Rest beside the weary road

Certainty is a cruel mindset.  (Langer)

Have you ever just been so sure about a piddling, totally unimportant issue that you would bet the farm on it?  And can you remember the chagrin you probably experienced when you found out you were wrong?  My husband and I can sometimes get going on that kinda back and forth stuff, usually with unpleasant consequences, so we eventually have come to the point where we end most of our “things-we-absolutely-know-for-certain” with a big shrug and the comment “but who knows?  I don’t know nuttin.”

And you know, the older I get, the fewer things I really do know for certain!  I somehow thought it would be the other way around.  Which is kinda cool in a way, because it gives you lotsa “Wow!” or “Isn’t that amazing?” moments.

There’s a lot of potential surprises and discoveries and new things to learn about how to be in this astonishing universe of ours.   Give UN-certainty a try today.

Maybe.

This old building sits alone and deserted in the midst of an encroaching woodlands.  Folks tell me it used to be a country store and post office for a prosperous mining community back around the turn of the twentieth century.  It looks as if it might also have served as a boarding house, as it is quite large.

What a busy, bustling place it must have been.  The community that surely would have surrounded it is largely gone now, with few hints of those who must have lived nearby.  I find myself strangely drawn to the old building and grounds, and often find myself there, walking and listening.  It’s very quiet except for the small rocky stream that flows nearby, but sometimes amidst the sound of that trickling water, I catch the sounds of horses and voices and laughter . . .

Granpap Ed runs that store, and his wife Mam is the postmistress. They seem old to me, but I bet they’re only in their mid-fifties or so.  Their kids — they had nine of ’em and one dead, all growed now, with kids of their own, so grandkids are always around underfoot somewhere.  They took over the store when old man Turner, who owned the mine and the mill and the store and the cannery and most everything else around here died.  They live in the back of the store, and have a big ole garden out back, where, once Mam gets all she wants to feed her family, and preserve and can, she’ll sell the rest to customers.  That Mam, she’ll sell anything, prob’ly the shoes off her feet.  An’ Granpap’s feet, too.  Anyways, they have a cow, too, and she sells butter and milk and cream, if they’s any left.  Times are hard and gettin’ harder since ole man Turner died, and his sons started runnin’ the mine and the cannery into the ground. It’s still a’goin’, but most folks are just markin’ time, and worrryin’ about the future.

The store’s gettin’ kinda rundown, but it’s the only place around where folks can buy stores, and they don’t care anyway ’cause their places look the same. It’s a two story building made from rough unpainted wood.  They’s a big old rock that they dragged from the quarry that they use for a stepping stone onto the front porch.  Nail kegs and barrels and a couple of rockers on the porch make mighty good places to sit and chew and loaf and trade gossip.  Most folks walk to the store, or if it’s too far, ride their horses, and they’s a hitchin’ post by the porch.

Inside the store there’s a great big ole pot-bellied stove right in the middle with more nail kegs for settin’ and drinkin’ coffee from the pot that’s always on the back of the stove, even in summer.  Those nail kegs are almost always occupied, as they are right now.  I see ole man Zigler tiltin’ back on his keg while he dips some snuff, and start in to tellin’ one of his everlastin’ stories.  This must be a funny one, as the men are all grinnin’ or snickerin’.  I move in a little closer so I can hear.

“Yeah,”  he says,  “That ole black autymobil buzzed up the wagon road in front of ole Bob’s place, and his lady and the young’uns ran into the house and crawled under the bed.  Ole Bob, he run into the house and grabbed his shotgun, loaded it, ran back out on the porch, aimed that gun at that big black booger with four wheels, and boom went that gun. The man who was a’drivin’ that car jumped out and ran for the woods, as fast as he could, an’ ole Bob’s woman and young’uns came back out.

“She asked him,  ‘Did you kill it?’, and he says,  ‘Nope, but I sure made it turn that man loose.  See him a’runnin’ yonder toward those bushes!’ ”

Ole man Zigler slaps his knee and chokes on his snuff as he let out big ole snorts of laughter, along with all the other men gathered round.  Even some of the ladies in the store smile, while some of ’em just look disapproving and turn back to their shopping.

I notice a real pretty young girl kinda wistfully fingering some thin white material with little yellow flowers on it, but her mama takes her by the hand and jerks her away, kinda mean-like, and I feel bad for her.  I’ll bet she would look real pretty in a dress made outa that.  But I think Miz Riddle, she don’t have much money, cause her husband Joe, he’s a miserable ole drunk.

Maybe about now, you’re wonderin’ how I know so much about these folks.  That’s a real puzzle to me, too,  I don’t even know how I came to be here, but it’s alright with me. I wanna know all I can about this place.  Maybe I’ll nose around some more, and let you know what I find out the next time I write.

(Stay tuned for the next installments of The Old Country Store and Post Office on Sundays throughout autumn.)

Hard times are often blessings in disguise.  Let go and let life strengthen you.  No matter how much it hurts, hold your head up, and keep going.  This is an important lesson to learn when you’re having a rough day.  (Unknown)

I passed a church today sporting the sprightly  message topic What is a Pain 4 U is an Opportunity 4 God.  I had a variety of thoughts about that, but the one I finally settled upon was another old saying that has been strangely reassuring to me:  I turned to God when my foundations were shaking, only to find that it is God who is shaking them.  Or yet another one that I really love:  There are some angels whose only task is to make sure we don’t get too comfortable and fall asleep and miss our lives.

This new/old wisdom, or take on a rough day, always reassures me when, like today, I find myself shoving at some boulders in my path.  You would think that at my age, I would have learned to walk around those  boulders, or at least sit a spell and enjoy the composition of the granite or sandstone or whatever they’re made of.  But no, I just shove away, knowing I can’t move ’em, but determined, in my stubbornness, I guess, to keep tryin.’

What I know in my better moments, is that change and growth and transformation of our spirits and ourselves doesn’t come without a price. And what our fearful selves perceive as an “emergency,” or in this case one of those boulders, is perhaps something new trying to “emerge.”

So I will wait and pay attention to “those better angels of our natures” who are perhaps trying to nudge me into some new awareness or insight or potential.  And, if this is just so much nonsense, this idea of taking each new challenge as an opportunity to grow, at the very least, in thinking about it, I will have distracted myself from the problem at hand!

And if it strikes my beloved reader that the photograph accompanying this blog is a little obtuse, at least maybe it distracted you, or even made you smile, just in case you’re having your own rough day.

There isn’t enough room in your mind for both worry and faith.  You must decide which one will live there.  (Unknown)

 

Worry according to Webster: to give way to anxiety or unease; to allow one’s mind to dwell on troubles or difficulties.

Worry according to my mama:  to pray.

Worry according to my dog:  if you can’t eat it or play with it, pee on it and walk away.

To forget one’s ancestors is to be a brook without a source, a tree without a root.  (Chinese Proverb)

During the time I lived in south Louisiana, this day, November 1st, was a day I came to love.  The above-ground cemeteries and tombs were decorated with masses of flowers, and the colors and aromas were amazing and beautiful — I can smell the sweet, cool freshness still.  This celebration (All Saints’ Day today and All Souls’ Day tomorrow) was not a familiar tradition to me, but one which I appreciate enormously, a day set aside to think of and honor those who made our lives possible.

And in that spirit, let me tell you something I just learned about my great grandmother Mattie.  As you will see from the above picture, she was a “sweeper of yards.”  Since I am by no means a neatnik, (I am more of the type who wanders through the house plucking cat and dog hair from the floor in clumps), this was impressive to me.  What I learned was that this was a custom throughout the South, and almost everybody had swept yards, including the plantations, which were swept by slaves or servants.  Especially for slaves and poor whites, the swept yard was the most important “room” of the household, the heart of the home.  Again, as you can see from the above picture, the house was very small and cramped and likely hot — plus several kids were being raised here —- so you washed and cooked outside, where everything could be easily swept away.

But it also turns out there was another (very) important practical reason for that swept yard:  with heavy populations of venomous snakes in the Appalachian Mountains, and poorly sealed up homes, not being invaded by a nasty snake was a priority that was right up there on the list.  In fact, one of my other grandmothers was actually killed by a snake that had crawled into her home, so it must have been a real fear.  By sweeping their yards down to the dirt, a perimeter of some safety could be established around the house.  According to Appalachian Magazine, it was the job of children in the morning to go outside and check for snake tracks — if some led under the house, everything was put on hold until the snake was discovered and disposed of.  I can still remember my own mother, normally a gentle woman who would harm nothing, being utterly vicious where snakes were concerned — perhaps very understandable in light of this history!

So, at this time set aside in our calendar to remember and honor those who have gone on before and made our lives possible, I salute you, Grandma Mattie!!  I’ve heard a lot of stories about you, some of ’em good and some of ’em kinda shocking, but none more worthy of respect than knowing what you did out of love to keep your family safe and protected..

My wish:  I wish that people would stop destroying others just because they were once destroyed.  (Salmansohn)

It’s Halloween, a time when we traditionally dress up in scary costumes to frighten others, especially any spirits that might be poking about.  And I’ve finally decided upon my “costume” for this year; let me describe it to you.  I will be a character who is, as we say in the South, “stuck on her or himself.”  I use bullying to control, intimidation to convince, silence to avoid intimacy, anger and rage to hide my insecurities, and am basically obsessed with myself and my own importance.  I lack emotional empathy and do not feel bad if I hurt other people (in fact, I don’t even notice, to tell the truth).  I never accept blame for anything (because it really is always someone else’s fault), and never apologize.  I use an old technique called “gas-lighting” (that’s when I plant seeds of doubt in the other person’s mind about the validity of their feelings or perceptions — helps to confuse them, and I can more easily get my way; telling someone they’re “too sensitive” or “hysterical” if they complain is helpful).  I use procrastination and passivity to protect myself from actually doing anything that might be judged.  And probably I appear to have memory deficits because naturally what I remember is all about me and serves me well.  I never feel guilty (because I’m not!), but I do feel anger and rage, and can become very defensive when I feel put in a bad light — I find it very difficult to remember any events, conversations, or arrangements that contradict me or show me to be in the wrong.  I judge others pretty much by how they look, but do not criticize me!  It makes me very angry when told I have an overbearing conversational style. If I can put others on the defensive, I know I am in control of an argument. Therefore lies do serve me well, but I will never admit to them, and always insist others misunderstand (because they do).

This is my character for this year.  I frighten even myself.

The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves and wiser people so full of doubt.  (Bertrand Russell)

This is the week in our calendar when supposedly the veil between the known and the unknown is the thinnest, the most porous.  The time that the ancients called Samhain, and we have come to call Halloween . . .

And this morning I find myself reflecting on how much I truly don’t know.  I would like to KNOW this morning because I would like to be self-righteously angry over a perceived wrong, but if I’m really honest with myself, I am aware that the person with whom I’m angry  doesn’t have a clue, and while that can be annoying, it’s hardly a reason for teeth-gnashing anger, even if I would like it to be.

Either-Or thinking can be a nasty place to be — as in, either that person is good or bad; there’s no room for a “maybe,” no wiggle room.  That kind of Knowing that it’s either this way or it’s that way can be a very satisfying place to be for awhile, because it gives us a fix, a solution for our anxiety or our ambivalence — we long for security and answers, and our very human fearfulness makes us grasp for the control of having known-for-sure answers (even if we don’t like the nature of the answers).

What I have learned is that “the place of not knowing,” the place of Both-And, as in the person is both good and not-so-hot, is a space in the middle where, if we can tolerate the tension of having no answers, we open ourselves to the Mystery, and allow something new to happen in our lives.  As we leave room for other alternatives, different possibilities for choices can emerge.

What that means for me this morning is that (maybe) I can look at this person with more objectivity and some curiosity, wondering why they did what they did.  Who knows??  I might even start to experience some empathy for what it must be like to be that person.

That place of Not-Knowing seems to be a place of magic, where powers beyond our human selves are free to work, a place, where if we can bear the tension and the strain of that gray land we call Ambiguity, we are given the opportunity to grow up a little more.  Not a bad thing!

I hid and said I was busy.  I was busy, but not in the way most people understand.  I was busy taking deeper breaths.  (B.Oakman)

On this day, let yourself “hide” from the busy distractions of your world, and pay attention to the natural world around you until you find yourself truly awed by the wonder of it.  The veins on a leaf.  The individual tufts of fur on a caterpillar.  The rhythmic sound of a purring cat.  The particular shape of that one cloud.  The brush of the wind across your face.  The sharp bitterness or astringency of that first sip of morning coffee or tea.  The aroma of wood smoke on crisp autumn air.

And then notice how much more deeply you can breathe.

In a world of fear, be courageous.  In a world full of lies, be honest.  In a world where few care, be compassionate.  In a world full of phonies, be yourself.  Because the world sees you.  The world hopes for you.  The world is inspired by you. The world can be better because of you.  (D. Zantamata)

One single life does matter.