, out in the street, in the kind smile of a stranger. A billion unseen wonders of everyday life.” — Matt Haig
The first few months after Jeff’s death– and really, most of the weeks and months during the years since his diagnosis in 2012– are something of a blur to me. Specific recall will come back only with some concrete reminder, such as a letter or photograph. Deep in my inner core I remember mostly the pain, and it often comes on me in unexpected waves that send me reeling, both physically and emotionally. My heart tells me only of the sadness and trauma, even though my mind knows there was far more going on, and not all of it was bad.
I was reminded of this a few days ago when I was cleaning off an old flash drive so I could use it to back up some folders. On it, I discovered a cache of photos I had forgotten about. They were taken that first Christmas after Jeff died, when the weeks had been filled with the raw, numb instincts that enable us to go through the motions without much knowing what we are doing. The photos are happy ones. A person viewing them would never guess that the photographer could scarcely see what was in the camera’s viewfinder due to the blindness of deep grief.
Of course I knew that Matt and I had spent that Christmas in Atlanta, and that Mama was still alive, and that my sister and I had gone to see our “second parents,” Betty Jo and Tuffy. That visit was about the only happy memory I had been able to summon from that time, perhaps in part because I had blogged about it. But other good things happened too. It’s just that I don’t remember them because they are obscured by the fog of sorrow that still persists to some degree, but has its epicenter in those first weeks and months after Jeff left us.
Have you ever noticed how events can reach back and color the past without our even being aware of it? A person loses a battle with cancer, and when the ending is not happy, the years of hopeful struggle and the joys of temporary remissions and victories seem to vanish. A family member or friend betrays or forgets us, and their many years of happy association take on a different hue, coloring all our recollections of them. A job, or a marriage, or a place we were once excited to live can somehow go from being a rewarding stage of life we welcomed and celebrated, to something we must put behind us for our own peace of mind. Then, too often, the memories of the good years are seen only through the disfiguring lens of what happened later.
But as Haig says, despite everything else, there always is good news, and much of it goes unremarked. Not just now, but in the years past. To name just one example: seventy years ago today, my Mama and Daddy got married. I’m so glad they did! According to the Los Angeles Times front page published on that day, the news was a mix of good and bad, but my personal history took a definite turn for the better on September 2, 1949, since I wouldn’t be here if not for the marriage of two obscure but remarkable people in rural Alabama.
I think Haig’s quote speaks not only about the present, but also about the past. Whether the heartbreak and dismay are part of today’s news or distant years gone by, either way we are all too prone to let the noise of our pain drown out all that is good, right, and worth celebrating. When that happens, we are being twice robbed of joy. We are watering the weeds of bitterness and resentment instead of cultivating those gorgeous blooms that keep breaking through the neglected soil.
Are there unpleasant places in your past or present that could use a second and third look, seeking something good that you may have overlooked or forgotten? If so, I’ll go on that emotional scavenger hunt with you. I need lots of practice at spotting joy, and I’m going to see it as an adventure. Over time, who knows what we may find?
As often as not
Carson McCullers’ childhood home in Columbus, Georgia, as seen in 2009
“We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.”
― Carson McCullers
The older I get, the harder travel seems to become. I don’t know if that’s due to changes in the industry itself– when did air travel become so stressful?– or because I’m more easily tired and discouraged now that I’m older, often without another adult to help when the going gets tough.
Yet I still long to travel, and dream of going back to places I loved on first visit, and also to places I’ve never been. I wouldn’t describe this feeling as homesickness, but maybe McCullers is right. After all, isn’t homesickness often a longing for something that may not still be there when we return? And isn’t nostalgia a hazy, rose-colored view of the past that filters out the very real struggles we endured during a now idealized period of our lives?
When I travel, I’m typically so caught up in the sights and sounds that surround me that I don’t consciously experience homesickness, other than missing loved ones who aren’t with me. Yet returning home to what is familiar is always a balm to a weary body and an overstimulated soul. For a brief time, the longing for what McCullers refers to as “the foreign and strange” will subside. But eventually, I know the wanderlust will return and I’ll start planning future trips again, dreaming of faraway places or nearby towns I’ve yet to see.
Some people seem to be content with returning to the same place year after year, where they spend their vacation in a place that is comfortably familiar yet different from everyday life. I can sympathize with this preference too, because it’s how I feel about going back to our York home. For over nine years now, it has been only a part-time home. I was recently surprised to realize that’s three years longer than it was our full time home.
Nostalgia is unquestionably part of the appeal of going back so frequently. But I doubt I will ever feel nostalgia for the times I’ve spent there since Jeff died. Still, I find it hard to think of parting with the home. When I do, I imagine it will be partly because the longing to travel to places I’ve never seen will outweigh the pull of returning to the familiar.
What about you? Do you every feel homesick for places you’ve never been? Or are you happier to return to what is familiar and well loved? And has this changed as you grow older?
Defeat Despair 