Regular phases
Jeff and me in 1996, a little more than 20 years before his death.
This was taken before my graduation banquet at the University of Hawaii.
“…bereavement is not the truncation of married love, but one of its regular phases– like the honeymoon. What we want is to live our marriage well and faithfully through that phase too. If it hurts (and it certainly will) we accept the pains as a necessary part of this phase…We were one flesh. Now that it has been cut in two, we don’t want to pretend that it is whole and complete. We will be still married, still in love. Therefore we shall still ache.” — C. S. Lewis
While the world remembers this day as the dark anniversary of permanent change, and as recent news has been rocked with other tragedies and natural disasters, I find myself still coping with deep sorrow in my private world. My inner landscape is oddly consonant with the outer world, which remains a distant reality in my heart compared to what I am living on a personal level, day to day.
The Labor Day weekend was part of an extended low period for me. Matt and I spent the holiday alone, and I felt that he and I are unwanted and forgotten. It took awhile for me to realize that it was the second anniversary of Daddy’s death, which was the beginning of many months filled with much devastating turmoil and grief. I’ve always heard that such anniversaries are felt on a subconscious level, even if one is unaware of it. I believe that now.
Of course, as an even more heartbreaking anniversary approaches, I am forced to accept that the healing I had hoped would be at least beginning by now has shown no permanent signs of taking root. There are all sorts of practical reasons for this, including the ongoing uncertainties of life for both Matt and me in the wake of unexpected consequences of Jeff’s death, most notably the impending loss of Matt’s disability services.
But the real reason I’m still hurting is that I’m still without Jeff after 38 years of being with him. Everything was easier to bear when he was with me; without him, every pain is sharper and slower to heal. In a strange way, accepting that the sorrow of his loss may well and truly never end has given me a bit of clarity that I hope will prove helpful as I try to piece together some sort of life for Matt and me.
My sister has been my saving grace. She and I have talked on the phone several times during this time of sad remembrance, and one night we just cried together as we talked about missing Mama and Daddy. Though she has never experienced losing a spouse (and I pray that she never does) she knows as much about Jeff and me, as a couple, as anyone else does; perhaps more, in some ways. I know that she understands the complex and overwhelming force of the waves of grief that keep hitting me again and again.
So how does one live this phase “well and faithfully?” Jeff himself talked with me in the months before Daddy’s death, trying to prepare me for the likelihood that I would lose the three most reliable people in my life within an unbearably short period of time. I knew he worried about me, yet I felt from him a confidence that I lacked. He realized full well how hard each of these three losses would hit me, but I know that he believed (despite his innate pessimism about most other things) that I would somehow survive it all. The memory of Jeff’s absolute confidence in me, which never wavered through the formidable challenges of all the years we were together, was one of his greatest gifts to me. It continues to give me motivation, if not always tangible strength, to keep going.
On my very worst days, which seem far more numerous than I ever expected, I remind myself that this is a regular phase of marriage, however irregular the complications that magnify my particular experience of it. I think, again and again, how fortunate I have been to have had two remarkable parents and one of the most singularly exceptional husbands I can imagine. That is quite a lot for one lifetime, and though I may not always feel it in my heart, I know in my soul that “God’s grace is sufficient for me.” Thanks for being with me in this strangely overabundant life.
This post was first published seven years ago. Now, as I schedule it for re-posting, I am struck with the irony of its tribute to the sister described here as “my saving grace” through grief. How strange it seems that this post would come around again just weeks after this immeasurable loss, when I find myself (yet again) in deep grief and without my lifelong best friend. My prayer that she would never endure the grief of being a widow was answered, but if I knew how that would come about, I might not have prayed she would be spared. I cling to the memory of Jeff’s confidence in me, as Matthew and I (yet again) continue to rebuild a new life in the wake of the catastrophic events of the past 30 months.
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.
To look forward
Hank Aaron in 2015. Photo by Lauren Gerson, Public domain via Wikimedia Commons
“I didn’t have particular baseball heroes in those days…I didn’t relate to baseball players, even though I played the game myself, because I knew I had nothing to look forward to. There was no hope for me to play in the big leagues back then because I was black.” — Hank Aaron
Wow. Talk about defeating despair! The young Henry Aaron must have loved the game enough to go on playing despite being, as far as anyone knew at the time, shut out of the chance for a professional career. If he was a different sort of person, he might be sitting around today telling his grandchildren how he could have been a star if not for the racism he lived with every day of his youth. He could be complaining of how he had to start his professional career playing on a team called the Clowns, or about all the times he had to play in segregated stadiums, or had to eat his meals while sitting in the team bus because he wasn’t allowed to go into a restaurant with his white teammates.
For that matter, he could have been consumed with fear and resentment at the death threats he received decades later as he neared Babe Ruth’s longstanding home run record. But from his youth onward, Aaron just went on doing what he did best, and he was impossible to stop. For many of us, he is still, and will always be, the greatest home run hitter who ever lived. If you’ve been to the Baseball Hall of Fame and seen the Barry Bonds home run ball with the large asterisk carved into the leather, you know how many fans (who voted for such an alteration in the ball before it was donated to the museum) agree with me on that.
Hank Aaron is larger than life to me because I grew up in Atlanta, and remember hearing Milo Hamilton’s exited voice on the radio, shouting with glee whenever Hammerin’ Hank knocked the ball out of the park. I remember when a high school classmate of mine, secretly listening to his transistor during Algebra, blew his own cover by shouting aloud that Hank Aaron had just tied the home run record with #714. Instead of reprimanding him, the teacher allowed him to go tell the front office, and the normally straight-laced principal went on the school PA system to announce it to the entire school, after which much cheering erupted throughout the building.
It’s hard now for us to imagine a little league player who has no big-league heroes, but Hank Aaron apparently didn’t need any. He became the hero himself. It would be impossible to count how many of us are grateful he had what it took to go the distance, blessing the world with his extraordinary talent.
This post was first published seven years ago, and re-posted again when Aaron died in early 2021. A few weeks following his death, in the poetry workshop I took at Oxford while all the classes were online during the Covid shutdown, I was assigned to write a poem with a springtime theme. I wrote a dirge in memory of the great Henry Louis Aaron, whose death seemed to symbolize the loss of so many other blessings in my own life. Baseball is not the same without him, but his influence lives on.
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.
Something possible
Teresa took this photo of me at our table at Small Talk Tea Rooms, July 2017.
“Teaism is a cult founded on the adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence. It inculcates purity and harmony, the mystery of mutual charity, the romanticism of the social order…a tender attempt to accomplish something possible in this impossible thing we know as life.” — Kakuzō Okakura
It seems to me that there is no day so dismal, nor any day so happy, that it cannot be improved by taking time for a cup of tea.
One of the most enchanting days I’ve experienced in a long time was the Saturday I spent walking and riding through several villages in the Cotswolds, not far from Oxford. After getting off the train at Moreton-in-Marsh, I met a delightful new friend, Teresa Fong, who introduced herself to me and asked whether we might spend the day together. She was a young mother from Hong Kong who was traveling alone for the day, as I was. The friends she was visiting in London had to work for the day, so she ventured out with the same idea I had, to see the legendary beauty of the English countryside.
I love taking pictures of other people taking pictures!
We had a marvelous time– it would have been nearly impossible not to, with the lovely weather and the charming villages– and I soon discovered that I had found someone whose enthusiasm for photography surpassed my own; that may have been a first for me. For every photo I took, she took at least two or three, using both a regular camera and the one on her cell phone. I never needed to apologize for stopping to take a photo, nor felt too rushed to take a shot from more than one vantage point. It was great fun.
After several hours of strolling and snapping away, we had lunch at the Small Talk Tea Rooms in Bourton-on-Water. It was so pretty inside that we both took several photos from almost every possible angle, and I still somehow managed to consume quite a bit of tea along with our lunches. If there’s anything more fun than taking photos, it has to be drinking tea.
When I read Okakura’s quote, I thought of that magical day in the Cotswolds. The qualities Okakura mentions here in reference to tea– beauty, purity, harmony, romanticism– all are perfect descriptions of the picturesque villages we visited, and of our leisurely enjoyment of tea at lunch. In the midst of what had long felt (and still sometimes feels) like an impossible life, here was a dream-like experience that turned out to be not only possible, but real.
This post was first published seven years ago. I’m happy to say that “the mystery of mutual charity” has continued for Teresa and me, as our friendship has endured over these seven years. Last year, following the harrowing ordeal of Matthew’s near-death and weeks of hospitalization, I was able to be with Teresa again in London. I met her charming son who is now a young man, and we enjoyed walking and talking together. This time, there were fewer photographs but more heartfelt conversation– and I had my first-ever taste of Bubble Tea!
This summer Teresa and I had planned to meet in Singapore, but I had to cancel that trip at the last minute due to my sister’s critical illness. But we agreed to leave a “to be continued” post script to our remarkable friendship, which seems more providential than coincidental.
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.
Someone’s home
I enjoyed the sunroom of the Gables Guest House in Oxford, where there was plenty of tea
and an abundance of helpful guide books to browse. June, 2017
“Whenever you go on a trip to visit foreign lands or distant places, remember that they are all someone’s home and backyard.” — Vera Nazarian
I love staying in bed and breakfast inns, especially if the hosts live in or very near the home where the guests stay. I don’t go for the pricey or frilly ones, just the type that seem clean and comfy and friendly. I tend to be more mindful of my own presence in such places; quieter, less wasteful of resources and more deferential than I am in the impersonal setting of a large hotel.
I think it takes a special sort of person to be a successful innkeeper. The ones Jeff and I met over the years have been professional yet friendly, offering travel hints that only locals tend to know about. Something about sitting at the table of the person who has cooked a delicious breakfast helps me feel a bit more at home, wherever I happen to be.
My hostess at the B&B where I spent my first two nights at Oxford told me of a lovely village, Burford, in the Cotswolds. I hadn’t read about it in any tour books or heard it discussed as a “must-see” destination, but she told me how easy it was to catch a bus there from right outside her door. It was a wonderful place to spend the day, and I enjoyed every minute. I likely would never have seen it without her helpful instructions. I’m sure I’ll eventually share some of the photos I took there on this blog.
On that same trip to England I had my first experience with an AirBnB home just outside London, and am now eager to try it again sometime. Just as the internet has enabled other kinds of online connections, new travel opportunities are possible for us, offering a different window through which to see a famous or lesser-known destination. It’s true that one usually saves money traveling this way, but the real attraction for me is the chance to have a one-of-a-kind introduction to a place that is, first and foremost, someone else’s home.
Have you visited any lovely bed and breakfast inns lately? Feel free to tell us all about it. We might just show up there sometime, and we’ll tell them you sent us!
This post was first published seven years ago. Last month, I went back to Burford for the first time since 2017. Some things had changed, but much had not. In fact, I ate at the same charming cafe located in the lovely church building there, and enjoyed the work of local artists on display.
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.
The garden of the spirit
Roses at Kew Gardens, July, 2017
“The ground I tend sustains me in early summer, but the garden of the spirit is the place I go when the wind howls…Raised in the mind’s eye, nurtured by the faithful composting of orange rinds and tea leaves and ideas, it is finally the wintergarden that produces the true flowering, the saving vision.” — Louise Erdrich
Thank you, Louise Erdrich, for pointing out the beauty of our gardens of the spirit. I need the occasional reminder that this unseen garden requires tending, so that its blooms will be there to lift my heart when the wind howls. I was delighted to read that Erdrich uses the same compost materials I do. Sometimes I run low on orange rinds when they are out of season, but I’m never short on tea leaves or ideas. I also rely on the gifts of friends who bring me their coffee grounds, veggie peels and reassuring words to sprinkle over the soil after a hard rain.
If we were to take a quick tour through your garden of the spirit, what might we find there? Do you favor lots of annual color, or does the landscape feature mostly sturdy evergreens and hardy perennials? What are your favorite composting materials? Is yours a formal garden, with statuary and fountains and topiary? Or is it a beautifully overgrown cottage garden with a cute bistro table and chairs for casual chats over a cup or two? Maybe you are a practical type whose garden puts wholesome fruits and vegetables on the table, or maybe your own garden of the spirit is a combination of many types.
The wonderful thing about gardens, whether of the earth or of the spirit, is that no two are exactly alike. But they all require diligent care. If you run short on composting materials or need some help with the weeding, let me know. Cooperation and community are the most productive and fun ways to cultivate thriving gardens of the spirit. Iced tea (or hot coffee) and comfy chairs will be waiting for us on the Verandah when we finish working for the day. Sun hat optional.
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.
The metaphor holds
Photo by Darrell Cassell via Unsplash
“It has become cliché to talk about faith as a journey, and yet the metaphor holds. Scripture doesn’t speak of people who found God. Scripture speaks of people who walked with God. This is a keep-moving, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, who-knows-what’s-next deal, and you never exactly arrive.” — Rachel Held Evans
The metaphor does hold, on so many levels. I could talk about how the bends in the road may be hiding something wonderful, or something awful, but mostly they just reveal more road that looks quite ordinary to us, until we are somewhere different.
I could talk about the people we meet along the way, how some of them walk quite a long while with us, and others just refresh us with a cup of cold water, then wave briefly and wish us well. I could talk about the people who leave, or take a different turn, or die, and don’t make it with us all the way to whatever we hope to find in this life on earth.
But when I read this quote tonight, I had a much more comical and mundane image in my mind– equally clichéd– that of a little kid asking again and again, “Are we there yet?” Usually that phrase goes with an image of kids in the back seat of a car, but imagine how much more often they might be asking that question if it were a really, really long walk.
It might be a hot day, or there might be a rainstorm, or even both. As the hours stretch on, they might have to sit down in the road awhile from sheer fatigue, and maybe even cry a little before getting up again. The parent keeps reminding the child of the dry, safe, climate-controlled rest at the end of the journey, the refreshing drinks and delicious food, but somehow all that can seem so far off as to be not quite real.
Evans was far too young when she wrote this quote to know what one feels like, say, sixty years into the journey, after protracted sorrow and too many heart-rending goodbyes. I’m guessing (though I could be wrong) that her energy level was such that the “keep-moving” uncertainty sounded a bit less daunting; that maybe she had no idea how long it can feel when we “never exactly arrive” for decades on end.
I’m sure, though, that she remembers what Hebrews 11 tells us, listing example after example of real people who walked this road before us: “All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth…the world was not worthy of them.”
If life is a long series of letting go of one idea, thing or person after another, perhaps the last thing we loosen our grip on is this notion that someday we will arrive; that we will find (or make) a perfect world. Not on this earth, we won’t. But that same passage reminds us that these people were hoping for a better place, and God has prepared one for them — and us. I really believe that. So as long as I can, I’ll keep walking.
This post was first published seven years ago. Less than two years later, Evans met her own death at a very young age, due to an unexpected medical event that she could not survive. Her faith journey on this earth is completed, but her words live on and inspire those of us who are still on that road.
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See from a bike
Fences double as bike racks all over Oxford, June 2017.
“It is curious that with the advent of the automobile and the airplane, the bicycle is still with us. Perhaps people like the world they can see from a bike…without leaving behind clouds of choking exhaust, without leaving behind so much as a footstep.”
— Gurdon S. Leete
While I was in Oxford, I found myself snapping photo after photo of the bicycles that were parked all over the city. They added spots of color to the stone walls, injecting a whimsical element into what could have been an intimidating fortress of hard work, tradition, decorum and regulation. Each one looked prettier to me than the one before.
I haven’t ridden a bicycle for years, but I did have one that I rode frequently between 1990 and 1996, while we lived on the central coast of California and in Hawaii. I never learned to ride a ten speed or even a three speed, and when I requested a bike for Christmas, I told Mama it would have to be the old-fashioned kind like the one I rode as a child. It took her a long time to find one that could be delivered to our home in California, but she managed to do it, and soon I was riding through the gentle hills of our lovely neighborhood.
People often asked me why I would want to ride a bike like that, but I was afraid of a faster one, and I didn’t mind that it took more work. Riding more slowly was fine with me; the views were better that way. The only thing I didn’t love about it was wearing the helmet that nobody had realized was a necessary precaution when I was a kid.
Once in awhile, in Hawaii, I would ride the three miles or so to the beach on base, just to see the ocean and spend a few minutes there before heading back home. The way home often seemed quite long, and many years later I would have vague dreams about riding home from the beach for an impossibly long distance (maybe twenty miles or more, in the crazy illogical landscape of sleep). Sometimes in the dreams it would be getting dark, and I would be asking myself “why on earth did I ride so far on this bike?” and feeling fearful that I would not make it back.
I don’t remember ever feeling that way in real life, and even in the dreams, my distress at the distance I was traveling felt more like the sorrow of moving farther and farther away from a past I had loved, without quite knowing what might lie ahead. Now, of course, I remember those dreams with a confirming sadness that my anxiety about the future– if that is what haunted my sleep– turned out to be quite reasonable.
Yet bikes are still happy things to me. I don’t plan to ride one ever again, but I love the sight of them. Maybe I should get an old brightly-colored bike that nobody wants to ride anymore, and use it for a garden decoration. Or maybe I’ll just make a photo collage of all the Oxford bikes I captured in digital and mental pictures.
Did you (or do you) ever ride a bike? Please tell us what you love about it.
This post was first published seven years ago. Shortly after it appeared, my lovely friend Jena brought me a set of bookends with a stylish bicycle design. I was so touched that she packed them in her suitcase and brought them all the way from Alaska. They adorn my bookcase to this day. And speaking of Jena: in a year that I’ll always remember as marked with great sorrow, I do have a wonderful memory to redeem the bleak landscape of the past few months. In May, I was FINALLY able to travel to Anchorage and spend a week with Jena and her husband Matthew. This was a visit that had been planned at least twice before, but had been postponed due to– what else?– unexpected crises in my life. I was afraid to hope that it would ever happen, but in May, it did. I knew it was a dream come true, but I didn’t know at the time how important that amazing trip would turn out to be in helping me defeat despair through the turmoil and grief that was to come just one month later. Thank you, Jena and Matthew!
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.
Sometimes we do
Photo by Jordan McQueen via Unsplash
Sometimes
Sometimes things don’t go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don’t fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.
A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can’t leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.
Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss, sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.
— name withheld at the poet’s request*
This post is for everybody who is heartbroken– over the news, over the strife in this country and around the world, or over personal sorrows, or sheer exhaustion and despair not directly related to the chaotic world outside the doorstep.
My wish for you, and for all of us, is that we take a few moments to find a still, silent place to breathe deeply and realize that even the air we take in, and the ability to breathe unaided by machinery, is a gift we did not earn.
I wish you gratitude and sanity and calm, a peace that passes understanding. I can tell you this sort of peace is possible, even for one who lacks that breath, one who is dying and knows it. It must be possible for us, too. May it happen for us.
*no, the poet is not me or anybody you know from this blog.
If you want to know why the name is withheld, read the last bullet point here.
This post was first published seven years ago. Now, as has happened several times in the past, I’m startled to read that first paragraph and realize the person I’m addressing is me, seven years later. And to read the last paragraph and know, with a mixture of grief, resentment, resignation, and faith, that I seem compelled to learn ever more about what I wrote then. Despite all I was enduring at that time, there were many losses to come.
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.
How ordinary
Just a typical home on a quiet residential street in Richmond, near London, July 2017
“You know that the eyes of love aren’t blind, they are wide open…you realize how ordinary it is to love the beautiful, and how beautiful it is to love the ordinary.”
— Marius Vieth
When I travel, I find that I enjoy the everyday neighborhoods and local groceries, libraries and post offices almost as much as I do the world famous tourist spots. It’s a habit I picked up from my parents; no matter where we would travel, we usually took the public transportation and avoided pricey tours. Jeff and I continued that tradition, because he too preferred independent exploring over group itineraries.
When I was planning my trip to Oxford, I scheduled a couple of extra days following the end of classes. I wanted to have plenty of time to get from Oxford to Heathrow, and had always wanted to see the Royal Botanic Gardens (also known as Kew Gardens) just outside London. Feeling a bit adventurous, I booked an Airbnb lodging on a residential street within an easy walk of the Gardens and the Underground station. I was hoping I wouldn’t regret my first-ever experience with the intriguing service, which promised to offer something more than a typical hotel could sell at any price.
It was a lovely way to end my trip. I stayed at the home of a congenial Italian family who had been living in Britain for seven years or so, and built a cozy one-room studio near the back wall of their garden. It was a quiet neighborhood where I felt safe walking around in the evenings, enjoying the famed English gardening skills on full display at almost every home I passed.
I suppose that living so near to Kew Gardens might provide an extra incentive to indulge one’s love of flowers, but I saw such displays everywhere I went in England. I don’t know how much I might have noticed them if I were driving past in a car. There was nothing spectacular about the modest neighborhood where I stayed; it certainly didn’t compete with the charming cottages of the Cotswolds, or the stately buildings of Oxford, or the gorgeous mansions of Belgravia. But if someone asked me which I enjoyed most, my day at Kew Gardens or my quiet evening walks in the Richmond neighborhood just outside its gates, I would have to think about it for a long time to answer accurately. In fact, I thought about it before writing this post, and I’m still not sure of the answer. I think it must be “both.”
Things can be beautiful without being uniformly so, of course. I probably could have taken many photographs that made the area look ugly. Appreciating the beauty does not require being blind to the unsightliness that is usually present right alongside the beauty (though the camera is good at focusing in on what is best and cutting the rest).
No matter where you or I might live, if we were strolling through one of our neighborhoods together this evening during the last of the fading sunlight, I bet we could find many beautiful things to photograph. We could even take a few of those now-obligatory selfies to remember how much fun we had.
Isn’t it extraordinary to live in a world where the ordinary can be so beautiful?
This post was first published seven years ago. I have continued to enjoy lovely homes shared by people who host Air BnB guests, most recently the roomy, comfortable flat that was my home away from home during my recent summer session at Oxford.
I continue to search for joy and for new ways to defeat despair as I am mired in grief for my beloved sister and lifelong best friend. In so many ways, this has been the deepest and most profound loss of my life, not least because she is not here to help me get through it. I am grateful for your continued patience with my absence from the comments (I’ll return soon, I promise). Now, as always, I need and appreciate your prayers.
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Something you have to learn
Never too young to learn: Owen cheers for the Gwinnett Braves, April 2017
“Nobody is born smiling – being happy in this world is something you have to learn.” — Ashleigh Brilliant
How true! And as with all kinds of education, some people seem naturally better at learning happiness than others. A few are exceptionally gifted in this way, and others are what we might call “learning disabled” when it comes to enjoying life. Even so, I think anyone can learn to be happy at least some of the time. For many of us, being happy is something we will have to re-learn several times during a lifetime, but the payoff is worth it.
I’m in one of those stages where I’m re-learning how to be happy. I am fortunate to be blessed with many great teachers who excel at this subject, and quite a few of them are people who visit us right here on this blog. I am also thankful to report that, despite tremendous sorrows, there are still abundant resources to help us build this skill. And most of them are free!
Today I invite you to join us for class. It’s being held everywhere, including wherever you happen to be right now. Bonus points for bringing your camera, and extra bonus points for sharing with the class. Suggestions for the location of next week’s class are now being accepted. So far, the list includes: baseball parks, libraries, picnics, tea rooms, church, your friend’s house, and that perennial favorite, your own back yard. Got any other ideas?
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 thousand tongues
From the tower, Radcliffe Camera and the “dreaming spires” of Oxford, June 2017
“There is an air about it, resonant of joy and hope: it speaks with a thousand tongues to the heart: it waves its mighty shadow over the imagination…and points with prophetic fingers to the sky.” — William Hazlitt, describing Oxford
This was my third visit to Oxford, but the first time I stayed more than three days. The weather was as close to perfect as I could have wished, and I walked to my heart’s content and more, averaging 8 miles a day. Much of that walking was part of class sessions or group activities, but a fair amount of it was my own exploration. There were some great class outings, and none more memorable than climbing the narrow spiral staircase in the 13th century tower of the University Church.
The tower was so cramped that a few visitors who were there that day felt, on seeing inside it, too claustrophobic to even try to climb it. Those of us who did had no regrets; the view from the top was breathtaking, and extended almost 360° to give an unparalleled view of the city. Reading Hazlitt’s description of Oxford, I immediately thought of that panorama.
I can’t think of any thriving city of such relatively small size where so many of the buildings have been in use for so long. Yet there is nothing that feels antiquated about Oxford, at least not to me. Perhaps the presence of so many colleges with their youthful population explains part of the animated atmosphere, but I think that is only a part of the appeal.
As is my travel habit, I spent much time exploring the residential areas just outside the city center, riding the buses with the locals and roaming around the grocery stores hunting for snacks and teas I can’t get at home. Like the city center, these places were modern, yet set in charming historic neighborhoods where I was tempted to stop and take photos so often that always ran out of time before I saw as much as I wanted to see.
I’m a great believer, though, that we don’t need to go someplace far-off and exotic to find fascinating things. Most places will speak to us with a thousand tongues, if we stop to listen. Here’s wishing us all a week of tuning in to the resonance of joy and hope wherever we find ourselves.
This post was first published seven years ago. I’m writing this updated comment from Oxford, but by the time you read this, I will have just wrapped up my fourth summer session on my sixth visit here (the first two being when my son Drew was here for Michaelmas Term in 2005). I confess that each year I spend a bit more time in the grocery stores and on the local buses than at the famed tourist spots, having seen many of them more than once by now. But the appeal of Oxford endures for me, a heady combination of centuries of tradition, new faces of all ages and nationalities, invigorating ideas in every discipline, and the legacy that permeates a place that has hosted some of the greatest minds in Western history.
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.
To transform
The garden at The Kilns, where lovely weather and lawn chairs awaited us.
“He had a way of using all that he read and experienced to transform the way that he lived. There was no such thing as purely academic knowledge for him…” — John Bremer
As it happens, I’m taking a break from working hard on a “purely academic” paper on C. S. Lewis that’s due in a couple of days, but I remembered it was time to post. So it seemed appropriate to share one of the photos I took on our visit to his Oxford home, The Kilns, where one of our class sessions was held.
Lewis lived most of his life in this modest but lovely little home, sharing it first with his adopted family (and for a time, some British children evacuated from London during World War II, who were said to have inspired his Narnia books), then with his brother and later, his wife Joy. The house is now maintained by the C. S. Lewis Foundation, and scholars-in-residence make it their home for months or even years at a time.
My ten days in Oxford were a rare privilege that now feels more like a dream than reality. As time goes by I’ll tell you more about it, but for now, suffice it to say that if one must write an academic paper, which is definitely my least favorite kind of writing, there is no more appealing topic. Despite his fame and popularity, Lewis predicted shortly before he died that he would be forgotten by five years after his death. But he remains as influential as ever, and he is one of a very few authors of his generation whose works have never gone out of print. Apparently, in transforming his own life, he was able to help others transform theirs as well. Isn’t that an encouraging thought?
This post was first published seven years ago. As I sit here scheduling it to re-appear, I’m just across town from The Kilns, during an even longer stay at Oxford for this, my fourth summer session of classes here. I’ve used the words “I never dreamed…” often at this blog, usually in a somber or negative sense. But here is one instance of being able to say it in a thankful way. Perhaps some part of me knew seven years ago that I would be returning in years to come. I know I hoped so at the time, but hopes don’t always work out the way we want them to. Yet here I am (although, by the time you read this, I’ll likely be home again, or almost so). If I return again next summer– a BIG if, from where we are now– I hope it will include a graduation ceremony at the Sheldonian.
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.
The bigger, more beautiful picture
Pat and me at their family reunion in northern Virginia, July 2017.
“When we do the hard, intimate work of friendship, we bring a little more of the divine into daily life. We get to remind one another about the bigger, more beautiful picture that we can’t always see from where we are.”– Shauna Niequist
Okay, so imagine you are traveling across several states to northern Virginia, to attend a family reunion of 110 people– that’s right, one hundred and ten— coming together from all over the country, as far away as California. Let’s say you only have a couple of days there. What would you do? Visit with family? Go tour the monuments? See a bit of the Smithsonian? Help your friend with her research paper? Hmmm, how did that one get on the list?
You might want to ask Pat. She’s your neighbor here at Defeat Despair, and she shows up on a regular basis, though you will seldom see evidence of that unless you look for the little green and white quilted square that became her Gravatar the first time she clicked “Like.” Pat is not one to comment much online, as she has mentioned before, but she’s very faithful to read the blog and let me know she’s been there by clicking “like” to leave her little quilt emblem, like a friendly secret handshake.
She’s also wonderful at keeping in touch the good old-fashioned way…postal mail, and sometimes its closer cousin, email complete with digital photos now and then. Pat and I have been in touch for somewhere between four and five years now, and if you’ve been in my home, you’ve seen bits and pieces of her gifts to me. Cute postcards, a cheery fridge magnet, a book of inspiring quotes with a personal history behind it, a CD of songs composed by her late mother, who was a gifted musician…Pat often senses that I’m in need of uplifting thoughts or an encouraging word or two, and she’s filled that gap for me more often than I can remember.
And now you get to see her in person! Well, almost. After years of knowing her only through her words, gifts and occasional photos, I was overjoyed that she chose to spend one of her precious two full days in the DC area with me. I was able to meet many of her family (and to congratulate the people who put that amazing gathering together) before whisking her away to my favorite little cafe, La Madeleine, where we celebrated Bastille Day with a tasty brunch and little blueberry/strawberry tarts made for the holiday. Pat’s multilingual and speaks fluent French, so that made it even more fun.
Pat and me, just before we said goodbye after meeting face to face for the first time, July 2017.
Then she went back to our townhouse and let me interview her for my research project on letter writing. Although it was a fun topic, it’s not what a lot of people might define as a preferred way to spend a rare vacation day. But she somehow made me feel she enjoyed it almost as much as I did, not to mention giving me some great ideas to incorporate into my paper. That’s the sort of thing that Niequist might include in her reference to “the hard, intimate work of friendship:” answering a lot of questions about your personal habits and opinions, knowing that there’s absolutely nothing in it for you. There was plenty in it for me, though, on so many levels.
The highlight of the day for me was when I was dropping her back off at the hotel and we had to say goodbye. We prayed together and as she walked me to my car, she spontaneously burst into a beautiful gospel song we sing at church sometimes. I knew then that she had inherited her mother’s gift for music. That song of praise rang in my mind for days, a gift that kept on giving, a reminder of the bigger and more beautiful picture. I still can’t see it very clearly, but Pat helps me keep believing it is there.
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.
The tightrope
I never argue with Yoda. Right he almost always is.
“A well-developed sense of humor is the pole that adds balance to your steps as you walk the tightrope of life.” — William Arthur Ward
Hello everyone (those of you who are still with us). I have missed you immeasurably, and just couldn’t go another day without posting. Or maybe it’s partly that I need some escape, however momentary, from getting my papers done. (OK Amy, I hear you, I am getting back to work now! You need not tell them about the other momentary escapes that somehow added up to hours.)
Seriously, I’m worn out with being serious, so I just headed over to the trusty Yoda Meme Generator and made a photo the easy way. Besides, I could hear his wise little growl in my ear, telling me that wait I should not. I can always count on the old Jedi master to remind me of serious things in the funniest way possible. We used to say (only half-jokingly) that Daddy reminded us of Yoda.
I’m going to try my best to be back here regularly, and I’ll update you little by little, as I hope you will do too, in the comments. The short version is that Matt and I are OK, we are surviving, and some days are better than others. Thanks so much for all of you who have continued to keep in touch, sending me warm thoughts, little remembrances and much-needed prayers. Though Matt’s situation (and therefore mine) is still in limbo, I have a few happy things to report, so stay tuned. Note to Pat: now is your last chance to tell me if you don’t want to see your smiling face coming soon to a blog post near you!
This post was first published seven years ago. I had fully intended to write several new posts to fill the long gap that I left in 2017 (which was the longest gap ever in this fairly steady blog) but I was once again overtaken by crisis. This time it has been a loss that is, in some ways, even more difficult than Jeff’s death nearly eight years ago. A few of you will know what I’m referring to, but those who are in touch with me personally can write for more details if you want them. I apologize for the long delay in posting and answering comments. Things are looking a wee bit more positive now, and I hope they will trend in that direction steadily. Until then, please know I have NOT forgotten you, or this blog.
It seems uncanny to me how accurately these posts seem to mirror much that is happening in my life now, seven years later. Perhaps history really does repeat itself.
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.
Capture a moment
With help from France, he won the Revolutionary War.
The least I could do was give him a sip of my drink. May, 2018
“What I like about photographs is that they capture a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.” ―
Looking back over years of photographs, especially if your collection (like mine) numbers in the tens of thousands, we find countless moments that we otherwise would not remember. Yet these tiny bits of time are what life is made of. We tend to fixate on milestones, and joyous or traumatic events, but everyday life is where we spend most of whatever time we are allowed here on earth. And a great many of these snippets of our past are delightful to recall.
This is a photo Susan took way back in May 2018 when she came to see Matthew and me. My new house in northern Virginia was still not finished, so we spent some of that visit at our beloved York home. We took in the historic sites of Yorktown and Colonial Williamsburg, where George Washington plays a major role in events. I never tired of going to those places no matter how many times I visited.
For years I didn’t realize that other people posed with statues too; I thought that was just a silly thing my family did. I have a whole collection of various family members posing with statues. But I had forgotten about this one. I came across it a few days ago, and it was a lovely surprise. Thank you, Susan, not only for catching this moment, but also sending it to me on an SD card along with other photos for me to re-discover and enjoy.
I totally love these comical photos and the lighthearted fun they bring back. Perhaps you have a similar collection to make you smile. Feel free to share them here, or if you can’t find a way to upload them, email them to me at defeatdespair@verizon.net, and I’ll post them below in the comments.
Shout out to Raynard: I’m sorry your comments are not coming through on WordPress, but I truly appreciated your Mother’s Day remembrance and the lovely card. Please give Mary my love and tell her that I fondly hope Susan and I can someday make another road trip to see you– or you to see us again, only with less traffic this time!
Look up
I took this photo on an everyday walk in my neighborhood, April 2023.
“A good name for God is: “Not me.” Emerson said that the happiest person on Earth is the one who learns from nature the lessons of worship. So go outside a lot and look up.” — Anne Lamott
This is another new post. No time to write much, but I wanted to share this quote from that perennial source of quotable thoughts, Anne Lamott. I’m about to head outside for the walk that has become an essential part of every day for me. Those particular trees aren’t in bloom by May, but there will be other lovely things to see, including the Potomac River just a half mile away.
When looking for a photo to feature with today’s post, there were many shots I could have shared from all over the world. But it seemed most appropriate to share one from just a short distance from my own front door. You have many such sights outside your own home, different in detail but alike in the lessons we learn from getting outside. So I hope we’ll all heed Lamott’s advice, including the most crucial part of it: look up.
The whole world, 2017
As far as I know, this is the only photo of Mama with me as a baby, taken early 1957.
“If the whole world were put into one scale, and my mother in the other, the whole world would kick the beam.” — Henry Bickersteth, Lord Langdale
(2024 update: this is the 2017 revision of a post that will had appeared here twice before. I hope the text is as timeless as my enduring gratitude for the world’s most singular mother.)
Hello friends,
Thank you so much for your kind and encouraging comments. I have appreciated each one, and will respond as soon as I am able.
I wrote the post below for Mother’s Day four years ago, and I now re-post it in memory of my amazing Mama, who died yesterday. She lived only 20 months without Daddy, the love of her life, her husband of 66 years, and (during his final years) her constant caretaker. The relatively short time she lived without him was filled with suffering and heartbreak for her, but she held fast to her determined faith and indomitable spirit. Again and again, she expressed gratitude for the abundant blessings of her life, and reminded me continually that even in loss, we have reasons to give thanks. Up to the evening before Jeff’s passing, and well beyond that, she filled my life with her strength, courage, and refusal to give in to despair.
Seth, Mama, Jeff, Matt and me on September 13, 2016.
Ten days later, Jeff entered the hospital, never to return home again.
Jeff and my mother were so alike that losing her so soon after Jeff’s death resonates with the deep sadness that an abandoned child must feel. Now I carry on without the three steadfast and stalwart pillars of my life: Daddy, Mama, Jeff. No other person will ever love me as they did. None can equal their devotion, faith and diligence. No light will shine more brightly than that of their shared legacy, which marks the way ahead for me. Thanks for being with me through all this, and for caring!
The following post was first published on May 12, 2013:
Even after I became a mother, I have never liked Mother’s Day. It seems to me an artificially contrived and ultimately inadequate invention designed primarily to sell cards and flowers, and in some cases, to assuage an adult child’s guilty conscience. Nonetheless, I do find myself thinking of my own mother each year on this day, and feeling at a loss for words to describe what her presence has meant in my life.
Perhaps I dislike Mother’s Day mostly because none of the sentimental, flowery tributes commonly sold at this time of year ever seemed an appropriate homage to my mother, who was and is a formidable woman. Her blunt practicality and unfailing generosity are equal to her iron will and undaunted courage in the face of adversity. She has never been the longsuffering, quiet, kind and gentle saint portrayed by so many of the maudlin descriptions of motherhood. More than anyone I know, she embodies the truth that tough love is, in many cases, the most beneficial sort.
Yet just when she seems most intimidating, a whimsical humor will break through and leave us laughing. She is still the one I run to when hit with unexpected sorrow or hardship. Somehow, nothing seems quite as impossible after I’ve talked to Mom about it. She’s been through more than most of us can imagine, but always managed to outpace almost anyone I knew.
She survived poverty and polio as a very young child, and has lived almost her entire life with only one “good” leg, but she never allowed that to slow her down. She had four children in four different states within a period of ten years, my father’s career having demanded frequent moves. When she was nearly killed by a drunk driver going 70 mph who rammed into the driver’s door of her car, no one knew if she could ever fully recover, but she soon was back to her unrelentingly busy schedule, caring for her children and working on various church and community efforts.
Years later, when she faced brain surgery for a hemorrhaging aneurysm shortly before our wedding in 1980, she stayed true to form, stoic in the knowledge that she might not survive. Showing no fear and little emotion of any kind, she reminded us that no matter what happened, we all should feel grateful that she had lived through the car crash and was able to care for us until we were all grown. For as long as I can remember, she has given us a nearly flawless example of what it means to live in faith and trust that God will do what is best. I know that example will be with me always.
So, with all due respect to those who celebrate this day, to the preachers who will preach their yearly sermon about mothers, and the restaurants that will be filled to overflowing, and the many fitting tributes of love and appreciation that will be shown today, let’s all admit that no day could ever be long enough, no tribute strong enough, to capture the gratitude so many of us feel for the amazing gifts our mothers have given us. Happy Mother’s Day to all!
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.
Two parents who love
Energetic, eccentric and exceptional: Mama and Daddy with their first grandchild, 1977
“If you have two parents who love you? You have won life’s Lotto.” — Augusten Burroughs
As promised (or perhaps I should say threatened) I am posting something entirely new, though its theme has been found at this site again and again. I am approaching the seventh anniversary of my Mama’s death, so I decided to indulge myself by posting a poem I wrote as a sort of tribute to my parents. During Hilary Term of 2021, in my second online poetry workshop I took at Oxford during the Covid shutdown, our first assignment was to write a poem about food. Not being much of a cook, I decided to think of my mother, who was a skilled and highly praised cook despite having almost none of the gadgets and appliances today’s chefs enjoy.
The delightful thing about writing poetry is that it often takes one in an unexpected direction. That’s what happened here. But I was happy to capture a bit of my Mama’s forward thinking about organic food, cooking, gardening and nutrition, and also my Daddy’s skill as an archer.
Pioneers
Coffee grounds, banana peels and eggshells
were never thrown away in our fine home
but saved in a large saucepan on the counter.
Across the back lawn past the swimming pool
our Mama’s compost heap had to be fed
according to her strict organic rule.
What others discard was reborn for us
in produce gathered fresh, served hours later,
bread baked from grain unrefined as Mama’s blunt ways.
Daddy harvested venison with his primitive bow
and none of this was stylish in those days. Friends laughed
and so did we, but savored pride that did not show.
Thus were we fed, and thus we grew
strong as oxen, rich as any king.
Fourscore and seven years they lived
and cooked this way until our Daddy died.
And we, despite ourselves, craved humble food
baked skillet cornbread, gathered greens, and cried.
Too much rain
An unknown artist left this painting for us to appreciate.
Public doman, from Düsseldorfer Auktionshaus via Wikimedia Commons
If anyone asks you how I am
Just say I’m doin’ fine.
If you will do that for me,
I’ll do the same for you sometime.
And if anyone asks you where I’ve gone
Just say I’m down the line.
I don’t want my friends to see me like this.
Maybe some other time.
Too much rain fallin’.
Too much rain fallin’.
There’s just been too much rain, down on me.
One day I’m gonna understand
The way that my heart works,
And then I’m gonna work it out,
So that I won’t get hurt.
But if anyone asks you where I’ve gone,
Oh, don’t say where I am,
Just say you saw me and I’m doin’ fine,
‘Cause I’m doin’ the best I can.
Too much rain fallin’.
Too much rain fallin’.
There’s just been too much rain fallin’, down on me. — Carole King
Hello friends,
For some time now, I’ve wondered what to do about this blog. Since Jeff died, it has been very difficult to keep it going. I have never really been able to rest enough to recover from the grief, and the exhaustion of endless tedious paperwork, hard decisions, and bad news that seems never to stop coming. From where I sit now, watching how things have unfolded the past seven months, I can see no reason to think that anything is going to get easier anytime soon. Caring for a disabled adult son with Jeff’s steady and reliable help was difficult enough. All by myself, at age 60, and after 32 years of the continual, relentless pressure of being on call 24/7, it’s often more than I can manage.
Yet I live my everyday life in nearly total isolation, mainly seeing or talking only to people with whom I must stay in touch for managing Matt’s medical care and ongoing life issues. The comments on this blog are often the closest thing to conversation I have during the day. Sad, isn’t it? But I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit that. I say it only to let you all know how much your presence here has meant to me.
Some of you who stay in touch with me outside this blog know about the sorrow and grief that seems to just keep piling up, though it’s likely that no one person knows about all of it. That is as it should be, for only Jeff was in a position to understand all of it, and talking about it only makes it worse.
So now, for the first time in four and a half years, I must step aside from posting until I can replenish the wells of optimism and faith and hope and courage that are rapidly running dry. I will post here whenever I can, but I cannot say when or how often that will be. Please continue to pray for me, and know that I will read and respond to any comments you send.
One neglected pleasure I hope to make time for during this sabbatical is visiting the blogs many of you publish online. I am well aware of how much time, effort and sharing goes into blogging. There is so much inspiring, uplifting, candid, funny or thought-provoking richness out in the blogosphere. Of course, as I write this, I hear that nagging voice in my head saying “Ah, but that was what you intended to do when you dropped from blogging daily to blogging only twice per week– and didn’t that end up the way most of your good intentions do?” Guilty as charged. However, I won’t let past failures deter me from trying again.
It has been an amazing journey so far. Together we have compiled an archive of over 980 posts and countless online conversations, and if I’m unable to post very often, please remember there is a handy search feature which you can use to seek out posts on any topic you may want to read about. Comments remain open on every single post, so feel free to share your thoughts with me on any post you read, or re-read, no matter how old it may be.
Given the enormous life challenges so many of us have faced during the past five years, the abundance of thoughts, ideas, smiles, laughter, prayers and tears we have shared here (with each other and with all the world) represent no small accomplishment. Thanks for being part of it. I hope someday to get to that 1000-post milestone! Until then, know that you have been, and still are, an essential part of my personal and ongoing efforts to defeat despair.
This post was first published seven years ago. The rest, as they say, is history. I did manage to continue the blog, although missing the regular schedule here and there. And I’m still here, re-posting the more than 1100 posts I wrote over the years. But this month (and maybe next?) there’s not much to draw on. I’m going to TRY to fill in with some new posts here and there, even if only a quote and a photograph. Meanwhile, I appreciate your continued presence here, and your patience (especially with my tardy responses to your comments) now, as I have from the beginning.
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.
The color green
The lovely garden of the Canadian Pavilion at EPCOT Center, August 2003
“When I look out the window, I exhale a prayer of thanks for the color green…for the simple acts of faith like planting a garden that helped see us through another spring, another summer.” — Barbara Kingsolver
Many times over the years I have felt deep gratitude for the color green, especially as it reappears each spring, brightening lawns and gardens, or in the heat of late summer when it provides cool shade above and soft relief from too-hot pavement underfoot. I love all the colors; it would be almost impossible to pick only one favorite. But I truly cannot imagine living without the green of the outdoors. Even in fall and winter, I look for the evergreen trees that accent the golden autumn foliage, or adorn an otherwise barren landscape.
If you’re feeling especially agitated or frustrated, or tired and discouraged, try giving yourself a tiny gift of grace: take a brief interval to focus on the many shades of green with which nature paints this season. Make a few minutes to step outside, if time and weather permit; if not, looking through a window (or at colorful garden magazines) will suffice. It almost always helps me. I hope it will do the same for you!
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.
The imaginary friend
Imagination to reality: meeting (again) in person, the smiles say it all.
Laurie, Matt, me, Kelly and Alys at Rustico’s in Old Town Alexandria, April 2017
“Writing is a job, a talent, but it’s also the place to go in your head. It is the imaginary friend you drink your tea with in the afternoon.” ― Ann Patchett
I think most everyone who writes can identify with this quote. But for those of us who blog, the line takes on a magnificent blur as the imaginary friend we reach through our writing may, from time to time, step through the mist and become real to us. And for many of us, this might happen again and again, with several different people who read our words, and whose words we read, leaving us with an entire family of friends we might never meet face to face.
Just last week I was exchanging emails with a woman in a distant city whom I know only through this blog. Though she does not blog herself, nor comment very often, she writes to me privately and has sent me several precious tokens of friendship in past years. I was able to tell her in all honesty that, though we had never met, I thought of her as a true friend.
Of course, sometimes we do meet in “real life,” which is a unique and exciting kind of joy. And sometimes the friendships we maintain through writing are the continuation of ties we formed in person when we lived in geographic proximity to each other long ago. But regardless of these details, once the friendship is formed, it flourishes through correspondence as surely as it would in person. As with handwritten letters, online correspondence that leads to friendship cannot be rushed. Instagram and Twitter are fun and sometimes useful, but they can’t connect us to another person deeply with only random soundbites and snapshots. But through emails or blogging, unconfined by a limited number of characters, and set free from geographic borders and boundaries, we can transform the imaginary friends into real ones.
That’s not exactly what Patchett meant, of course; she is referring to the writing itself– the process– becoming the imaginary friend. And I don’t disagree that can happen. But how dimensional and vibrant it becomes, when that imaginary friend of writing introduces us to all sorts of fascinating people who also love to read, and write, and visit, through this historic form of communication that has remained vital from the age of quill pens right up to the era of digitally “instant” contact.
So I invite you to join me at the imaginary tea party that is always going here, or as Sheila and I might say, at various Club Verandah locations all over the world. We can chat and have lots of fun even if we never meet face to face. And if we ever do meet, it will be even more festive and magical.
This post was first published seven years ago. As many of you know, Patchett’s quote has taken on an entirely different dimension since I began formally studying writing at Oxford, where some of the friendships are formed in online cohorts, some in face-to-face classes, and some (delightfully!) include both, as summer brings us together from all over the world. Though I’m not writing new posts here as often as I’d hoped I would, I am definitely writing more than I ever have, and it remains the deep joy it has been for decades.
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.
You won’t be the same
On April 3, 2004, this supercell thunderstorm dropped 2″ diameter hail over Chaparral, N.M. causing widespread damage. Even so, the sun broke through those formidable clouds.
Photo by Greg Lundeen, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” ― Haruki Murakami
There’s an old saying that what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger. I’ve never been particularly fond of that quote, and to this day I’m not sure I believe it. Speaking strictly for myself, I feel weaker than I’ve ever felt. But if that old saying is true, and if I survive the past five years with my sanity intact, surely I will be a female Hercules.
Until this most recent storm is resolved, it’s probably best not to discuss it here. Let’s just say that there is very little chance that Matt and I can hold onto even what currently remains of our life as it once was. Change– seismic, inevitable change– seems to be hitting us with overpowering force. Stay tuned and I’ll keep you updated. For now, though, please accept my deepest gratitude for being with us through all this. And please keep those prayers coming!
If you are facing unwanted changes right now, I hope you will grit your teeth and hang on. And if you are not, just wait awhile; sooner or later, it hits all of us. Let’s be strong for each other and keep believing that despair can be defeated, and one day it will be. For good.
For those who may be interested, the full video of Jeff’s burial ceremony
is available for viewing online at this link.
This post was first re-published seven years ago today. Reading over it, I am stunned at the thought of how much grief and trauma still lay ahead for me on pretty much a continual basis in the coming years, even when I thought things could not be much worse. For me, the storm was certainly NOT over. And I’m starting to think it really never will be. It’s a blessing we don’t know what the future holds, and I’m afraid even to think of it. But my survival amazes me now even more than it did then. I keep putting one foot in front of the other and hoping that the worst is behind Matthew and me. But I try not to think too much about it either way.
The link to Jeff’s funeral video is still active. There’s a nice intro that lasts less than a minute, in case you want to watch it but don’t have much time.
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.
Spring always finds a way
There’s still this: our York back yard, April 14, 2017
“…spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life.” — Charlotte Eriksson
Probably there are few spots of ground in this hemisphere that have been more neglected in the past three years than our once-lovely azalea garden in the corner of our York back yard. When we first planted additional azaleas back there over twelve years ago, we tended it lovingly. I pruned the shrubs and Jeff was careful to feed and mulch the plants with the acidic nourishment they preferred. Once he even gathered a big bunch of pine straw from the wooded common areas of our neighborhood because I told him that azaleas loved pine straw (or so my mother always told me).
But somewhere along the way, our springtime gardening got hijacked. Spring 2013 brought Jeff’s first liver surgery; Spring 2014, Matt’s fifth open heart surgery; Spring 2015, work crews and equipment were in our yard continually as our guest house was being built; Spring 2016, Jeff’s brain tumor and craniotomy, and of course, Spring 2017, his burial. That corner of our yard is now overgrown so wildly that I can barely walk through to the fence where Pasha is buried near the large tree. I wasn’t expecting much beauty to show up there this spring.
Lo and behold, though, that little patch of ground is doing fine all on its own. Two days ago I looked out the kitchen window and saw the sun streaming through the dogwood flowers, and had to run get the camera to take a shot to share with you.
Don’t you just love it when things go fine even when you aren’t able to contribute to the effort? This has been another week filled with bad news, but springtime always has something uplifting to say to me. I hope you’re enjoying some seasonal cheer, too!
This post was first re-published seven years ago today. Of the tens of thousands of photos I’ve taken over the years, the ones of this spot in our York back yard will always be among my favorites. There’s still a touch of sadness that the home we loved so well did not become a place where we would enjoy our plans for shared retirement. But I’m comforted that another family will be enjoying the beauty, and grateful for the 17 years I had there.
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 sunny spirit
Matt and Drew in 1986, laughing together as they still do so often.
“Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritation and resentments slip away, and a sunny spirit takes their place.” — Mark Twain
Of all the things that have helped us survive the past thirty years, and even before that, I would have to say that humor is near the top of the list. I cannot count the times when a good laugh has lightened everything up for us. If someone asked me to name the trait I value most in both our sons, it might well be their robust sense of humor.
Years ago when the boys and I were visiting my parents, we decided to take the MARTA train into Atlanta for some reason or other. I have forgotten what we did in town that day; what I remember most is something memorable that happened on the way home.
It was right around rush hour in the afternoon, and our train was crowded. Somewhere between West End and College Park, after the train had gone above ground but was not near a station, it began to slow, grinding to a stop seemingly in the middle of nowhere.
For a couple of seconds a hush fell over our car, and then something wonderful happened. As if on cue, almost everyone in the car burst into laughter. It was so contagious, it was hard not to join in. As we sat there — I don’t remember how long, but it might have been ten or twenty minutes — there was a relaxed, almost party atmosphere as people engaged in lively speculation about what was going on, and how long it might be before it was fixed.
What surprised me most was the complete absence of any impatience, irritation or annoyance from anyone I heard. It was as if we were all caught as extras in some sitcom episode or comedy movie, enjoying it to the hilt. It was most unexpected, and makes me smile to this day when I think about it. The car eventually started up again, but the memory of that temporary stop lingers on.
I’ve wondered about it a good bit over the years. Why did these people react with such spirited humor? I tell myself that maybe it was something about the relaxed good will of Atlanta (I can’t imagine that happening on the New York subway) or the southern African-American culture (we were the only white people in our car) or maybe it was just the sunny weather of a beautiful day in a lovely city.
Whatever the reason, the experience left me indelibly impressed with the power of humor to turn bad situations into good ones. I hope you have had many such experiences, and will have many more. Feel free to share some of them in the comments!
One year ago today
This post was first re-published seven years ago today. When I first saw it was up to be re-posted yet again, I thought, “OH NO! Another re-run” (as Raynard has so aptly referred to them). But when I read over it, I decided it was worth posting yet again. I hope you agree.
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.
Alchemy in sorrow (2017)
Statue of a fisherman’s wife and child, Katwijk, the Netherlands, March 2007
“Sorrow fully accepted brings its own gifts. For there is alchemy in sorrow. It can be transmitted into wisdom, which, if it does not bring joy, can yet bring happiness.”
— Pearl S. Buck
Dear readers, as always when I take even a short break, I find myself far behind on urgent tasks. In addition to caring for Matt by myself now, I am dealing with tax returns and extensive paperwork related to the aforementioned issues with the Veterans Administration. This kind of thing is why I used to stay two weeks ahead with my posts (and back then, I was posting DAILY, so that meant staying 14 posts ahead! wow) but since Jeff died, I have not managed to stay even one post ahead. I hope you will excuse my re-posting a previous entry. I also thank all who have commented in the past week, and apologize that I am so late getting to the comments. I sincerely hope to answer each and every one within the next few days! Thanks so much for your patience. For those who were with me the first time this was published, perhaps you have forgotten enough of it that it will not seem repetitive.
I believe that true optimism must include comprehension of the role sorrow plays in all our lives. A positive outlook is not a form of denial; rather, it’s a conviction that even our deepest grief has meaning; that our trials and tragedies bring understanding and transformation more than superficial knowledge ever could.
In the years since Matt was born, Jeff and I have dealt with sorrow upon sorrow as the medical and developmental challenges continued one after another, and practical daily support was often scarce. It has changed us forever, in more ways that we can describe or even know. But I truly believe that our lives have been made richer for all Matt has taught us, that we could never have discovered without him. It’s no coincidence that the author of the quote above walked a similar path years ago, and left us a priceless literary legacy as a result.
For as long as I can remember, I have heard Jesus referred to as “the man of sorrows.” I didn’t understand how profound and ultimately beautiful a concept that was, until I experienced recurring sorrow for years on end. The terms “God with us” and “man of sorrows” are now linked in my mind, as I contemplate the full implications of a God who, in granting humans freedom of choice, allows us to undergo suffering — an omnipotent God who chooses to walk beside us and share in that sorrow, rather than render us powerless to choose our own destiny.
There could be no deep joy if we did not know sadness, just as a person who has never gone hungry is unable to appreciate food as fully as those who have been without it. It’s a kind of paradox; a mystery we can’t fathom. Yet its truth has sustained people through circumstances far worse than the ones we now face. If you are in a time of suffering or grief, I pray you can hold on to the belief that your sorrow may yet be transformed into happiness deeper than you could have imagined.
This post was first published seven years ago. That post itself was a re-posting of an earlier post which I re-blogged on schedule in 2020, so this is actually the fourth appearance of it. The added note at the beginning is an almost humorous reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same. But I hope there is truth in the message that stands the test of time.
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 