Tom-Foolery at the Checkout

I love stumping checkers at the grocery store with weird (weird to them, not to me) items from the produce department.  Today it went like this, with a checker whose nametag said “Tom.”

“What IS this?” Tom asked as he picked up a plastic bag with dark blue-green leaves sticking out the top.

“It’s kale,” I replied.  “But not regular.  It’s Lacinato.”

“Loss-i-WHAT-o?” 

“Lacinato.”

“Loss-i……..”

“Loss-i-NOT-o.  Maybe I’m mispronouncing it.  It’s spelled L-a-c-i-n-a-t-o.  I think.”

“I thought you said it was kale.”

“It IS kale!  Lacinato kale.  That’s a variety of kale.  Also known as flat-leaf kale.”  I paused.  What else could I tell him that would help?  “It’s organic.  It’s really the best kale ever.”  I almost went into a dissertation on using Lacinato kale to make awesomely amazing green lemonade in the juicer, but stopped myself in the nick of time knowing Tom could care less.

He punched keys on his computer screen.  “I only find one kind of kale.”

“Well, this is more expensive than the regular curly-leaf kind, so you might want to look again.”

“What did you call it?”

“Lacinato kale.  L-a-c-i-n-a-t-o. I think.”

He punched more keys. “L-A-C….there!  Got it!”  Tom smiled broadly.

I really liked this kid; he’d been smiling the whole time.  Now he shook his head like a little boy as if to say wow, this is crazy.  “Never knew it existed before," he said out loud.  "There’s just too much stuff in the produce section for me to keep up with.”

Too much stuff.  He’s probably a meat-and-potato eater, I thought.  Or a fast-fooder. 

He proved me wrong.  The next item on the belt was another bag of green stuff.  He picked it up, stuck his head into the plastic bag and sniffed it (that was okay with me), then looked up with a victorious smile.  “CILANTRO!  It’s cilantro!  I’m sure of it!”  He waited to make eye contact, and then spoke with almost patriotic allegiance.  “I love cilantro!”

“Bravo,” I said, and clapped miniature applause.  “GOOD FOR YOU!”

He beamed.

The rest of our checkout experience was uneventful.  He rang up the holiday weekend supplies: paper towels and hamburger and brats, mayonnaise and hummus and corn chips.  At the end he handed me the receipt and said, “Have a nice weekend.”

“Lacinato, Tom!” I responded spontaneously, thinking why not, it sounded sort of like a swank, Latin-esque farewell.  Maybe it could be a code word that meant something like you have a good weekend, too!

“Lacinato!” he answered cheerfully, gesturing overhead like a flamboyant Italian.  

The people in line behind me smiled.  ‘Lacinato!” I said to them as I pushed my cart out of the checkout lane.

What a great day at the grocery store.

(In-House) Girls' Night Out

This evening my daughter-in-law and two granddaughters came HERE for a Girls’ Night Out, and Grampa went THERE (to their house) for a Guys’ Night Out.  I think the plan THERE was to play cards (Screw the Dealer), pound out amplified manly music on guitars and drums, and gorge on cheese and crackers.  All the usual GUY stuff.

HERE we enjoyed a giggly swim in the lake followed by puzzles and a movie. Then we enjoyed a tea-party buffet of bite-sized pieces of healthy (it’s true!) desserts after dinner.  NO BOYS ALLOWED at this girly party!  

Hope

In the midst of figurative broken ropes and dashed crystal goblets - a fabric of life that sometimes seems frayed or unraveled - stands the greater reality of a sure, secure anchor. Clinging to that anchor in the midst of storms requires intention and will.  Courage.  Bravery.  Determination. It requires faith in the Author of it. Faith in His plan.  Faith in His hope.

Hope is having faith in more than my ability to patch ravelings.   It is having faith that another Kingdom is real, right now, as I slowly watch a loved one's health fail.  It is faith in the One who made us both to share His divinity, faith that He is with us in moments when circumstantial winds buffet and batter.  When coughs wrack, when shortness of breath chokes. When the inability to swallow fosters anxiety, when reclining seems impossible.  

This kind of rock-like hope is based on a worthy Person rather than an abstract ideal. Conversely, wispy wishes, mistaken as hopeful antidotes, fade like dissolving whiffs of incense.  Addictions, posing as distractions, only promise to imprison with counterfeit relief. Yearnings and longings, other hopeful-looking imposters, tease and mock without materializing.  These kinds of pseudo-hopes allow circumstantial winds to buffet and batter, to keep us in a storm-tossed state lost at sea.  Lord help us to not wish or yearn for bandaids, but rather hope in You! 

Real hope holds me to the Presence of God - His love, His mercy, even as storms assail.  I'm anchored and therefore safe even in the midst of fear or loss, even in the midst of need or confusion, or lastly, even death.  

Eventide

I laid on the pier, back against wood and toes dangling in the water, as Poseidon and Helios rode ethereal cloud-chariots suspended in an azure sky.  Their extended cotton-arms dangled a fiery sun above aqueous shimmers, lowering it gradually until it extinguished in blinding waves.  Once light departed they also dissolved in a great sea of gray powder puff clouds, and night fell.

Glories

Yesterday was a challenging, sizzling hot day in The City.  The items on my shopping list didn’t exist, at least not in the stores I visited.  Traffic stampeded down six tight lanes of highway while occasional runaway cars dodged in and out as if to dare the rest of us. The bank closed just before I arrived to do my business. Through it all, my mind worked overtime, reviewing current obligations and concerns.

In this context I was surprised when, toward the end of my trip and on the long drive home, ongoing glories came to mind prompted by a series of 12 prayers and songs giving glory to God for all things.  Over time those recitations seem to be working their way beyond surface thought and emotion to my deeper soul-parts.

I didn’t remember the recited script exactly - I didn't need to. My own exhaustive list of glories redirected me to the One beyond me and yet with me, and lifted my spirits.  Here are a few I remember, in no particular order:

Glory to You Lord, for the beauty of the open sky.

Glory to You for loving me.

Glory to You for the music on the radio; for my ability to hear some of it.

Glory to You for the person in the car in front of me.

Glory to You for things that don’t work out; You have another plan.

Glory to You for my loyal husband.

Glory to You for hillsides covered with grapes ready for harvest.

Glory to You for discomfort that refocuses me on what matters most.

Glory to You for the leftovers that will be my dinner.

Glory to You for this dependable old car.

Glory to You for a busy schedule that proves I’m alive.

Glory to You for trees that meet over the road; for their shade.

Glory to You for challenges, for the need for courage and faith.

Glory to You for my body; for the ability to grip the steering wheel.

Glory to You for my humble home beside the lake.

Glory to You for friends who share life with me.

Glory to You for gentle flowers bursting with color.

Glory to You for opportunities to stretch beyond my comfort zone.

Glory to You for the handsome rooster on the road that scuttled to safety.

Glory to You for change that forces me to trust You.

Glory to You for hope.

Glory to You for the glory of You: Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal.

Glory to You unto ages of ages.

Come On, Doggone Dog!

A friend visited this evening with his two water-loving dogs, both eager for a swim in the lake.  When our son returned to the pier in the Hobie (catamaran), I volunteered to dog-sit the dogs at the pier so our friend could go sailing.

The dogs and I got along famously.  I threw a fat stick and they eagerly swam for it, wrestling for ownership on the way to shore.  It was a good activity, and occupied them for quite a while.

Then the tables turned and they decided to ditch our game. It seemed almost as if a gun went off and an imaginary starting gate opened.  They scrambled out onto the lawn and took off along the shore like marathon runners.   The race evidently was ON.

I foolishly ran after them – 64-year-old woman in a swimsuit hobbling on bare feet because of an orthopedic problem.  What a sight!  Observers must have thought it laughable, something from a Charlie Chaplin movie.  I thought it highly distressing. 

Of course the dogs ignored my calls. Who was I, anyway?  A stupid sitter.  What kind of authority did I have?  None.  Happy trails were calling them now, and my voice meant nothing.

They kept running.  They didn’t look back. 

I kept running.  I watched them them gain ground.

About 10 houses later, one became distracted.  I snuck up from behind, stealthy-like, and nabbed him.  (Side note: We’re talking about a Great Dane-Doberman mix here.   A Very Large Dog.  An Immense Dog.)  Having commenced the frantic chase in a hurry (an understatement), I didn’t have a leash.  So I grabbed his collar and lugged The Mammoth back home knowing full well that he could easily dislocate my arm if he wanted.   The whole thing seemed either hilarious (most likely choice) or pathetic (not a bad option, either).  Take your pick.

After securing The Giant Dog to our big oak tree with a rope (I wondered if it was strong enough to hold him?), I reinstated the hunt for the other one, this time with a leash in hand. An awful, stomach-churning sense of responsibility sickened me. She was an older hunting-type dog, beloved by her owners, and I had visions of her taking off into the wild swamp and getting lost.  Evening was practically upon us.  If night fell and she wasn’t back, what might happen?

I haven’t run for a long time, but I did just that – a sadly pathetic limping walk-jog for a half mile to the dead end, heart pounding, adrenaline racing.  No dog.  Surely she was gone, and I would have to be the one to break the bad news to her owner.

But no.  That's not the end of the story.  Rather, I was mocked!  For when I finally returned to the house, there she was, wagging her tail, enjoying the last laugh.  That doggone dog!

Fancy Day

This afternoon my 5-year-old granddaughter bobbed near the pier with the neck edge of her lifejacket hugging her chin: a miniature human cork.  I stood nearby, the adult helper waiting for her little sister to dismount the flexaboard.  But the tiny flexaboard-rider was still several minutes away, zooming over the water behind our fishing boat.  It seemed the right moment to broach a topic of conversation with Clara.

“Clara!  I have an idea I’ve been thinking about, and I want to tell you.”  I pulled the straps on her lifejacket until we were eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose.  My voice fell to a whispered hush, as if to share a secret.  “I’ve been thinking.  Maybe you could come over to my house one day a week by yourself for a special day.  We could do some baking, or crafts, or go to the story hour at the library.  What do you think?”

Her gaze froze on some faraway spot while processing this information. Then she smiled broadly and kicked the water for emphasis. “Yes! Let’s do it right now!”

“Not right now – your other family members are all here, and we’re doing water sports behind the boat, and we’ll be having dinner in a little while on the deck.  I’m talking about another special time with JUST YOU AND ME.”

She thought for several seconds, and then it registered.  Her eyes lit up. “Okay!”

“I think we should call it Clara Day.  Do you think that’s a good name for our special day?” I asked.

Let me insert here that this child thinks outside the box.  She’s good at illusion - one of those creative sorts with fantastic stories on the tip of her tongue.  She’s also thoroughly “pink” at heart, and loves purses, jewelry, feminine clothes, and all things girly.  So her reply didn’t surprise me. 

“I think we should call it FANCY DAY," she said without hesitation.

So Fancy Day it is.  We’ll begin in a couple of weeks when her home-school kindergarten calendar kicks in.  Our first Fancy Day could include a lesson in elementary counted cross-stitch and a trip to the library to hear Miss Juanita, a retired pre-school teacher, read a few stories. 

I have no doubt it will be fancy – extravagant when compared to an ordinary day.  Snazzy.  Bigger than life.  And I also have a feeling ongoing Fancy Days may challenge me, a plain-Jane country girl gone grandmother, to enter the princess world of childhood.  There I just might rediscover a realm beyond the practical, and remember how to think like a child who is unafraid to dream.

Going With the Flow

The lily pads, those curious, floating green plates that line our wild shoreline, appear to be dying. They do this every year, and yet the change always sneaks up on me.  I’m never quite ready for their yellowed edges to announce the end of summer. 

This shift isn’t as sudden as it seems, but rather I don’t notice their day-by-day aging until it accumulates. Then one day, like today, they advertise autumn’s inevitability and prove a principle: change is the only constant of life on planet earth. 

These low-profile aquatic plants with hidden deep-down, imposing woody structures speak to both rootedness and drastic seasonal variations.  As part of the natural world, they are both dynamic and mysterious.  They accept without anguish or complaint.  Amidst cycles of dormancy, growth, and maturity they flourish.  They LIVE. 

I want to share their character qualities - their quiet, unassuming presence,  their willingness to go with the flow.  Their ability to simply BE without pretense or apology, and wait on God's timing for all things.  

The Beginning, and the End, of Love

Inspiring friends celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary last week, and were asked to spontaneously share the secret of their success with the entire congregation at church last Sunday.  With a huge smile, the wife made her proclamation from the pulpit: “Marry someone who is your exact opposite, and you’ll be happy.” 

Wow!  I might have argued her point years ago, but now I believe it.  Homogenizing differences can seem grueling, like stirring oil and water (and stirring and stirring without obvious immediate effect), but ultimately it changes us for the better.  We’re enlarged – not by losing our own identity and cloning the beloved, but by becoming more dynamic.   Less self-absorbed. 

This reality is not usually common knowledge when we’re young, but rather is learned over much time together in the trenches of life.  We begin not knowing much about what love is and does, but end up altered, perhaps transformed, by it.

“The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image.  Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them.”  -Thomas Merton

Crusty Saga

I’ve made thousands (just guessing) of pies in my lifetime, give or take a few hundred.  Pie-baking is second nature to me.

This morning I gathered the ingredients to make a berry pie.  I mixed the pastry and rolled out the bottom crust with hardly a thought.  The four varieties of berries, sugar, lemon juice, tapioca, cinnamon, and butter took their place in the pastry-lined plate.  Things were progressing nicely, as expected.

But then a dark cloud (imagined, not real) rolled over the kitchen. Lightning struck (imagined again) as I began to roll out the top crust.  Giant cracks appeared in the dough. It insisted on tearing.  The bottom had rolled just fine, so why was there a problem?

I sighed.  A crevasse would not do.  Not on the top crust.

To make a long story short, I re-rolled that dough three times, and each time it split. Had I lost my touch? After its third rolling on the flour-covered countertop, the dough felt like cardboard and promised to taste the same. I threw it in the trash.

My face flushed red with anger, and maybe a twinge of pride.  I could roll pie crust with my eyes shut, couldn’t I?  A cupboard door fell prey to my emotion.  I slammed it hard, and it banged like sharp gunshot. But I only felt worse.

My only choice was to make another batch of dough.  As I measured the flour, an (imagined) Wicked Witch tapped her (imagined) wand on my measuring cup and I mis-measured ingredients.  The dough, instead of elastic, was too squishy.  I threw it in the trash.

Steam rolled out my ears as the (imagined) Wicked Witch cackled hysterically.  The nude berries in the pie plate seemed to taunt me: “Are you ever going to cover us?” I made up yet another batch of dough and bathed it with a few tears (real) and prayers (real again). 

This time the dough rolled easily. I slit steam holes, unfolded the dough on the berry mixture, crimped the edges, and gratefully tossed the pie in the oven.  An hour later it emerged, innocently bubbly and fragrant, as if nothing had happened. 

The pie was appreciated at a gathering with friends tonight, and when the host said, “Good pie – really good crust!” I didn’t let out a peep.

How Good and Pleasant

Today I skimmed a couple of books on display in the waiting area while my friend consulted at length with a new doctor.  Several of us had traveled with her over an hour to the appointment, jointly trusting God for the consult to be good in some unforeseeable way.

It was good.  She returned with teary eyes brimming - a sign of new hope. We hugged all around.  A young employee watched us and smiled softly, acknowledging our shared commitment.

During the long drive home we talked about all sorts of nitty-gritty things that had left their mark; things that had shaped us, brought us to today. It was therapeutic.  Hard.  Awesome.

Tonight while recapping the experience, a scripture came to mind expressing the Psalmist’s thanks for those in the community of faith.  I looked up the verse: “How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity!”  (Psalm 133:1) 

To that I say, amen.

Jack's Beanstalk, Or....?

As I walked through the kitchen on my way elsewhere, I suddenly stopped, dead in my tracks.  What was THAT?  A skinny green spire rose from a stainless steel bowl on top of the refrigerator.  It seemed intent on reaching the ceiling (and maybe beyond), and looked much too healthy to be growing in this sunless spot.  Perhaps it was ready to curl into an invasive vine like Jack’s Beanstalk?  It was obviously very alive with delicate, almost perfect form.   

Half expecting something beyond my comfort zone, I reached for the bowl (having no recollection of putting anything in it) and investigated.  SWEET POTATOES! 

They were very eager to live.  They became oven fries for dinner.

What's in a Name?

He said "Potato Head" sounded too Redneck, so chose "Russet Burbank" instead.  

(Nametag compliments of a 10 lb. bag of potatoes!)

A Heavenly Place

I expected our destination, with an address beside a narrow country road in the middle of nowhere, to be rough and untamed.  But I was wrong.  Yesterday my younger son and I visited an exquisitely beautiful Christian Orthodox monastery for women embedded in wilderness.  It was the day for the traditional Orthodox Feast to celebrate the death of Mary, the Mother of Jesus.   

Even as we entered the driveway, I fell captive to the charming campus with pleasant features, its structures congruous with their natural surroundings.   Wood-sided buildings seemed to grow from the ground almost like the immaculate, lush beds of flowers that surrounded them.  In a prominent central location a magnificent cathedral-like church of stone rose like an outcropping from earth to oversee the rest.

Towering trees and perfectly manicured, colorful landscaping drew my attention on every side.  I felt out-of-place, like an initiate, but simultaneously comfortable, as if I belonged with the encompassing beauty.  I could hardly take in the magnificence.  While enchanted by sensory overload I was also aware of another stirring, something yet to be discovered.

We parked beside a cemetery like none I’d ever seen, where thick granite crosses stood almost as tall as people.  Each plot, the size of a twin bed mattress, was outlined neatly in brick. At each grave’s head, blazing orange and yellow flowers grew beside a red glass cylinder holding a candle (representing eternal light).

My fate was sealed when we entered the cathedral-like church. Meticulous, ornate iconography covered several massive overhead domes as well as the front of the nave.  The artistry aroused and inspired some deep, forgotten inner place, or perhaps one I’d never known.  Stone pillars supported balconies above, as if in remembrance of architecture from ancient Greece - something that might last forever.  Something almost eternal.  Standing in the midst of grandeur, awe literally overtook me.

Our all-day, eight-hour visit was full to the brim.  While walking the campus, we discovered a winding dirt path through a forest primeval that led to a contemplative pond.  We also explored a children’s garden where a cobblestone path led to featured stopping points for the young and young-at-heart: a tiny church on a hill, a miniature Noah’s Ark parked in a bed of rocks, a burbling stream and waterfall.

Lunch was served outdoors. Picnic tables spread with blue-checkered tablecloths stood scattered beneath a thick, leafy canopy of trees to provide ample shade.  Smiling volunteers offered each visitor a square clamshell box full of food, a drink and a dessert.  I was expecting something like cold sandwiches and chips, but our boxes held herbed chicken breasts with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, rolls, and several bites of what appeared to be Romanian sausage (an ethnic favorite).

At appointed times the semantron (a wooden plank struck in staccato fashion with a wooden mallet) and pealing bells from a tower announced gatherings in a large outdoor pavilion with more beautiful iconography, although not as extensive as in the church. We attended 2 of the 4 services: holy liturgy (traditional liturgical service) and unction (prayer, healing, and anointing).  They were long, challenging, and deeply soul-filling.  We were part of a congregate group of approximately 500 people, 30 priests, and 2 bishops.

When we drove out the driveway and turned back onto the quiet country road, I knew I’d been changed for the better in a lasting way.  I woke up today with a sense of leftover awe and appreciation for the blessing of historical tradition, and this evening still notice a difference in perspective.  The depth of the experience spoke to a part of me that has grown weary with superficial change for the sake of change, and a cultural outlook that believes reverence must be repeatedly altered to be relevant.  The lifestyle I experienced yesterday has been practiced since the early centuries of dated time, and represented what we all crave: security in timeless beauty and divine love come to earth that is greater than anything we can imagine or expect.

I am profoundly grateful.

(Pictures have not been included out of respect for the privacy code of the monastery.)

 

Nodding and Smiling My Way Through

I do a really good job of blustering my way through conversation when I can’t hear, which is often. Verrrry often. 

It’s an art, this thing of faking.  A lot can be said with facial expressions and body language – even by just being intent and listening (or pretending to) with enthusiasm.  I think I should write a book entitled, How to Listen When Listening Isn’t Possible.

Take an incident today, for example.  Our local gas station doesn’t offer the option to pay with a credit card at the pump, and when I went inside after filling up, the young woman behind the desk struck up a conversation.  I couldn’t hear most of it.  She seemed intent on her own inner turmoil, and kept her head turned to one side (no eye contact) while mumbling the whole time.  This spells defeat for a listener who depends on lip reading to fill in the blanks. 

Her words ran on in a constant rat-a-tat-tat monotone, in a way I couldn’t understand very well. So I assumed my perky-looking, bright-eyed stance and nodded and smiled and nodded and smiled some more.  What I caught of her long-winded lament were some references to her teen-aged son, something about gas, something about money, something about what to do, what to do.  She shook her head several times to add to her spirit of dismay.  So I interjected with sympathetic comments like, “Oh, teenagers!” and played on her own words by saying, “Well, you just have to do what you have to do!”  When my transaction was completed, she smiled broadly at the cash register (still no eye contact) as if relieved to have purged some of her grief, and wished me a good day.

I felt it was a successful conversation.

Songwriter

Our winsome granddaughter with the missing front tooth and tom-boyish wiles has become a songwriter.  She effortlessly composes sing-song lyrics and lilting tunes as part of her everyday routine. Her first famous song erupted not long after her third birthday while sauntering down the hallway after a confrontation with a sibling (if I remember correctly), and was entitled, “It is Not My Fault.”

It…is notttt…my faullllt,

It…is NOTTTT….my faullllt,

It…is NOTTTT….my FAULLLLT!

Yesterday morning she blurted out her parents’ latest favorite while riding in the back seat of the car.   It had to do with swallowing an insect (they think), and was entitled, “The Dying Song.”

This is the dying song.

If you want to die

Come straight into my mouth – (finger points deep into mouth)

I will send you up to God,

This is the dying song.

Good morning!

Awestruck

Last night we bedded down on the pier to visually comb the sky for Perseids meteors during the hour before midnight.  Blue foam mats (usually for swimming) worked well as beds, and beach towels sufficed as blankets until we got too cold in the damp night air and supplemented with pillows and a quilt. 

The breathtaking, starry view seemed to inspire reverence, even as insistent clouds intermittently covered various segments of the sky.  We saw several small meteors and one incredibly long, fast one that breathed a gasp of splendor as it fell: a spectacular reward for our patience.

While feeling so small in the vast context of space, a couple of simple but profound thoughts surfaced, and I spoke them out loud.

“You know, here we are – very much alive!”  We might both have already passed away.  In 1996, my brush with cancer could have had a different ending.  In 2002, his prognosis due to heart muscle degeneration suggested a statistical life expectancy of 3 to 5 years.  

“And we’re here on our own pier.  At our own lake!” We’d grown up and courted on water, raised our kids to also love the water, and hoped to end up living beside water – although over the years we weren’t sure that would happen. But it had.

We were among the living, stretched above calm waters and beneath countless heavenly bodies declaring the glory of God.  Alive.  Grateful.  Awestruck.

Restored

The lake came alive as dusk fell this evening, shimmering with silvery ripples like the ruffled coat of a gray fox.  Its palette flickered wild as I watched, mesmerized.

Elemental.  Energetic. Mysterious.   

Then within minutes its animated, crawling surface transformed into slick glass.  Smoky dimness simultaneously condensed into a blanket of thick, blinding blackness.

The earlier spirited feral waters, now tame and quiet, patiently awaited the promise of dawn: rebirth.  As a few brash stars showed themselves, I smoothed the wrinkles of the day and also waited, restored beside these still waters.

Live Well

Forty-two years ago, a guy friend from high school married my childhood best friend: a girl who lived in a house full of dolls with homemade designer wardrobes, throaty laughter, and warm snickerdoodle cookies. Just a few months ago, he grieved with their three children beside her casket. (See blogs for May 16, 21, 23, 24)

He arrived yesterday for our first visit since the funeral.  I sensed his loss, again, in the pit of my own soul: that fertile place where youthful relational seedlings grew deep taproots over time, roots now laid bare by a plowshare of change.

My husband and I talked with him for hours on the deck, in the pontoon boat, and at a picnic table outside an ice cream parlor (where the black walnut ice cream is beyond definition), laughing often, shedding a few sad tears.  While resolving to be open and transparent, I skated with sensitive steps on thin ice above frigid emotional depths.  His wife had been my pal, confidant, surrogate sister, and forever friend.   He’d been her loyal husband, sacramental partner, lover, and companion.  Could I hold it together while we looked into each other’s hearts and shared the process of grieving?

He offered me a few treasures from her personal possessions: a dog-eared picture of our 1959 Girl Scout troop (our mothers were co-leaders); a volume with clean pages entitled “A Woman’s Journal;” earrings, necklaces, and other jewelry.

I offered him compassion.  Could he feel it?  I wondered about the vapor called earthly life (James 4:14).  I thought about our respective journeys, how both overlapping and separate experiences had brought us to this point of releasing what has been and reaching for what will be. 

He left this morning, traveling alone with bicycles clamped to the back of the car, to be with children and grandchildren for a week at another lake. My hope for him as he drove away was to remember well, to cherish her memory.  But I also hoped he would be well, laugh well, live well and with joy. She would want it that way.

Make Way for Ducklings

Eight duck siblings dined in the shallows near our seawall day-before-yesterday, a main course of aquatic seaweed followed by dessert: my breadcrumbs.  Their mama remained a respectable distance away and could not be coerced to join them in the feast. Our local wildfowl typically don’t domesticate, and wise old mama knew the rules.  Over the years all my others attempts to feed wild ducks on this lake have failed.

But these noisy, quack-quacking guys and gals – teens through and through – had evidently been coached as babies to receive human handouts.  They knew the drill. And they were not going to forget a good thing.  

Yesterday the family came back, boldly bedding down in our yard for a late afternoon nap until time for dinner.  Bills tucked beneath wings.  Eyes shut.  Lights out.

They seemed friendly and endearing - Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouach, Pack, and Quack - and yet I was resolved to resist being manipulated by a bunch of cute ducks.  I did NOT want our yard to become their home base, which would also mean their latrine. 

And so I stomped across the yard, flapping my hands aggressively like some very large, angry bird.  They woke up disgruntled and headed for the lake, flapping and squawking in return.  Innocents.  What had they done to deserve this?

One by one they fluttered off the seawall into the lake, obviously upset by the disruption.  In the water they quieted down, floating like motionless decoys with heads cocked just so, staring at me expectantly, waiting for the coveted breadcrumbs.  Sweet duckies, smart little duckies.  When no food appeared, they turned and swam off, waggling their tails as if to say “good riddance” while heading down the shoreline to beg from some other less coldhearted person. 

I watched them swim away with just a touch of remorse, and wondered if they’d be back.

 

Thirty Minutes to Calm

I sought simple things,

Hunted beauty within reach:

Peace, tranquility, quiet.

In half an hour I pursued them,

Quested after small delights:

Pleasure, satisfaction, rest.

One by one I witnessed glory,
Discovered finery and splendor:
Mystery, form, life.

“Again I resume the long

lesson: how small a thing

can be pleasing, how little

in this hard world it takes

to satisfy the mind

and bring it to its rest.”

-Wendell Berry, Sabbaths