We have binged everything from all British telly has to offer, and most of what Netflix and Amazon Prime provide. And way, way, way, too much news. And we have binged sleeping in, staying up late, eating whatever we can put together from what’s on hand, and finally figuring out delivery for what we might want. I apologize again for all the commas. If, however, you need advice on how to obtain online or drive-thru accommodations, please let me know.
We got our vaccines by driving through. Twice. So now we are, as they say, pretty much protected, and good to go.

So we went out. Out of our home. Out to a drive-up, curbside-burger-delivery-provider. We ate our burgers, chips, guacamole, and fries, in the car. It was raining. The dogwood trees were in full pink bloom. We ate too fast. We watched the dogwood blossoms through the tears on our windshield. We stuffed ourselves on the inside and the outside.

We were glad to get home. That night I had big dreams, yelling-out dreams. My husband kindly woke me, and I went back to sleep. The following night I woke to find my eyes leaking tears. Allergies? Relief? Manifestation of deep sorrow? I can’t tell you. I wish I could. I felt I was “drowning in a river of my tears,” as the song says.

The next day we had our house cleaned by two ministering angels who know how to get into the corners and remove all the debris that accumulates because, you know, time. And we can do the basics of laundry and wiping up spills and the occasional sweeping, but it’s never enough.

We like our own cooking. More now than ever before. We have learned new things about how to make do, savor, make sure we have what we need. We have been blessed with outside-distanced-masked-visits from family and close friends. We have treasured those, shivered through some, tried to fight mosquitos and heat in summer, wind in fall, rain in winter. We would do it all again and again and again just to see those masked faces, be in the company of those we love.

Now there is a hopeful future. It feels so alluring, and a little dangerous. Are we ready? Will we be able to move about and settle in to a different kind of now?

There may be dreams and tears. There could be anything out there. But now it seems time to hold on, buckle-up, and live as large as we can.

I apologize for all the punctuation. But, you know, punctuation is an indication of where you can pause, and take a breath. Make it a deep one.

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We have a natural inclination, I suppose, to shore up, secure, rebuild, as soon as we can in order to return to what we think of as normal. But of course it will never be the same normal again. Things will be different. We will be more cautious -- at least for a time. We will be vigilant and keep things in order as best we can -- until we are pulled back into the ordinary and our memory fades, or some other pressing event takes our attention.

Looking out our bedroom window every morning was a sad reminder of our loss. Instead of the tree and its lovely branches full of birds and squirrels, there was just a circle of dirt in the middle of the grass. A few straggly nasturtiums remained, looking somewhat shocked to be so exposed and alone. We felt that way, too. Something was needed to heal that space, fill that emptiness.

I sent for wildflower seeds.

I sprinkled them liberally over the bare dirt patch, stepping on them lightly as directed on the seed packet. I watered them gently. And waited. The wait was a long one, but seeds will grow in their own time, in their own way. I might have forgotten about them altogether -- in fact I probably did. It was fortunate that the automatic sprinkler system kept them watered a few times a week, because I can be unreliable in that department.

And then it began. Just a few hints of green here and there in the packed earth. Then a sprout or two. The gardeners mistook some of them for weeds. I had to post notices and put a bit of wire fencing around the patch to indicate that something precious was here, something that needed to be allowed to grow in its own way, in its own time.

We waited. We watched the daily growth, now getting thicker, now showing buds, now showing a tiny flower -- one, two -- look there! Four! I never imagined such diversity. No doubt I planted too many! Would they thrive? Should I thin them? No. I let them be.

Each day there was another confirmation of life. Each day another color, another shape, and so many bees! Butterflies! Truly, these gifts are too extravagant, too much, too many! And yet here they are, and each day there are more and more. Affirmations, blessings, benedictions, astonishments -- all are there outside our window.

It is just what we needed. It is just what our garden needed. A generous dose of wildflowers.

You can’t go wrong.

When I was in the habit of attending church, and studied scripture, I often heard the phrase “apprehending the Mystery.” And when I moved to a different paradigm and sat with meditation groups or new age practitioners, I found the concept there as well.

Religious and spirituality teachings often reference faith, or recognition of the divine, or greater understanding of the “more” in human experience as the mystery beyond our comprehension. If we are inclined to let all of our senses help us with understanding, then we all know there is more than reason that directs our course. We see, touch, hear, smell, and taste. All of these bring us information about the world every second we are living beings. Somehow our brains put all of that information together to make us uniquely who we are; perceivers of where we are and who we are, something no one else can experience.

I can’t see through your eyes, touch with your fingers, or listen with your ears. I cannot hear music as you hear it, or a baby’s cry. What makes you happy, sad, or fearful may not be what makes me feel the same. I cannot apprehend, if you will, the mystery of who you are, and that, to me is where we encounter the divine. It is our unique experience and perception that fits us into the world exactly where we should be and gives us the ability to express a life that no one else can share with the world. Sharing that experience may not mean that you have to write a book or paint a picture or discover something the scientific world has never known before. There are plenty of people who have the passion and drive to do those things. You may not have to save the world all on your own.

If you like to walk in the rain or dig in the garden, clean the house, read a book, or listen to music, do those things. If you enjoy watching the sunrise or following an ant on its journey, do it! I truly believe that my calling may be to perceive the world as only I can. I fill up my soul by doing what I feel moved to do to express my own thoughts, my own way of shaping my world. It’s hard to face what makes me fearful, but I realize that if I choose not to apprehend that mystery, I am unable to find the other side of that emotion, confidence.

Everything in the modern world urges us towards more -- more money, more property, more education, more influence, more power. Even the push to do more good, be more charitable, work harder, can become a weight that drags us out of ourselves and pushes us towards someone we may not be intended to be.

We know in our gut how temporal all of that is. Even if we choose not to share our unique experience of the world with others, taking time to live into what feeds our soul, what makes us glad, what connects us to the earth and to each other, counts. It matters. We are too overwhelmed by the great needs of the world, and give too little credence to what our little corner needs.

I want to grasp hold of that concept, arrest that idea, understand what it is I love and what I fear. I want to open my eyes, mind, and heart to all the life in my small corner of the world. I want to live with it, as an integral part of it. If I can do that, I feel I will apprehend the mystery, the divine, that is uniquely mine and belongs to no one else in this universe. That is my calling. What’s yours?

We don’t carry water these days -- not the way it used to be carried. It’s brought to us through pipes, stored in man-made lakes, held back by dams to be released when needed. We divert rivers, build aqueducts, force it where it wasn’t meant to go so that we can make cities, grow crops in arid deserts, and fill swimming pools. We have captured its energy to fuel electric grids to feed our incessant need for more power.

We fill our rivers and oceans with the waste from our factories and mines, from the ugly processes of pulling coal and oil from the earth. We send our sewage to the sea and even the rainwater collects our detritus as it runs down the gutters and carries all in its way to the oceans.
Is the idea of finding pure streams in the desert or deep artisian wells just a dream now? I wonder. The earth does what it can to protect itself. It has secrets we have not learned and may never learn. But we do know that we cannot live without water.

I carry water to the potted plants in my garden, to the spots the automatic sprinklers do not reach. It’s a satisfying task. I imagine the thirsty roots, see the dusty leaves, and watch the dry earth become dark as the water percolates through the pot. I fill my tea kettle with water and carry tea to my guests. Will you choose the chestnut? The Earl Grey fragrant with bergamot rind? Or perhaps a smokey green?

And then, somewhat late in life, I learn that there is another meaning to ‘carrying water’ - a darker meaning. It is like a slap in the face. I’d never heard it before, and it knocked me sideways. I was trying to persuade a co-worker to see another co-worker’s point of view. “Don’t carry water for him!” he replied. I had never heard that before. Was that what I was doing? How? And how often had I done that over my life? How often do I still do that?

I saw myself as trying to make peace, trying to give information that perhaps hadn’t been heard or understood. I wasn’t doing it well. I sat with this new concept of carrying water for someone else for a very long time. Eventually I realized that throughout my life I had been trying to do just that, in every tense situation where I had been triangulated. The water I carried wasn’t mine to carry, and because it wasn’t, it served no purpose. It was wasted.

What I learned is that eventually we all must carry our own water. We must drink from the well that suits us, and that may not be what someone else needs or wants. Can we offer to share our water? Of course, and we should. But refusal or rejection of that offer is not to be taken as an offense.

So I try to remember this as I water the plants that live in my garden. Does this one really need watering? Or has it had enough for now? Does that one need more? They let you know. Attune yourself. And as for me? I will go to the wells that I trust, that I know have what I need. And you will find yours.

So today I will tell you five things that make me happy, that lift a bubble of joy, that take me out of the frame I don’t want and free me to choose one of my own making:
Fresh blackberries, chestnut tea, tomatoes still warm from the vine, a good mystery, my grandchildren’s smiles.
Now, perhaps, I can wriggle out of the frame I woke up in, and choose something more fitting.

Children come to our doors and ask for treats (the threat of tricks isn’t real, not anymore). Or is it? That’s part of the fun. Give me something sweet or I will give you something frightening?

Life itself has been thoroughly frightening this last year and a half. We have been compulsive about germs, viruses. And rightly so. We knew so little about the terror facing us. Now we can see that some of our rituals to protect us were not quite on target. We sanitized everything. And it turned out that the air we shared was the thing that was most dangerous. Airborne pathogens. Nothing, really, is more terrifying. Unseen enemy, carried by children, friends, relatives. Without intention, without malice.

And we faced other airborne terrors, too. From our persistent media that can so easily spread, through the air, information that is twisted, malicious, and destructive.

But tonight we had a little slice of normalcy. A little slice of neighbor visiting neighbor, secure in the fact that a good share of us have been vigilant, have done what we can to protect ourselves and others. And for a time, we feel like we can safely breathe, safely interact, safely enjoy each other’s company.

Tonight I thought of my mother as I ate a bite or two of Butterfinger candy, her favorite. And I thought that if I had such a thing as bacon drippings and rye bread, I might eat that in honor of my father. Simple little pleasures. Tasty, comforting. Happy memories.

I hope you had some happy memories too, tonight. And some fun. Let’s all move towards more.

I am in my thirties, and we have two young children. My husband has taken them off to church and I am home attending to the housecleaning and cooking of the turkey. Guests are coming in the afternoon, expecting the traditional holiday feast. I’m new at cooking turkey, but confident I can manage. What’s so hard about seasoning a bird and putting it in the oven? I’ve done it with chicken hundreds of times. I’m optimistic, looking forward to the family gathering in our home for the traditional feasting.

So the bird is in the oven, holiday music is playing, and I am sweeping the kitchen floor, tidying the living room, and making sure the bathroom has the required fresh hand towels and new bar of soap. I unwrap the Palmolive, and for a moment breathe in the smell of clean -- the linen-closet kind of clean -- where I’d like to rest a few moments with the folded towels and sheets. But I must keep moving. Still a lot to do.

The table is set with my grandmother’s china (she gifted it when we got married) the little pink flowers scattered across the plate, fading gold trim at the edge. Never quite the pattern I would have chosen, but pretty enough, and service for twelve. I was glad to have it, and glad that it had once graced my grandmother’s table. She hasn’t been with us since shortly after our first child was born, and that is such a loss for me, and for them. She was the calm center at the eye of our extended family storm. Although always at odds with my other grandmother, who she referred to as Mrs. Efverlund, and Mrs. Efverlund referred to her as Mrs. Smith. They had taken ‘polite’ to a level of contempt that was palpable. You get the picture. But she was the one with a ready laugh, a new story, that could make us all glad to be together. And her appreciation for just being alive was like a balm for the troubled souls around our table. I miss her. I will always miss her.

I pass through the kitchen, and notice that the heat that had been emanating from the oven was no longer happening. I put my hand on the stovetop. It’s cold. I open the oven door. A slight warmth, but only slight, seeps out. The turkey is still cold. The oven has stopping working. I panic. I pour myself a glass of wine. I breathe. I think to myself that there must be another way of cooking a turkey. The burners are still working, thank you universe, but how can one cook a big turkey on top of the stove?

Then I remember that I have a big drop-drop baster, also inherited from my grandmother. A heavy, cast iron pan with a domed lid. Would the turkey fit in that? I can hear my grandmother saying to me “Come on. We can do this! There is more than one way to cook a turkey! People are just going to cut it up anyway, and if it tastes good, no one will even care.” I’ll just have to cut it in pieces. But at least it will be cooked. Somehow I wrestle the turkey onto the cutting board and manage to cut it in such a way that all the pieces do fit. I add some broth and a bay leaf to the pan, cover it, turn on the burner and hope for the best. What else could I do? It will be a slow roast on top of the stove.

I am disappointed it will not be the way I pictured in my head. It wouldn’t be gracing the table as a centerpiece, nicely browned, waiting to be carved, showing my culinary achievement to best advantage.

I take a quick shower, and change into a long skirt and silky blouse. The church service will be ending soon, and my husband and kids will be back before I can finish the relish plate. Our guests will start arriving in an hour. At least the house is now filled with the smell of Thanksgiving, the turkey roasting away on the top of the stove. I am grateful that others are bringing the side dishes, and the pumpkin pie.

The family dynamic was as expected. Some people carried old grudges and those grudges sat right along side them at the dinner table. Some people drank a little too much, some people were bored, some people argued. But there was laughter, too, some of it about my adventure with the turkey.

It turned out to be a very good meal. The turkey was tender and full of flavor. The side dishes were delicious, even the traditional lime jello salad with pineapple, celery, and carrots was more palatable that year. It was as good as it could get.

I was grateful...for that drip-drop baster from my grandmother, but mostly for the whisper of encouragement that I knew came from her sweet and optimistic self. I know now that I carry some of that sweet optimism in my very bones, and that means she is with me always.

My parents always sang in the church choir. I started when I was thirteen, so proud to join and go every Thursday night to choir practice. My dad was a tenor, because tenors were scarce and he could stretch his baritone to suit; and my mother was a soprano. Her voice was clear and pretty, but not strong. I sat in the alto section and was able to follow along with the three or four other women with confidence. One of my happiest memories is of singing with my mother as we did the dishes. It didn’t happen often, but when it did we had a wonderful time. She loved the music of Doris Day, Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, Dean Martin...that was one thing we shared. And we sang the dear old familiar church music, too.

In high school I was fortunate enough to be invited to join the prestigious Acapella Choir. Auditions had to be passed. Could you actually carry a tune? Could you read music well enough (which wasn’t very well)?

From talking to me, the Director said “You’re a soprano, right?”

“No. An alto,” I said.

She looked skeptical, but had me sing the alto line of Silent Night, a piece I had sung a thousand times.

I waited to see if I passed. You weren’t told right away. Finally I received the hand-written note that welcomed me into the choir. One of my best friends was, too. Andrea and I always sat together during practice, stood together when we performed. We were both tall, so we were in the back row. It was glorious. We toured the city, performing in various venues, including the Ambassador Auditorium on one occasion, as I recall, under the direction of Howard Hanson and with hundreds of other choirs from high schools all over Los Angeles. What a jubilant sound we made!

I chose to be an alto because I knew I couldn’t make the switch from my lower register to the higher head tones at B below high C. Someone should have taught me how to do that. I longed to soar with those higher notes, but so fearful of cracking, of screeching. I was asked to sing “The Lord’s Prayer” in church for a Sunday evening service. It was way beyond my range, way beyond my comfort zone, but I did it. And I did it loud, because I didn’t want to sound weak, or timid. I had been taking singing lessons, and my teacher was confident it would be fine. It wasn’t fine. And I did only one solo in public after that, “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” a suitable range, but a difficult song for a kid to sing. But I was comfortable with duets, where I could sing alto, and did many of those for church services.

When I had children I had a string of lullabies I sang for them from the time they were born until they didn’t need sleep-singing any longer. I was never ready to give it up, and I miss it!

Will there be a time this year when we can gather and sing? Maybe. Just maybe. Until then, maybe we can be like the Mocking Bird and sing alone. Let’s do it. Let’s sing our tunes on our own until we can bring them together. We could all use the practice, right? What song will you start with? Will you stretch to the high notes?

I tell you this because it proves I can be optimistic.

One large red onion sprouted magnificent green fingers on

my kitchen window sill.

It was good, green company.

Today one onion has become three. Miracle, right?

Three from one, already a bonus.

Tucked into the warm earth side by side (not too close!)

I left the sagging, spent tomato plant nearby.

There may still be whispered wisdom about living in our

hard adobe earth.

vw 2022 #1

Every morning I wake up hoping that this will be the day my energy will return for all the pending tasks needing attention. And every day I go to bed having fallen far short of my own expectations. Even the simplest things like folding laundry and putting it away have morphed into monstrosities that refuse to be tamed. I have books that need reading (not just for pleasure!), a number of quotidian tasks that should be undertaken, and my level of enthusiasm and energy for such tasks has deserted me. I feel a sense of accomplishment when I can get the dishes loaded into the dishwasher before I go to bed. Such a small thing!

I want to sort out all the accumulation of generational paraphernalia that has found its way into our house. But my interest in most of it has dwindled to nothing but a slight sense of guilt that these things haven’t been cared for or cataloged more carefully -- but for what? Who cares now? I have thrown away photographs containing faces that I do not know, never met, and have no idea why they were saved. I feel like a sea creature scuttering along the ocean floor compulsively collecting every discarded shell, rock, and piece of junk I come across. I am weighed down with loads of other people’s stuff.

I have a cabinet with glass doors that contains a scramble of vases, decorative ceramics, and dishes I never use. I can’t remember the origin of many. And I know that those designated as ‘valuable’ are not. I’ve looked them up. Someone may like to own them, but that someone is no longer me. So they will go up on the “Buy Nothing” Facebook page for our area and see if anyone wants to come pick them up. Eventually!

I long to eliminate things from the past that I never intended to take responsibility for, things that someone else valued and decided to make me their caretaker. But I own it freely, I am not that caretaker any longer. And there is a kind of relief in owning that. All of my life I have taken on things that really should not have been my responsibility. I was designated as the one who would be the good custodian, and since my lot in life was to live up to those expectations, I never felt like I had a choice to do otherwise.

But I am owning my heart’s desire now. Writing it down here, so I can be reminded of it. I long for my own space, spare and uncluttered. I deserve it. Perhaps this spring is a good time to do that clear-out, bit by bit, and claim my space in the world.

If it’s opening the window to hear

the birds

If it’s to give the cat some treats

If it’s taking your time deciding what you want

for breakfast

If it’s sharpening a pencil

If it’s lighting a candle

If it’s making a pot of tea

or coffee

If it’s listening to an old song your old self loved

If it’s taking a nap

If it’s unwrapping a new bar of soap

If it’s window gazing

You know that all of it, every bit of it, is a good bit of doing.

The task isn’t as easy as it used to be. Bending, reaching, stooping, sweeping, are all activities I mostly try to avoid. My body is not as responsive to requests for movement that requires balance and a certain amount of energy. But today was a very good day because I was able to do what I wanted to do. The simple task of sweeping the porch, watering the potted plants, and dead-heading the roses in the front yard proved to be strangely energizing. Hanging the lights was a bit more taxing, and I’ll wait until those who are younger can climb on a step to hang lights too high for me to reach from where I stand.

Finding balance, keeping balance, on whatever level one must, is important at any age. And lately I am reminded that I still have the ability to achieve a bit of equilibrium that makes me content. I lived so long pushing myself to complete one task or another, that I now feel I’ve earned the right to do as much as I like of one task and stop, or take up another. There will be time to finish what is important. Or there won’t! But does it really matter? All will be well, and I own a responsibility to myself to enjoy whatever moment I can.

Oh, and by the way. I did finish a task. My novel is now complete, and out to ‘beta readers’ who have given me some encouraging feedback. Hopefully it will be out early next year for those of you who care to read it!

Happy Halloween! Eat some candy! Sweets to all you sweet readers!

I remember clearly feeling happy about this little assignment, because the design was pretty, and I was happy to make it even prettier. But the paper was hard to color, and if the crayon was pressed too hard it tore. If the light wasn’t just right, the embossing disappeared. I think I probably used two or three of the napkins until I found just the right pressure so that the color would take but not damage.

Isn’t that the way with memories, though? We carry them, lightly embossed on our minds, our bodies. If we touch them too hard some of them can dissolve or tear. If we color them in, are we getting that right? Was the tree really that yellow against the blue sky that day? Was grandmother’s house really white on the outside and so very dark on the inside? Do we even have that shade in our color box? Is the implement we use to fill in the blanks too blunt or too sharp for our fragile recollections?

My Dad used to tell us his memories. Some of them were so detailed, so clearly defined, that I wonder now if he could possible have remembered with such clarity. But recently I do recall how he would say, when pressed, “Well, I do like to tell a good story.” Was he coloring them in?

What truth do we rely on when we think about our own memories? Are they embossed deeply enough that we can see and feel them with any accuracy? Or are they fleeting impressions that fade or tear if examined or pressed too hard?

The process of recall is on my mind. We will go to our Thanksgiving tables tomorrow and reminisce about the past. And each impression will be as real and as individual as each person sitting around that table. I will try to remember that and collect each impression without judgment or the urge to correct or redefine. Our memories are ours. They belong to us exactly as we recall them, as we feel them. They make us who we are, for better or for worse. But maybe with the different lights and colors others bring to them, they are a bit more colorful, a bit more rounded, given a bit more depth, and hopefully accepted with generosity and love.

May your Thanksgiving be full, and your giving thanks heartfelt.

When I was a kid in the 1940’s and 50’s, no matter how depressed things were in my house, and often that was the case, whenever I saw the bright Christmas decorations and the row upon row of holiday ornaments lined up at the dime store, my spirits lifted. I knew it wouldn’t be long before my mother would come out of her downward spiral and rally for Christmas. Sometimes those Christmases were more manic than fun, but at least they weren’t sad.

A tradition was born when we were newlyweds in 1970, and we were decorating our first Christmas tree as husband and wife. I made pea soup and cornbread, we crafted homemade ornaments, and watched The Bishop’s Wife starring Cary Grant and Loretta Young. I have continued to make pea soup during the holidays, and we could probably recite all of the dialogue from The Bishop’s Wife.

It rained last night and today is chilly and overcast, so perfect pea soup weather. I’m a little late with the soup, but since it is technically only the fifth day of Christmas for some, I think it still counts. Chopped onion, celery, carrots, ham, and a lovely little bay leaf fill the house with savory smells as they flavor the dried peas.

It makes me think of all the things we humans do to fill our need for tradition and connection. I am thankful that these small acts bind us closer whenever we repeat them or even just remember them. I think of Christmases past when we had Swedish Fruktsoppa, or fruit soup as we called it. It was the one thing my Swedish grandmother made that my Dad loved and looked forward to. But then he loved fruitcake, too, and that was something only he had a taste for. That tradition hasn’t carried on, but remembering it still fills a little corner of my heart.

Remembrance of Christmas past, and the honoring of some of those old traditions in Christmas present are ways we honor our ancestors. Maybe we even consider some of our decorations to be an altar, as does one of my dearest friends. Certainly for me, they are sacred. Even the pea soup. Happy Holidays!

under the drooping branch of wet poppy leaves?

Even after days of rain it still looked dry and dusty, the skin cracked like old leather.

I feel like that some days, split, spilled, cracked open.

The bright seeds inside still held a juicy promise for a brown squirrel with a watchful eye

and he, or she, took time to taste those tiny glowing morsels

and then in a flash disappeared

the fruit empty, picked clean.

Read more if you are interested, available on Kindle or paperback at Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGJTFFH

Dinner preparations are going on, and now I’m in charge. When I was a kid I tried to be on hand whenever that was happening. I liked to find pieces of cabbage hearts, celery bottoms, raw potato. I would salt them and amidst many warnings from my grandmothers or my mom, I would eat them. They would shake their heads and return to whatever task called them. One of my grandmothers was sure I was poisoning myself. I wasn’t, though. In fact, I think that habit did me a power of good. Yes, sometimes there was a bit of grit in the celery bottom, but why wouldn’t there be? It was the part that touched the earth. This was in the days before all the pesticides and chemicals were used. As far as I know. But somehow I’m still around at 81, anyway.

Today I’m making an Irish stew. No meat, just lots of vegetables. I can hear my grandmother saying “You can’t eat that potato skin!” Yes, yes, I can. I rarely peel my potatoes, even when making potato salad. I say if you are going to eat a potato, eat the whole potato. I didn’t put the cabbage core in the pot because that’s just for me and my salt shaker. Thin slices, nice and cold. Yum. Better than potato chips.

Scavenging now has become really popular. Even the city now wants our table scraps for composting. Finally, and about time too, and yes let’s all do this! Green bins are the new Robin Hoods, doing what they can to save the earth and us in the bargain.

I think there is something to be said for this approach to all of life. Take what you need, not what you think you want. Don’t let anybody tell you that this or that isn’t going to suit you. If you find it good and pleasing, that’s what you need. Nay sayers may have something to offer you, but it isn’t their nay saying that is going to be of use. You tell you what you want.

I scavenged some flowers from my rain-ravaged garden today. They are by no means perfect, bent and beaten as they have been, but they look pretty happy to me. Anyway, they are making me happier and healthier. Eleven storms in the last several weeks has beaten us this way and that, but we stood it because we know how desperate we are here in California for rain. More on the way next week, too. But for now let’s scavenge some sunshine and appreciate all the green. Oh, and Happy St. Patrick’s Day and don’t forget St. Gertrude!

You can get a copy of my novel here.

If you like it, let me know!

“The traffic felt like another personal attack. Another kind of boxing in, not giving her room, impeding her. It made her angry, and it made her sad. She’d felt trapped so long by her mother’s illnesses--mental and otherwise--even after she left home. The relationship she craved from both her parents kept eluding her. And now, just when she thought she might have a chance at building something with her dad, there was another needy woman in his life. Somebody else with a claim on his time, his focus, his emotional energy. Would Jenny ever get to be the focus? Even for an hour? A minute?”

Family dynamics have an impact long after those who were our parents are gone. Developing awareness about how those dynamics assist us or hurt us is a long, complicated process. Will they continue to shape our days in patterns of worry and sadness for things we could never have controlled? Or will we manage to break free enough to make new paths that include joy and freedom on our journey? It can take a lot of intentional effort and a lot of trial and error before we find a way that suits us better, that feels like our own.

Sometimes Jenny found herself locked in isolated patterns of negative emotional responses that weren’t quite suited to what was actually happening. And those responses made her turn even more inward, made her tighten her grip on the familiar rather than risk opening up to something new.

If you’d like to read more about her journey you can find her story here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGJTFFH

I hope you like it.

Do you suppose, that 2000 years ago, when sandaled feet, dusty and dirty with the labors and travel of the day, were bathed by family or friends, it felt any different than it does today?

Was the water less or more refreshing than we are used to?

Was the soap or oil used to help in the cleansing any less effective?

Were cuts or bruises on those feet from an unexpected encounter with thorns or rocks or sticks any less sore?

Were the cloths used to dry those tired feet less effective than what we have today?

After a long day of play or helping with daily tasks were children any less wiggly, or giggly, or whiny?

I suppose it was all very much the same then as now. We are, as they were, grateful for any small attention from those welcoming us home. Whether it is the ceremony of bringing slippers, pouring a glass of wine, rubbing the knots out of aching shoulders, we are nurtured on a deep level, as they most certainly would have been.

Maunday Thursday is a reminder that these small tasks of grace we do for others are sacred. They connect us deeply as family, as friends. And even if we find ourselves alone on this day, we can do something that reminds us we have been loved and cared for in ways we may never have noticed.

Let’s be more aware in the future. Let’s provide the smallest of gestures of care when we can. Let’s handle each other gently, doing the same for ourselves. I suppose that, in fact, small gestures of self-care make every other act of kindness possible.