Home Free

Several weeks ago a podiatrist quietly informed me it has become imperative that I wear stiff-soled shoes at all times since certain bones in my feet are shifting.  ALL times.  Fortunately his mandate included certain orthopedically-approved sandals for now, although he assured me sandal days won’t last forever. 

I believed his diagnosis and prognosis, as well as his prediction of “brutal” surgery (his word) if the condition continued to worsen to the point of no return.  I remember thinking how he seemed pleasantly blank-faced, robotic-like and unaffected in his white clinical coat, as if of course, the current predicament is relatively minor compared to the scope of gruesomeness that he sees other people bear.  I bravely chose not to mourn the loss of bare feet, my summer tradition since birth, but cinched up my good-girl belt and determined to be obedient.  It was a small sacrifice.  I would never go barefooted again.  Period.

Within days I discovered how tooth-grittingly hard it is to walk everywhere in shoes while living lakeside.  And yet, I’ve been good.  I wear the prescribed footwear when I get out of bed in the morning; when I walk down to the pier in my swim suit; when I want to kick them off and run wild and childlike with the grandkids in a race to the hammock.  It’s just natural for me to want to ground with the earth – to invite skin to touch dirt, grass, rocks, sand.  But, I resist.

This evening I sat on the couch reading a book as daylight waned. Hard-driving rain had let up, and heady, wet smells invaded the house through our open windows, inviting me outside. I closed the book’s cover, slipped my feet out of the sandals I’d worn all day, stood up and walked out the door.

Barefooted.

Raindrops stood tall on flower petals and fallen oak leaves.  I pushed my feet slowly across the lawn like a tentative ice skater trying out new ice, and the wet grass massaged the soles of my unfettered feet.  I was almost euphoric for a few minutes, delighted by the simple preciousness of freedom.

Waterways

Last evening we shared dinner and an ongoing book discussion with two other couples.  The intimate group met on a screened porch with an up-close water view accented by burbling waterfalls, lush greenery, and colorful goldfish: an idyllic setting.

This inspiring environment matched the testimony of the home’s owners.  Despite past trial and current disability, a similar freedom defines them rather than enslavement to limitation or despair.

The carefully engineered aquatic display, authentic to the finest detail, spoke to their redemption of loss.  I was drawn repeatedly to an example: a hollow rotten log that had found new purpose as a conduit for the water, guiding it to a new level.  This is one kind of deliverance, I thought, a broken object become new in function if not form.   Another more mystical kind is when human souls metamorphose; when Divine Love infuses the hearts of fragmented people to make them whole despite their brokenness. Our friends, the owners of the pond, demonstrate both.

Dense forest spread in every direction as if to shelter the house and those within it.  However, woodland stillness was overridden by motion – the purposeful movement of the water as it flowed over and around rocks to resolve in a tranquil pool.  There a large, grandfatherly goldfish peacefully oversaw a domain of angelic-looking smaller fish enjoying their final destination.

Ivy

I am outspoken in my fondness for English ivy.  It’s deep green, notched leaves seem inviting, like open-palmed hands.  As a ground cover looking for opportunities to climb rocks, trees, or houses, it meanders with creative unpredictability.  And yet ivy adapts well to potted life indoors as well.   

For the last three years I enjoyed a graceful ivy plant cascading from the top of a hutch in my dining area.  It continued to thrive no matter what, even when watered too much or too little.  Its long arms curled artistically, draping and framing the hutch in living hunter-green. 

Last week the ivy’s shiny green leaves started to turn sickly-pale, as if anemic.  Those near the dirt browned into crispy-dry shadows of their former selves and fell off.  I hoped this might be a temporary malady, but the plague continued down each length of vine.  Today I knew it was time to throw out the plant.

I don’t understand why this happened.  God knows why my ivy flourished, and why it died. 

I've been thinking about heritage and legacy, however: leaving something behind.  Every living thing does this in one way or another.  You.  Me.  The dog. The apple tree.  Nothing exists in a vacuum.  Living things touch each other, and their effects remain.

These thoughts came to me while nostalgically clipping the few remaining barely-healthy ends of the ivy vines this afternoon.  I placed them in water on top of the hutch in the same spot as the parent plant: a new generation. Symbolically they seemed to suggest life is larger than what we know, and loss will ultimately be redeemed. 

Cantaloupe Encounter

After filling my cart with mostly-fresh items at the grocery yesterday, I was about to leave the produce section when I stopped to survey a display of cantaloupe.  I picked up several, checking for ripeness, when a tiny, elderly woman with thick glasses and snow white springy-frizzy hair approached me.

“Could you find me a good one, dear?”  She looked eagerly into my face – not in a needy way necessarily, but with pleasant friendliness.

It had been a long time since I’d seen that look on the face of a stranger.

I told her with a chuckle that I was no expert at this time of year, and that we both needed to wait until late summer for the locally-grown good ones, but I would gladly share what I knew about selecting melons and we could look together.  She agreed, and we spent the next five minutes chatting amicably while searching for peachy-colored skins, punching butt ends for softness, and smelling stem ends for musky scents.  With the investigation of each melon she said, “Oh?  So that’s how you do it?”

In the end, we both decided to take our chances and buy one despite the fact that none checked out quite right.  Nevertheless, she thanked me profusely.  “Now I’ll know how to look for a good one,” she said, smiling and nodding.  Her eyes shone bright; I saw no hint of confusion, although I had to think that perhaps she used to know how to pick out ripe cantaloupe and had just forgotten.

I lingered to check out tomatoes at a nearby island, and noticed her again at a distance, picking out bananas - breaking one select unspotted specimen from each of several bunches. I hadn’t noticed her clothing before, but now she stood out against the wall of banana-yellow in her lavender stretch pants and blue shirt with white and lavender flowers.

As she snapped off her three choice bananas, other shoppers streamed by us with blank faces.  An unattended child, probably bored, tried to pull apples and carrots out of their plastic packaging by poking holes with his fingers.  A man seemed thoroughly engaged in an urgent cell phone conversation, reiterating with a stressed voice certain requests for tomatoes and fresh herbs from the other end.  A frazzled-looking woman purchasing many liters of soda pop leaned heavily on the cart for support.  All in their own worlds, each a separate entity, disconnected.

I watched the cantaloupe woman with the smile still on her face and remembered a time, long ago, when strangers comfortably approached one another in public to talk about simple common experiences.  I was glad this little lady with the lavender pants took a risk there beside the pile of cantaloupe and brightened my day.

I wonder if any of the others noticed.

Oh, To Be Nine

Nine is the number of the day here; we hosted nine boys as they celebrated our grandson’s ninth birthday.  As the story goes, they stayed up most of last night while supposedly sleeping in a tent, but that didn’t slow them down today! 

These energetic bundles of male energy did it all: swimming, kayaking, tube riding, cannon-balling out deep from the pontoon.  And of course, eating, and eating again!  One hovered over a freshly baked pan of brownies mid-afternoon and asked, “Could I have two?  Or no, I mean four?”  Then he snickered as his hands hovered over half the pan, ready to pounce.  “Actually, I mean eight?”  Hmmmm.  How about nine while you’re at it?

A Very Good Day...for...A Berry Sorbet!

This morning we met with my husband’s cardiologist to receive the results of his recent stress echocardiogram.  The appointment was held in a sunny room of a large, imposing-looking medical building, and the test verified his ongoing diagnosis but did not disclose new problems – reasonably good news.

The brilliant, experienced doctor seemed characteristically direct as well as personable and pleasant.  We consider ourselves fortunate to be under her care, a fish swimming together with thirty-some other well-respected cardiologists (and electrophysiologists and cardiothoracic surgeons), but one willing to also swim upstream alone and incorporate holistic approaches in her practice.

“We must ask ‘why’ and not stop until we get to the most basic cause of a health problem,” she said.  “And it is no surprise that gut health and food choices are often a major part of that bottom line.  This is the wave of future medicine: understanding the gut as foundational to the health of the rest of the body.”

I thought to myself what Hippocrates once said: “Let food be your medicine and medicine be your food.” Rather than new news, a focus on nutrition and digestion is really very old news waiting to be revisited!

Among other things, we talked about specific food goals that meshed with bits and pieces of my own research and kitchen experimentation, specifically those relating to inflammation.  Eliminate gluten, dairy, and sugar, for example, and prioritize fresh vegetables, especially greens. Cut out grains entirely as well, especially wheat and corn, or else use millet, amaranth and quinoa sparingly.

Having a medical professional recommend a nutritional regimen that overlaps my experience with anti-inflammatory diets seems highly motivating.  Although there’s plenty of change (and temptation and hard work) ahead, tonight I’m making stevia-sweetened, soft-serve mixed berry sorbet to celebrate this phase in our wellness journey! 

Eye-to-Eye

This morning I woke with a ball and chain locked around my ankles and a steel wool pad stuffed in my mouth.  I couldn’t seem to get going – to navigate my own thick voice, dull thoughts, headache, stuffy nose, and heavy body that wanted to creep back between the sheets forever.  And ever.

But in an act of sheer will (and necessity), I crawled off the mattress by the hardest, a sloth that commanded one foot to plod in front of the other until I made it to the bathroom. Then venturing even farther, into the kitchen, I tried to keep a low profile and croaked as few words of pseudo-pleasantry as possible.  It was the best I could do. 

Soon the sun came out strong, offering to bake off shadowy impurities.  The lake turned into a mini-paradise, inviting me out of myself.  Could I respond?  I still felt introverted, tired, grumpy, and out-of-it, until a candid moment when I peeked through three wildflower bouquets picked by granddaughters.

She invited me to see through her lens and come out (of my own perceptions) to play.  In an instant I was infused with airy hopefulness and gratitude.  The rest of my day improved after her inspiring eye-to-eye look that said I had a choice to live fully or with regret.  I chose the first.

Hog Heaven

Last evening friends joined us for a lakeside dinner, play date in the water (their dog and our son’s dog), and evening boat ride. 

It felt like we were in hog heaven – and salmon heaven and turkey heaven too, for that matter.  Our son-in-law, The Awesome Chef, cooked a pork tenderloin, Norwegian salmon filet, and turkey breast slow-and-easy-like in his outdoor smoker.  (If you’re having trouble envisioning this contraption, think baby steam locomotive standing on skinny stilts with smoke billowing out the top but no chugs or puffs.) The meats were moist, tender, and enticingly smoky, each with its own flair depending on the brine and/or rub.  I filled in with a sumptuous buffet of interesting side dishes including four salads: zucchini, bean, quinoa and broccoli.

We ate like pigs.  Mmmmmm.  

Intuition

“Your body has two brains: one in your head and one in your gut.  When you have a thought, tiny sparks of electricity show up within the neurons of your head.  The brain in your head is the hardware for your thoughts.  But when you experience a “gut feeling” or intuition, the tiny sparks of electricity show up within the neurons in your second brain. While your first brain serves as your intellectual hardware, your second brain – the gut – is your soulful GPS. Without it, you’re lost.”

 - Alejandro Junger, M.D. (cardiologist)

 

“Nana, why do you use scissors to cut chicken?” she asked.

“Because they're easier for me than a knife,” I answer.

“But why?”

“I’m not sure – it just is!”

“But how do you know it’s easier?”

“Because of experience. I've decided I like scissors better than a knife.”

Pause…

“Nana, I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

“But you know what?”

“No, what?”

“You knew I was going to say that, didn’t you, Nana?  That I loved you?”

“Yes sweetie, I knew it before you even said it.  And you knew I was going to say it right back.”

Sometimes relationship is about sharing information.  Other times you simply know what you know deep down, gut-feel, without a doubt.

Gnats

As I lay on the bench that frames our deck, a large swarm of pinhead-sized gnats danced in a frenzied mass overhead.  They flew spasmodically in misshapen orbits like drunken electrons, but amazingly didn’t run into each other. 

This kind of swarm is called a ghost, and rightly so.  If you walk into a swarm of male gnats at dusk (the males die after the females join them and mating is accomplished), you don’t even notice the ghost until you’re in the middle of it.  And then you’re consumed. 

This time I was simply observing, and several feet separated me from the ghost. However, I remembered a time years ago when my son and I sped through a ghost of gnats in our pasture during a run on the 4-wheeler at dusk.  For days my right eye itched.  When I finally saw the eye doctor, he diagnosed the source of my discomfort: a tiny gnat wing was tucked into a fold on the inside of my eyelid.

But this evening the gnats and I were coexisting peacefully, like friendly neighbors.  They stayed in their space and I stayed in mine, and yet we were somehow linked by common experience.  As the sun fell farther behind the horizon and the sky began to turn gray, they suddenly disappeared.  And for a split second I was curiously aware of being alone.

In the Middle of the Night

Contemplation and prayer often happen best in the middle of the night, surrounded by shadows and stillness.  Private, uninterrupted night-moments also offer the best time to get off the productivity treadmill and just be.  Still.  Or else dream a little, and invite the creative juices to rain down without worrying about catching and directing them through a mental downspout.  Just let them come. Down.  And trickle away.

In the middle of the night, I appreciate being separated from everything that usually demands attention – - except my soul.  It’s the difference between responsibly facing the important, and soulfully nurturing the essential.  There is no schedule in the middle of the night, so time doesn’t matter. I’m free.  The world sleeps while I celebrate solitary thought-rambling. No one knows or cares what I do or think.

While sleep obviously is the nighttime goal, I’ve learned not to resist sleeplessness, but rather to invite it to come out and play.  Acceptance opens the door to calmness or productivity or God-awareness that hide in preoccupations during light hours.  Imagination climbs mountains it couldn’t during the day because of inevitable rocks and bushes in the path.  And after a stint of fully engaged wakefulness, I usually don’t have to work to get back to sleep. The Sandman comes, finds tensions diffused, and carries me away.  In fact, t’s 2:00 a.m. and he just showed up.  Goodnight!

Moonstruck

I’m not sure how memory works, or why it is selective. I do know certain memories fade, while others build on one another.

                                                                 * * *

Our all-male family band had signed up to perform during an open-mic session yesterday evening at a tiny local pub, and a trail of us followed along to help shape the audience - 7 kids and 9 adults total.  The musicians played their songs well, and the rest of us cheered and applauded wildly after each one. Our five little grand-girls (ages 18 months through 5), dressed in splashy sundresses, danced in the aisle with interpretative combinations of ballet gone hip-hop. They almost stole the show. 

But after the musicians had finished their set, the real fun started.  At one point our musically gifted son was invited to perform multiple duets with the talented master of ceremonies. As night fell outside, the kids’ activity calmed. They were content to color pictures and eat fresh pizza from tall pedestal plates while their uncle backed up the MC with improvisational guitar.

When we finally left, it was several hours past the girls’ bedtimes.  I was carrying one of the 3-year-olds in the parking lot when she stretched up her arm and pointed overhead. “Da moon!  Da MOON!  I see da MOON!”  An enormous clipped white fingernail lay on its side in the dark sky.

Time stood still as we gazed overhead in silence, visually drinking in the sliver slice.  The night air smelled crisp and clean. Overcome by some unidentifiable emotion, I heard my dad’s resonant voice climb from a distant memory into the present.  He was singing “shine on, shine on silver moon” with a rich baritone similar to that of his 34-year-old grandson (our son, the girls' uncle) who had just enthralled us with his musicianship. 

Music and memory, soulful and deep, collided head-on there in the parking lot.  As I held our little moon-watcher close, the open skies flew me to the moon and back.  It was magical.

The Kids Got My Goat (Commentary on Childlikeness)

I stood with my friend in her driveway, 6 dozen free-range eggs in hand, while brown and white foster orphans danced around us: two 4-week old baby goats.  For all they knew, this bottle-feeding human was their mama.  They adored her. 

The two hopped and pranced like a pair mechanical wind-up toys, snatching foxglove and begonia leaves on the run as they skedaddled from place to place.  Sometimes they catapulted so high they landed on top of each other.  Other times they stood still, ears flicking, dreaming up choreography for the next sequence of leaps and bounds.  Every now and then they ran to their surrogate mother’s side for reassurance.  Yes, all was well.  Mama’s presence proved it.

Drawn into their playfulness, we giggled and laughed as they might have done had they been human children.  They didn’t know or care they were orphans, but simply trusted current goodness.  Their example was contagious, and despite our conversation about difficulties, challenges, and big decisions, we followed them in embracing the moment - in trusting our very present, sovereign Parent.

Childlikeness.  It is habit-forming. 

Poetry in Motion

“Your daughter is a poet,” a new acquaintance told me yesterday.  I wasn’t sure how to respond.  My thirty-six-year-old daughter was creative and precise, a student and teacher of the fine and deep and reverent, and an agile dancer.  But I didn’t necessarily think of her as a poet.  “She writes poetry for me,” the woman added knowingly. 

I stood in a corner with this woman and two others who, with my daughter, collectively shaped an intimate book club.  Their favorite project to date has been reading Milton’s Paradise Lost aloud and discussing it.  I could trust that they knew each other very well – that these three had experienced the poet in my grown-up child.

We chatted in a unique context, jointly nibbling refreshments following my daughter’s inspiring ballet performance.  This was the first time for her to dance on stage since her teen years, a memorial event honoring an adult co-dancer who passed away some months ago in the dance studio during class. 

“That was your best dancing, Suzy!” the teacher said at the end of the tango that fateful day.

“Roses to everyone!” Suzy responded exuberantly, gesturing into the air as if to throw a bouquet.  Then she collapsed on the floor with a massive heart attack.  Those were her final words.

Swarming emotions had held me captive during the memorial ballet featuring movements of adagio, waltz, and allegro, some of Suzy’s favorites.  My daughter’s grace and poise bubbled over from her own deep wells with a touch of signature coquettishness: ethereal rejoicing couched in grounded reality. I wept inwardly with gratitude and awe as she drew me into the ebb and flow of her swanlike alignment and carriage, and yes, the poised poetry of her body motivated by something delicate yet strong, light and quick but powerful.

It was a compelling celebration of life.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from her, the supple one who seemed to float amidst the other dancers on wings. Her pastel pink gown with shirred bodice alternately clung to her body and took flight in response to her deft movements. I was transformed by her charm.  Each fleeting second left a lasting mark.

Sitting near other family members,  I sensed completeness, as if my passion for ballet had come full circle.  This is what has always drawn me to classical dance, I thought: tactful elegance and graceful fluidity that speak as loud as words, or even louder. 

And so today I review yesterday’s experience with gratitude for my daughter's maturity – for her seasoned poetry in motion that celebrated the gift of life in a way that crept beneath my skin. 

She is my dancer.  My poet.  My daughter. 

Flowers

My two Knockout Rose bushes announced the arrival of summer this week with vibrant lipstick colors: rose red and hot pink.  They, along with two deep blue delphinium standing on either side of the mailbox, are cheerful greeters.   Beauty welcomes everyone who visits our property.

Several purple and pink columbine plants, tucked close to the house, are also early bloomers.  Even more exquisite than the roses in my mind, their blossoms stand on tall stems and nod encouragement to the contemplative poets, artists, and other creative folks who come our way.  If their tiny trumpets could perform a brass number, my guess is they would surely play a fugue.

A few tickseed plants opened their sunny faces a few days ago.  Buds are forming on the daylilies and daisies, while other plants are not yet ready to even consider blooming.  This reminds me of the seasons of human life as well – how we know various stages of preparation and propagation, of growing up and passing along the gift of life.

Bathroom Heaven

As a veteran do-it-yourself home remodeler with many notches in my belt, I realize remodel projects often take at least twice as long, and cost at least twice as much, as originally expected.  Today I reminded myself they may also turn out to be twice as nice as expected!

I stood in the bathroom late this afternoon, awe-struck and grateful for our son-in-law who completed much of the room’s handiwork, including the tiling and custom oak cabinetry. Our vision, borne of wood and stone, is coming together.

There are still some small things to be done, and yet it is time to celebrate!  Gone is the old pink tub, peeling linoleum, moldy-smelling vanity, and fishhook wallpaper with marching fish trim!  GONE! Here to stay is a lovely room with a noble personality reminiscent of the great outdoors. I think I’m in Bathroom Heaven. 

Rollin' Along

It’s marathon roll-baking week here, as intoxicating smells envelop the house and visiting grandchildren observe the baking process and sample my goods.  So far I’ve made three kinds of rolls that are hiding safely in our freezer until the weekend when they’ll be thawed for a high school graduation party: challah knots, soft Kaiser rolls, and crescent rolls.  One more to go, probably a honey-wheat.

Today was earmarked as crescent roll day.  A five-year-old granddaughter helped me knead the double batch of dough.  “This is the way I do it with my daddy, Nana.  I fold it and I punch it with my fists, like this.” 

She labored to manipulate the big lump, but had good technique.  I told her so.  In fact I said, “Maybe you’ll be a baker someday.” 

“Maybe,” she answered softly.  I already know she wants to be an artist.  In truth, she already is one.

An hour later the dough had risen above the top of the bowl like a smooth, yeast-infested, pregnant belly, and I called her to come watch the next step. I punched down the swollen mass and rolled a portion of it into a thin, round circle.  “What are you going to do, Nana?” she asked, knowing I wasn't making cinnamon rolls - her dad's forte. 

“Just watch,” I answered.  “I cut it in half, like this, and then each half in half again, and then…”

She curiously wrinkled her nose as the circle before us was cut into long pie-slice shapes.  Then she giggled and exclaimed,  “It looks like pizza!”  Her sparkly-eyed laugh slashed clean through me, the purging tool of childlike pleasure.  And I knew, in a split second, how this baking project - and every project I share with her - is about a lot more than the obvious.  For those with eyes to see, it is all about delight.

The Resort

We’ve been invited to dinner at a lake resort tonight, but since my other half is out-of-town, I’ll be going solo.  The resort belongs to our friends, Bob and Susan, who have owned and operated it for 40 years.

The main lodge dates to 1910, a time when life was simpler and basic pleasures of nature were lauded as the best relaxation and entertainment.  The 16-acre property on a 300-acre lake still holds its visitors to this vision, and offers small private cabins in the woods, some of which face a sandy-beached lakefront. 

I admire Bob and Susan’s commitment to the business in lieu of much-deserved retirement. They cheerfully minister to their patrons, offering a taste of genuine hospitality from another era, inspiring them to experience beauty and adventure in a context that encourages both rest and play.

The dining room is known for its down-home food “just like grandma’s,” so I’m eager to enjoy some samples this evening.  It will be a time of good fellowship and food, but also a time to express gratitude to Susan and Bob who willingly sacrifice to serve others in ways that have lasting impact.

Good-for-You Killer Chocolate Brownies

Killer chocolate brownies?  Mmmmmm.  The saliva starts flowing at the very mention of melt-in-your-mouth chocolate brownies. But good for you chocolate brownies?  That’s an oxymoron*, you say. An impossibly.

I am here to prove you wrong. 

I made a pan of oxymoronic brownies yesterday, definitely a step up in nutrition from sugar-bomb, starchy, baked (dead, refined, addictive, acidifying, inflammation-inducing) brownies.  The components, mixed in a food processor and pressed into a pan, were simple: raw almonds and walnuts, organic cocoa powder, dates, chia seeds, vanilla, agave nectar, himilayan salt, and stevia.  The ingredients in the smooth-and-creamy dark chocolate frosting (to die for!) were also uncomplicated: cocoa powder, agave nectar, coconut oil, vanilla, himalayan salt, and stevia.

Absolutely decadent.  Plenty of protein and good fat with no sugar rush.  Just pure deliciousness!

*oxy = acute, sharp, intense 

 moron = bonehead, fool, imbecile