Choosing to bloom.

Flowers don’t worry about how they’re going to bloom.  They open up and turn toward the light and that makes them beauti- ful.          ~ Jim Carrey

Bloom where you’re planted.  ~ Proverb

We shall overcome…

We are not afraid, we are not afraid,     We are not afraid today;                       Oh, deep in my heart, I do believe,       We are not afraid today.  ~ One of many verses from “We Shall Overcome”

For a number of years I have been gathering with a small group of womenfolk on Martin Luther King weekend.  We chose this weekend because we were all teachers and we were looking for an extended weekend when we didn’t have to work.  Only one of us is still teaching and the rest of us have either retired or moved on to better-paying jobs.  Statistically we are in step with the general American population in that three of our six are divorced.  That’s actually the reason the one is still teaching.  What she thought her retirement would be was not to be.  The three of us who are divorced were “let go” in almost identical circumstances–our husbands were in their fifties and thought the grass was greener elsewhere.

This year we went to Carolina Beach where we were wined and dined and gently cared for by our gracious and talented host T.  Some people are naturally generous and giving and T is one of those.  Thank you, T.

There were only five of us this year.  One of us was unable to attend because of a tragic loss in her family.  We missed her and discussed her and tried to send her strength with our thoughts.  It’s what we do with each other and for each other.  We try to overcome together the obstacles life deals us, both large and small.

We shall overcome.

Thank you, Martin Luther King, Jr.  And thank you, Joan Baez, for expressing the message so beautifully.

Things don’t make me happy.

I don’t need … things to make me happy.  A nice quiet place to unwind at the end of the day, beautiful views, a few good friends.  What else is there? ~ Nicholas Sparks

I chuckle as I look at the beginnings of this post.  First the title approached me all on its own.  Days later I found this quote which seemed to support the title.  Then I remembered Dr. Seuss’s “things” and I couldn’t resist bringing them along.  I think they lend levity to what could be a serious, even heavy, topic.  My love of Dr. Seuss grows day by day.  Who else has consistently encouraged children (and their parents) to make up a word that sounds right when you can’t think of an appropriate, existing word?  Love it!

Back to the topic at hand.  For several months I have been thinking about my years of accumulating “things.”  Why did I ever imagine I needed so much stuff?  And why do I keep things I no longer use? (I can honestly say I’m making progress on this one.)  When I moved here I was aware that one person didn’t need this much space but I  needed room for my stuff.

I spent a great deal of time alone when we lived in the mountains and I often got very lonely.  I would go shopping just to get out of the house.  And the house was so big that I could always find a new rug, a piece of pottery, a painting to enhance its appearance.  I occasionally bought clothing, but more often it was something for my showplace of a house.  It’s as if I were trying to fix a gaping wound with a band-aid.  (I got that last sentence from my oldest daughter.)  There was a hole in my soul and I was trying to fill it in all the wrong ways.

Now as I sift through my belongings I feel sad, embarrassed, greedy, overwhelmed, selfish.  I could go on with the adjectives without even consulting a thesaurus.  Suffice to say I don’t like who I was, but I’m now making positive changes.  I cringe when I think about those years and realize I could have been supporting several third world families on the money I spent on stuff.  What was I thinking?!

So here I sit in a house that is less than half the size of the previous one, yet it’s still big enough for a family of five or six.  (Talk about a carbon footprint!  Egad!)  I’m trying to bide my time until the real estate market rebounds so I can sell this place and find a more appropriate home.  I try not to think about the fact that the money could have been better invested since I truly believe I did the best I could under the circumstances and given the emotional trauma and pain I was in at the time.

I think I’m finally on the right track.  I consider very carefully before I buy anything.  I make better choices than I once did.  I don’t buy things for the house.  The house and I are becoming happier as the clutter decreases.  They say that it sometimes takes a jolt, a shock, even a tragedy to force a needed change on some people, so I guess they’re talking about me.  As I inch toward the person I really am, the person I’m meant to be, the trauma and pain continue to diminish.  One day, maybe I’ll be able to look back and thank D for this divorce.

Writing this caused me to cry a little, but not too much.  And now I feel better.  If you’ve read this far, thank you.

All the wrong reasons.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

All the Wrong Reasons                                                                                                       ~ Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne

Trouble blew in on a cold dark wind
It came without no warning
And that big ol’ house went up for sale
They were on the road by morning
Oh, the days went slow, into the changing season
Oh, out in the cold, for all the wrong reasons

Well she grew up hard and she grew up fast
In the age of television
And she made a vow to have it all
It became her new religion
Oh, down in her soul, it was an act of treason
Oh, down they go for all the wrong reasons

Where the sky begins the horizon ends
Despite the best intentions
And a big ol’ man goes up for sale
He becomes his own invention
Oh, the days go slow into the changing season
Oh, bought and sold, for all the wrong reasons
Oh, down they go for all the wrong reasons

This song has taken up residence in my brain.  Not just the tune, but the words as well.  Some singer/songwriter poems stand alone.  Bob Dylan’s and Leonard Cohen’s work, for example.  Those guys are true poets in my opinion.  This one by Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne needs to be sung.  With the music, the Oh becomes Oh, oh, oh, oh.  But even when I quadruple the word, reading it doesn’t strike the same chord (no pun intended) as when TP sings it.  I want to share it with you to find out if others feel the same way.  Click here to listen.

I’ve tried for days to figure out what I’m supposed to learn here, if anything.  It has caused me to reflect in a way that I wouldn’t have, had my daughter not given me the CD for Christmas.  I wonder how much of what we do when we’re young do we do with intention and logic and an eye to the greater good.  It’s not that I think I had sinister motives ever; it’s just that I wasn’t mature/experienced enough to understand the far-reaching consequences of my decisions.  I think the same is true of most people; and in particular, I give that bit of grace to D, my ex-husband.

“The tongue…kills without drawing blood.” ~ Buddha

I don’t deserve any credit for turning the other cheek as my tongue is always in it. ~ Flannery O’Connor

I try not to look back with too many regrets but occasionally I can’t help wishing I could ride a time machine into my past and take back some of my more poisonous words.  Sometimes I wonder if I’m missing a link between my brain and my mouth.  Back in elementary school I would usually bring home a near-perfect report card except for one small area which never seemed small to me.  I almost always got an X in a section that said “Refrains from speaking and acting hastily.”  I wondered for a long, long time what that meant. I remember asking my mom about it.  She told me she thought it meant I talked too much.  She’d had some experience with my incessant talking. She didn’t know any education jargon so it’s reasonable she would have thought that.  I’ve learned since that neither speaking nor acting was the key word here; the important word was hastily.

When I was a child riding a school bus every day, our buses, supposedly for safety reasons, had a governor that kept them from going over a certain speed.  I’m thinking my tongue could use one of those.  I still blurt out whatever comes into my mind sometimes.  I’m glad for some of my blurt-outs but sorry for others.  If I’m to be honest here, some of them are probably not so accidental.  For me, now, it’s a matter of impulse control.  And as an adult I can have pretty good control when I want.  But I’m also known for speaking plainly and without sugar-coating my words.  I naturally avoid pretense.  I’ve always been that way.  I think there’s a fine line between being tactful and lying.  Always tell the truth! was hammered into my head as far back  as I can remember.  How does a child always tell the truth without insulting some well-meaning aunt or grandparent?  My role models didn’t always hit that target.  Their inadequacy further complicated the issue and would probably make for an interesting post at another time.

This post has taken a somewhat different direction than I originally thought it would.  (Just like when I’m talking.) I had intended to cite some of my more heinous breaches of polite language.  Instead I will close with a word-to-the-wise about my tongue–a reminder, if you will, that I can choose to wound or heal, soothe or agitate, make laugh or make cry.  I can choose.  That’s the important message.  If the pen is mightier than the sword, the tongue is mightier than either.

I will speak with a straight tongue. ~ Chief Joseph, Nez Perce   

I will try very hard to speak with a straight tongue. ~ Pat

Ya gotta love it…

I’m waiting for the rain to take a little break so I can walk.  It rained most of the night and everything is saturated.  I can see that today’s walk will be a different kind of wonderful than yesterday’s.  Yesterday was the perfect day for walking.  I took pictures of everything I saw.  Well, almost.  Like this leaf.  And ya gotta love it…when a single leaf on the ground is as awesome as its host, laden with thousands of fiery works of art.

…when the sky is this blue and you have a totally green tree alongside a changing one in the neighbor’s yard two doors down.  And you accidentally snap the leaf in your hand along with the trees and it kinda sorta looks like you might have done it on purpose.  

…when garbage collection is done in the name of the Holy Trinity.  This single collection bin is a fairly tasteful almost navy blue.  All the rest are an almost neon blue.  When I walk on Wednesday mornings I always look wistfully at this one and wish I could have one like it.  Now isn’t that a waste of a wish!

…when the neighbors leave their cute little ghosties in the tree until it’s time to put up Christmas lights.  I think that’s what I remember from last year.  It leaves me wondering if they’re procrastinators or early birds.  Not that it matters.  Even though the houses in the neighborhood have a boring similarity, the people who reside within are as dissimilar and interesting as their backgrounds and experiences allow them to be.  Wonderful diversity here. 

…when you live in an area where these beautiful little pansy faces will continue to bloom throughout the winter.  Sometimes when it snows (rarely) Persistent Pansy stands her ground and we humans are grateful for her persistence.  Hope in the cold.  Something we could all use on occasion.

…when half the leaves on the tree are golden and half are their original youthful green and you can see an aqua sky through the branches.  Eye candy for sure.  I keep bits of “eye candy” all over my house.  Some folks think it’s superfluous but for me it’s essential, as vital as feeding my body.

…when a picket fence casts sunshine and shadows in front of you as you walk.  I grew up in a time when a picket fence was one of those iconic symbols of the longed for American dream.  Upward mobility.  Anyone can make it if he/she works hard enough.  I’m proud of the many Americans who are Occupying Wall Street or wherever in an attempt to recapture that dream.  And yes, I do think that’s what it’s all about.

…when most of the county has pale yellow nondescript fire hydrants and you have newly painted fire-engine red ones.  We didn’t have hydrants in the country where I grew up but when I went to town, they had red ones.  They’re supposed to be red.  Makes me wish I had a dog.

And finally, ya gotta love it…when a flat hot southern neighborhood in the US can claim a name like Glenfinnan.  I’ve always loved the sound of it so I looked it up, of course.  Click the link if you want to know what the real Glenfinnan in Scotland looks like.  It’s stunningly beautiful.  Now when I think or say the word I will have a little mental glimpse of heaven.  And life is good!

Note to Lady E:  Here’s my take on nine things I love.

Learning to forgive…again…and again.

We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive.  He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love.          ~ Martin Luther King

Some lessons are harder to learn than others.  Sometimes I think I’m a really slow learner.  For example, when I learn to do something new on my computer or my cell phone, if I don’t repeat it in a few days time, I won’t remember how it’s done.  I think that learning the lesson of forgiveness works the same way for me.  It would be nice if I could simply say, “I forgive” and let it go and never have to revisit that issue again.  I certainly always mean it when I say it.  I think what happens to me is that the hurt is multilayered and has many facets.  That means that just as I let one layer fly off on butterfly wings, another layer takes its place.  Maybe the human mind is that way for a reason.  Or maybe it’s just my mind that’s weird in that way.  What I have begun to understand is that each new layer is sneaky.  I may have to wrestle with it for days before I recognize what it is.

I don’t know how accurate my self-diagnosis is but I know I need to change my approach.  I just noticed that I used the word “wrestle” in the paragraph above.  I think that word might be key to my solution (my healing).  Why am I wrestling?  My new mantra will be something like this:  “I’m relaxing into forgiveness today and every day.”  I feel better already.

An addendum:  I have written before about forgiving.  I write about it in order to sort out how difficult it is for me to manage sometimes.  I hope I don’t sound as if I am the only one who has something to forgive.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  I won’t bother to list things I’ve done that I hope will put me on the receiving end of forgiveness.  Such a list would depress me beyond repair.

To be or not to be an activist.

The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.  The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference.  The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference.  And the opposite of life is  not death, it’s indifference. ~ Elie Wiesel

I recently had a meaningful conversation with one of my granddaughters.  I’ll call her Grace.  (She is after all very graceful.)  She came home from school a bundle of energy and excitement, as only a teenage girl can.  She told me all about being a member of the  Gay-Straight Alliance, one of the clubs in her high school.  They were preparing to march in the local Gay Pride Parade.  All systems were go and she was beaming and proud and seemed to have no qualms or doubts about her ability to do this and the rightness of doing it.  I told her I was proud of her for standing up for what is right and good and for what she believes in.  I also told her she was very brave but I didn’t elaborate.  No problem, right?

The next day she came home from school much less bubbly than she had been the day before.  I noticed a worried look on her brow as she texted her friend about their upcoming sleepover at the friend’s house.  I inquired, “Everything okay, Grace?”  She told me she thought her friend was upset with her because the parade would cause a slight delay in their plans.  We talked, Grace and I, and delved a little deeper into what might be her friend’s concern.  We discussed the fact that we aren’t always going to agree 100% with our friends.  She finally said rather philosophically, “Yeah, I know.  It’s the way she’s been raised.”  In other words her friend had been taught that gay=sin.

I tried to soften the hard, stark realization for her by telling her that some people are not activists.  Maybe her friend didn’t totally disagree with her.  Maybe she wasn’t an activist type.  I recalled a time when D went to protest an injustice in our small mountain town and I stayed home.  It wasn’t that I disagreed with him; it was that I didn’t like the idea of sitting all day in the hot sun.  Grace is way too smart to buy that theory but we grandmothers do what we can.

I’m very proud of her.

How boring if we were all alike.

I bought this card in a local shop yesterday while I was hanging out with my youngest daughter.  The minute I saw it I thought I would like to write a post about it.  Then, just a little while ago, I received notification of a post by a blogger I follow and she entitled it “Racial Profiling.”

What she wrote is so beautifully done that I don’t think I need to say more.  So I will simply recommend that you read her post.  She’s an excellent writer.  Her name is Deb and she is “The Monster in Your Closet.”  I hope you will click and read.

Pertinent notes:  As you can see the quote here is by Wade Davis.  The art is by Ann Altman SCW  Copyright 2004.  She does some lovely colorful pieces.

“I write to discover what I think.” ~ Joan Didion

It is my experience as an artist and a teacher that writing “rights” things.  ~ Julia Cameron

I promoted writing long before I realized I wanted to write.  I always encouraged my high school students to write because, like Julia Cameron, I believe that writing “rights” things.  There are many “things” that cause angst and depression in us all, but especially in teenagers.  Their hormones are careening like a roller coaster.  A friend makes a snide comment.  A boyfriend breaks up with a girl right before 5th period class and she can’t stop crying.  So many “tragedies” at that age.  Writing usually helps.

I used to require my Spanish III students to read a one-page story about a man who wrote himself out of depression.  Briefly, this is the story:  This lonely, sad man decided to kill himself because he had nothing to live for.  Realizing he shouldn’t kill himself without leaving a suicide note, he sat down to write.  He wrote a short note.  Then he decided he should add one more thing.  Then another.  And another.  When he stopped he had several pages and he read what he had written.  At that point the said, “Wow! I’m really good at this.  I should be writing for the newspaper.”  All thoughts of suicide went right out the window.  No more depression, just enthusiasm for his future as a writer.

I learned first-hand what writing could do for me when my husband of 30 years told me he wanted a divorce.  I had sporadically kept personal journals in the past, but once I got his news I became committed to writing down everything that cruised through my mind whether I thought it important or not.  I have a treasury of everything that happened during those days.  Our words.  Our expressions.  Our visits to lawyers.  Our tears.  You name it, I’ve got it.  In the past I had held back and written only superficially about my feelings.  That’s probably why I never wrote regularly in those days.  I wasn’t being totally honest.  Being superficial was no longer an option.  My emotions were too raw.  I recognized I had to be brutally honest with myself if I wanted to recover.  And I very much wanted to be well and happy again.

I recently looked back at what I wrote during that time.  Some of it was garbage but some of it was powerful stuff.  I always labeled my entries with the day, date and hour.  I was amazed when I realized how often I wrote in the wee hours.  Sometimes I would write at 3:00 am, try to sleep for a while and then my next entry would be 5:15 am.  No wonder my doctor reacted in alarm to my confession of sleeplessness.  The point is, though, that I depended upon my writing to help me sort through what was important and what was not.  I started to realize fairly soon that D was going to do his thing and there was nothing I could do about it so I had to stop whining about it.  I knew that his OW had no place in my thoughts or my pages.  But the most important thing I came to understand was that family and friends and faith would get me through to the sunshine again.  And they have.

Today I am mostly happy and joyous and free and Life is good.