Rest beside the weary road

Because to take away a man’s freedom of choice, even his freedom to make the wrong choice, is to manipulate him as though he were a puppet and not a person. (Madeline L’Engle)

If you can’t control your peanut butter, you can’t control your life. (Calvin and Hobbes)

Nary a single flake of snow.  No perfect chair yet.  Big box store monstrosity together, but doesn’t work.  Could be a right discouragin’ morning were I to let it, but . . .  The cup of coffee I have cradled in my hands feels pleasantly warm, and the aroma of French Roast can’t be beat.  The house is hushed, with no animals shouting for attention or Friskies yet.  I am anticipating the comfort of coffee and scones with a friend later this morning.  And the lights of the Christmas tree shine steadily down on me in the darkened house.

It’s a cocoon of peace and warmth, and I’m so grateful for this moment.  It is often difficult to hold onto that peace later on in the day when some of the horrors of the world seem so omnipresent, and it can become so easy to let guilt intrude over being safe and warm and well-fed when so many suffer.

But I know that my task is to live the life that I have been given with as much courage and consciousness and generosity as I can.  And so I breathe in an awareness of the pain, and breathe out loving compassion, and a determination to do what I can where it is given to me to act.

Sounds kinda sanctimonious, but it is at least something to which to aspire . . .  But a little plaque in my kitchen helps me keep my control fantasies in proportion:  This killing them with kindness is taking longer than expected.  After all, we gotta keep a sense of humor and perspective in our arrogant assumptions of knowing what is best for others.

Ah, control fantasies.  Born of anxiety, and boogers for us to live with.  And for our nearest and dearest to live with!  If only others would believe and act as I think they should, what a better world this would be.  Jawohl!

It always makes me smile when I realize my initials are (at least for the last 13 years) HA.  Ha, ha. It sorta deflates my arrogant assumptions that I know best, and does away with any sense of control or omnipotence, and puts me in my place in the scheme of things.

So for yet another morning, I have subdued my urges to control the world.   I truly know nothing.  Back to chair searches, warm coffee, the anticipation of snow sometime this winter . . .  And maybe throw in some kindness along the way, altho’ it truly is taking longer than expected.

Ha.  Ha.

Imagination is everything . . .  (Albert Einstein)

The first snowflakes of the winter are forecast for today, and there’s always a small bubble of excitement as a result.  I wonder why; my husband certainly doesn’t share it, as he gloomily gazes out at our half mile lane that connects to the main road, imagining cold mornings cranking up the tractor to plow, I guess.  Our little hollow in Appalachia is in the midst of a pretty severe drought, so the moisture will be welcome, I say virtuously.  Naturally that goes over well.

I always secretly hope that the smug forecasters will miss it, and we’ll have a “big ‘un,” like back in ‘79, when in early October we got THREE FEET (snow always necessitates at least a slight exaggeration), when only rain was forecast.  My (other) husband and I were taking a gap year that year, and we were without power for SIX weeks in the small mountain cabin in which we were staying.  Wow!  And then there was the blizzard of ‘93, when we got stuck en route on an interstate in Birmingham for THREE nights ( they don’t plow “too good” in Birmingham) . . .

But enough.  We will, in all probability, have a few lazy flakes.  But — always . . .  the possibility . . .

I am not a person who can really sit around and think about regrets, because from every bad experience that you have, there is something weirdly good that comes from it.  (Winona Ryder)

”There’s a pony in here somewhere,” said the little boy shoveling      horse poop.

Yesterday my husband and I spent much of the day trying to put together a rather complicated outdoor structure purchased from a big box store.  After hours of attempting to understand directions obviously written for someone who had not spent much of their lives trying to earn a PhD, we got to Step #6, (of at least 20 —I had been afraid to look) only to find that we had done Step #1 WRONG.  I should have known, as each step had been accompanied by the cryptic little warning “do not tighten screws yet.”  Arugghhhh.  In the process, I missed two events to which I had hoped to go, a community Winter Fest, and a hymn sing at a nearby church.

I went to bed feeling out of sorts and defeated, knowing that the next day (as in today, oh woe), each one of those #@<x! screws was gonna have to be removed and we were gonna have to do it all over again.  And although I wasn’t sure HOW, I knew it was ALL my husband’s fault, especially the part about my being disappointed about missing my two looked-forward-to events —- much more satisfying than acknowledging that at any point I could have set aside my compulsive need to find where THAT particular screw fit, and walked away to eat cotton candy and sing hymns.

And this morning, I awoke with a disturbing and sad little dream of having forgotten a small girl’s name, knowing it would have meant so much to her if I could have remembered it.  One more reminder that “Helen, you’re gonna have to do something about that annoying obsessive persistence of yours,” knowing that it was of course my own doing that caused me to miss my looked-forward-to events and disappoint that part of me that is Child.   And I also have learned over the years of dreaming, that when that part of me that is child is disappointed, I will either pay for it, or perhaps more unfortunately, make someone else pay for it.

And so this morning I sit here in the dark under the Christmas tree feeling even more defeated, especially now that I have been reminded by The Dreammaker that I was gonna have to take responsibility for my own actions rather than having the satisfying experience of blaming my husband.  Enough to make one do a little teeth-gnashing.

But, y’know, I also feel freer.  Because if it’s about ME, I can choose to do something different.  And somehow, that’s gonna make it easier to go out on that back porch and start all over again assembling that big box store monstrosity.

.              Memories, tucked between the pages of my mind . . .     Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine.  Quiet thoughts come floating down, and settle softly to the ground . . (Elvis)            

Curling up under the Christmas tree (no perfect chair yet) offers a poignant perspective of ornaments from 77 years of collecting — the quilted mailbox from my dear friend Martha, no longer with us, who tenderly cared for me following the death of my husband.  The ragged teddy bear, missing an arm and an ear, eaten by a beloved dog of many generations ago, the one who ate all my guinea chicks.  The glitzy, jeweled balls I made in graduate school instead of working on my dissertation.  A tiny piece of sheet music from a friend now dealing with cancer. A worn Santa who brings back the memory of my mother reading us The Night Before Christmas every Christmas Eve . . .

Sometimes the sacred places inside us where we store all these memories seem too full to bear, and sometimes they are precious sites where we can go to laugh and cry and give thanks.   Don’t you hope at some time in the future when you are no longer earthbound, some other will think of you with a fond smile, and gratitude that you were known?  Maybe we should give everyone we know a Christmas ornament to make sure.

This morning as I sit here in the semi-darkness listening to a cold rain falling softly on the porch, my favorite ornament (my “favorite” changes daily, of course) is a LSU Geaux Tigers tiger, bringing back images of an engagement ring presented at an LSU-Ole Miss football game, the tiny diamond reflected a million times by the stadium lights, and thus appearing to me ginormous.  Canny Cajuns.

I have always wished to be canny, and even with those 77 years of experience tucked away in my Experience Bag, I’m still not sure I can lay claim to that adjective.  “Canny Helen.”  Nope, I’m not sure any of my friends or family would use that descriptor.  But I still aspire to that slitty-eyed “shrewdness.”   Some day.  Maybe.

On this day of Advent, may your memories bring you solace.  And maybe even laughter.

  The quest for certainty blocks the quest for meaning.   (Fromm)

A jumble of thoughts float about haphazardly in my head, with no consideration for meaning, importance, anything.  But I am committed to this process for this Season of Advent — for a reason I have yet to name, for readers with whom I feel out of touch (if they’re even out there), for — what?  It has been two years since I last wrote in these pages, although I have filled reams of pages in my private journals.  Do I have anything at all to say to anyone else, or is this process important only for me?  And if so, why?  What?  And if these questions are all I’ve got goin’ for me, and for you the reader, I might as well stop right now.

The lights of the Christmas tree seem rather sparse and stingy to me this morning, with little magic.  A couple of wrapped boxes lie under the tree, seemingly offering promise, but they are empty.  Sort of like me.  I had resolved to put together a book of daily meditations this year, offering some thoughts and reflections that had taken me further down the road on my own inner journey.  And here it is, already December, and no book.  But there are thousands, maybe millions of these reflections already out there — does the world really need another?  Do I need to do this?

I doubt any readers will be affected long term by anything I have to say.  For instance, this morning in my private journaling, I was whining to myself about space, not having the “perfect” chair in which to create a nest,  I had gone on yet another quest this week to find one, visiting several furniture stores, and finally finding just one that just might have been The One, but alas, it had been discontinued, and the floor model had upholstery that my cats would have shredded in less time than it would take for them to say, “give me more Friskies”.  So I am still only Perching, not snuggled into the perfect chair-nest of my imaginings, one that will serve my aging body’s ever-changing and crankily demanding needs.

How does Perching serve me, I wonder, since I seem unable to get away from having to do it?  It keeps me from getting too comfortable, I guess, and immediately I am reminded of the idea that there are some angels whose only function is to make sure you don’t get too comfortable and fall asleep and miss your life.  Humph.  Today I will continue my quest.  I am tired of making do, I WANT the perfect chair.  If not now, when??

So, dear Reader, you choose.  Has it really been worth it to read these few lines?  Was it a complete waste of time?  Rather than complaining about my inability to find a suitable chair for an aging body, I could have whined about the “interesting” experience of living with an aging spouse, or the existential horrors of a world situation none of us seem able to fathom or comprehend, or how all my older friends seem a little lost and wandering. . .

But for today, I will Perch, and distract myself with a search — everything serves a purpose.

The call to simplicity and freedom is a reminder that our worth comes not from the amount of our involvements, achievements, or possessions, but from the depth and care which we bring into each moment, place, and person in our lives.  (Bower)

Happy New Year!

As a gift to you this Christmas, I am offering a bit of my daily meditation, most frequently happening in the early dawn, on the porch swing of my mountain porch.  These days it happens under the Christmas tree.

The love of God is greater far than tongue or pen can ever tell . . .

The light of God surrounds me.

It goes beyond the highest star and reaches to the lowest hell . . .

The love of God enfolds me.

O love of God, how rich and pure, how measureless and strong . . .

The power of God protects me.

It shall forever more endure — the saints,’ the angels,’  song. . .

The presence of God watches over me.  For wherever I am, God is, and all is well.

The unfathomable Mystery that created, set into motion, brought into being, such incredible Beauty and Order; that enabled myths and stories and songs that fill our souls with wonder and awe; that can “save” us, whatever that may mean to you; and that invites us to participate in this creative process that we call Life   . . . .

And every year during this time, we celebrate in sacred stories the birth of these possibilities in us all over again.  To create.  To be kind.  To offer gifts of beauty, and peace, and comfort.  May you find them.  May you give them.

She was not quite refined.  She was not quite unrefined.  She was the kind of person who keeps a parrot.  (Mark Twain)

Our blackmail scheme was foolproof!  And just in case a threat to spill the beans to our head-hancho’s wife regarding his long-time philandering wasn’t of sufficient magnitude to get him to call off his hounds, we had some well-supported falsehoods in our back pocket that should do the trick.  And we wanted very little:  just his promise to back off and leave us in our blissful retired state.

And of course there was the not-so-small matter of my destroyed Platanthera azorica.  I was sure that with the proper persuasion he would be convinced to see things my way.

But much to our utter surprise and shock, when presented with the entire picture, our former grand and fearless leader adamantly denied any involvement whatsoever in the fiasco on the patio of the NoName Cafe.  We knew him well enough to know when he was telling the truth versus his more common pattern of prevaricating.  He left, chuckling to himself, the scoundrel.

Back to the drawing boards.  If not The Company, then who??  We’d pretty much accounted for the whereabouts of all our known enemies of old.

I sat on the patio mulling over the situation sipping a cup of tea.  Neville was preparing the evening meal, and Cuddles sat nearby, quietly chattering to himself.  What a talkative creature he is, I thought to myself, and how lucky we were that Matilda had given him to us.  I had really become quite found of the rascal.  And the patrons of the cafe loved him, frequently tossing him bits and pieces of their dinners as he screamed obscenities and choice phrases at them.

As I got up to pluck a few dead blossoms from the hanging plants, I wondered idly where he had learned  such choice language.  And such interesting . . .

Holy Mother.  It couldn’t be!  Matilda!  One of the few persons for whom I had a smidgeon of trust.  I had counted her as a friend even.

Pride goeth before a fall, the nuns always said.  Those thugs hadn’t been after us at all — it was Cuddles who was the one important enough to shoot up a patio on a sleepy Sunday morning.  They really had been after him all along, because of all the secrets about Matilda he held in that pea-brain and busy tongue.

And later, when we confronted her, she tearfully confessed to everything, begging our forgiveness and claiming temporary insanity.  Ha.  We can forgive idiocy, but the little matter of my Platanthera was still on the table.  She blanched a bit when I told her how much it was worth, but antied up.  And we promised to cover for her regarding any indiscretions, past or future, on Cuddles’ part, provided she never again try to harm him.

Later, I gave Cuddles his special treat, a thimble of Guinness.  Maybe even two, I thought.  After all, with a tongue loosened by a little stout, who knew what stories he had to tell . . .

The trite answer is that everything is true but none of it and happened.  It is emotionally true, but the events, the plotting, the narrative, isn’t true of my life, although I’ve experienced most of the emotions experienced by the characters in the play.  (Marber)

The following night, I asked a few friends to participate with me in my nightly dance performance at the NoName.  Our performance was superb, and we got a gratifyingly enthusiastic audience response.  In fact, the number of encores that we were called back to do enabled another one of my friends, dressed and bewigged just as I, to slip into my place unnoticed by anyone.

And I simply — disappeared.

For all intents and purposes, “I” was still at the cafe in the days that followed, carrying on our regular routine as always, with Neville.  Where I really was shall remain unspoken, but suffice it to say that a great deal of reconnaissance took place during this time, as well as gleaning information from former colleagues, and calling in some old debts.

What I learned seemed to point to the strong probability that the assumption that Neville and I had come up with — that our former employers were trying to lure us back into the field by making us think that a vendetta was in the works — was almost a certainty.

Pleased with my findings, I returned to the NoName, slipping in and exchanging places with my friend, again with no one the wiser.

Neville and I then proceeded to put Phase Two of our plan into effect by calling our former handler and supervisor at The Company, and telling him that we had learned of a vendetta existing that had brought about a vicious attack upon us and our cafe, and we wanted to re-enter the network temporarily in order to take care of it.  Following a lot of idiotic questioning and bogus hemming and hawing, he agreed, and suggested a meeting.

Aha!  The stage was set.  The players were in place.  All I had to do was get the cooperation of my old friend Matilda, who just happened to be the long-time paramour of our Company contact.  And as I had suspected she would be, she was as indignant as I over what had happened to us.  The fact that she was the former owner of Cuddles, of whom she was inordinately fond, didn’t hurt in gaining her cooperation. Nor did the fact that Cuddles knew all her secrets, and didn’t hesitate to babble them freely, naming names and telling tales.

With the last piece in place, we were ready for Phase Three.

(to be continued)