Rest beside the weary road

. . .the axe for the frozen sea inside us . .   (Camus). 

For Anais Nin, reading was the alarm to awaken us from the slumber of almost-living.

As I grew up, my parents were loving, but too caught up in their own deep worries and concerns to be very present.  My sister, although she tried, was enough older than I to not be available as a playmate.  As a child, books were my refuge.  I learned the secrets of hidden attics with Nancy Drew.  I sailed down a river in Oregon with the Mercer Boys in their cruise on the Lassie.  The Hardy Boys taught me how to sniff out a hidden clue in the neighbor’s woodshed.    I puzzled over Pilgrim’s Progress.  Early formative experiences for one who grew up to become a shrink, and play detective to the human psyche all those years!

Later, as an adolescent, I learned the values implicit in relationship and romance from the likes of  Grace Livingston Hill.  I fell in love with Emily Loring’s rich and sensual descriptions of rocky coasts and brilliant landscapes and the taste of lobster in New England, delights undreamed of to a mountain kid. Unbeknownst to my mother, I received early and graphic sexual education from Ayn Rand in The Fountainhead.

Books were journeys.  Medicine.  Parties to which I wasn’t invited.  They shaped who I was, and who I would become.  They inspired and transformed me.

And still do, all these years later.  I recently received some dismaying news about some eye issues, and now one of the prayers I have added to my “now I lay me down to sleep” regimen is that I and my eyes last equally long.

Thank you, Books, for being!!  

Teaching troubled children through your presence that there is such a thing as reliable love . . .

But where is it written that we must act as if we do not care, as if we are not moved?  Well, I am moved.  I want a kinder, gentler nation . . .

Our nation . . . A brilliant diversity spread like stars . . . Like a thousand points of light in a broad and peaceful sky . . .

(All quoted from George H.W. Bush’s bid for presidency, 1988)

Regardless of your political persuasions, do you not find these thoughts poignant and moving, especially in the context of our current political climate?  Words matter.  They are a potent force for good or evil.  They literally shape our material world.

The words we speak not only reflect, but shape our thoughts, and our thoughts can change the actual physical structure of our brain.  Recent research in neuroplascity (Sharon Begley) suggests  that the way we think cannot only change the structure of our brain, but can lead to the regrowth of new brain cells, once thought to be impossible.

Through words we are able to implant our thoughts into someone else’s mind.  (And vice versa, making for a good conspiracy theory!)  Words matter.  They literally can shape the way we think, the physical structure of our brain, (imagine that!) and thereby the world in which we are living.

We are inundated with words; it is estimated (NPR) that the average person hears 100,000 words a day.  This doesn’t mean that we take them all in (!), but it sure oughta make us think twice about the words to which we want to listen, and the words we want to speak.

Words matter.  Maybe through careful attention to the words to which we attend, and those words we choose to speak, we really could build that “kinder, gentler world.”

 

 

 

(having set steel trap for Santa). .  . Then I’ll hurry downstairs and free him, and we’ll soon see if a body may see him.  (John Brownjohn, 1877)

Yesterday I read a news piece affirming a mall Santa for supporting a three year old girl for not wanting to sit in his lap, telling her that indeed she had every right to choose — yay, Mall-Santa.  It made me go off on one of my flights of fancy (what an interesting phrase, a flight of fancy.  A soaring of the imagination . . .) about what the REAL Santa might have to say were he to deliver a talk at the local corner cafe.

Which means of course, that I need to channel my own inner Santa, right??  And my own inner Santa turns out to be kinda a cynical old dude, sorta like Bill Maher, who dared to refer to Santa as an “entitled old white dude” and an A******.  (Gasp.)   But that description wars with my love of “up on the housetop reindeer paws,” and “a right jolly old elf,” who makes me laugh when I see him in spite of myself.

So my inner Santa is a schizty character, determined to do good, but having a pretty good idea that the notion of “no good deed going unpunished” has some truth to it.  So, his lecture to those of us scarfing down latte and scones at the local coffee shack?

”Hang in there, folks.  The Doomsday Clock might be set at 90 seconds to midnight, the closest to global catastrophe we’ve ever been, but it’s not too late to build a better world, one milli-second at a time.  Choose.  Conspiracy theories and a world view where there are boogers behind every bush might have some truth to ‘em, but they don’t make you happier, and more capable of random acts of kindness.  Choose.  In this second, you have the greatest gift of all.  Your capacity to choose.”

You go, Santa!

 

 

When I despair, I remember that throughout all of history, the way of truth and love have always won.   (Gandhi)

You can say any foolish thing to a dog and he’ll give you a look that says, “Wow, you’re right!  I would never have thought of that!”  (Dave Barry)

OKAY is my dog DaffyDoodle’s favorite word.  To her, it seems to mean that not only has she “done good”, but that something wonderful, delightful, novel, stimulating, fun, and probably involving treats or toys is about to occur.  Oh, to have a word that filled me with such joy.

Her enthusiasm this morning as I invited her back into the house after a frigid early morning pee break got me wondering where the word okay, a strange little sound when you stop to think of it, came from.  According to the History Channel, it is probably an  abbreviation or orl korrect, a humorous form for all correct, popularized as a slogan during the 1840 presidential campaign of President Van Buren; his nickname Old Kinderhook, (derived from his birthplace), provided the initials.  Such an innocuous beginning for a word that has become so iconic during the last 200 years, and not just for the English-speaking world.

When the world as you’ve known it has ended, and someone holds you close and murmurs,  “It’ll be okay”, and even though you know it won’t, it somehow helps.  Things might not be good, excellent, outstanding, or even satisfactory, but somehow, someway, okay reassures us.

Incumbent President Van Buren, by the way, lost that 1840 election to William Henry Harrison, 60 electoral votes to 234.  But it was all okay.  In fact, he, the loser Van Buren, even started it being okay.

The gift of life.  No matter what it is bringing you, it will change.  And at this moment, it is what it is.  And we go on.  We somehow cope.  And in that there can be enormous peace.

Okay.

 

If we did not laugh at the fools that we are, we would weep at the knaves we are.  (Jung)

Last night I watched a 1997 Norman Lear retrospective celebrating 200 episodes of the iconic All in the Family, and I was moved to laughter and tears as I watched and remembered.  I went to bed, thinking how in many respects, very little had changed in the last 44 years.

On December 14, 2017, I wrote a post in these pages entitled Hallelujah Anyway.  Much of it is also just as relevant today as it was six years ago, even though our country and the world has been around the block a time or two.  Some of that post is copied below:

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In a recent interview in Salon, Anne Lamott, author of Hallelujah Anyway, was asked about our last election:

It feels like a lot of things have come into more dramatic relief since the election, and that there’s a particular political vindictiveness now.  What do you think about the need for mercy in politics and culture now?    I think that things did change on the evening of November 8 . . .  Trump is president, and the world is scary, and we’re an extremely vulnerable species.  But you know what?  Hallelujah anyway.  We’re here.  I love my people.  I love my animals.  It’s a beautiful day outside here today  . . . it’s like having a miracle — a miracle is tough and messy and time-consuming . . There’s a level of hatred and insanity in our country now, and some days you wake up and feel like there’s a sniper in the trees.   But we still stick together; we lurch ever onward.

Isn’t that phrase Hallelujah Anyway enormously relieving? — like a long sigh —  With “hatred and insanity” and a degree of political polarization in our country that is alarming in its potential to rip us apart as a society, that reassurance and encouragement to shift our thinking even a fraction is so welcome.  And it somehow draws us back to a more centered, balanced place, and gives us a sense of proportion, a bit of a different perspective.

Miracles are tough and messy and time-consuming, Lamott says.  Implicit in the idea of chaos is disorder, confusion, unpredictability.  Sounds like chaos and miracles, those “highly improbable or extraordinary events, developments, or accomplishments that bring very welcome consequences,” are kissing cousins.

How would our lives (and maybe even our political viewpoints!) be different if we believed that out of the messy, chaotic times in our lives would come new life, fresh creativity, new beginnings?  And who wouldn’t want that??

And you know what?  It’s mighty hard to say Hallelujah Anyway without smiling, and sometimes even laughing.

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So, on this day, six years later, here’s to chaos and miracles and Norman Lear, and the healing tenderness of being able to laugh at ourselves.

Difficult to discern (!), especially before dawn’s early light, but that slushy stuff covering the bittersweet in the urn outside my pantry door is the first snow of the season.  We have maybe an inch, following rain all day yesterday from that cold front I mentioned that was supposed to blow through yesterday.  The forecast gales never developed, but the temperature evidently dropped enough to give us some white stuff.  For those of you who are not fans of the white stuff, I’ll quit caroling on about it, but it’s very beautiful.  I see there’s a winter weather advisory out, and I’m  supposed to go see a friend this morning who lives two mountains away — we’ll see . . .

Maybe it’s that very uncertainty that seems to always accompany a snowfall, or an anticipated snowfall, that adds to either the liking or the aversion to snow.  I loved those mornings as a child when snow often meant no school — even tho’ I loved school! — it was just the disruption of it all, perhaps. . . .

Since then I have sadly learned, as do we all, that “disruptions” in our established routines can be very off-putting and even disturbingly tragic.  One has only to glance at the day’s world events to be assured of that.

But enough of that.  This piece of writing is not going in that direction, on this day at least.  The unexpected “good” stuff —  You win the lottery . . .  Out of the blue, you get a dream job offer . . .  Your dearest friend from across the country shows up at your door . . .

The event in my own life about which I’m reminded is meeting my now-spouse after seven years of being widowed.  I had grieved and grieved after unexpectedly losing my husband in 2003, and settled into being single again, thinking never to fall in love again.  And along came a crusty old codger who made me laugh again . . .

Amongst the rows of the “planned-for” in our gardens, in our lives, can we make room for that unexpected, but elegant and exquisite weed??  I have to admit, growing up in my particular family, and with a healthy dose of a dour Scots-Irish ancestry, I am usually looking at these unexpected happenings with narrowed suspicious eyes and a “yes, but . . .” attitude, always aware that “yeah, but now I’ll be besieged with people wanting money if I win the lottery” or “yeah, but I’ll have to move if I get that new job” or “uh, oh, I haven’t vacuumed” if that dear friend shows up.

Oh, what it means to be human!  On this day, may I embrace the unexpected blessing, without having to anticipate the inevitable crap that’s gonna accompany it.

The joy of snow . . .

 

Heavy wind and rain are forecast for today, blowing in on the wings of a strong cold front that brought dangerous tornadoes to adjoining states yesterday.  It is so warm now — at 4 a.m., it is 60 degrees — that it feels a bit ominous for December 10th in this hollow of our Appalachian Mountains.  But for now, it is very quiet and calm in the darkened house, and I don’t even need to huddle in a quilt as I usually do as I write.

We discovered a new restaurant yesterday, one of those delightfully homey ones that make you feel like an honored guest rather than a customer.  The waiter plied my husband with all the blue cheese he could have desired, and he was beamingly satisfied when we left.  We will return; these folks know the art of hospitality.

I have a friend like that.  We were invited to a second Thanksgiving dinner at her home, and the entire family received us in such a warm, “we-are-so-fortunate-to-have-you” manner that we felt like honored guests.  And the food!!!   Those three exclamation marks say it all.

My sister has even trained her two young cats (if one can ever be said to “train” a cat, since all us cat owners know the opposite is true) to receive guests with open paws and hearts.  If Peter and Piper could talk, they would be leaping about joyfully, shouting, “yay, yay, she’s here, this person is here who gives the best belly rubs in the whole world, yay, yay!!”  Makes you feel downright welcome.

I, on the other hand, have cats who scurry under the sofa when anyone comes, and one dog who entertains with the explosive and mind-splitting call of his ancestors, while the other jumps about in frenzied and alarming joy at the possibilities of Possibility.  Plus a bird who for the last 20 + years has greeted guests with his only sound, a long seductive wolf whistle, also somewhat alarming.  (I have to admit to training him to do that for ego-enhancing reasons — I also trained him to sing other lovely songs, but this was the only one that took.)

Some folks just have the gift of hospitality.  And what a heart-warming one it is!  One to be treasured and hugged to one’s heart with humble gratitude . . .

My mother, who was a shy person who would probably rather have hidden under the sofa like Pickles my cat, and also the one who likely instilled in me a love of quotations that still swirl randomly about in my head today,  often quoted (or misquoted: “be careful to be hospitable, ‘cause you might be entertaining angels unawares.”

So on this day of wind and rain and storms, here’s to the art of hospitality!  I’m gonna bake Christmas cookies, just in case someone drops by.

 

When your faculties begin discussing their future amongst themselves, excluding you from even suggestion making, you have reached old(er) age — a vast wonderland of familiarities that once were unmistakably you.  (Paraphrased, Susan Mrosak)

Oh, better to go to Google any day to savor derivatives, as you weep hot tears, than watch the runway lengthening to a blue scream.  (Maxine Kumin)

Staggering to the bathroom in the uncertain hours of early morning is an adventure these days, as you watch your legs taking on a circuitous route of their own.  Your knees, you notice, particularly seem to want to veer to the left rather than the more direct route your brain is indicating.  But you eventually make it, and after relieving yourself, then again have an indecisive moment when you and your knees have a discussion about the best strategy to stand up.

I am becoming more philosophical about it all, having decided that, as the Jungian analyst James Hillman says, growing down/older means going with the sag of gravity that accompanies aging rather than fighting it.

He also talks about the world being made up more of verbs rather than nouns — “the oriole doesn’t see a branch, but rather an occasion for perching; the cat doesn’t see a thing we call an empty box; it sees safe hiding for peering.  The bear doesn’t smell honeycomb, but the opportunity for delicious feeding.  The world is buzzing and blooming with information, always available . . .”  A world inviting us to take part.

Kinda like I talked about yesterday in these pages when I suggested putting ourselves in the sunshine, choosing how we want to perceive an event or happening.   Seeing the world in verbs sure brings us into an appreciation of the present moment because we’re forced to embrace uncertainty.

I think I was never more aware of this verb business than when several years ago during a blizzard, a substantial piece of my land suddenly shifted or “landed” — what I had always considered a fixed noun, my LAND — was going about the process of LANDING — perhaps a process perfectly obvious to the reader, but I was amazed.  Maybe it goes back to that phrase “the ground shifted beneath her feet,” when we have a sudden insight or realization.

How I do meander on.  Kinda like that circuitous route to the bathroom in the mornings.  Ah, well.  Thanks for your patience as I free associate on the way.  😵‍💫

 

 

 

 

 

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You can’t expect to hit the jackpot if you don’t PUT a few nickels in the machine.  (Flip Wilson)

You can PUT wings on a pig, but you don’t make it an eagle.  (William J. Clinton)

This morning I awoke with the odd little question “where can I put Christmas?”, and then drifted back off to sleep, dreaming of my family of origin going out for ice cream, but in the dream I first had to catch and secure my mother’s dog Sunshine.

Securing Sunshine and where to put Christmas.  It doesn’t take a Jungian to figure out that the Dreammaker is maybe suggesting the adoption of a more positive frame of reference.  Maybe . . .

When I was little, and saw my mother was worried, I would often try to distract her with the suggestion. “Let’s talk about Christmas,” which for me at that time was the most cheerful possibility I could think of.  And it often worked.

Physician, heal thyself!  Let’s talk about Christmas.  And where can I “put” it (Christmas) in my life?  To put means to “place or move into a particular position” or “bring into a particular state or condition.”  Such a small, seemingly inconsequential word, PUT.  With such big ramifications.

Just think of the certainty of always knowing where to put things — the sofa — the dog — our money, time and attention — our words — our feelings —

Put your money where your mouth is . . . Don’t put all your eggs in one basket . . . The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain ( Dolly Parton) . . .  Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm (Abraham Lincoln) . . .  Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I shall not put (Winston Churchill) . . .

Oh, my.  Where to PUT Christmas is no small matter.  On this day, I shall keep the question close.

Thinking — the talking of the soul with itself.  (Plato)

It is the job of thinking people not to be on the side of the executioners.  (Unknown)

As I sit here this morning in the semi-darkened house with the glow of the Christmas tree lights reflected in my computer screen, I marvel at the kaleidoscope of thoughts that ramble through my mind . . .  memories , reflections, gots-to-do’s . . .  some of the thoughts have tiny emotions attached to them, dragging the feelings along behind like a child pulling a little sister or brother on a sled.  Those thoughts are heavier, and take longer to make it across the surface of my mind.  Sometimes they get stuck, too, heavy-going.  Some are so trivial that they are drivel; some of course are profound 😌; others are surprising.   Some are eye-widening, even to me, and I think of the old saying that if even one woman told the truth about her life, it would rock the foundations of the world — and I don’t mean the “truths” scattered across cyberspace everyday, but the Truth buried under mountains of debris.

It’s “always wondered me” how and why people think, which is probably why I became a shrink.  Even as a child, I would think to myself, how can they act that way?  What are they thinking?  And in my self-righteous (or maybe brilliant??) child-mind, I would say to myself, that can’t be right.  Way back then is when all that emotional baggage got attached to thoughts, I reckon.

By now my intrepid reader(s) (if I have any) is probably thinking “ this woman thinks entirely too much” — news to my spouse, who expresses the opinion frequently that I only “feel.”  Ah, well, some of our thoughts can get us in trouble with our dearest and nearest, and we learn to keep ‘em in a vault.  How valued those people are in our lives around whom we feel safe enough to say most anything, and have it gently or humorously accepted . . .

As we get older, there are SO many thoughts that no wonder we forget a lot of them, hopefully not the original, world-changing ones.  Those, the brilliant ones, we share with each other on park benches, and quilting circles, and over coffee at the corner cafe, sometimes just drivin’ along a country road.

So when someone trusts you enough to share some of those free-floating thoughts, dear reader, treat them as gently and with as much awe as you would precious crystal or a new-born  baby.  They are amongst the most valuable things that Other has to give you.