Heart Gardens

We cut down a couple of trees a few months ago leaving circles of just plain, unplanted, brown dirt.

While we have taken our time deciding what we wanted to plant in the vacant soil, huge weeds have moved in. Not just a couple of big weeds either, but several, and all different types. A potpourri of weeds you could say.

We uprooted living things and never replaced them. The void left fertile spaces - for opportunistic weeds.

We know a sweet mid-teenage girl who is from a broken home, left to fend for herself for large chunks of each day. Lately, preoccupied with their own separate romantic pursuits, the adults in her life have been neglecting her, creating a gigantic void within her tender heart.

She has changed. Too quickly. The parental wisdom which has always guided her, the nurturing, the watchful attention, have been removed, leaving a certain emptiness. Just as fertile soils don't remain barren, but avail themselves to whatever comes along, wanted or unwanted, so our friend's careful upbringing has been replaced with, well, weeds. Drinking, parties, sexy stuff, vanity, mindlessness, illusions, dreamlessness, and lemming-like crowd-pleasing. She's headed straight for a cliff.

A good object lesson, sure, but a life off-track nevertheless.

It's hard to watch.

I'm going to dig up our weeds and plant something pretty in the dirt. Hopefully someone will garden the thirsty heart of our young friend, as well. Maybe we'll be privileged to help.

God knows all of our hearts can benefit from a little creative gardening now and then.

Breakthrough

During dreaming last night my mind quietly observed that dark icky corner that has for some time been jabbing, burning, and boiling chaotically over a 'situation' that has long plagued me. Conclusions were made, a course of action set, and while unconscious, my subconscious performed the final sorting and cleaning of that dank, oozing space.

Long plagued have I been. Since my teen years, through young adulthood, and beyond. Why be bothered to the point of anguish in my determination to be rid of this blockade? Because when it flares up I weaken, lose motivation for things that are important to me, crabbiness and lethargy ensue. More dastardly is that everything and everyone I love becomes diminished when the sticky, stinky, toxic goo of my infection leaks out, contaminating the treasures of my heart. To be the cause of yet another form of grief inflicted into this life, a form that I am certain can be eradicated, pains me all the more. This enormous, menacing abscess must be lanced, entirely exposed to air, sanitized, dried, and allowed time to heal! For all our sake.

Recently the wound has festered. This morning as I mulled over the content of my dreams, read a little Merton and mulled some more, I discovered that, due to a very recent, bloody battle with this 'thorn in my flesh', something has shifted. My perspective. Headway was made, ground recovered, weapons dropped, heaving sighs and fatigue allowed.

What once was a torturously painful, swollen, infected, raging wound has become a point of surgery, a removal, an incision cut and neatly stitched by a Physician who knew what he was about.

The years of doubling over in distressing anguish were important. They caused me to search for help, to express my lack, my struggle, my abuse. They forced me to notice that something was terribly terribly wrong.

For decades the pain has been with me in varying degrees of misery. I have been agonized but not killed. Thrashed, but not broken. Abused, but not demoralized. Lost only to be found.

To be found. To be picked up, placed in the hands of those who would love me back to health however long and nasty the restoration process. To be nurtured with wisdom, encouraged with insights from sources unbelievably varied. To be given the space to strain and groan, to flail and spit, to whimper and weep during the withdrawal of something that was sucking the life right out of me.

And then this morning, to awaken from surgery, blink, focus, and discover restraint-busting lucidity.

The ache felt now is a diminishing ache. The gentle burn of the incision, the tug of the stitches, the warmth of cells madly working to restore the order of new flesh, new skin, new life.

May this be the end..........and the beginning.

It's been a long time coming.


"I've heard your anguish, I've heard your hearts cry out. We are tired, we are weary, but we aren't worn out. Set down your chains 'til only faith remains. Set down your chains. And lend your voices only to sounds of freedom. No longer lend your strength to that which you wish to be free from. Fill your lives with love and bravery, and you shall lead.....a life uncommon."
~~ Jewel

Little o' This, Little o' That

More strawberries from the garden - thinking of the little samurai.

Tomato plants IN THE GROUND!

Herb garden weeded.

All four kids home for the weekend - bliss - and lots of laughter!

Cassie updated her blog.

Caroline did, too!

Happy weekend, all!!

Pete

One income, but we make it stretch.

One way, used cars. Tom's a mechanic after all. It works, for us.

We haven't made car payments for over 20 years. I think we only made payments for about 9 months, in triplicate, to pay off a little used pickup. Other than that, yep, 27 years of used cars. Not hideous used cars, no. Ours have been sweet, accommodating, dependable, pretty, tidy, comfy, safe, and sometimes even sporty 'previously owned' cars.

We bought Joe's 4x4 Trooper from him over a year ago, maybe two. Can't remember. How I love that little red rig! It has a manual transmission, with a 5th gear. Drives like a dream. Neither Tom nor I have ever placed a decal or bumper sticker on a car of ours, but Joe wanted to express himself, and it was his car first, so Pete, our Trooper, bears several little window decals stating those in-your-face sentiments.

YOU all laugh because I'M different, I laugh because YOU'RE all the same.

It's better to be hated for who you are than loved for who you are not.

Don't interrupt me when I'm talking to myself.

He gets that talking to oneself habit from me, from my mom's side of the family. (My grandma always said, when we'd catch her muttering away to herself, "Sometimes it's the most sensible person to talk to." True. True.)

Anyway, back to Pete.

There's a Primus decal, featuring Old School Skeeter, on the lower right corner of the back window, where all the decals stick. Primus. The band that is counterculture, or is it counter-counterculture? I don't know. I DO know that I get a lot of waves and smiles from twenty and thirty-somethings because of that Primus mosquito. And a lot of scowls on the faces of people passing me in expensive cars, their expensive shades perched stylishly on noses which are sticking up in the air. Whether that's from the mosquito, the other decals, having to work so hard to pay off their expensive cars, or just indigestion, I don't know, but it makes me laugh. I don't much like Primus, but I love Joe, so the decal stays.

A white Apple sticker makes known to all who drive or walk behind Pete that we "Think Different."

Cassie, Caroline, and I carefully added a Bob Dylan decal. Yeah. It looks good there. We love Bob! (Today is his birthday! We sang to him. Wonder if he heard. If he did, he probably smiled.......or covered his ears. We are known for being terrible, though gleeful, singers.)

Are you wondering what Tom added? He's our resident Republican, fifth-generation Oregonian, gun-toting, yes, you guessed it, NRA member. He put one of his NRA decals on the car, and Pete shuddered. I swear. I thought Old School Skeeter would sting the heck out of it. But he didn't. On a 4x4 rig which gets a lot of off-road use (Cassie and Joe LOVE hitting the rough roads!) the NRA sticker seems fitting, I guess. (Don't get me wrong, I enjoy guns and target practice, too, but the NRA, well, it's become sort of, well you know.........Tom's gonna leave a comment, I feel it in my bones.) Funny thing? The frame around the license plate states, Happiness is Being Norwegian. Another contribution from Tom.

We drive around town with this conflicting message about who we are. We are 'all of the above'. We are young, we are middle-aged. We are psycho-rock, we are classic rock, and we are just plain classic. We are conservative, libertarian, American. We talk to ourselves, fling our opinions around, and use those types of computers. We are eclectic.

To drive around in Pete is to drive in contentment. Windows down, music on (Primus? Jewel? Bob Dylan? Mozart? Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Tom Petty? Hannah Montana? Depends on who's driving, and who's listening.). Pete has character. Pete makes me happy. In a de-skilled world, where skill has been removed from just about every 'activity', to drive Pete is to participate in a travel experience. Rather than traveling one-step below Jeeves chauffeuring you around, driving Pete is more of a sport. Not a spectator sport, an active sport where you use both legs and both arms, a full-body sport, one where you win every time! It's ridiculously fun.

And best of all, Pete.....is paid for.

Lest We Forget

Memorial Day is coming up. Here's a short history of how the observance came to be. I don't care what day it falls on, but my family and I do regularly decorate graves and have a celebration of appreciation for lives remembered. However you observe the occasion, may it be meaningful and safe!

'Outside the Box'

Back in March, in a post which describes my experiences with Snowball, my kitten, I wrote:

By intruding upon the indifference of our given environment He provides special means of nourishment for our hearts, minds, bodies, and spirits, while watchfully caring for and guiding us in ways unknown, though appreciated, to growth.

When those who ought to care do not, when differences seem too complicated to sort out, when ignoring comes easier than effort, from 'outside of the box' can come God's merciful hand to set things right, his own way.


He makes all the difference.

It's been a long time since Snowball was part of my existence, but it is now that I am again witnessing the hand of God, from 'outside the box', intruding into my pain, and setting things right.

Never doubting that he is there, nor doubting that he cares, still his merciful hand at work sucks my breath right out of my lungs. Why am I surprised? Because I don't pay close enough attention?

On a weblog were spilled my vague utterances. On a weblog came special means of nourishment from God, via the comment forum - 'outside the box'. Again, he, this time through cyber-friends, has made all the difference.

When we were flying from Eugene to Seattle the other day, while I had my nose smashed against the airplane window to see all I could of the view, I noticed the sun brilliantly reflected in hundreds of pools of water from small ponds, to creeks and rivers, to large lakes. Gradually as we flew north, as if raising their heads to greet us, the sun brought each of these otherwise ordinary objects into startling view, reflecting itself upon them. Squinting was necessary, so bright were these numerous reflections, and still my eyes teared.

Thinking of Moses with his shining face, I had a weird thought. "If God were to sort of float over the earth, would he see his reflection in us as our hearts, recognizing his voice, would cause our heads to tilt toward him, exposing our faces, like flowers following the sun? Would we reflect his glory back to him, in the same blinding sort of way that these waters, large and small, were reflecting the sun?"

It was a nice thought, comforting somehow.

Then Struggle and Funk happened, which compelled kind, deeply compassionate people to come to my aid, at a moment's notice this week. Like light-reflecting waters, they cast back the truth, clearly pointing my way to me, gently lifting me from despair.

Together they became the hand of God, from 'outside the box'.

He does indeed make all the difference.

My heart bows to yours, dear friends, in deepest respect, and thanksgiving.

"...but God intended it for good...."

Funk

The funk continues.

There are sentiments one cannot post on a blog. Kindness dictates that the page remain empty.















Rock-heavy heart, swollen tear-ducts, unanswered questions.

To ask, "Why me?" isn't my way.

To ask, "How to process this?" that's my folly.

Strangers read words which cannot be shared with perpetrator loved ones.

What sort of madness is this?



"We are healed of a suffering only by expressing it to the full."
~~~ Marcel Proust

If this is true, how shall I ever be healed?

God, have mercy.

Struggle

How badly do I want to know the truth?

Enough to learn - and believe - a dark, ugly aspect of truth as true, or would I rather remain in my self-concocted hallucination where a softer, yet false, landing awaits my heart?

The numbness of shock wears off. The beginnings of unrelenting pain ask me, “Are you sure? Do you honestly want to proceed where this pain will only intensify? Turning from this truth is an option, turning, absorbing pretense, cranking up the morphine drip attached to your mind for sweet relief. Are you sure?”

Yes. ........YES! I’m sure! I want the truth, even though it be excruciating, even if it feels like tearing, exploding disintegration, like annihilation of all that is me.

As the sinking, splintering, searing pain begins to wash over me, reaching every cell, every thought, I weakly smile. Because honest, hard truth reveals more truth, shattering, scattering the lies.

Lies destroy. Truth heals.

Freedom awaits the courageous, the sincere.

I long to be whole.

"Ah - Delicious."

“Mama,” Cassie said in a strangely calm, quiet voice for the boisterous girl she is. “Here’s the very first strawberry of the season. I just picked it from the strawberry patch.” Her reverent tone and sparkling brown eyes made me smile. The girl loves strawberries. She could have popped it into her mouth, no one ever to know, but here she was, offering to share it with me.

Thanking her, I nibbled a bit, and gave the rest to her. We shut our eyes, relishing the pleasure, as the flavor smeared over our taste buds, ripe-from-the-garden strawberry flavor bursting sweet and tangy, lingering, sliding down our throats. Delicate elixir of life!

Cassie’s berry reminded me of this, from Tom Crum:

In the Orient, there is a story of a samurai who is being chased by a bear. He literally runs off a cliff. As he’s falling, he grabs a branch.

He looks up and sees the bear leaning over the cliff, clawing at his head, missing only by inches. As he looks down to the ground below, only about fifteen feet, he sees a lion leaping up, missing his feet only by inches. As he looks at the branch he is clutching, he sees two groundhogs gnawing away at it. He watches as his lifeline disappears, bite by bite.

As he takes a deep, long breath, he notices, next to his branch, a clump of wild strawberries. In the midst of the clump is a great, red, juicy strawberry. With his one free hand, he reaches over, picks the strawberry, puts it in his mouth, chews it slowly and says, “Ah - delicious.”

With discouraging junk happening in recent yesterdays, and hard work looming in upcoming tomorrows, I am struggling to remember this adage, to take a deep breath and enjoy the quiet of this present, this weekend, this eye-of-the-storm, calm moment in time.

Easier it would be to worry, carry the ugliness of yesterday into the looming work of tomorrow, bypassing the glory of today.

The choice is mine.

Set down the aches of yesterday.

Savor the strawberry.

“Ah - delicious!”

Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Birthday Girl

Balancing on Caroline's head is a stuffed prairie dog Cassie gave her for her birthday. Still needs a name. Suggestions?






Well, she did it!
Caroline turned 12 today.















"Happy Birthday to you!"















We are so glad you stayed.

Out of the Mist

Past experiences normally hover in misty memories while the present seems to plod or whoosh along. Work days, plod plod plod. Weekends, vacations, special moments, whoosh. Mist, plods, and whooshes.

But sometimes, sometimes, synergistic moments present powerful, pensive, awareness. This synergism lends itself to seemingly time-warped experiences which stir up intense, emotion-packed reflections that flood the senses and yank the tears. Unforeseen clarification results.

Disneyland, 1966, I was ten, joined by my parents and three siblings. My dad’s favorite ride was It’s a Small World, where riders board little, low-sided, turquoise boats which slowly float into a huge building magnificently colored with animated, costumed dolls representing children and objects from around the globe, while children’s voices repeatedly sing the Small World song in complementary languages. As a ten year old it was the boat and the water which excited me most. My little fingers were happily compelled to flick the cool liquid in delight, as my body gently rocked to the floating rhythm. The little doll-children were pretty, the colors and postures of the dolls fun, and the music cute. Enjoyable.

Disneyland, 2007, I am fifty, and joined by my husband, and daughters (15 and 11). “We have to go on Small World! It’s my dad’s favorite ride and I want to see if it’s the same,” I enjoined.

"Life must be lived forward, but understood backward," according to Soren Kierkegaard. This is how I tend to operate. I was about to have one of those moments.

We boarded the boats, entered the building, heard the song. Cheerfully, I began to sing along as my girls smiled, thankful I’m sure, that the music of the ride drowned out my voice.

I found myself remembering certain dolls, then my mind pulled, out of the mist, the memory of my dad, as a 39 year old man, sitting at the back of the boat next to 10 year old me. I remembered the pleasant look on his dark, handsome face, and his outstretched arm and finger pointing here and there. Suddenly, I visualized my entire childhood family overlaying my present family. Somehow, this Disneyland ride was experienced from my ten year old and fifty year old minds, simultaneously. Vividly.

Forty years had passed and here I was again, possibly in the very same boat, with my young daughters. As I pointed things out to my girls, I recalled my father pointing the same things out to me. My exclamations of delight paralleled Dad’s. My laughter joined his.

Overwhelmed in mind and heart, I began to cry. Sitting in that gently swaying, bumping little boat I cried, for the good times. I cried in thanksgiving that my siblings and parents are still alive and in good health. I cried in gratitude for the three dearly loved people sharing the boat, and moment, with me. I cried for ten year old me who was having such a good time then, and for fifty year old me who was having an even better time now.

And I cried because it seemed I had entered my 39 year old father’s mind, and I knew that he'd had a joyful experience on this ride, in 1966. I absolutely felt his love for me then.....and for me now. I experienced the love he demonstrated to me which I didn’t fully grasp or appreciate at the time. I completely understood his happiness for the first time, while experiencing my own.

It was a strange and beautiful thing not adequately conveyed in these feeble words of mine.

But I want to remember the moment. So I write.

And I reflect. On family. On life. On God. On higher ways.

And I wonder, what foggy aspect of my present reality will come into crisp synergistic focus decades from now.

Life. Deep, deep, astonishing, mysterious life.

Trust

"Come to the edge of the cliff," he said.

"We're afraid," they said.

"Come to the edge of the cliff," he said.

"We're afraid," they said.

"Come to the edge of the cliff," he said.



They came.

He pushed.

They flew.

~~~ Guillaume Appollinaire

Joe's Excellent Adventure

My son, Joe, chose to get a full time job after a few terms of college left him frustrated. He worked at Safeway for a couple of years, then for a huge local building supply company.

Discovering that full-time work at entry-level wages would not pay the bills when he had a wife and kids - one day - he decided to go back to college. He gave his two week's notice, then began to look for a flexible part-time job to help with tuition.

The freedom he felt that Friday, on his last day of work, went to his head. Literally. No more dress codes, no more hair-cut restrictions, no more workin' for the man. Joe went to a friend's house and convinced him to shave his (Joe's) head, except for a centerline strip a couple of inches wide from brow to nape - a Mohawk.

Now Joe has a round head, deep cheek-dimples on either side of his smile, and large brown eyes. He's my (6'1") baby boy! When he came walking up the sidewalk toward the front door, grinning his huge white grin, with this this this thing on his head, I about had a stroke, which pleased him to no end, of course.

Cassie and Caroline hooped and hollered, and petted his fuzzy little Mohawk. I began to laugh in a few minutes, once I got sort of used to the idea of a critter on my son's head. "It's only for the weekend. I just wanted to have some fun, and to go to the mall to see if people look at me differently." (They did.)

Joe's best friend worked at a small, locally-owned market which was in need of a stock boy, immediately. A glowing report from this friend, listing Joe's work experience, honesty, work ethic, and straight-laced personality, inspired the boss to set up an appointment for an interview with Joe the following Monday.

Perfect! Flexible hours, low-stress job, piece of cake.

Monday rolled around and Joe headed in for his interview, wearing a baseball cap to hide his Mohawk, with plans to shave off his new pet afterwards.

The boss LOVED Joe! (Who wouldn't?) She said, "You're hired! Here's the paperwork, sit here and fill it out."

He did.

His new boss said happily, "I'll get your time clock set up for you today so you can get to work now."

"Wha...?" Joe was confused. "Isn't this just an interview?" he thought, nervously tugging on the bill of his cap.

"First rule: no hats," Karen, the boss, said matter-of-factly.

"Huh? I thought I was just supposed to fill out paperwork today?" Joe asked, beginning to panic now, knowing what was under his hat. Like I said, straight-laced.

"I need you for the 10 - 4 shift today, so, take off the hat and you can get started," she kindly smiled.

Oh boy. Panic seized Joe, but, he's an honest, smart kid, so he told her, "Well, uh, you see, I have a BAD haircut."

"Ah, that's okay. Take off the hat and let's see," Karen said in a friendly tone, eyes now curiously on the hat.

Joe turned red red red, as he slowly removed his cap, and grinned sheepishly at Karen. She simply shrugged, saying, "Heh, it's not so bad," and walked away, leaving him to stock shelves for the next six hours, on his first day of work, with a Mohawk for all the customers to see.

Funny thing, no one teased him. A couple of teenagers and two little kids told him his hair was 'cool'. Joe and I learned a valuable lesson that day: loosen up, man.

We HAVE both loosened up since the Mohawk entered our lives.

Rock the Mohawk!

(Joe worked at the mart for three years, quickly working his way up to checker, and all-around valuable employee. The market was sold the fall that Joe began Gutenberg. He quit to devote his time to his studies, but the market, and the friends he made there, will always hold a warm spot in his heart.)

Use Words if Necessary

Becoming interested in a person or topic causes me to root around in it until I come to the end of my curiosity. Thomas Merton has been my person and topic for awhile now, and I’m still enjoying the process of discovering him. It’s been enjoyable knowing that others have had the same enrichment from his life and writings.

I found this quote in the book I’m currently relishing, and it hit home. Whack! It was part of a letter written to Etienne Gilson.

"Please pray for me to Our Lord that, instead of merely writing something, I may be something, and indeed that I may so fully be what I ought to be that there may be no further necessity for me to write, since the mere fact of being what I ought to be would be more eloquent than many books."

Such single-minded aspiration takes my breath away.

Especially when I come across its opposite.

Shortly after my morning reading, breakfast, and chores, I read one of my favorite blogs, where the blogger presented her reading list. She inquired if anyone had suggestions of books to add. In the comment box I read some replies, taking notes as many of the recommendations were new to me. I love stuff like this! People sharing their love of literature.

Then I noticed an ‘anonymous’ comment, suggesting simply, the Bible.

I’m not sure why, but I got a bad mojo vibe when I read it. It felt somehow judgmental.

This intelligent, kind, sometimes sarcastic blogger wrote back that it was too bad because she’d burned all her Bibles years ago. I smiled. Whether she actually has burned her Bibles or not, I have no idea. It was her quick wit that made me chuckle.

‘Anonymous’ wrote back, “That explains all.”

“What a jerk,” I thought.

But his or her snide comments have stuck with me all day today. Gandhi’s words came to mind: “I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”

A few months of regularly reading the blog I’m referring to have revealed its author to be bright, sensitive, insightful, compassionate, funny, opinionated, determined, wise, and vulnerable. She’s a seeker, a quality person.

Reading only five words from ‘Anonymous’ leaves me without any evidence as to his/her intentions. Maybe it’s a friend who’s playing a joke, I don’t know. The slam seems genuine enough, through these eyes that read many comments.

Even if it’s not, I have encountered genuine slams from 'Christians' too many times. I've been the third party witness to such rudeness, as well as the recipient. It happens. Often. How can insults and condescension produce relief or goodness?

In the past I have, without conscience and to my shame, peddled down-the-nose, smelly sanctimony to those who don’t share my spiritual beliefs. I hope that unenlightened, stupid part of me has been put to rest once and for all. The deeper one seeks, the more apparent becomes the shallowness of his progression. I have a long way to go. Who am I to judge another’s journey?

Bothersome it remains to be a truth-seeking, gospel-believing Christian while the term ‘Christian’ is slopped around by posers as though it were a pair of giant, spiked, clodhopper boots designed for climbing over the indiscriminately crushed souls and ideas of ‘unbelievers.’ It hurts my heart.

For those faux-Christians who, in the name of Christ, can only insult, judge, ridicule, slap, spit, and strut, I say please examine your hearts and actions. If you can't find compassion for others, then for God’s sake, shut up...until you can.

For the rest of us, St. Francis has good advice, “Preach the gospel everywhere. Use words if necessary.”

Easing and Cooling

After a night on fire watch at the abbey, Thomas Merton wrote this paragraph, among a chapter:

At eight-fifteen I sit in darkness. I sit in human silence. Then I begin to hear the eloquent night, the night of wet tress, with moonlight sliding over the shoulder of the church in a haze of dampness and subsiding heat. The world of this night resounds from heaven to hell with animal eloquence, with the savage innocence of a million unknown creatures. While the earth eases and cools off like a huge wet living thing, the enormous vitality of their music pounds and rings and throbs and echoes until it gets into everything and swamps the whole world in its neutral madness, which never becomes an orgy because all things are innocent, all things are pure. Nor would I have mentioned the possibility of evil except that I remember how the heat and the wild music of living things drive people crazy, when they are not in monasteries, and make them do things that the world has forgotten how to lament.

Lean Not on Your Own Understanding

April 1979, I unwrapped my ten fingers from around a five year dream, letting it drift away from my heart and mind.

Alone, on my knees, beside my bed I prayed, “God, if I am never to marry that is okay with me. I am weary of the strain, of wondering each time I meet a new man, ‘Is this the one?’ I’m sick of it. If you don’t have marriage in my future, I accept it. If you do, whenever it may be, that’s great. I’m not going to look anymore. You’ll have to just plop this man directly in front of me. Thanks, God. It sure feels good to let go. Amen.”

And it did. It felt like freedom.

Unbeknownst to me, a young man in Medford prayed a similar prayer, around the same time.

Living alone in a brand new house built just for me was bliss, as solitude is something I crave. A new Fiat had been paid off in triple payments from the income earned working an enjoyable job. I had friends. I taught children’s groups at church and hosted an adult Bible study in my living room.

Five A.M. each weekday morning found me in shorts, breathing through fifty sit-ups and various stretches. A twenty minute run, a shower, and a bowl of hot cereal preceded a fifteen minute drive to work. Each night I breezed through two hundred more sit-ups, yoga, tennis, swimming, walking, or entertaining friends. Weekends held ski trips in the mountains, beach combing at the coast, or otherwise relaxing by myself or with others. It was a good life.

However, for the first time I understood loneliness. Surrounded by work associates, family, and friends, still, there was an ache, a void. But the way things were going, it looked as if aloneness was another method God would use to teach me. Resolved to learn the lesson, I quit fighting.

Yes, I prayed, and two weeks to the day of that releasing prayer, Tom walked right into my living room. He was the out-of-town son of a middle-aged couple who had recently joined our small Baptist church. The fact that they had a son was news to me. He was in town, transitioning for two weeks from a job in Medford, to a job in Portland. Someone who knew he was in town invited him to the study in my home.

Long story short, he listened to me, really listened. He was intelligent and genuine. Our long, lively conversations were easy and enjoyable. He says I was smart, pretty, spunky, and interesting. We hit it off immediately. A long distance romance, weekends together, a summer trip to Alaska for him, a promotion at work for me, and soon it was summer's end, 1980.

We decided we couldn’t stand being apart. It was making us crazy. So we announced our engagement, planned a wedding in a month, and were to be married in September, 1980.

Our pastor was happy to marry us after the six mandatory marriage counseling sessions were completed. Okay. Not a problem. Stupid, we thought, but we’ll do it.

Session #1: We each filled out a lengthy questionnaire meant to pigeonhole personality.

Session #2: “I’ve tallied your tests, Tom and Cherie,” said Pastor Wilson. “I’m sorry, but according to the results, you two are completely incompatible. A marriage between you would never last. I’m so sorry, but I can’t perform your marriage ceremony.”

Huh? You’ve got to be kidding!

Now, Tom is a fairly passive person. I am the decisive one. But this day, he stood up, the knuckles of his closed left fist gently tapping Pastor Wilson’s desk, which was between his leather chair and ours.

“Pastor Wilson,” Tom said without blinking, “we’re getting married, one way or another. We’d like you to officiate because we know you, and this is our church. But if you won’t, well, we’ll find someone who will.” Tom reached for my hand as though to leave.

Pastor Wilson married us, as planned.

But he was right about one thing. We are completely incompatible, on the surface. We thought we were going crazy being apart. Ha! We have been driven to CrazyTown so many times since being together that we can meander our way there and back, eyes closed, whistling a happy tune.

The pastor was also WRONG about one thing. We HAVE lasted.

See, tests can lie. This test measured only what we thought we knew of ourselves, not what was untapped within.

We are both tenacious, willing to be corrected, opinionated. We are nonconformists, share a bizarre sense of humor, and are charmed by simple living. The test confirmed these things, sure. But the thing we share deepest, the thing the test couldn’t measure because we were unaware of it ourselves, is that our intrinsic, core perspective of life is identical. Our vision, our faith, our very hearts were made the same. We long to know God, in truth. And we long to be good.

Because of that deep spiritual understanding between us, there is solid, centered love, love that melds us together despite our nasty temperaments and habits.

It took awhile to discover this deep love, this sameness of perspective. Perhaps it has grown while we weren’t looking. Perhaps it was uncovered bit by bit as we have struggled and fought and forgiven. Superficial, romantic love is easy to see, and easy to doubt when the going gets rough. But when the going gets impossible, the deep love holds fast. It has saved our marriage more than once.

Tom, with sincerity and gentleness, said to me a few months ago, when once again we had come face to face with our deep frustration and deep love all at once, “You may not be what I want, but you are what I need.” I nodded with complete understanding.

He wanted a church lady, a submissive, yet spunky, doormat, who would adore him, never cross him, fulfill her duties. I wanted a poet, a romantic, a man who would worship me, say all the right things. Neither person ever appeared. Their opposites did. But the people we wanted would have stunted our growth, spoiled us, left us asleep in the trance of mediocre superficiality.

What we needed was to be brutally challenged, to be forced to think, to question, to evaluate, to tolerate, to struggle, to be defeated and built-up again in order to inwardly transform. These needs are currently being met in the safety of a like-souled marriage.

Sometimes what looks from a human standpoint to be a certain failure in the making is, in actuality, meant to reveal the higher ways of God, the often hard ways we humans don’t normally stick around to witness.

Grace of God.

Back to Basics

In my favorite photo of myself there I am, gleefully hugging my three year old knees while sitting on a slatted wooden bench on a dock which floats atop a pristine lake. Priest Lake. I’m wearing my brother’s hand-me-down jeans, rolled at the cuff, and held up with a tiny, brown, leather belt. A red tucked in t-shirt, under a little unbuttoned brown corduroy jacket, comfortably hugs my petite body. Red-plaid canvas Mary-Jane style shoes cover red socks which keep my tapping feet dry and warm. A ‘swimmer’s cut’ bob of naturally red and gold highlighted brown hair is lifted and mussed by the wind which also whips the water into white caps.

Dark, heavy, gray-black clouds advance toward the pebbly shoreline casting asymmetrical black shadows across the clear lake. Rain is imminent. The water is cold, but I am not.

My dimple-cheeked face wears the most free, wide, happy, excited grin imaginable, most of my perfect pearly-white baby teeth showing. My eyes are full of ecstasy! My countenance wears the look of exhilarated watchfulness. Pure joy and freedom.

This is the true me.

I haven’t been me, since I was three.

But I’m on my way back. And the way back is forward. And the me I am becoming knowingly appreciates the me that I was, far deeper than a three year old ever can.

Life is full of wonder in its inner connectedness.

"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." ~~~~~T. S. Eliot  

Tag! I'm It!

I've been tagged by Pam to come up with ten interesting habits or facts about myself in a friendly game of "Chinese Freeze Tag."

I'll start with Number...

10. Because of over crowding, I went to three kindergartens when I was five.

9. I have to have all the closet doors in my bedroom (there are six) neatly shut before I can go to sleep. If Tom opens and doesn't close any of them while I'm still even slightly awake he'll hear a slurred, "Please close the closet doors. Thank you......." What a pain I am! Is this a leftover Boogy Man phobia?

8. When I was six I was nearly drowned in an irrigation ditch on a farm; my feet were being sucked into an underground culvert by an electric pump. My older brother held my hand and kept my head above water, screaming for help, until my dad and uncle rushed to help him save me. I held onto my dolly with one arm the entire time, though my brother commanded I let her go. Afterwards, Dad hung her upside down, by her pajama foot, on the clothesline where she dried in the summer sun. (He and mom toweled me off, instead of hanging me by my socks, for which I am grateful.)

7. I can flip my lower lip in and out so quickly that it's a blur - Tom, my siblings, and my kids call it Flipper Lip. I've met only one other person in my entire life who can also do this amazing feat, and he can only do it at half my speed.

6. I love water - I love being in the presence of water, I love to be IN water, any water. Rain, under waterfalls, in rivers, lakes, oceans, ponds, mountain lakes, pools, bathtubs you name it - I can spend hours on end swimming and playing in the water. I think I am an otter underneath it all.

5. I'm just finishing my 20th year of home tutoring my kids. Still have at least five to go!

4. I hate olives. Tom hates olives. Whenever I get jammed up and think I married the wrong guy, I remember our common olive-repulsion. A match made in heaven! (All four of our kids, Ben's girlfriend, AND our beagle hate olives, too! We're thinking of starting our own state.)

3. I was born with the hearing of an 80 year old man. (Come to think of it, I was also bald, toothless, and soon wearing a diaper....hmmm.)

2. From my forehead to the nape of my neck I frequently run my fingers through my hair. Without thinking about it. One palm, two palms, it doesn't matter. It makes me smarter.

And the Number One Kinda Interesting Thing About Me is:

1. When I was nineteen, I pushed my father's nearly brand new red Chevy pickup over a steep hill, where it rolled a ways as if in slow motion, until it finally crashed with a loud, sickening, crunching, thud into a mighty oak tree, which stopped it from taking out the chicken coop. It was an accident. He has forgiven me...... I think. :-)

And that, dear readers, is my quick list of sorta interesting stuff about a rather ordinary woman.

I'm supposed to tag ten other people, but I'm not going to do that today. I'm going to go play tag with some other children instead.

Wisdom from an Eleven Year Old

Yesterday while Cassie was driving and I was supervising, Caroline was studying her newly purchased candy bar. At a stoplight between the fire station and the elementary school we heard her little voice pipe up. "You know.......only girls and women should eat Hershey bars. They say HER and SHE. I mean, that's twice. Even though it says HE it mentions girls TWICE!"

How can you argue with that........?

Another One Bites the Dust

"DECREE OF DIVORCE GRANTED TO PLAINTIFF. COURT COSTS TO BE SPLIT BETWEEN BOTH PARTIES."

Lump in my throat. Single tears find their way from my eyes to my chin. Sobs drum against my chest, above my very heart. Back and forth shakes my head in denial.

My mind knew it was coming.

My heart held out hope that they'd find each other again, find that the proceedings were all a mistake. There is love, deep down. Life crusts over truth. Emotions lie. Fear manipulates. Selfishness destroys.

Outside a storm brews, gusts shake the window. Tom and the girls sand cabinets. College enriches Joe at this hour. Ben sets up his new photography studio. Sammy sleeps, dreams, in his dog bed.

And here I sit, weeping, frustrated at the dark side of this world, just so very very heartbroken..............sad.

Fierce clicking of hail against the sill interrupts, entices a tiny smile. Blasts of wind clear my head.

Suddenly, clarity reveals anew the depth of my love for Tom and my children. Heavy sadness lifts fresh determination from my mind and heart, planting it squarely before me, within me. We must skillfully battle the evil that would destroy. It must never ever know victory over our sacred union.

To completely experience this sadness, for my loved ones, is a conscious choice this moment. The passing of a once good marriage, like death, deserves a tender, sorrowful, heart funeral.

Longing

From Thomas Merton's journals I found this, dated April 10, 1941: [note: He'd been thoroughly enjoying a visit to Our Lady of Gethsemani, an abbey, which was to become his home in later years. He'd found a refreshment in his mind and spirit like none he'd ever experienced.]

"I wished I were going to stay there - which is impossible. I wished it was not impossible.

I left early in the morning Monday. Got to Louisville at 8....There is a huge gap between the monastery and the world. Louisville is a nice enough town, but I wasn't happy to be thrown back into it.

It is terrible to want to belong entirely to God but see nothing around you but the world and not see Him. In the monastery you don't see Him, either, but you have nothing to do but lament your separation from Him, pray to Him, and pray for the world. In the world itself your prayers are drowned by the noise of the traffic: you have to watch out for cars, falling buildings, brimstone, thunder.

The world is beautiful with the sunlight, but the objects in the sunlight are not beautiful - they are strange....Speech is violent and hard and blasphemous. You weep because already you see how terribly difficult it is to hold on to the cleanness and peace you had at the abbey!

I go everywhere talking about the abbey."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Throughout the ages it has been obvious that we are not made for this world, but are citizens in exile.

One day..........one day.

Stampeding Herd

When I go for long spells without drinking enough water, say weeks, I lose some of my thirst instinct. My body doesn’t ask for much water.

When I drink plenty of fluids for weeks, then decrease fluids for a day, I become thirsty. My body asks for more, “Hey, what’s up?”

I wonder, is it possible for us to become so unaccustomed to feeding our inward selves, that we no longer crave spiritual nourishment? When I say inward selves, I mean, as my son used to say, “the part of me that is me." The soul, spirit, heart, intellect, all of those and whatever you want to call it. Anything but that hypnotized part of us that doesn’t think, but attaches itself to the mindless herd, that is addicted to intensive ‘doing’ in order to please, to get along, and to be seen as productive.

Nourishment for the inner being consists, for me, of following my intellectual and spiritual curiosity and contemplating what I discover. Lots of contemplation. It also consists of calm, pensive observation as I proceed along this journey. Intentionally simplifying my life has given me the space and time I need to nourish not only my own soul, but the souls of others who cross my path, most especially my family. How can we grow spiritually if we do not feed the soul, or taste the feedings when they come from the hand of God? How can we offer encouragement to others, if we have an empty pitcher from which to pour?

When I encounter people who run all day long, run fast and hard, skimming over the day at breakneck speed with the goal being to list off all the stuff they did, for the seeming purpose of personal validation, or for gold stars on some abstract, socially-acceptable chart, I shake my head in puzzlement. When do they nourish their inner selves? How can they observe God’s lessons when life is a blur? There is no time. They complain of exhaustion, of literally falling into bed drained every night, only to rise again in the morning to begin this insane racing through their next day. Day after day. Week after week, all the way to year after year. They seem satisfied with this overload of doing, often showcasing their list of checked-off activities for the day. It feels like a productive life to them, a full and rich life. It is a ruse.

“Where does the time go? It just FLIES by!”

No, it doesn’t fly by. It is simply...unnoticed...in the mad dash.

I know a woman who felt the need to schedule each and every moment of her children’s lives, with activities meant to give them the best encounters of all that life has to offer: music, sports, literature, art, church activities, language, social interaction, and more. Every day of Christmas, Spring, and Summer vacation had something planned. Her intentions were twofold. First, she wanted the children to have every advantage she could give them to succeed as adults. Second, she was terrified should they become bored. “What will I do if they are underfoot, and bored!”

This gal ran fast as a mom. She grabbed a wrist of each toddler and dragged them swiftly across the long buffet table of life for 18 years, so swiftly in fact, that the poor kids, off their feet, yanked horizontally from one end of the feast to the other, could manage to snag only a bit of knowledge here, and tad of spiritual nourishment there. She has no idea what may actually have been ingested.

Now adults, these same 'kids' are dazed. Just confused and unable to process what the heck it all means. Without a solid inner base, they simply panic, looking for someone to tell them what to do. Without consistent moral or practical guidance, no attentive mommy or daddy time, just a childhood of rushing and having stuff crammed into their minds, their energy drained through forced activities, these kids have found that their raising consisted of supermarket samples. No time to dream, to observe, to play in the garden, to process the easy and hard experiences of childhood, no parental insights or wisdom explaining the stuff of life, no time to just....be. The space in them meant for moral understanding, healthy curiosity, budding wisdom, and fresh-scrubbed energy has been vacuumed, and left hollow. They are starting from scratch. Their parents can barely recall the years the kids were home - it went by like THAT.

It’s not the tyranny of the urgent. It’s the propaganda of the herd, a thoughtless, stampeding herd. We are not meant to close our minds and hearts and flat out sprint through life. Children and adults alike require stillness, for it is there that nourishment bubbles up, and is gently shared. It doesn't help others for us to lose ourselves.

To feed the soul is to strengthen clarity, and grow wisdom. To starve it is to deafen the instinct to want to truly know, making it easy to believe the propaganda of the herd. Because without inner nourishing, the only voice that is heard, is the herd's.

Spooky Oil

Cassie, Caroline, and I had a very full day today of grocery shopping, unloading groceries, and doing heavy, sweaty, dirty, spring yardwork, among other things. In great spirits the girls showered and changed into fresh clothes. Then it was my turn. I stepped from the bathroom all showered and fresh, muscles relaxed, with the idea of soup and bread for supper. Ah, it felt good to be done working....and to be clean!

Just then, the girls came running around the corner, disoriented, excited, babbling over one another. "Oh no," I thought, that fearful mommy-knot forming up fast in my stomach.

"Mama, I was grabbing a can of soup out of the pantry and I bumped the new olive oil, and it fell!" said a penitent sounding Cassie.

"Yeah, Mommy," Caroline quickly spoke, excited and flushed the way she looks when she thinks she's in trouble. "It fell all the way from the top shelf onto the cement step, then crashed to the second step, then landed on the cement patio!!"

We have a tall, extra pantry outside, you see, by the back door, above the concrete steps and patio that lead into the house.

Seeing that they were not bleeding, I took a breath, then went right to, "Oh, heaven's nooooooo, not now. I'm so tired......." Oil! Of all things to have to clean up. And in that high traffic area. What a mess. I took it like a man, er, a woman, and began to think what to use to clean it.

"No, Mommy, listen!" both girls exclaimed, interrupting my gloom. "IT DIDN'T BREAK!!! It didn't even crack."

"Wha??? Huh??? Are you sure?" I asked in disbelief, eyes squinting down halfway....oh please, God, let this be true.....

"Yeah, I know because I shook it!" Caroline beamed!

Lucky lucky girls.......and lucky lucky me.

That is one spooky bottle of oil!

Tip of the Tongue, Teeth, and Lips

Okay, so you know I am reading Merton's works, right? My brain is still clunking away from that last post, and will be for some time. Looking for freshness, I picked up one of my new books and lovingly opened it.

What did I read?

"Abbot Rambo questioned Abbot Anthony saying: What ought I to do? And the elder replied: Have no confidence in your own virtuousness. Do not worry about a thing once it has been done. Control your tongue and your belly."



Abbots Rambo and Anthony lived in the fourth century A.D.

Hmmm......

Just as difficult to attain today.

Just as noble the struggle.

Just Like That

Early in the morning, about ten years ago, on his way to his furniture shop with his wife, Tom's natural dad had a massive heart attack and expired, right there, in his pickup truck, on the road, going 55 mph. He just slumped over and was gone. God, in his mercy, had the truck aligned so that Mom could steer it into a grassy field that paralleled the road. She was unharmed, except that her husband of over fifty years, who'd felt fine at breakfast, no longer existed in this world. Just like that.

My 25 year old cousin was vacationing in the Virgin Islands, practicing holding his breath underwater for reasons known only to him, when he passed out, and drowned. He was found lying on the bottom of the hotel pool. Just like that.

Tom's adoptive father was cooking up sausage and eggs for the church's monthly Men's Breakfast at five o'clock in the morning when he got a funny look on his face, his legs buckled, his back slid down against the stainless steel refrigerator, and, spatula in hand, his body ceased to live. Just like that.

While piloting an experimental airplane, John Denver at age 53, made a fatal mistake because of the lousy positioning of the fuel valve. His aircraft nose-dived into the Pacific Ocean at Monterey Bay. Silenced forever, never again to write or sing another beautiful song, John stopped living. Just like that, he was gone from this existence, no good-byes, nor fare-thee-wells.

Thomas Merton, also at age 53, on an enjoyable, enlightening trip through Asia, with a full schedule of people, places, and events lined up, stepped from the bathtub, touched a poorly grounded electric fan, and was electrocuted to death. Right there, in a bathroom in Bangkok, here one second, gone the next.

I read somewhere that some Buddhist monks sit in silence before the body of one of their own who has died. They sit there, each day, until the body decays and bugs begin to consume it. They participate in this meditation so that they will come to understand fully that the body is not the person, that it is temporary, dust to dust. They do this to better grasp this interim existence. Observing the quick disintegration of the body helps them live deeper lives because they come to appreciate the vitality they possess, along with its fragility. A solid understanding of what is to come, lends itself to a richer appreciation of the here and now.

In this modern western culture we shield ourselves from death as much as possible. When someone dies, the body is whisked away, prettied up, and either privately burned or placed inside a gorgeous, ridiculously expensive box, lowered down into a cement casing, with a lid, and covered with verdant lawn. We are stunned, we are numb. We are shaken to our cores. While we'd prefer to take the time to process what dying means to us personally, our thoughts become quickly suppressed by decorum, regulations, and the tyranny of expectation.

Death scares us because most of us haven't realistically experienced it. We've survived it, brushed against it, and been frightened by it. But ultimately we try to outrun death. We mourn when a loved one 'passes away', and then we carry on with our busyness the best we can. The world doesn't slow down, but rushes past, urging us to hurry up with our grieving, and catch up. There's usually a window when we realize that this dear departing will happen to us, but we dodge that line of thinking rather quickly. So uncomfortable.

What I'm wondering is if, like the monks, I truly contemplated the idea of death, truly took the time to thoroughly study all angles of it, along with the fact that it really could happen at any moment to me or anyone else, would I appreciate more fully the vitality that I now possess? Would I appreciate the life around me more fully? Would I chuck most of the pettiness, the frustration, the controlling, and actually relax into observation and willingness? Would I realize clarity? Would I participate more, because I am able? I wonder.

Dad was mulling over plans for the day's shipment of furniture when he died.

My cousin was planning to attend his 2 year old son's birthday party then begin teaching him how to swim.

Tom's dad was going to feed 100 men breakfast, then study his Sunday School lesson for the following day. He was in the midst of directing a month of choir rehearsals for the Easter Sunday church service.

John Denver bought the little plane so that he could fly down to see his daughter in L.A. more often.

And Thomas Merton? His journals abruptly end with him looking forward to appointments and seminars for the days and weeks to come.

We live until we die. One thing is certain, though, we WILL die.

With that in mind, I do believe I could do living better.

Miss Sassy Pants

We had a neighbor, when I was growing up, a young teen-age girl who was very boy-conscious. She was a bit conceited, too. Brimming with self-confidence, she'd find a way to make herself available for a coy introduction to whichever Dreamboat caught her fancy at the moment.

My siblings and I used to watch her sassy strut as she paraded around the neighborhood in her cute outfits, hair carefully teased, and pale pink frosted lipstick four layers thick. We couldn't stand her behavior, I'll go ahead and say it. We could be bratty, I'll go ahead and say that, too.

One day, we were out playing in our front yard. Across the street was the back entrance to a small grocery store, where a new boy had recently been hired, and, you guessed it, he was 'dreamy'! Well, she thought so. To us he was just another kid.

This day we watched from our perch in a Chinese elm tree as Miss Sassy Pants sashayed down the street towards the back door of this shop. Today she was wearing crisp clean white pedal pushers, and a white short-sleeved sailor top, complete with a long wide collar down the back. She wore brand spanking new white canvas tennis shoes, and had immaculately turned her snug white bobby socks down once. Her hair was perfect. Frosted pink lipstick? You bet! She even had a pretty silver watch, which she checked frequently as she haughtily strolled down the street. In her hand was the loop end of a bright red leash which secured a little, short-legged, long-haired lap dog, who skimmed the street beside her like a centipede in a hurry.

"Ah," we surmised, "she'll say she's just out walking the dog and, 'Oh, what a coincidence, Dreamboat, that you and I should meet!'"

We watched as the dog bit at the leash and she scolded him with a controlling, "No! Bad dog. No!" The dog kept biting, and skimming, the way little doggies do. Miss Sassy Pants positioned herself directly to the right of the door Dreamboat would have to enter to report for work. She glanced at her watch smugly, and waited.

Right on cue, from the other end of the street, came her latest target, Dreamboat. He rode his bike up to the back of the store, and, oblivious to Sassy's presence, proceeded to lock it up to the bike rack. There Miss All Dressed in White stood, revving up her engines. She began to talk to him as he went about his bike routine. He didn't look up at her. Still, she flirted like a pro. Her hands waved sensuously, her head tilted back, her throat let out a tittering giggle, she leaned in toward him, and fluttered her eyelashes.

"He doesn't stand a chance," we sadly muttered as we peeked out from behind leafy branches.

Bike locked up, Dreamboat finally stood up straight, shoved his hands into his pockets, and looked straight at her at last, just in time to see the agitated little doggie lift its leg, and jet an eternally long yellow stream directly at the perfectly folded white bobby sock on Miss Sassy Pants' slim right ankle!

Dreamboat stared at the dog, gazed at Sassy Pants, shrugged, and headed for work.

Sassy Pants? With crimson cheeks she looked down at the warm rivulets of running yellow which seeped into her shoe, avoided Dreamboat's gaze, turned abruptly on her heels, and walked away with as much dignity as she could muster, while jerking the leash and saying, "No! Bad dog. No!" Squish, squish, squish.

My siblings and I? We were absolutely cracking up, tears pouring from our eyes, while maintaining our hiddenness in the elm tree.

Does God have a sense of humor or what?

Box of Books

Happiness is a rainy day when the chores are done, three of the kids are at the movies together, the fourth is studying, Tom and I have successfully tackled our first step in remodeling the kitchen, and.......the postman has just delivered a box of books!!! Bliss.

A box of books? Chocolate?

I think I'll take the books over the chocolate.

At least today............
*************************************

(What does 'successfully tackled our first step in remodeling the kitchen' mean? It means that we replaced the faucet which had developed such a constant torturous drip that the kids were beginning to confess all sorts of weird things in frantic crazed voices AND, we removed the wallpaper. The dripping faucet was silence to me, hard of hearing you know, so I found the kids discomfiture rather sad -- okay, I thought it was funny.)

Calm Water

"Men cannot see their reflection in running water, but only in still water."
--Chuang Tzu

The hideousness of life comes creeping around and slams you when you least expect it, and from the last person on earth that you imagine would hurt you in such a way. (No, not Tom or the kids.)

But this happens. It happens to all of us, now and then.

The response we make to it is the important thing.

I want to let loose a stream of justice-seeking words, but that won't help. It never does.

So, I'll write vaguely, and wait for calmness to return to its post.

And I'll fold the laundry. And I'll enjoy the kids. And I'll rejoice that Tom and I were able, together, to fix the refrigerator for free this morning.

There. I feel better already.

Calm the waters of your heart, old girl. The better to see your reflection. Once calmed, the problem will no doubt shrink, and peace will be restored.

No Ordinary People

"It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare....There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal." ~~ C.S. Lewis, "The Weight of Glory"

Walk and Roll

After a very long, complicated school session, Cassie, Caroline, and I decided to leash up Sammy and go for a stroll during a break in the rain storm yesterday afternoon. Caroline wanted to roller blade. Cassie didn't. Rather than have a squabble about it I suggested we just walk and roll.

So, we did, after we all chuckled at my incidental pun.

As I mentioned, it had rained and hailed all day, off and on. The skies were a beautiful mix of dark gray storm clouds, lighter gray clouds, and little patches of blue peeking out here and there. Everything was wet. It smelled like the first day of creation! (No, I'm not really THAT old!) The flowers wore droplets of rain as if jewel bedecked for a fancy ball.

Our local Starbucks has adopted our neighbor-hood park, planting many flowering plants under the tall cedar trees. New loveliness appears every day.


Though there is much grief and sadness in the world, beauty still abounds. The more ugliness is realized, the more beauty must be sought. Otherwise, like the victim of a mafia hit, cement boots of ugliness will weigh us down, pulling us under dark waters, until we are drowning in the bad, unable to breathe in what is still good, and lovely, and noble.

Shots rang out. People died. And the response? The response to the evil is the goodness in the self-sacrifice of a man for his students, the lovingkindness of parents who greeted their horrified, yet spared children with earnest, tight hugs, and the heartfelt expressions of compassion by friends and strangers for those whose lives abruptly ended and for their families whose shock remains deep. Let the response's brightness force the evil back into its oozing abode. As long as we live here on Earth, may we not allow evil to triumph, but make every effort to overcome evil with good.

Lilacs

Can you imagine how these smell? Can you imagine putting your face into the midst of these lovelies and breathing deeply?


I think that there will be the scent of lilacs somewhere in heaven.

I wish there had been a blue sky background today, instead of Oregon gray. Short is the span that lilacs look as fresh and vibrant as these, so I snapped these pictures quickly on my way home from the supermarket this afternoon. I think I spent more time sniffing them, smiling blissfully, with my eyes closed, face buried among them. I'm not a photographer, but you get the idea. Rain is expected tomorrow, rain which may batter and droop these pretties.

The girls were with me when I stopped. They were smiling when I got back to the car.

"What?" I asked.

"We saw you smelling them. You love lilacs, don't you, Mama?"

"I do. I sure do," I admitted.

We have a small lilac bush that Tom gave me for Mother's Day a few years ago. It's in a partially shaded area. Its buds have yet to open.

Soon, though. Soon.

Pot, LSD, and Me

The film "Bobby" churned up my 1960's California childhood memories. The pages of a book would not hold the entirety of my remembrances and impressions of that decade.

One memory is the nightly news on television. From our suburban dwelling Dad watched that 30 minutes of, what to me was, horror. The Vietnam war raged with chilling scenes shown on the news. College campuses erupted in riots, sit-ins, and walk-outs, settled with police batons, rubber bullets, rocks, and tear gas. Bead wearing hippies in robes and sandals seemed to grow up out of the dirt. The generation gap widened. Pot and LSD were nearly everywhere, as were bombs, Make Love/Not War signs, and adults in suits or jeans who constantly screamed at one another arguing the answer to all of this. I remember seeing the street signs for Haight and Ashbury, that famous district where the unwashed and washed-out migrated, a place crawling with strung out people who seemed crazy and mad. Scary stuff to a little kid.

When the news wasn't on, my middle-class world was idyllic.

Another memory recalls a particular road trip. It was about 1967 and I was 11. We drove through San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and on to Cloverdale to visit family friends in the country. After a refreshing, laughter-filled day, we got back into our dark blue Lincoln, the kind with the head lights that slanted outwards, matching the cat-eyed glasses my mom wore.

The drive across the Golden Gate was exhilarating for me, and crossing a second time in one day was no exception! It was so high! And the view! Mom and Dad were tense on the return trip. I think it was because there'd been a long line at the toll booth, and the sun was getting ready to set. Long tiresome day. Bickering ensued, over stupid stuff, the way it does sometimes. My sister sat in between our parents. I felt sorry for her. My older brother, black-rimmed glasses on his nose, sat next to me, and my older sister, bouffant hairstyle teased to perfection, sat next to him. I had a window seat on the left, behind Dad, who was driving.

Somehow, my street-smart father, who grew up in this part of California, became lost. Mom sniped. Dad reacted. We kids dummied up. The tension mounted, worse and worse, until, all of a sudden, we took a right turn and found the traffic stopped, in the middle of San Francisco. The car in front of us was creeping forward, but there were strange people wandering all over the street and the sidewalks. Three of them staggered towards our car! Two of these robe wearing men, with long dirty hair, crawled sloppily up onto the hood of our large vehicle, leaned their elbows and upper bodies on the windshield and stared at us. Curiously, within inches of my parents' taut faces, these bold hippies waved small clear plastic bags of what looked like oregano from Mom's spice rack. Dad said quickly, "Lock the doors! Windows up!" One loud click as all four doors were simultaneously locked. The windows were already up.

Mom and Dad froze, there was silence. The bickering stopped as hippies surrounded our Lincoln. Dad, who is 6'3", a tough guy, made funny noises in his throat, but didn't move. Mom white-knuckled the strap of her red purse. My grinning brother craned his head toward the glass to get a better view.

The third pouch-bearing hippie came to my window and roughly knocked on the glass. I remember that his eyes looked weird and his teeth were yellow and gross. I backed away. That's when I noticed the people on the sidewalk just outside my window. There were dozens of them, slumped in untidy mounds, like piles of luggage lying in heaps atop one another after being hurled from the summer camp bus. I thought the people were dead, but then realized some were waving their hands in odd ways in front of their faces, some were nervously talking to themselves, some were swaying quickly back and forth. I remember wondering if the concrete sidewalk was cold underneath them. I knew it was hard.

As Dad began to creep forward inch by inch, and as the hippies slowly rolled off the hood heading towards the car behind us, I looked out my window and up. That's when I saw it. The street sign. It said Haight and Ashbury! I stared in disbelief, my brown eyes wide open. The street sign from the news!!

"We are going to die!!"

But we didn't. Dad made his way, in silence, down the street filled with loud, dirty looking people wearing peace sign necklaces and peddling baggies full of pot, flashing us the two fingered peace gesture. As terrified as I was, the little rebel in me seemed to be born that day.

I held up two of my 11 year old fingers and flashed my first peace sign. One scruffy hippie girl smiled.

We made it home safely. The car unharmed; our parents friendly again. Everything went back to normal.

But I will never ever forget that 60's Haight-Ashbury experience from the backseat of a Lincoln, occupied by a staunch Republican, his straight-laced wife, his four sheltered, fresh-faced kids, and a yappy black poodle. It was enough to convince me that drugs were something I wanted to avoid, and hippies weren't that scary after all.

Groovy.