Crise existentielle

Okay, the title of this post is a little dramatic. I'm not really having an existential crisis.

My mind played tricks on me today. I stupidly allowed the 'overwhelm' games to be played until I'd worked myself into quite a pitiful state.

Not to be conquered by the imaginary, I let the rational part of my brain take the lead. Finally.

A nice shower. Cute gray and white striped shorts and chic, soft black tank top. Made the bed. Drank some water. Listed ten gratitudes right off the top of my head. 

Out to the garden - my friendly terrazza - to water my fruit  and evergreen trees, dainty new flowers, spring herbs pushing up and blooming, hearty strawberries, and steady onions. Tiny weeds pulled up. Concrete and cobblestones sprayed off.  

I coil the hose, set the pretty black wrought iron chair in the sunshine, gently ease into it and turn my face to the sunshine, glorious sunshine.

My reward for all this effort? The scent of freshly watered, sun-warmed foliage and cobblestones enters my sunny family room. The French doors are wide open as is the window. Lavender! Sage! Thyme! All of these perfume the air. Yes, aromatics coupled with deep satisfaction for overcoming, once again.

Crisis averted.

The mind is the thing.

The Problem is Sin

Another school shooting. We've all heard the news. Children killed and teachers, too. Young children, all from one Texas classroom. Shocking. Horrific. Brutal. Savage. Not human . . . 

. . . wait a minute. Not human?

No, no it really is quite human. Why? Because of a problem inherent to every single human who has or does or ever will exist: sin.

Sure, it sounds like a relic, sin, a religious term that isn't relevant anymore. However, nothing could be less of a relic, less irrelevant than the notion of sin.

Romans 12 describes sin entering the world and death as the result, an eternal separation from God and all that is Holy and Good. The chapter goes on to describe the provision of reconciliation through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. This is good news!

The bad news is that as long as this old world keep turning, as it has since God set it all in motion, as long as sin exists here, there will be one single problem which mankind cannot eradicate, hard as it may try through politics, philosophy, psychiatry, eastern religion, and humanism. Within the heart of every human is darkness, a foulness which rots the soul. Its name is sin. Enmity against God, who is the source of goodness and love.

But there is that good news, remember? There is hope for each and every one whom God calls to Himself. God will work in our hearts to soften them - the Bible refers to this as changing a heart of stone to a heart of flesh, metaphorically, of course. Ezekiel 36:26 says, "Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh."

Isn't that marvelous and beautiful! Generous is the love that moves the  Heavenly Father to offer a sort of heart transplant to His children. He has an answer to the problem. The answer is Jesus. You have probably heard this verse, well-known to Sunday school children: "For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life." (Yes, I memorized it in King James, back in the 1960's.  It's been with me a long, long time.)

Now, back to the school shooting.

A recoiling reaction reverberates throughout the world, as well it should. Things like this ought not to happen. Ever.

But they do. Why? The problem.

During His Beatitudes talk with the crowds in Matthew 5, Jesus said, "'You have heard that the ancients were told, 'YOU SHALL NOT MURDER,' and 'Whoever commits murder shall be answerable to the court.' But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be answerable to the court.'" The passage goes from there to describe other sins and Jesus' idea of justice concerning them. Suffice to say, He makes it quite clear that obvious wrong-doings are only the tip of the iceberg. It's the garbage in our hearts that needs attention, for that garbage - sin - is the root cause of evil in all its degrees. Heart garbage must be evaluated. It must be addressed if a person has any chance of coming to grips with the dichotomy of his or her human heart. 

School shootings and other loathsome behavior and events are stark reminders to anyone with eyes to see that something is terribly wrong. In heinous events, evil is not hidden, it presents itself unfiltered. We are horrified, as we should be. But constant sin in our hearts ought to horrify us as well. It is just as bad. 

I know. I know, it doesn't seem as bad. What's a little anger, a lustful glance, a white lie. I'll tell you what it is. Within every evil thought, every evil impulse, every evil deed, hidden or not, there exists complete sinfulness. One virus from a Chinese laboratory in Wuhan, China, replicated and infected the entire world, or most of it, probably all of it by the time it finishes running its course. One little virus had the power to grow and mutate and survive and harm and kill millions of human beings for two and a half years and counting. It began in a small vial. It exploded over the entire Earth.

Sin behaves in the same way. One evil thought uncaptured, can harm many, infect many, mutate and grow. Take envy. One thought of envy. "I envy the car she drives." Capture it and that is that, it is killed. "I shouldn't envy her for her car. I have a perfectly good car. I am not her. She is not me. I can work to acquire a car like hers if I really want. She is a nice lady, and I don't want to feel anything negative about her." Captured. 

Uncaptured? "I envy the car she drives. Man, is she haughty, full of pride. Got to have a fancy car! Drives it around like she's a celebrity or something. She can't possibly be a good woman. A person who is so attached to material things like that shouldn't be a Sunday school teacher. She is an awful person." Pass around that she is an awful person who shouldn't be a Sunday School teacher and her reputation is maligned. She may never get it back. The cat's out of the bag and running around the city spreading disease. Uncaptured envy results in the disease of sin left to itself to replicate and infect.

How did the school shooter come to carry out his odious act? Evil took root in his heart, infected him. He didn't notice, therefore he didn't evaluate. It grew. It altered his thinking. He lost touch with whatever morals or goodness he may have possessed. Evil conquered him, compelled him to act. Multiple murders occurred. Of tiny children and caring teachers. 

As heartbreaking - unimaginable! - as it is to think of little children dying in pools of their precious, young blood, how heartbreaking is it to realize that all over the world sin infects human hearts and carries out evil every single day. Every. Single. Day.

Sex slavery. Kidnapping. Fentanyl trafficking. Cartel murders. Pedophylia. Political corruption. 

Now take it down a notch, seemingly: lust, greed, anger, hatred, perversion. Those don't seem as bad, right? But they are each the one virus that infects the world, you see? Left unchecked, they become the sins that shock us. Those sins begin with thoughts, small thoughts, small potent nefarious thoughts, left unnoticed and unchecked until they grow, quietly at first, then tantalizingly until they take over the heart and mind of a human being.

From looking evil right in its repulsive face, we can learn to evaluate our own hearts, to check them, to create antibodies against evil, if you will. No, we can't kill it entirely. Sin is here to stay, until the next age in Heaven. But we certainly can stop much of what we currently allow to live and grow and change us for the worst.

As Jakob Dylan's song lyrics say, evil is alive and well. But Jesus is alive and well and everlasting. And He is Good. He has conquered eternal death, given us new life after our mortal bodies cease. It's up to us to live those lives with conviction, determination, and to persevere in our battle against the sin that so easily besets us. (Hebrews 12:1)

If we will allow evil events to push us into self-evaluation, into calling evil in our hearts by its name - sin - into curbing some of the darkness in the world by crushing it within ourselves, well, then something good can be born from the foulness. 

Those little children and their teachers deserve at least that from us, don't you think?

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.

Resolved to Mindfully Flourish

 Life seems normal, and then it doesn't. 

Car noise is dramatically reduced. I like that, but it's not normal.

Spring prolifically bursts forth. I love that, but I can't go to parks and view the beauty. Not normal.

The phone barely rings, people are less visible. Solitude is precious, I like it. But it's not normal.

We cook all our meals at home. Healthy, delicious, but it's not normal to be banned from restaurants.

Grocery shopping requires distancing, masks, paranoia really. It used to be a pleasant break in my day to go shopping, to wander the aisles, peruse the products and produce. Now, it's a mad dash in and out with a concise grocery list in hand. It's not normal.

The mail comes and we have to think about what we touch after we bring it in, we must immediately wash our hands, set the papers and packages aside as if they are time bombs, toxic, crawling with deadly creatures, which they very well might be. This is very abnormal, and very disconcerting.

I can't hug my children, my granddaughter, my friends. This is crushingly not normal.

Things seem normal, until they don't.

To say it is unsettling tries to describe the indescribable. 

Everything feels.....off. Out of kilter. 

We have little control. The virus has much control. The virus calls the shots. The virus - the invisible virus - terrorizes us, silently, psychologically, emotionally. It toys with our spirits, our minds, our roles and purpose. Mercilessly. Ruthlessly. Flamboyantly. Only in the sound of its gasping victims and the hissing, clacking rhythm of the ventilators does it speak to us of its power, its intent: to use us up until we die. To kill us. 

Thankfully, our own invisible immune systems fight battles victoriously, for most of us.

Still, we don't know which way it will be for each one of us. Which will we be in the end?

Uninfected and vulnerable for the next wave?

Infected and survived and thus immune?

Infected and killed?

The choice is in God's hands. And He has good reasons for it all.

Still, it is an abnormal world we now inhabit and it suffocates.

I feel immeasurable sadness.

Still, I have a choice in how I pass through this.

I could dance along the rim of self-pity's abyss - tempting, pointless.

I could languish helplessly in the middle of the brutal tug-of-war between social extremes of deepest tragedy and unparalleled acts of selflessness and beauty - exhausting.

I could ostrich my genuine reactions, masking them behind flimsy platitudes, supercilious spouting, or empty-calorie activities - untenable, unhelpful, unkind.

I could conscientiously face the disruption of normal life, look it squarely in its menacing face, grasp tender compassion in one hand, creative determination in the other, review my beliefs, inventory my haves and have-nots, summon truth, beauty, and simplicity, then, map a new purposeful path to walk for however long the abnormal is normal - mindful flourishing. 

The choice is entirely my own - I choose mindful flourishing.

Hemingway Himself

This post is for me. For safekeeping.

Years ago I read this snippet from Hemingway in the preface of my son's copy of A Moveable Feast.  Succinct and so Hemingway, it just struck me. Hard. I don't really know why anymore than that the sentence perfectly exhibits Hemingway to me, his style of writing. For some reason I laugh out loud every time I read it. When reading it out loud to my family, I laugh. They laugh. But do they laugh because I laugh, or do they get the same impression as I? Who knows. We do, however, oft repeat, ". . . and the ring was in the garden," when the subject of Papa comes up.

I dislike the book. I dislike the liberties Hemingway takes with people who were good to him, considered him an intimate friend. He was untruthful as well as unkind. A sad way to treat people. He paid for it for they, as forgiving as they were, never thought of him quite the same again.

Here is the passage, my favorite part in italics:

"For reasons sufficient to the writer, many places, people, observations and impressions have been left out of this book. Some were secrets and some were known by everyone and everyone has written about them and will doubtless write more.

There is no mention of the Stage Anastasie where the boxers served as waiters at the tables set out under the trees and the ring was in the garden.  Nor of training with Larry Gains, nor the great twenty-round fights at the Cirque d'Hiver. Nor of such good friends as Charlie Sweeny, Bill Bird and Mike Strater, nor of Andre Masson and Miro. There is no mention of our voyages to the Black Forest or of our one-day explorations of the forests that we loved around Paris.

The five people seated at the table, left to right are: Gerald Murphy
Sara Murphy, Pauline Pfeiffer, Ernest and Hadley Hemingway in
Pamplona, Spain, summer 1926

It would be fine if all these were in this book but we will have to do without them for now. If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact."

Ernest Hemingway, San Francisco de Paula, Cuba 1960

This little personal post shall sit here, for me, just in case I need to get the quote right.

And the ring was in the garden.

January 2nd

For me, January 2nd is the beginning of inward time where creativity makes promises along with already sprouting daffodils, where rest is plentiful, where warm glowing indoor moments are created under the sky's blanket of gray, where pensivity dominates, where my sun-hungry body determines it can withstand the gray days of January and February because Spring is coming. Spring is coming.

Perspectives on a Troubling Impeachment

As I ponder and wrestle with the facts and disinformation concerning the impeachment of President Trump, I remember what my dad used to say when I'd go to him for comfort during times of injustice and frustration.

"Cherie, the last chapter hasn't been written, yet."

True.

I also remember that I am a Child of God before I am an American. As patriotic as I am - and I am! - it is important for me to keep my priorities in line and to trust God for all outcomes. It's important not to lean on my own understanding. God's ways are higher than mine. How can I ever expect to comprehend the plans He has for this world, or for a single country, let alone the fate of a duly elected President of the United States? God has proven to me over and over again that He is trustworthy. It's important that I live my life in the light of that truth.

All that being said, in all honesty, I am struggling with the impeachment proceedings. In the midst of this tension I find myself examining the thing that concerns me most, the struggle itself. I want to be on the other side of all of this, to have a conclusion, to have a proper mindset during the onslaughts of weirdness which keep shocking me. It's unsettling to have many leaders of our country and our mainstream media behaving improperly. It makes me feel unmoored somehow. However, to personally respond appropriately is crucial to me. To have no regrets about my responses at the end of the day, that is important to me as well. So, I accept the challenge and keep working at finding my balance once again.

Struggle clarifies. Alas, without times of struggle to help gauge our priorities, trust, belief systems, world views, and responses to the struggles themselves, we would be creatures most pitiful. Working out a proper perspective concerning the knotted information and others' disturbing behavior takes time but, as far as I am concerned, spending that time is non-negotiable. It has to be spent. Posturing an apathetic faux 'trust' shrug is not in my DNA. I can't just set it down, walk it off, rub some dirt in it. Impeachment requires sober thoughtfulness. Grasp and search and solve, these meet my needs, these provide a pathway to answers. From there, wisdom is born.

From deeply experienced, studied struggle come growth and wisdom, things quite valuable to us and to those in our lives as we share our gleanings. Without wisdom, we would be pouring from empty pitchers when comes the need to encourage and guide others. Best embrace the struggle, keep those pitchers full.

"Turn your eyes upon Jesus. Look full in His wonderful face, and the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His glory and grace."

God will write a perfect last chapter.

Yes. Yes, He will.

Grand-mére et Mignonette

This quiet, foggy, early morning my daughter needed to use my jacuzzi tub to soothe back pain left over from a difficult delivery of her precious daughter six weeks ago. Her midwife suggested long, warm soaks enhanced with Epsom salts and the jets running.

Today was the first of such a treatment.

The joy of caring for my granddaughter fell to me. Fed, changed, and bathed the little darling tried to fall asleep. She was a bit fitful. Cute, but fitful. Cooing, but fitful.

Yo-Yo Ma to the rescue! Soothing cello music lulled both of us into restful repose. I'm a genius!

She was out like a light.

Serenity embraced me.

Grand-mére et mignonette.

An hour and a half later my daughter returned to the living room looking calm and pink and content.

"I haven't been this relaxed in.....two years," she said, thinking hard over the length of time.

Magic!

This is food for the soul. 

Grandmother Soothers

Tonight's Surreal Moment: I experienced vivid memory flashes of grandmothers I've known calming fussy babies for overwhelmed mothers even as I, for the first time in my life, found myself doing the same. As a grandmother. Hard to wrap my mind around this ancient tradition, this loving service, this sharing, this blessing.

I remember, as a kid, grandmas cuddling babies, cooing into their ears while the babies' mouths screamed in discontent and tiny limbs thrust rigidly into the air. I remember the ladies looking so calm. So very very calm. I didn't understand how they could be so calm, what with that pint-sized being screaming bloody murder into the ears of everyone in the room. I know I was tense. Why weren't they, I wondered.

I remember being the tired mom who needed a break from soothing my baby. I loved my baby with all my heart, but I was so very tired. Sleepless nights, trying to find a new routine, love and exhaustion, and a body recuperating from pregnancy and childbirth. I remember the grandmothers sweetly offering to help. I remember being amazed, once again, at how calm the grannies were, how they, confident and unperturbed, seemed to enter a different seemingly mystical world, child in arms, whispers flowing from experienced lips to delicate baby ears, rhythmic swaying as in a sacred dance which transcended the generations. The women's demeanor befuddled me. It worked! They soothed the baby, every time.

This evening it was my new-mom daughter who was weary from walking the floor with her out-of-sorts baby. I could see the pain in her walk, her back hurt. I could see the fatigue in her eyes; it had been another long day and her husband was away in night school. She looked at me, and I became those grandmas. Unaware of my assertiveness, I offered to take my only grandchild, brand-new, one month old today, red-faced and howling, from my daughter's arms. She gave her willingly, in trust and hope. Normally, I wait for an invitation to hold the baby. My daughter prefers it that way, and I understand. It's her baby. Tonight, I uncharacteristically offered. She gratefully accepted.

As I meandered around our cozy, warmly-lit home, tiny child on my shoulder, I patted and rubbed her back as she cried and squirmed so pitifully. Into her precious ear I spoke grandmother words, words that easily came.

"It's okay if you need to cry. You go ahead and cry, my little bambina. I will stay with you. You are safe. Your mommy needs a rest. Let's give her a rest."

I cooed. I hummed. We swayed. As calm as could be, confident, too.

How did this happen? I have never been comfortable soothing babies other than my own. Normally, I am tense and anxious.

But this evening was different.

I heard my daughter conversing quietly with her dad in the other room. They were confident in me as well. But I felt no pressure. No, instead I imagined gentle hands on my shoulders, hands of all the departed grandmothers in my timeline as if welcoming me to the Grandmother Soothers Club. I had flashbacks of particular women who set the example for me so many years ago, role models. I felt that here was the moment that all those other moments led to: my moment to step up and comfort a grandchild so that my own child could have a respite. I felt such honor! Still do.

To be spiritually connected to my family timeline both forward and backward, as well as in the present, thrills me and humbles me.

Grandmothers are important. To be a grandmother in the vein of my ancestral grandmothers is my challenge and my goal.

They set the bar quite high.