This morning as I sit and write there are something like a gazillion things going on in my head at the same time. It is sort of warm and muggy outside and I don't want to be outside, but hubby has turned on the air conditioner to see if it works (oh, it works all right!) and it's actually kind of cold in here. Muggy out, winter in. A series of events have happened to me recently...well, see that's the problem. They haven't happened TO me, they have happened around me, pushing on me, without piercing the skin so to speak.
A friend's husband died. I almost, almost wrote passed away. As far as euphemisms go, I know everyone uses it. But he didn't pass away, he died. He isn't coming back. Unless he was the Messiah and I'm pretty sure, nice guy though he was, he isn't. My friend, his wife is beautiful, younger than me and has two gorgeous girls who are either graduated or going to be from college. Life will progress for them, because you can't stop it no matter how much you might want to. But he won't be there for the milestones with them. It is indeed a fact about life.
Another friend of mine went in for surgery on his heart. He has a big heart...in the again euphemistic sense. His physical heart I'm sure is normal sized. While on the table as they were "mucking about" they found not one blocked artery, but three, so they repaired them. One week after that surgery...one week...he was in church this morning. And although he didn't bear hug me as is the usual greeting, his hand was still warm and firm as we clasped each other. I looked into his eyes and his awareness of his mortality reached out and grabbed me as no prayer chain had been able. He was there sitting in the pew with his wife and mother-in-law and I was so grateful for his presence that I almost, almost cried. This surgery which made sure he will be there for a while, is definitely a fact of life as well.
There is a gentleman from my church who has been there for as long as I can remember. I related to hubby that his house was one of the first places I visited when I was a newly minted member and committee meetings were frequently held at people's houses instead of at church. His home was warm and friendly and the meetings although not accomplishing much, were always fun and entertaining. He and I say hello always with that gleam of humor in our eyes of those days. It was announced in church today that he is in the hospital again with Leukemia. He has had to have a tracheal tube placed in his throat so he can breathe. He isn't expected to be with us much longer. His wife of how-ever-many-years passed away last month. He stated quite clearly that she was his best friend and he didn't know what he would do without her. He probably won't be without her too much longer. This is definitely another fact of life.
I'm writing all these thoughts down, depressing though they are because they are under my skin. They are hammering away at my faith. They are annoying the hell out of me. My faith is based on the "Good News", but all I've gotten in the past week is bad. Well, not all bad. My big-hearted friend is doing okay. But I was really worried about him and his wife for a while there, so I'm counting that as bad for now. And what I'm finding is this: I wasn't promised anything when I said I was a Christian. I was not promised that I would not feel bad, or lost or lonely or sad. I was never promised that I would never feel those things. I was promised that God would be there in the midst of those things, if I would lift up my eyes and see or reach out my hand and grope for his. But these are physical sensations of a physical world and God as I know him is not physical right now. Yes, he is present in my family and friends hugs and encouragement. Yes, he was present in the words of the sermon this morning and God was speaking to me, I'm sure in those words. But I want the experience of touching Jesus' robe and feeling the power. I want the Road to Emmaus to happen to me, where Jesus walks physically with me and explains all, so I no longer have to be confused, or mad or sad. And this is arrogance. Bad, my fellow believers would say--very bad--I can almost see them slapping the backs of my hands in admonishment. But my vessel is almost empty and I feel the need for nourishment from the well. But I don't know where the well is and I don't know how to get to it and when I get there, there will be only me and the well and a tin cup to lower and get a drink, God will not be physically there with me, will he? and if ever there was a time when I needed the body of Christ to be present, it isn't in the wafer I got this morning...it needs to be the body of Christ incarnate. But it just ain't gonna happen that way unless I guess if the world is ending today...
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
planting and pruning and digging and thinking
The thing of it is, I like to garden. I'm not consistent at it necessarily. But once I pick a day/time/whatever, I'm devoted. I like clearing away the clutter and making a space for flowers, or small trees or even rocks or statuary if inclined. But I'm not consistent. I'm not going to win any prizes in the Gardening club (not that they are even aware of my existence--an exclusive bunch--the Garden Club of the Bubble). Anyway, the way I garden reminds me of the way I write. It sort of also reminds me of the way my older brother and I think.
For example, I went out to the front yard this afternoon. My husband recently hacked down a bush he felt was not serving it's purpose. I have yet to determine what purpose he thought it should have...but whatever. Anyway, There was sort of a bare spot that will eventually be replaced with another shrub (or shrubbery as the Pythonians would say). But for now, it's bare. Oh, good. A blank slate. I went out with my gardening gloves, my small spade for overturning the dirt, my block of sturdy foam to kneel on and a plant that was begun inside but really needed to be outside as it's actually a tree and I planted the seed pod in the house, just to see if I could do it. So, I take my garden shovel and push it down into the dirt. It sinks easily as it's been raining like the 10th day of Noah's prediction and everything is pretty soggy. It's then I begin to notice several things at once. For example, there are hundreds of saplings for some kind of tree in this flowerbed. So I should yank them out. which I begin doing in earnest only to find that they aren't aware that the rest of the weeds gave up after the 2nd day of rain and were just waiting to be plucked. Oh, no! These saplings have settled in for the long haul and some poor excuse for a gardener isn't going to get them out! We struggle for a bit and I go and get the shovel. Take that you rooted tyrants I whisper under my breath. And they release their hold. Now I have to put them somewhere until I can add them to the compost heap in the back yard. My husband bought a couple of these nifty basket like thingees that collapse down into a circle but when you release the buttons on the side, they spring up fully formed into trash holding baskets. So I went to the garage and hunted one of them up. Checking to make sure a nearby tarantula hadn't taken up residence, I unleashed the baskets and began to fill it with the conquered saplings. There is a sense of victory about this unlike anything else. So I begin again to dig a hole for the little tree begun in the house. Remember the little tree I talked about three paragraphs ago? And I notice something else, There are these little pill bugs scampering all over the ground. Sowbugs they're called. They look like tiny armadillos without the snout. And they are running here and there from the hole I've just dug. I watch them for a while, wondering where they will end up and hoping it won't be in our basement, but really if they do, what does it matter? It's isn't as if they smell or anything...or do they? Well, I realize that if I don't plant the tree soon that I brought outside, it will begin to rain on me and I have no desire to get caught in the rain. I dig a little more, move some dirt around, then place the tree in the hole, and cover the roots which are starting to look cramped in their beautiful pottery pot, but really they needed to get out of there. I pat the dirt around gently and notice that the birds in the front yard in back of me are making an awful racket. I turn to watch them as they confront each other squawking and wings beating each other. I can't decided if they are being territorial or this is their version of "Dancing With The Stars." By now, an hour has passed and my sneakers, which have hundreds of tiny little ridges in the bottom of them for decoration, no doubt, are filled to the brim with freshly turn dirt, thereby ruining whatever traction I might hope to have and also ensuring that I will not be wearing them into the house for the next 8 hours until the dirt dries and I can bang them against each other to clear them out. I trudge back to the compost heap with the saplings shushing against each other hoping I won't notice they in the basket and set them free in the midst of orange rinds and other fecund matter. Good luck I think, you're gonna need it in there!
See gardening is looking at a clean slate and realizing the hundreds of ways to go from just this one point. I came in the house to write this post and was met with the sight of a single rose blooming from a miniature rose bush my son gave me for Mother's Day a few years ago. I like the way I garden. And I like the way I think. They are related as my brother and I are. And I think this is a good thing. Just like that pop-up trash bin thingee.
For example, I went out to the front yard this afternoon. My husband recently hacked down a bush he felt was not serving it's purpose. I have yet to determine what purpose he thought it should have...but whatever. Anyway, There was sort of a bare spot that will eventually be replaced with another shrub (or shrubbery as the Pythonians would say). But for now, it's bare. Oh, good. A blank slate. I went out with my gardening gloves, my small spade for overturning the dirt, my block of sturdy foam to kneel on and a plant that was begun inside but really needed to be outside as it's actually a tree and I planted the seed pod in the house, just to see if I could do it. So, I take my garden shovel and push it down into the dirt. It sinks easily as it's been raining like the 10th day of Noah's prediction and everything is pretty soggy. It's then I begin to notice several things at once. For example, there are hundreds of saplings for some kind of tree in this flowerbed. So I should yank them out. which I begin doing in earnest only to find that they aren't aware that the rest of the weeds gave up after the 2nd day of rain and were just waiting to be plucked. Oh, no! These saplings have settled in for the long haul and some poor excuse for a gardener isn't going to get them out! We struggle for a bit and I go and get the shovel. Take that you rooted tyrants I whisper under my breath. And they release their hold. Now I have to put them somewhere until I can add them to the compost heap in the back yard. My husband bought a couple of these nifty basket like thingees that collapse down into a circle but when you release the buttons on the side, they spring up fully formed into trash holding baskets. So I went to the garage and hunted one of them up. Checking to make sure a nearby tarantula hadn't taken up residence, I unleashed the baskets and began to fill it with the conquered saplings. There is a sense of victory about this unlike anything else. So I begin again to dig a hole for the little tree begun in the house. Remember the little tree I talked about three paragraphs ago? And I notice something else, There are these little pill bugs scampering all over the ground. Sowbugs they're called. They look like tiny armadillos without the snout. And they are running here and there from the hole I've just dug. I watch them for a while, wondering where they will end up and hoping it won't be in our basement, but really if they do, what does it matter? It's isn't as if they smell or anything...or do they? Well, I realize that if I don't plant the tree soon that I brought outside, it will begin to rain on me and I have no desire to get caught in the rain. I dig a little more, move some dirt around, then place the tree in the hole, and cover the roots which are starting to look cramped in their beautiful pottery pot, but really they needed to get out of there. I pat the dirt around gently and notice that the birds in the front yard in back of me are making an awful racket. I turn to watch them as they confront each other squawking and wings beating each other. I can't decided if they are being territorial or this is their version of "Dancing With The Stars." By now, an hour has passed and my sneakers, which have hundreds of tiny little ridges in the bottom of them for decoration, no doubt, are filled to the brim with freshly turn dirt, thereby ruining whatever traction I might hope to have and also ensuring that I will not be wearing them into the house for the next 8 hours until the dirt dries and I can bang them against each other to clear them out. I trudge back to the compost heap with the saplings shushing against each other hoping I won't notice they in the basket and set them free in the midst of orange rinds and other fecund matter. Good luck I think, you're gonna need it in there!
See gardening is looking at a clean slate and realizing the hundreds of ways to go from just this one point. I came in the house to write this post and was met with the sight of a single rose blooming from a miniature rose bush my son gave me for Mother's Day a few years ago. I like the way I garden. And I like the way I think. They are related as my brother and I are. And I think this is a good thing. Just like that pop-up trash bin thingee.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Mother's Day
Two days ago was Mother's Day. That juggernaut of holidays which brings guilt to the all time Olympics. I have tried for many years to not guilt my children into this trap. Their father has usually reminded them subtly as he is apt to be. And they have favored me with lovely gifts and cards which I remember for years--I really mean that! I remember them for years.
There are two points to make about Mother's Day this time and I mean to make them here. First of all, I spoke with an old friend today. Neither of her sons acknowledged the day in any way shape or form. I wanted to knock their heads together and slap them silly. She is a lovely woman and responsible for much of their good lives as their jerk of a father was not around but chasing tail much of the time. I am appalled at their oversight and callousness. And if I could find a way to shame them publicly, don't you believe for a minute I wouldn't take the chance. She was deeply hurt and tried to make light of it, but I saw her eyes and into them was the pain of their neglect. I really want to do something to make up for that...but it is not my fight, damn it all.
The second thing I want to say about Mother's Day comes as a result of a comment posted by my older brother while discussing something entirely different. He asked if I ever watched my son play Ocarina of Time, one of the Zelda games. I still smile when I think of those games and the intricate and amazing stories they told as they strove to get "Link" to rescue Princess Zelda. I sat on the couch for many days during long hot summertime when my son played these games. I actually didn't watch every move. I would glance up occasionally from my reading of whatever book I was engrossed in at the time to see what the protagonist was up to, what gems he had acquired, what special weapons, clothing, receptacles, pieces of puzzles he had laid claim to (or had missed). I don't know if you know this or not, but those games have a soundtrack behind them. Different lands, places and actions have specific songs that play in the background of all the action. And so we come to one of the most beautiful gifts my son ever gave me: He found symphonic versions of those songs and burned me a CD. That's right I have a Cd of the songs of Zelda. It was such a wonderful unexpected gift that I was speechless for a few seconds when he gave it to me, complete with his nickname for me on the label. I still play it from time to time.
Now my daughter has made me many mix CDs that are fun and I love them as well. But this CD from my son was a symbol of the fact that the time on the couch meant something to him as well as me. That is precious. That is what a Mother's Day gift should be.
My daughter used to make jewelry when she was in middle school...quite a lot of it, I might add. It was strung together with that stretchy stuff and it always glittered and sparkled...she loved those beads. She and I would sit and talk while she created her masterpieces. Sometimes I got them, but most times, because she is a wonderfully warm and giving young lady, these presents would be for friends or her grandmother. This year, I received two bracelets and one necklace. I thought she had purchased them from a friend of mine who makes exquisite jewelry. But no, she had made them herself. It has been a long time between our talks on the couch, her jewelry making sessions, her adolescence when she still liked me enough to talk to me when so many of her friends no longer talked to their mothers. It was a gift so true that I was again not able to say a single thing for a few seconds. That is what Mother's Day is and should be.
My children have provided me with many afternoons of laughter, tears and hard work, but they have repaid me thousands of times over with their generosity of spirit and their ability to see life and the people who are around them in a positive way. I am amazed at their love of life and their love for each other.
So Happy Mother's Day from my two wonderful children. I miss them sometimes so much it hurts, but I'm so proud of them as adults I could just cry...and usually do.
There are two points to make about Mother's Day this time and I mean to make them here. First of all, I spoke with an old friend today. Neither of her sons acknowledged the day in any way shape or form. I wanted to knock their heads together and slap them silly. She is a lovely woman and responsible for much of their good lives as their jerk of a father was not around but chasing tail much of the time. I am appalled at their oversight and callousness. And if I could find a way to shame them publicly, don't you believe for a minute I wouldn't take the chance. She was deeply hurt and tried to make light of it, but I saw her eyes and into them was the pain of their neglect. I really want to do something to make up for that...but it is not my fight, damn it all.
The second thing I want to say about Mother's Day comes as a result of a comment posted by my older brother while discussing something entirely different. He asked if I ever watched my son play Ocarina of Time, one of the Zelda games. I still smile when I think of those games and the intricate and amazing stories they told as they strove to get "Link" to rescue Princess Zelda. I sat on the couch for many days during long hot summertime when my son played these games. I actually didn't watch every move. I would glance up occasionally from my reading of whatever book I was engrossed in at the time to see what the protagonist was up to, what gems he had acquired, what special weapons, clothing, receptacles, pieces of puzzles he had laid claim to (or had missed). I don't know if you know this or not, but those games have a soundtrack behind them. Different lands, places and actions have specific songs that play in the background of all the action. And so we come to one of the most beautiful gifts my son ever gave me: He found symphonic versions of those songs and burned me a CD. That's right I have a Cd of the songs of Zelda. It was such a wonderful unexpected gift that I was speechless for a few seconds when he gave it to me, complete with his nickname for me on the label. I still play it from time to time.
Now my daughter has made me many mix CDs that are fun and I love them as well. But this CD from my son was a symbol of the fact that the time on the couch meant something to him as well as me. That is precious. That is what a Mother's Day gift should be.
My daughter used to make jewelry when she was in middle school...quite a lot of it, I might add. It was strung together with that stretchy stuff and it always glittered and sparkled...she loved those beads. She and I would sit and talk while she created her masterpieces. Sometimes I got them, but most times, because she is a wonderfully warm and giving young lady, these presents would be for friends or her grandmother. This year, I received two bracelets and one necklace. I thought she had purchased them from a friend of mine who makes exquisite jewelry. But no, she had made them herself. It has been a long time between our talks on the couch, her jewelry making sessions, her adolescence when she still liked me enough to talk to me when so many of her friends no longer talked to their mothers. It was a gift so true that I was again not able to say a single thing for a few seconds. That is what Mother's Day is and should be.
My children have provided me with many afternoons of laughter, tears and hard work, but they have repaid me thousands of times over with their generosity of spirit and their ability to see life and the people who are around them in a positive way. I am amazed at their love of life and their love for each other.
So Happy Mother's Day from my two wonderful children. I miss them sometimes so much it hurts, but I'm so proud of them as adults I could just cry...and usually do.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
I'm never happy
It stopped raining today. Just a little while ago. I was so happy to see that strange yellow light in the sky and then I came outside and it's sticky. Too hot combined with all that rain. I feel like I must be living in the tropics or some rain forest. Ewww. I wanted a spring breath, and instead I got the inside of the whale. This must be the way Jonah felt. It's too steamy to take a deep breath, so I breathe shallowly, thereby producing either little colored dots dancing before my eyes, or people step away before they catch whatever it is I've got, which is nothing, but it looks like something so they step away.
I know it's kind of mean, but the cat wanted to go out so I let her. She'll sit and pant on the back deck steps staring accusingly at the back door, waiting to be let in. BUT SHE WANTED TO GO OUT! It makes no difference. I'm always at fault in her eyes. Of course, she's always at fault in mine so I guess we're even.
I've sequestered myself in the living room. There are no direct rays which can penetrate here. It's sort of like a cave. Except with windows. But the storm windows are still in, so there's no movable air. But the house is brick so it's cool air, until tomorrow when the house realizes that it's hot out, so it will drop it's overcoat over the outside and the heat will be trapped within, thereby eliminating any place to hide. I'll open the windows, and the steam will permeate the inside of the house and I'll be no better in than out. Such is the cycle of the seasons.
I'm not happy.
I know it's kind of mean, but the cat wanted to go out so I let her. She'll sit and pant on the back deck steps staring accusingly at the back door, waiting to be let in. BUT SHE WANTED TO GO OUT! It makes no difference. I'm always at fault in her eyes. Of course, she's always at fault in mine so I guess we're even.
I've sequestered myself in the living room. There are no direct rays which can penetrate here. It's sort of like a cave. Except with windows. But the storm windows are still in, so there's no movable air. But the house is brick so it's cool air, until tomorrow when the house realizes that it's hot out, so it will drop it's overcoat over the outside and the heat will be trapped within, thereby eliminating any place to hide. I'll open the windows, and the steam will permeate the inside of the house and I'll be no better in than out. Such is the cycle of the seasons.
I'm not happy.
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