Author: admin

Wherever you go, you take yourself with you.  (Neil Gaiman)

 

from e.e.cummings:

maggie and millie and molly and may went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles, and

milly befriended a stranded star whose rays five languid fingers were

and molly was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing bubbles, and

may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as a stone

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.

 

As Sabine de la Tour tosses piles of forged banknotes onto a bonfire in a Paris park, she bids a reluctant farewell to her double life as a notorious criminal.  (BookSends)

Logic will get you from A to B.  Imagination will take you everywhere.  (Albert Einstein)

Like the challenge that guest chefs appearing on Chopped on the Food Network Channel are given when they are asked to prepare a winning dish with a number of wildly disparate ingredients, one of my tongue-in-cheeks delights is to relate anything to anything.  (This will be a very familiar behavior to all students used to BS-ing their way through assigned papers, and is a questionable gift acquired by those who stayed in school too long.).  When I read the above description of a book kindly recommended to me by my Kindle, I chuckled, and my Uncle Waldo popped into my head.

Uncle Waldo was a wonderful old guy, about as tall as I was as a child, with an amazing mustache whose curling edges always made it appear as if he were grinning.  Add a somewhat role-poly figure, and he became for me a character out of a fairytale.  Like SnowWhite.  Squeeze-able, like a (short) Disney character today.  He had a great booming laugh that always made me happy.

Sabine de la Tour and Uncle Waldo. How would they relate?  Would they be lovers?  Enemies on different sides of the law?  Brother and sister?  Would she perhaps be his moll, and he the mob boss?  Did they even have a Mob in Paris in those days?  Maybe he could be her clergyman; she would likely need one after all that nefarious activity.  Or maybe he could be her forgery teacher — surely one needs a teacher to learn how to forge.

So many possibilities!  Have some fun; create your own story — who would you put into a scene with Madame Sabine?

I’ll likely never order that book.  The reality could never measure up.

The right way to wholeness is made up of fateful detours and wrong turnings.  (C.G. Jung)

ROAD CLOSED has become a familiar sight to us during our time at the shore during this visit, usually involving lotsa detouring and some unplanned adventures.  It’s made me think how like life this is, how many times we find that the road that we’re on is absolutely no-matter-how-much-you-tear-your-hair-out-and-wish-otherwise, CLOSED.  Whether it’s as we attempt to navigate that sticky swampland of relationships, or jobs, or just ordinary chopping wood/carrying water kinda activities, we frequently find the way we’d planned to go is not gonna work.  And it usually puts us in some unfamiliar territory where we have to find our way.

How we respond to times like these says a lot about where we might end up.  We might decide to ignore the sign, and end up getting stuck in high water or worse, we might just stop and turn around and go home, we might proceed with such caution that we despair of ever getting anywhere, we might do the ripping hair out in frustration number, OR we might take it as an opportunity to discover some brand new possibilities.  We might get lost for awhile, but in the old stories and fairy tales, isn’t that where the magic always happens??

Try this sign on for size instead!

It’s a short trip from the penthouse to the outhouse.  (Denzel)

Two outhouse rules:  1.)Hole is deeper than it appears.  2.) Turn off flashlight.  (Unknown)

I recently read an interesting bit of trivia:  when former president Harry Truman left for Washinton in 1935 to become a U.S. senator, he still had a (functioning) outhouse at his Missouri home. And indoor facilities weren’t installed until 1953 when he returned home as a retired President.  In light of the news we hear today about our leaders, this struck me as downright refreshing.

And it took me back to my own outhouse days, both at my childhood home (I didn’t experience indoor plumbing until I was 16), and at the different camps at which I worked during high school and college.  While reminiscences of outhouses aren’t exactly what we romanticize as past halcyon days of “wine and roses,” they bring back some ” interesting” memories, with which I fortunately won’t regale you.

But hey, they’re a lot more important than you might think!  The Chinese even have a goddess of the outhouse — interestingly enough, she is also the goddess of divination, the ‘divination’ part likely accounted for by insights gained during all those  periods of prolonged settin’ and meditating.

All of which gives me an opportunity to tell my devoted three to five readers that during this brand new season (Happy first full day of Autumn!), I am going to offer a short (but hopefully pithy, insightful, and scintillating) version of Restbesidethewearyroad every day.  Since I frequently find myself saying,  “now exactly why am I doing this?”, the increased frequency will perhaps give me some answers.

You may find that any associations among Presidents, Outhouses, Autumn and blogging are loose indeed, but in my mind, it all makes perfect sense.  Just think about it for a moment.

And in the meantime, Autumn Blessings to you.  See you tomorrow!

 

 

Sometimes the world that we have built and in which we live is destroyed through no doing of our own — but we can choose to see this challenge as an opportunity to reconstruct a bolder, cleaner, more spacious, and more fully human life . . .  (paraphrased from Joseph Campbell)

Make of yourself a light.  (Buddha’s last words to his followers)

My mom used to tell a story of an old dog who spent his entire life penned up in a dark shed.  There was one narrow window in the shed through which the sunshine would filter, and throughout the day, the old dog would follow the patch of sunlight cast on the floor from this window, lying in the light and small warmth it offered as the sun moved across the sky.  I can remember sitting at her kitchen table as she told me this story,  knowing that she gave it to me at a time of despair in my own life because it was what she had to give, because in many ways it was reflective of her own life story, of her own resiliency in the face of adversity.

As I write, I am at the Shore again, here to check on things in the aftermath of a devastating storm.  As I look at even the small effects of the storm on this part of the coast, I am so aware of the story of tragedy and loss unfolding further south of here as folks attempt to cope with the catastrophic effects of the storm, and start to rebuild their lives.  Recognizing that this type of disaster brings a terrible sense of vulnerability for its victims, leaving confusion, insecurity, and grief in its wake, makes us want to reach out in any way we can to understand, accept, support, provide . . .

Rebuilding after any kind of change or loss requires persistence, resiliency, and determination, and tends to emerge most easily when we feel psychologically strong, safe, and understood by others.  Supportive relationships are critical to initiating and sustaining any kind of recovery process.  We expect a lot from the public institutions responsible for providing disaster recovery, and hope against hope that they deliver.  But hey, each of us can  be the “sunlight” coming through the window for someone! — we can hold the hope for someone who may have temporarily lost theirs by providing what we can in the way of support, refuge, and strength.

Anna Ornstein, MD, a renowned child psychiatrist who is also a Holocaust survivor, was detained at Auschwitz from the age of fourteen to seventeen.  She recalls a striking distinction between people who were able to retain hope, and those who fell into despair, and much of the difference had to do with receiving and giving support to others, in no matter how small a way.

Extending this kind of support — being the “light,” paying it forward — is a creative act — and  interestingly enough, in the concentration camps, (these being some of the worst disasters of recent generations), creativity of any sort was strictly forbidden.  But those prisoners who secretly found a way to create seemed to retain a sense of hope, and fared better physically and psychologically.

Take the creative opportunity to reach out to someone!  So often we don’t do this out of fear or not knowing how — and people often don’t ask for what they need from others because many of us are not really aware of what it is we need.  Being able to say “I need your encouragement” or “I need you to tell me it’s going to be okay” or “I need you to tell me I can do it” is a gift you give to others.  We can be invaluable sources of strength to others in their process and they to us!

Be the “light” to some “old dog” today.  And, Old Dog?  Your task is to avail yourself of that light!

 

 

 

 

God gave us memories that we might have roses in December.  (Barrie)

When I was growing up in the small mountain valley town that I’ve described before, the woman who lived across the street from us was called Ole Miz Crist. Although when I knew her, she probably wasn’t as old as I am now, I never heard her referred to as anything other than Ole Miz Crist. And she had to be the cleanest durn woman, or so I thought as a seven year old, that I’d ever seen.  I’d  kneel on my knees on the sofa, leaning my head on my arms and looking at her out the window, watching her sweeping her porch, her steps, her yard, sometimes even the street. I can still feel the scratchy feel of the sofa slip covers as I sat and watched, and smell the slightly musty odor of the sofa.

I was as obsessive about watching her as she was about sweeping.  She fascinated me.  Wearing a shapeless, colorless house dress, her browny-gray hair in a bun, she’d sweep and sweep.  I never talked to her, only watched and wondered.  When my big sister was just a tot, (and I just a gleam in my parents’ eyes), Ole Miz Crist caught my sister running away from home, going to the lawn party to which she’d been the previous night.  Before taking her home, she gave my sister a good paddling and talking to, and that story gave her even more mystique in my eyes — daring to spank my big sister!  Wow.

I wonder why some people and events from childhood linger in our memories and dreams, while thousands of other happenings are lost to us.  I wonder what they represent to us.  I also remember the neighbor lady to the right once threatened to hit my mother in the head with her shovel (that was indeed impressive), and that the neighbor baby to our left used to lay on a blanket in her yard drinking Pepsi from a baby bottle. That same girl threw her doll down our outhouse (yep, I’m that old!) and was roundly spanked by my dad after he fished it out.

And the memories of teachers — the first grade teacher who smacked me across the face for talking and giggling — the fourth grade teacher who had a gall bladder attack in class, and had to sit at her desk with her head down on her arms while she waited for a substitute to come, while we all watched in ghoulish curiosity and some satisfaction (she being the one who cracked us over the head with her geography book, my best friend once getting it for sucking her thumb) — the one who took me aside and suggested I start wearing a bra (oh, the embarrassment) — the one who always sent me downtown to pick up her medicine.

When I smile fondly (or wince) at these memories, I also wonder what children of today will remember about me. If anything.  Am I enough of a character to warrant a memory of any kind?  Maybe my crooked left eye (I only found out yesterday from a doctor that I had one!).  Maybe my menagerie of animal friends. My cookies?  I hope I’m bequeathing some memories somewhat more interesting than those, but if so, they’re probably of a nature I’d rather not know about.

Ole Miz Crist is long gone, I’m sure. I never knew what happened to her, but maybe today she’s amongst the legions of guardian angels entrusted to keeping the world a tidy place. She would’ve liked that, I bet.  Or maybe she’s like the Old Woman in the Sky my mother used to tell me about when I was little, cleaning and shaking her down pillows and creating the snowfall. Maybe Ole Miz Crist sweeps that heavenly broom, and those flying gravels and dirt create the miracle of glittering hail.

Yeah.  She would’ve liked that.  Sweep on, Ole Miz Crist.

May the forces of evil become confused on the way to your house.  (George Carim)

. . . good intentions may do as much harm as malevolence if they lack understanding.  (Albert Camus)

The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.  (Albert Einstein)

As I sat having coffee-on-the-porch in the early light of dawn this morning, I heard geese on a nearby lake, and wondered if they were feeling the same touch of fall in the air that I did.  The shimmer of starlight was fading, and light slowly creeping into the eastern sky.  In the midst of this peace, I found myself paradoxically thinking about evil, and trembling a bit at the memory of someone I once knew, an individual who behaved in a manner that we sometimes dismiss lightly as “catty.”  (Although, cat-lover that I am, this seems unjust to cats).  The sly comment meant in “fun,” but calculated to leave a barb in one’s heart; telling tales and twisting the truth in a manner that pits people against each other; leaving trails of suspicion and distrust one for another in her wake; one who seemingly lacks a capacity to love, and seems determined to remove love and compassion from the world, but oh so subtly that it can hardly be detected.

Evil is a hard concept for me to think about, to understand, to admit exists, especially evil not of a grossly abominable or egregious nature, evil behavior that is more subtle in nature, hard to detect.  Having spent all of my professional life working with emotional disorders, I have mostly dismissed the notion of evil, preferring to think instead of personality dysfunction growing out of severe pain.  One of the worst of those dysfunctions is the individual who suffers from — and here it would be easy to distance myself by putting a psychological label on behavior whose consequences are only pain and distress for others.  Since I am retired, maybe I no longer need to do that.  But I find myself lacking other descriptive words, so I will tell you a story instead about The Hawk in Swan’s Clothing:

     Once upon a time there was a Hawk who wore Swan’s clothing.  She wrapped herself in the soft, satiny gray feathers of the finest Swan cloak, and lived on the grayest of lakes, so that she could hardly be seen swimming upon it.  Only when she raised her wings in flight or attack could her true brown colors be seen.  By then, it was often too late for her unlucky victims.

     It is not known why a hawk would choose to live on a lake, and was occasion for great wonderment when the story would be told among the Swans on the cool crisp of an autumn evening Telling.  It was rumored that the Hawk in Swan’s clothing had been tossed out of the nest at a very young age by her own kind, and so bore a great and terrible rage toward all.

     First-time Swan mothers-to-be were warned to be alert and wary and especially mindful of their chicks when the brilliant sunshine would turn the lake to a dazzling, blinding sheet of gold, for then it would be especially hard to see this hawk who pretended to be a swan.  And then all the Swan Mothers would tremble in mingled fear and anger and anticipation of attack by such an evil one.  

     It was sometimes asked by the young, naive, or unusually compassionate Swan whether or not something could or should be done to help this evil one, for she was surely a victim even though she also turned others into victims.  Perhaps she could be made to return to her own kind, and thus find a home there.  Perhaps she should be sent to the Haven of the Seven Healing Swans.  Perhaps she should be penned up, given food and space, but never let free to prey upon others. Perhaps . . .

     But here the Swan Fathers would raise their wings in an alarming arc, the trembling of the Swan Mothers’ feathers would increase, and the Wisest among them all was heard to say. “Hawks are hawks and Swans are swans.  A Hawk in full array is a fine and Awe-ful thing to behold, just as is a Swan.  But a Hawk who chooses to pretend to be a Swan is a dung that cannot be turned into fine grain.  The only recourse against such a one is to be ever Alert.”

     And the Swans’ eyes would all sweep the still calm surface of the gray lake.

Swans are perhaps wiser than we.  The only recourse against such a one is to be ever Alert speaks to the vital importance of our having healthy boundaries; of being careful of “too much misplaced empathy,” of exercising our capacity for seeing it like it is, no matter how much it may be distasteful to us or even horrify us.

A frequent expression that my grandmother used was “everyone walks according to the Light as they see it,” and for a long time, I think I misinterpreted what she meant.  In trying not to be judgmental or critical or blaming, I ended up being too accepting, even denying reality at times, especially in those grey areas where the behavior of others is not so clear-cut.  It was almost as if I experienced difficulty in discerning the difference between what is life-giving, and what is destructive.  And as a result I sometimes ended up enabling others’ destructive or cruel behavior.

But what I know now is that what we don’t know or refuse to see or acknowledge about others can hurt us.  Making a distinction between those behaviors, attitudes, or thoughts that are productive and relationship and life enhancing, and those that are cruel or destructive or hard on relationships is essential.  And just as essential, is then following through with setting the necessary boundaries to foster and protect the well-being of yourself and others.

Now I know that the key part of my grandmother’s saying was “walks in The Light.”

 

 

 

 

 

The important thing is this:  at any time, to be willing to give up what we are for what we could become.

I am on a quest. I’m big on quests of all kinds, going beyond the familiar, going beyond the safe boundaries of what we know to (responsibly) learn more.  I’m probably even bigger on the responsibility piece:  taking risks without a sense of moral and ethical responsibility for what those choices entail, not only for ourselves, but also for others, is ill-advised and foolish.

Preaching (forgive me!) aside, I’m noticing that as I get older, my quests are becoming more limited in scope, and lighter in nature, most likely because I am increasingly aware of a physical vulnerability I didn’t have to consider at an earlier stage in my life.  So my latest quest is somewhat trivial in nature — or maybe not! — whoever really knows in the grand scheme of things . . .

I am in search of the ultimate ginger/molasses/spice cookie.  The richly “thick” and sticky atmosphere of my kitchen is reminiscent of the numerous combination of spices and the different types of molasses with which I’ve experimented.  Tongues of friends and family tingle with the quantities of ginger that they’ve had to sample, and more and more I’m hearing,  “No thanks, I’ve just brushed my teeth.”

My mother was a big cookie baker, but her cookies were always the same, remarkably tasteless, considering  the myriad of ingredients that I would see her putting in them.  (Come to think of it, maybe they all canceled each other out.). I can smell them now as I write!  — tasteless maybe, but fully appreciated by her daughters.  I was in the second grade before I realized that homemade cookies could be different, when I encountered with amazed incredulity and delight the numinous “peanut blossom,” that infamous peanut butter cookie with a Hershey’s kiss on top that shouts Christmas.

All of which is to say I come rightly by a cookie-quest that has to do with “taste.”  However, during my young married life living in the swamps of southeast Loisisana, I encountered my mother’s cookie again!  Imagine my astonishment when my across-the-bayou neighbor, Grandma Mrs. Toups, presented me with a plate of the identical cookies, only a lot bigger,  I was delighted, since my mother had never written a recipe down.

So just in case a quest of yours is for a tasteless, but amazing cookie made with love, here is the absolutely best one you’ll ever get:

Mrs. Toups of Bayou Lafourche Cajun Tea Cakes

1 cup butter, 1 and 1/2 cups sugar, 3 and 1/2 cups flour, 2 eggs, pinch of salt, 1 tsp. soda, 1 tsp. vanilla.  Cream butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla.  Mix soda, salt flour.  Slowly add to butter mixture.  Flour and roll dough.  Cut 2 and 1/2 inch round cakes.  Bake in 400 degree oven for 7-8 minutes.

And I’ll keep looking for that elusive ginger cookie. . .

Pay attention . . . for at the very moment you are questioning your worth, the quiet teachers will be everywhere . . .  So if you see me on the street, cupping something as I lean into the wind, don’t be shy.  Come over . . .  For it’s God I’m carrying, or at least that portion of God we call the soul   . .  and I will calm your fear of what’s chasing you . . . and perhaps together we can open our small flames to the sun.  (paraphrased from Mark Nepo) 

Listen to your life!  See it for the fathomless mystery that it is.  In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness of it . . . because in the last analysis all moments are holy moments and life itself is grace . . . (Buechner)

 

This morning I woke up not feeling stellar, old aches of the body and the heart too near the surface.  I kinda grumpily did the leg exercises I do before I get out of bed (in order to make sure my knees actually start off in the same direction when I get up), and struggled to the coffee maker in less than a positive, hopeful mood.  Checked the phone to see if there were any overnight epiphanies, and indeed there was one, the following lovely tribute from a dear friend who had asked to mention this blog in a talk she was giving to a women’s group on storytelling.  It touched me so deeply that I asked her permission to share some of it with you:

      . . .    lives with lotsa animals.  Over the years I have known her propensity to own, or just care for cows, goats, chickens, guineas, dogs, cats, even her recent reference to a ‘scarlet snake’ who wriggled across her porch to the great interest of her most recent dog rescue, Hank.

     Recalling our last meeting where we heard stories of ______’s family in the early church and from  _____ about the importance of the Sego lily bulbs to the early pioneers, your planning committee has been intrigued by ‘story telling’ .  My friend Helen is a supurb story teller and has said, at the end of her blog on the topic, that “perhaps the great tradition of ‘storytelling’ has suffered in the midst of our technological advancements and in our current cultural climate” BUT in some places it is still alive and well like in our annual  Storytelling Festival, or in Helen’s next trip to the National Storytelling Center and Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee.  The Appalachian mountain cultures where she grew up have a long history of stories handed down from one generation to another.  Helen’s memory is full of stories from her great grandmother, her grandmother and her mother that were told to her from a very young age and continued until a few years ago when her mother passed through the veil.  And she expresses so clearly to us at this time of social media that we are finding new ways to tell our stories — and to listen.  She says that she “knows that telling and listening to stories about each others’ lives, both roles being equally important, are vitally important to claiming and valuing who we are, who we have been, and who we will be.  So today let’s celebrate OUR stories!   And tell them as much as we can, especially to our children.  Otherwise, how will they ever know about us and the ‘good ol’ days’? Listen to others, too.  Helen says that “nothing can be a greater gift.”

For those of you who might be interested in exploring the stories and the insights of my friend Helen, she welcomes you to her blog “restbesidethewearyroad.com”.  Her stories and the pictures she includes are a joy to see and often give us things to think about as we go about our daily business.

I eliminated many of the really kind things my friend said in the beginning of her talk since they sounded kinda self-serving, but I have to tell you those kind things put a glow of well-being around me all day, and I cherish my friend for, first of all, believing them to be true, but also for letting me know while I’m still around to appreciate the affirmation!  It seems that so often we only say the really good stuff about someone after they’re gone.

So the reason I’m sharing this with you is to encourage you to pass along the the gift my friend gave to me this day, the generosity of spirit that says,  “Wow, I think you’re great, and this is why . . .”  It made all the difference in the world to me today, made me feel loved and affirmed, and changed my day.

Pass it along!  Give your friend the gift of a loving tribute.  It will warm her heart and increase her courage as it did mine.  And it will make a difference in your day as well, I betcha!

At the root of our anxious overexertion lies the deep-seated fear that we will not be taken care of, that we will be abandoned or betrayed by others, by ourselves, and by God.  The most effective antidote to this haunting fear is the practice of gratitude, enumerating ways we have been  cared for.  (Cameron)

There was chaos in the barnyard this morning.  Since spouse is out of town, I’m caring for it by myself, and I think the critters always sense that they can probably get away with more.  Anyway, the weather has take a turn for the absolutely-gorgeous after what seems like an interminable summer of rain, and all the guys in the barnyard were feelin’ feisty.  Those who had some special little tidbit (oh, by the way, I forgot to mention I always give treats when I’m tending to things), wanted their neighbor’s, who wasn’t about to give it up, and up and away they would go.  Feathers and fur flew.  I retired to the house, muttering nasty things about the ingratitude of it all.  Try to be nice to some folks . . .

It made me start thinking about the concepts of jealousy and envy, which I’ve always gotten mixed up.  Jealousy is supposedly more natural, being fear-based, and is when you’re upset and resentful because you perceive that someone else is trying to get something that you feel you more rightly deserve.  Envy, on the other hand, is evidently one of the seven deadly sins, and is when we feel angry or bitter or resentful because we want something that someone else has, and may be motivated by those feelings to go to ugly ends to get it away from them.

Sometimes, I regret to say, there is both jealousy and envy amongst the critters in the barnyard here at the farm.  Most of our crew don’t hesitate to take something from another that they want, and seem to feel great glee in doing so.  And when I pay too much attention to one, I can pretty well bet another is gonna be lying in wait around the corner for them.

Things certainly are straight-forward in the animal world.  None of this moral confusion or angst for them.  While on the other hand, not only do I experience occasional bouts of jealousy and envy, I compound the difficulty by being overcome with guilt and remorse for having them . . . and if something unfortunate should happen to the person of whom I was jealous, I can feel truly wretched.

We humans just might make life far too complicated.  Especially if you ruminate about things as much as I do. There’s a great story called Mysterious Are the Ways of the Lord that kinda reminds me not to obsess too much about the whole deal, because we’re never really gonna understand life anyway, and instead to just feel incredibly grateful.  You’ve probably heard it before, but enjoy it again, and be reminded  . . .

Once upon a time, Christ came down to walk with Moses.  Greatly honored, Moses thanked him, and Christ said,  “Are you sure you really want me to walk with you?  You may not understand much that I do.”  And of course Moses assured him that he did.

As they walked along, a beautiful young man came running toward them, and Christ reached out a hand and struck him dead.  Moses was appalled.

They went further to a village of fisher-people by the sea, and Christ caused all their fishing boats to sink to the bottom of the sea.  Again Moses was greatly taken aback.

Finally they came to an old homeless couple whose only shelter was a sandstone wall, and Christ blasted it down, exposing them to the relentless sun.  All that Moses could do was stand and ask,  “Why, Lord?  Why?”

Christ looked at him sadly and said,  “I will leave you now, Moses.  But you should know:  the young man was running to commit a murder of passion which would have condemned his soul for all eternity.

“The fishing villagers were about to be attacked by a neighboring tribe who would have burned and stolen their boats.  As it is, they can raise their boats from the sea’s bottom when it is safe to do so. Continue reading Jealousy in the Barnyard: It’s About Gratitude