Educated or Anesthetized?

"The difference between the educated and the propagandized mind: The one is prompted to think, the other is anesthetized to thought. The one is given the greatest questions, the other is supplied with canned answers. The one seeks a measured and rational view of oneself and others, the other can be lulled into satisfaction with caricatures."

Tracy Lee Simmons, The Harmony of Contemplation, 2015 CiRCE National Conference

The Thinker, by Auguste Rodin

The Importance of Music

Without the sun, the colors of fall are muted, a bit dull. Music does for the soul what brilliant sunshine does to a stand of autumnally hued trees: it blazes them, brings them to life, gasps the human heart. 

A spiritual force inhabits music.

Music connects the world together, past, present and future. At present, past music reaches forward to us, instructs of its time, while current music sends its messages forward to the future. Along the timeline of life dances music, uninhibited, its stories shared.

From music flows the yearning and hope for everything we care about and long for in this world.

Music's language, like gently curling ribbons, flows in and out of our lives, from the tiny nursery where a mother nurses her cooing infant, to the world stage where the virtuoso massages the hearts of the audience.

Music's inspiration alters the quality of our undertakings, deepens them, enlivens them, betters them.

Music's balance, precision, and understanding mimic the best of humanity, expose the creativity of God. 

Music lifts our hands to the face of the Almighty and rests them there, in promise.

Staring Down the Fear

Ever since the virus contaminated our planet, threatening every single human being alive, I have found myself in a news loop. It started with a fixation to track the virus. That fixation has since enlarged to envelope the despairing miasma that is the Biden agenda. 

I can't stop looking. I can't stop reading. I can't stop . . . staring at it.

I am clenched as I stare. I am frozen as I imbibe.

This morning I analyzed my strange-to-me behavior of over a year and a half.

I am afraid. I am full of fear. I am afraid for my life, for the life of my friends and family, and for my country. For the world.

Staring at the events that seem to suffocate us all, I realize that I stare as I would stare at a large, threatening animal. Don't blink. Don't move. Watch it. Watch for any signs of movement, of change, of a forward motion toward me - terror! - or of signs of a hoped-for retreat - relief! Staring and concentrating with every fiber of my being, mentally and emotionally trembling, I exhaust myself on a daily basis.

All of this staring has achieved nothing. At all. Except for eye-strain induced headaches and occasional insomnia. Anxiety, too. I am well-informed, this is true, but most of the news subsides so quickly it hardly even matters. Every day there is something new and alarming, more Alice in Wonderland weirdness. To keep up is to crack up.

I am still afraid, but less so today. Why? Because I realize that my fear can be assuaged, even largely eradicated, if I break the stare-lock the news has on me and replace it with time spent advancing my own life. How, you ask?

Control the media input, reduce it, massively. It is manipulation, anyway, of the worst sort. It's good to keep a finger on the pulse of current events but not to be strangled by them. I am a witness to history, after all, one of many who will record and testify truthfully to what is now happening. This is important. However, I serve better when I am healthy and balanced.

Set realistic daily priorities which actually achieve productivity and happiness. The furor of national terror will reduce to a slow, controllable simmer. Shocking things will still happen, but they won't obliterate my time and peace of mind if they are not the sole and fearful focus of my life.

Regain a balanced perspective by concentrating on nourishing the spiritual, emotional, mental, and physical dimensions of my being which have been too-much waylaid during this time of the virus and Biden. I've found it's quite helpful to do a weekly self-check: have I made time for socializing, for quietude, for exercise, for fun, for family, for God?

The heart can get carried away. The mind makes the choices. Choose a long view, including trust in God. Choose to be rational, logical, faithful. Choose health and intelligence. Keep an eye on the news and help where you can, just don't overdo it to the point of self-harm. That helps no one.

Small tweaks, large benefits.

I feel better already.

Where the Left Goes Wrong

"What you get [from the Left] is the amazingly clever dictionary they've got, so that, for instance, they talk about equity when they mean discrimination. They talk about fairness when they mean unfairness on an amazing scale. They talk about justice and they really mean revenge. 

But it takes a long time for people to see through this, and by the time people have seen through this, we're way down this track.

We are in an extraordinary stage where everything from public health to education and to everything else has been just hijacked by this Leftist language and not enough people have stood up to say, no, we see through this, we know what you're saying."

~~ Douglas Murray, interview on Tucker Carlson Tonight, October 8, 2021

Douglas Murray is one of my favorite people these days. He is wise, knowledgable, and has a devious sense of humor I truly appreciate.

His book, The Madness of Crowds: Gender Race, and Identity, is well worth reading. I have read three-quarters through so far, learning much as I go.
 

Another book by Douglas, The Strange Death of Europe: Immigration, Identity, Islam, is in my book queue. There will be some helpful insights and information in this work of Murray's as well, I am most certain.

Douglas Murray. He's a very smart man. Look him up.

Under the Silver Maples, An Introspection

In gray shorts and a soft black tank top I lie in the warm sun on an olive green and peach blanket in the soft lawn near our towering silver maples, their scalloped leaves gently twisting and flicking in the late afternoon breeze.

Overhead a hawk glides effortlessly in the air currents, no wing motion necessary, slowly circling above me around and around, the sun catching his wing as he turns. 

Turtledoves fly, first one then its mate, from a large plum tree to an ancient cedar.

A scurrying squirrel on the tall cedar fence stops to look at me and wave his bushy red tail. Then, off he scampers once again.

The sky is true autumn blue, deep, brilliant, without clouds.

Songs and hymns escape my lips, softly adding a human element to my reverie.

Deep thoughts and pleasant thoughts stretch and build in formation for there is time and space for them to be born and to grow.

This is life.

Observation, participation, meaning.

Rather than slurp and gulp mindlessly at the public trough whose menu consists of an alphabet soup of predetermined talking points and outrages meant to manipulate and distract, frustrate and terrify, I welcome my own ideas brought to me by leisure hours intentionally spent absorbing nature, good books, and whatever God brings across my path.

For me, such reflection nourishes the whole person.

Below is an excerpt from my book club book. It offers a bit of perspective and inspiration, I hope, concerning those who fought so valiantly during WW2 in la résistance française (the French Resistance.) 

The words are those of Madame Fourcade, the head of the all-volunteer resistance group, Alliance, based in France. The book is Lynne Olson's Madame Fourcade's Secret War.

I find Madame Fourcade's sentiments my own as I ponder my role as an American these days, in relation to those who have gone before, who gave their all that you and I might live in a free Republic. With Marxism's current rampant march through our government and culture, I am acutely aware of the passing of the baton from our ancestors to us. 

Will we defend freedom as the French Resistance did, so that France would live on as France, or in our case so that the United States of America will hold fast her Liberty?

Time will tell. 

Marie-Madeleine Fourcade's words:

"The years have passed, my friends have died, but their spirit is still alive. I should like to know that they will not be forgotten, that the divine flame that burned in their hearts will be understood. Although they were from varied walks of life and political backgrounds, a moral common denominator overrode all their differences: a refusal to be silenced and an iron determination to fight against the destruction of freedom and human dignity. In doing so, they, along with other members of the resistance, saved the soul and honor of France."

May we be so courageous and wise.

 

Natural Beauty - Do You Have It?

To learn whether you have natural beauty or not, here is a little test:

The fire alarm goes off in the wee hours of the morning in the hotel where you are staying.

You must go down to the parking lot before you can comb your hair or apply make-up to your face.

Do you still look pretty good?

If so, Congratulations! You are a Natural Beauty! You actually posses the no make-up look without make-up.

I wish society were kinder to women.

Eliciting Summer: Spring Lemons

My lemon bush continues to produce tiny lemons.

I snip a ripened fruit from its branch, immediately raising it to my nose. Small reward. 

My thumbnail lightly rakes across the lemon's yellow zest. 

From there sprays a mist of delicious citrus scent and with it a thousand visions of summer.

French Press

Don't get excited at the title of this post. I am not going to teach you secrets of making happiness inducing coffee the likes of which only sorcerers can conjure.

No, I am in my mid-sixties and have never been a coffee drinker except for the rare occasions when I eat at my favorite Greek restaurant and sip an after meal tiny cupful of sweet Turkish coffee, which I love.

Regular coffee makes me grimace.

I'm sorry. Well, no, why should I be sorry. 

I know! I am sorry that I have only the most rudimentary knowledge of how to make coffee and no knowledge of why so many of you enjoy it. I can make drip coffee and percolated coffee. That's it. I don't even know if it's good because I don't like it.

This brings me to the point of this post. (Yes, there is a valid point.)

When I was visiting friends in Paris a few years ago, my son-in-law's père (father) proudly placed his steeping French press coffee maker on the tablecloth-covered kitchen table, with a grin, and a finger pointing to it in gleeful anticipation, head nodding his pleasure. He speaks no English. I opened my eyes widely in dramatic enthusiasm and said, "Oh! Merci!" 

What a fake I am. 

Joël, père's name, was so proud and honored to be able to serve my husband and me in this way. We'd brought delicious croissants from the boulangerie et pâtisserie (bakery and pastry shop) located in the nearby village where we'd rented a studio apartment from a guy named Sylvio. Serving us coffee to enjoy with the delicious treats was the perfect offering. Joël even placed a full jar of Bon Maman strawberry jam beside the croissants. What a host!

I stared at that jolly little French press acutely realizing my profound ignorance. How have I lived this long without learning how the things even work? Embarrassment prohibited me from investigating then and there, so I resolved the wrong would be righted weeks later once at home.

You guessed it. Goal met.

Only three and half years later, two weeks ago, in fact, I took it upon myself to buy a French press. I looked at its box when it arrived from Amazon. I left it unopened in its package. It sat for a week on the counter next to my Kitchenaid mixer. For some reason the thing intimidated me. Why?

How to proceed, I wondered.

I know, ask for help from my Wisconsin son-in-law who uses one every morning to make his coffee. He is like a scientist about it. He knows me, though. I'm not a scientist - at all. He sent me carefully selected information on where to buy which coffee beans, how many to use, and advised me to not get caught up in the details of the meticulous - and art directed - video he sent on exactly what to do and why. 

Okay. I've got this.

I notified my husband to pick up the beans on his way home from work, letting him know that we were going to learn to make French pressed coffee. We will imbibe every Sunday morning as a treat. How special!

Sunday morning rolled around. There sat the box, with the press still packed inside. My husband gently reminded me that he did pick up the beans, and Sunday morning had arrived. 

Okay. Okay, I've got this. Courage building.

With my accommodating husband - he really loves me - I studied the video and son-in-law's instructions. 

We prepared. We began. 

Husband washed the press.

I filled the teal electric tea kettle, pressing its 'on' lever.

Beans were measured and ground - intoxicating aroma! - and dribbled into the device. (Device?)

Waiting for the water. Waiting. Waiting. Ah, it clicked! It's done.

"Never use boiling water," said the well-groomed young man in the beautiful video. "Wait at least 30 seconds before adding the water so as to not scorch your beans."

27 . . 28 . . 29 . . 30 seconds. Water added. Timer set for four minutes.

Fingers tap. A watched timer never beeps. 

Two minutes! With a spoon we stirred the crust that formed at the top and gently placed the smashing thingy in the top of the press.

Patient Tom pours

Wait two more minutes. 

BEEP!

"May I do it?" I was very excited.

"Sure."

I slowly pressed the thingy to the bottom. Giddy!

Naturally I took a few artful pictures of the press, full of brown liquid, sitting on the pretty green flowered tablecloth on our kitchen table, a vase of purple flowers nearby, and alongside two cups and saucers. Out our huge table-side windows could be seen yellow flowering bushes, daffodils, merrily blooming heather, and aromatic hyacinth surrounding verdant lawn, blue sky framing it all. The scenery made for a lovely photo session.

Patient husband finally slowly poured the coffee into one cup, then the other. More pictures.

As directed, he lifted his cup to his lips - he has always loved coffee, this was not new - and sipped, then gave me a thumbs up, again as directed.

"It's smooth and silky somehow," he said. He enjoyed his treat quite a bit. (He can't drink much coffee as it makes him more hyper than an ADHD five year old, which he actually was at one point in time. He turns into a maniacal chipmunk.)

My turn. I hand the camera over to him and begin my long-awaited adventure. What if coffee is appealing made this way? What if I become a coffee fiend like just about everyone else I know? Have I been missing out?

I sip. 

Oh no. Oh no no no. It's still ghastly. But my husband was right, it is smooth and silky. It's not bitter, either. It takes me a good long while to finish my cupful, the liquid less than lukewarm when I down the last tablespoonful.

Alas, I still don't like coffee. But it is fun to make it this way, and I will do it again every Sunday. A tradition is born. My husband can enjoy something he loves which doesn't love him, and I will only sample the results. More for him! I will learn to make it for  my guests, proudly and with pleasure, just as Joël made it for me.

Dream realized.

Hints of Normalcy in Spring

New windows are installed in my kitchen. 

Replacing thirty-six year old aluminum framed windows, these new ones completely remove the draftiness and chill that has blustered around our eating booth for three decades of winters. Pretty white vinyl windows, nothing fancy, but the effect is dramatic.

Besides revolutionizing our kitchen space, the new window installation offers something surprising and most welcome.

In order to receive an energy rebate from our utility provider, an inspector enters my backyard to examine the work. 

"My name is Tyler, how do you do?" 

Tyler wears no mask. His young, handsome, friendly face is fully visible to me, and mine to him because I, too, am maskless. (Sounds scandalous, doesn't it.)

Our no-mask interaction is different from the mask-wearing one with the installers a week prior. They, too, are young and friendly, but I don't know what they look like. Big dark masks. The barrier makes a difference. Tyler and I, however, see each other's face. We smile. 

Once in the backyard, I ask the young man about his attractive brown leather boots because I'm looking for some for my husband. He describes his pleasure with them, the comfort after breaking them in. Without the barrier of our masks we are relaxed, unhurried. It feels delightfully normal.

Yes, we are distancing. He leans out toward me, arm outstretched, to hand me the paperwork for signing. I lean in to take it, lean out to hand it back. 

Quick and easy. The rebate will soon be in the mail.

Today my heart is a little lighter. Just five minutes with a mask-less inspector vividly reminds me of life before and after the virus, a life of unclenched connection, natural facial expression, and freedom. 

Yes, that's it. It feels like happy freedom.

Lessons from Tulips

Remember these tulips from my previous post?

They were beautiful, then, supple, not yet emitting fragrance.

Do you think they are beautiful in their old, wrinkled state? I do.

In age they offer a crinkly beauty and release a delightful wafting scent which daintily fills the room.

Just as time releases the flower's scent, so does age release our wisdom which wafts into the world around us. Let us resolve to be wrinkly, crinkly, beautiful wise old people, God willing.

Just lovely!

 

Buy Flowers for Your Soul

In the dead of winter, I buy myself flowers. The soul requires nourishment, too.

Go. Vase some flowers. Look at them. 

In time, they will open and dance . . .

. . . and share their secrets. They will whisper Spring to you.