The Glow

Far out on the ice sits a tiny spot of fuzzy gold immersed in the pitch blackness that defines the lake at night.  It glows like an injured lightning bug, softly and constantly with muted smoldering, as if it could go out at any moment but never does.

A tent houses this blurry light and two inhabitants: my husband and his fishing buddy of over thirty years. Their adventure is a matter of conquering the frozen wilderness (and hopefully aquatic prey), but I don’t understand the appeal.  Sitting on inverted buckets in the freezing cold, hoping to catch a fish from a tiny hole in the lake’s thick glacial cap, sounds like harsh recreation. 

Our outdoor thermometer reads eight degrees.  As I watch the fishermen’s lantern from the warmth of the house, I wonder at their boyish thrill. What’s so exciting about being encapsulated in a tent on ice at night with two holes full of slushy icewater and a dim lantern?  Maybe its a little bit like panning for gold, prospecting with that little hook on the end of the line, waiting and hoping for the big one to strike.  Even if it gets away, there can still be a fish story. 

Or perhaps this is a male version of enjoying a chicken salad stuffed croissant served on fine china at a fancy tearoom with an old girlfriend.  Although I’m quick to note the amenities certainly don’t match.

More likely a glowing primal force, something so elemental to manhood that it can’t be explained, is at work in these longstanding friends.  I’m guessing they share a fire that enjoys mastering the elements for the sheer sake of conquest, and if they catch some fish in the process, well, that’s a bonus.

Highly Sensitive

A friend posted an article on Facebook today pinpointing the habits of what it calls “highly sensitive people.”  I identified with the entire article, although I realize it exposes only one behavioral viewpoint and therefore is not a comprehensive evaluative tool.  Still, I find it interesting to relate with elements of all 16 points.

1.)   I’m intuitive, feel intensely, and go deep inside to try and make sense of things.

2.)  I’m more emotionally reactive than many other people in a given situation.

3.)  I’m used to hearing, “Why are you so sensitive?” and “Don’t take things so personally!”  These were common, almost daily, in my early adult years until I learned to keep my feelings to myself.

4.)  I prefer solo exercise pursuits like walking or distance swimming to team sports.

5.)  I am slow to make decisions because of being aware of subtle details that make it harder to come to a conclusion.  I can be seen as indecisive when I feel I am simply being careful.

6.)   I am very aware of making a “bad” or “wrong” decision – higher emotional reactivity, again.

7.)   I am detail-oriented in the sense of noticing and observing details in everyday life.

8.)   I am an introvert at heart, but become extroverted when situations require it or when I strongly believe in a cause or effort.

9.)  I can be a good team player, but prefer to not lead or have the final say.

10.)   I often defer to negative moods learned in childhood.

11.)   I find uncomfortable sounds annoying and overwhelming.

12.)  I find violent movies overstimulating and depressing.

13.)  I cry easily.  The more something or someone matters, the more I can choke up over it or them.

14.)   I want to be conscientious and sensitive, and notice when others seem rude or clueless (which can bring out a more aggressive spirit in me!).

15.)  I am prone to amplify the effects of criticism, but not out of defense as much as feeling misunderstood.

16.)   I prefer small, controlled jobs and workspaces.

You can find the article here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/02/26/highly-sensitive-people-signs-habits_n_4810794.html

After the Visit

My two boys grown into men

Visited our house tonight,

Turning frisky and boyish

While a grandson under their wings

Grew mannish in his youthful way.

I replay our evening together,

The assorted dinner buffet,

The card game afterwards

With whooping and whistling

Whenever the trump card won.

It was an honor to be Queen

Surrounded by a familial court

Of relaxed male camaraderie,

One celebrating comfort and joy

In the presence of sons at play.

Search and Find Mission

I have a playful, available, helpful, motivating, energizing, faithful friend.  The kind you didn’t know you needed before you met, but can’t live without. The friend that saves you from yourself when you’re stuck without information, the one that picks you up out of the depths of trouble and sets you on higher ground where at least some things are known.

Good old Google!  When I’m uncertain, and grasping at straws for direction, Google offers what every detail junkie wants: information. To clarify though, I’m not the type to crave an understanding of everything (which is impossible anyway).  In certain instances I am quick to give place to the reality of mystery that requires, and grows, faith.

However, in regard to yesterday’s posting about my husband’s unprovoked hematoma and debilitating Achilles pain, Google came through for me (under the direction of divine guidance, I’m sure). In the still of the night, at 2:00 a.m., a web site finally offered a reasonable explanation: “Bleeding that causes pooling of blood below the skin is not always related to trauma…people may show signs of leg or foot hematoma despite lack of physical injury…this is attributed to blood clotting disorders due to intake of anticoagulants (blood thinners).”

There you have it.  A blood clotting disorder caused by blood thinners! This almost positively confirmed my hunch that the whole disturbing mess, which kicked off some serious discouragement and anxiety, was probably a side effect of drug therapy.  My husband already bruises at the slightest bump because of blood thinners (think purple leopard, it’s quite the look), and his cuts and scrapes bleed forever.  One nick with the razor while shaving took three days to stop bleeding, which became a nightmare for a certain white pillowcase and its laundress.

And so, since his symptoms were relieved this morning after last night’s icing and heating, icing and heating, we will talk with the heart failure specialist about this hematoma incident at a forthcoming appointment.  Perhaps the dosage of blood thinner can be reduced. 

On a personal level, my continuing goal is to neither overreact nor underreact to challenges as they arise on this ongoing heart journey.  It’s tricky business to maintain balance while feeling our way along the tightrope, sometimes blindfolded. Thanks, Google, for partnering with us, for bringing internet access to that tightrope!  What a good, intelligent, inspiring, supportive, accessible, devoted, investigative friend you are. 

(P.S.  Thank you, R.W., for praying us through this incident.)

Stuck

Time.  It marches along, minutes all lined up in sync like ranks of soldiers: one-two-one-two-one-two.  Predictable.  In step.  Until one falls out of rank, creating a domino effect.

This is what can happen with unexpected health breakdowns. One stumble, and ka-pow.  A pile-up.

Such is the case here this evening.  We’re anticipating a call to the cardiologist in the morning regarding an unexplained blood vessel rupture in my husband’s ankle.  It is painful and debilitating.  The cause is unknown, although his heart-related drug therapies are suspect.  Because there have been serious heart-related tumbles in recent months, concern is heightened.

The clock says 8:30 p.m., but I thought it was more like 6:30.  This is what happens when uncertainty cuts to the quick: time stands still.

Dinner

As a child, the evening meal at my house was an emotionally tense time.  I often wanted to eat and run.  As an adult in charge of the dinner hour over many years, I’ve wanted to cultivate a relaxed, pleasant atmosphere and offer interesting, tasty, healthful food as much as possible.  This seems important to soul as well as body, and worth the effort.

Tonight’s dinner menu fit my husband’s dietary goals without leaving us feeling the least bit deprived: cod and spinach baked in a sauce made with coconut milk and goat cheese, glazed carrots and onions, and steamed Brussels sprouts. 

Then we topped the last of the chocolate almond flour cake with a dollop of home-churned, stevia-sweetened coconut milk ice cream that rivals even the best of the best gourmet ice cream I’ve ever eaten.  Mmmmmmm! 

Dinner.  It’s about food.  But it’s also an opportunity to nurture and serve each other.

* * *

Every day you provide your bodies with food to keep them from failing. In the same way your good works should be the daily nourishment of your hearts…You aren’t to deny your soul, which is going to live forever, what you grant to your body, which is going to die.

-        St. Gregory the Great

Touching

Unexpected highlights come and go in an average day, and can be easily disregarded unless distractions are cropped out of the picture.  This afternoon when I decided to photograph the hazy sun surrounded by a soft greenish rim, I thought a couple of trees in our yard would provide an incidental frame. I didn’t know they would become the primary focus.

Maple buds swelled on the branches to the right, while the towering oak on the left held evidence of its new life locked inside, still waiting.  I overlooked these details, the fact the trees were alive.

And so, I pointed the camera out the window.  The lens zoomed automatically, clicked in-and-out until the image came clear.  Interventions tugged: a growling stomach, a ringing telephone, a hammering husband in the next room. The shutter snapped.

When I viewed the image on the computer screen, I discovered more than I’d expected.  Delicate, twiggy tree fingertips gently tapped each other, two living things connecting.  Associating.  The sun stood behind them as witness, a glazed, blind-but-seeing eye that seemed to understand the trees’ slight but distinct touch.  It had been celebrating for hours what I'd overlooked until that moment – the divine mystery of relationship.

Voices

Our cultural norm supports the ongoing allure of something else to elevate our expectations and perpetuate The American Dream.  

We think it normal to hunger and thirst after more, to be intent on the evasive shimmer of a million varieties of glitter, all encouraging self-awareness.  Self-gratification.  Self-advancement.  Self-improvement.  The underlying language of The Dream is egocentric, its voice demanding.  I need.  I want. I require.

It seems we forget how to enjoy goodness for the sake of goodness, the way an infant relishes the simple perfection of mother’s milk day after day. Grown old before our time in the search for more, we lose the spring in our step but continue stumbling after fading rainbows anyway.  We too often think The Dream to be our destiny.

In chasing it, longing becomes our lot and even our identity.  We repeatedly sidestep the simple merits of each day and become blind to simple but profound beauty and grandeur that speak another language entirely: contentment, fulfillment, and satisfaction.  These are the unsophisticated voices of our own beginnings, the sounds of humility.  They are divine reminders that life is not about The Dream after all.

The voice of freedom is near and constant.  Even in the sun on the ice, and the wind in the dry grasses.  It says, “Be still.  And know.”

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”

-G.K. Chesterton

Rain

Flashes of sheet lightning illumine the darkness, fluttering strobes that brighten the night sky.  Thunder grumbles like hundreds of potatoes tumbling down a child’s curly-Q slide.  

Rain?  Now?  It’s not time!  Winter isn’t over.  Obese white mounds, pregnant snow bellies, still maternally cover the ground. Tomorrow’s temperatures are predicted to dip back down to the teens.

And yet rain falls.  Spring rain. 

I open the door to face pitch-blackness, step outside into crusty snow, and turn my face upward to receive the sting of cleansing droplets. The night air cuts away daytime presumptions.  It seems to say yes, spring is coming.  Can’t you smell it? 

Cold drops roll down my cheeks and neck.  For a precious few seconds I stand with palms reverently upturned.  I wonder at the miracle of my own presence in this world, and thank the weeping clouds for saturating dormancy and promising new life.

The Report

I speak my friend’s email report aloud this evening, a tough sentence. Cancer. Surgery. Aggressive chemo.  Nausea.  Debilitating fatigue.   Mouth ulcers. 

 “You could fall to despair pretty quick in those shoes,” my husband says.

His invisible words hang in the air, dangling as if splashed across the front of a huge, imaginary supermarket tabloid.  They summon a response from me, and yet I am tongue-tied.  

He’s right, I tell myself.  I watched my childhood best friend fight a similar verdict for two years.  She suffered.  I helplessly watched her suffer.  It was hard to say good-bye.

His words.  They fill the room now. This is too much.  Too binding. Lord, have mercy! 

Another reality enters boldly - filling space, swelling like an emergency airbag expanding in a car.  The words surrender to it: HOPE.  I cling to it, to the Author of it.  We will persevere, we will not lose hope.

Hoeing Snow

Today I guess you could say we addressed a lofty, elevated situation. Not in the sense of being intellectually important, but rather tangibly high and critical, as in…an issue with our roof.

Twelve to eighteen inches of snow had settled in up there (think: packed), and rain is in the forecast for Thursday.  Consider the implications.  Rain soaking into snow = massive weight.  Several residential roofs in our general area have already collapsed recently because of snow poundage, without the added stress of additional load from rain.  Our roof is low-pitched and not particularly well supported.  We decided this afternoon we didn’t want to become the next cave-in statistic, so preventative measures needed to be taken.

Thankfully, our local son volunteered to come over and shed the roof of its white blanket. He dug from the ridge (peak of the roof) down as far down as he could reach with a shovel, while his dad scraped from below with our neighbor’s long-handled tool (think: hoe with a forty foot handle).  I wondered about the exertion levels involved, but decided to keep my girly opinions to myself. This was manly rescue work; I didn’t dare go out there with a finger-wagging womanly scowl.  Between them, the snow is now OFF the roof, and I am breathing a sigh of relief.

Afterwards, they took a short ice hike on the lake with our grandson, age nine.  I watched these ant-like figures from my vantage point inside the house, three generations of men I love striking out to conquer the desolate lake against the backdrop of a beautiful sunset, a rosy fire pit in the sky.

Heart Newsreel

Today we met a new physician on my husband’s growing heart failure team.  She oversees the cardiac rehabilitation program, working with the four nurses who monitor him during his treadmill sessions.

“You shouldn’t be doing so well, according to your earlier charts,” she told him, wide-eyed and incredulous as we entered the office.  “I couldn’t have expected you’d progress like this!”  

Really?  We didn’t know!

The visit was a breath of fresh air blown right smack dab into some serious business. We spoke with her for almost forty-five minutes, and were grateful she addressed aspects of his ongoing journey that had not yet been brought to light.

She optimistically touched on futuristic goals he’d assumed were gone forever: golf and water skiing.  If eyes are indeed the window of the soul, then I could see light shining down somewhere in my husband’s heart, pouring out like reflected sunlight and spilling into the room.  He was delighted to know she thought it not unrealistic to hope, and even plan, for such activities.

“You must learn to listen to your body, though.  "Your body will tell you when something is wrong.”  Throughout our discussion she repeated this at least half a dozen times, nose-to-nose and eye-to-eye like an old-fashioned schoolmarm driving home a lesson with a switch behind her back.  “Pay attention,” she told him.  “If you’re even slightly short-of-breath, your body is telling you to stop what you’re doing.  And you should let your cardiologist know.”  She looked right through him.  “You’ve got to pay attention.”

She also praised him, and applauded his disciplined approach to drug therapies and an almost-squeaky-clean diet.  “Your lifestyle is definitely helping, probably a lot,” she said. When we brought up concern over exercising regularly after cardiac rehab ends in April, she gestured emphatically and laughed.  “Whoever can go gluten-free, dairy-free, and sugar-free can surely get in some exercise somehow!”

At her suggestion, we will be purchasing a pulse oximeter (the little thing like a chip-bag-clip that pinches the tip of your finger to read oxygen levels) and a medical alert bracelet (a bracelet holding a tiny copy of his current medical records that can stay on his person at all times and be helpful in the case of an emergency). 

We were renewed and re-motivated by this appointment, ready to continue on doing our best. To celebrate, this afternoon I tried a new alternative cookie recipe and added it to our growing repertoire, a heart-happy, chocolate chip cookie made with almond flour, stevia, and ground bits of raw, unprocessed cocoa beans (cocoa nibs).  They’re not clones of the infamous Toll House cookies, but who needs those anyway?  Toll House cookies go down smooth, but they’re addictive; we eat too many and then feel sick and grumpy.  (Be honest now.  Isn't that the truth?)  The cookies I made today are soft, protein-and-antioxidant-packed, low-carb, and tasty in their own right.  They’re real food without so much addictive draw, but gorging on them (it’s always a possibility when they’re so delicious, right?) would be a lot more user-friendly than glutting on Toll House cookies.

While I’m on the topic of dessert, and who doesn’t like the topic of dessert, here’s more! Yesterday the heart patient complained that he oh-so-desperately craved just one measly slice of the big chocolate cake I made for our grandson’s Scout auction (see blog for 2-15 for a picture).  As the highest bidder, he purchased it for $50 and then gave it to the Scout and his family with his saliva flowing, tastebuds screaming, resolve wavering. 

After this noble act, I rewarded him by baking an allowed chocolate cake (almond flour and stevia again) lavished with a thick slab of alternative chocolate frosting made with raw cashews, coconut oil, dates, and cocoa.  It was incredible.  Something off the front cover of Southern Living or Taste of Home with taste-appeal that could equal that of recipes in the cookbook entitled, Death by Chocolate.  It was that good.

Touching Yarn Together

In mid-December I blogged about Lily, an organization inviting women around the globe to donate hand knitted or crocheted squares to be made into afghans for desperate Syrian refugee children. Amazingly, there is no overhead involved in operating Lily.  Volunteers on site in Turkey and Jordan assemble the squares and complete the finish work. Every bit of material and labor is freely gifted!

The women of our church participated in Lily as an Advent outreach project.  Because some of our ladies requested more time, we extended the cut-off to Valentine’s Day.  According to today’s count, we corporately fashioned 140+ squares that now await shipment.  These will be added to the 21,000+ that have been received to date by the main office in Turkey, or the collaborating branch in Jordan. 

Here’s the part of this project that gets me.  While it’s wonderful to monetarily support efforts to help needy people in any or all parts of the world (my husband and I donate to an organization that purchases a meal a day and provides schooling for a beautiful but impoverished young girl in India), most of us don’t have the joy of personal involvement - offering rice hand-to-hand to a hungry child, for example.  Connecting physically.  Binding relationally. In the case of Lily, however, we have crafted things with our own hands that will touch these children.  It seems a way to reach out in a more personal way. 

As I survey the stacks of squares, I see not only yarn, but also time and attention donated by each woman who participated.  These blessings will tangibly travel overseas and carry the love of women who wish they could do more, but are grateful to have at least touched the same strands that will be touched by a grateful child.

Lily web site: http://love-in-the-language-of-yarn.blogspot.com

Lily Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/LilyLoveInTheLanguageOfYarn

A Good Day

Tomorrow our grandson’s Cub Scout troop will sponsor a cake auction as a fund-raiser, and his mother will celebrate her forty-fourth birthday.  So today I baked.  Chocolate cake.  Lots of it.

My kitchen was already plenty busy, so adding the cake projects jacked up the pan-banging and general mayhem (I’m a messy cook, but redeem myself with speed). While the cakes were in the oven, I chopped everything fresh I could find in the vegetable drawer (well, almost everything, I skipped the fresh ginger root) and prepared a huge pot of vegetable soup to have on hand next week for quick lunches.  While the cakes cooled, I mixed up both gluten-free muffins and biscuits, and made chocolate buttercreme frosting for the cakes.  Lots of it. 

For the record, I didn’t snitch even one fingerful of frosting.  Not one.

In-between all of this I prepared the various components of our lovely Valentine dinner (yes, I know it’s a day late). At 7:00 we enjoyed dinner over candlelight with wine and soft music – an interlude from all the food prepping.  Then it was hi-ho, hi-ho, back to work I go to finish decorating cakes.

It’s now 9:30.  All of my projects are finished, including two cakes (one giant 12”, one 6”) and a platter of cupcakes.  The dishes are washed and put away. 

The red candle continues to burn in the center of the table. Piano music plays on. The house smells like, well, my old bakery.  My legs have turned to jello.  The back of my neck has that familiar crimp (think clothespins pinching from shoulder to shoulder) that I used to get when decorating cakes – a strange bit of nostalgia.

This morning’s devotional reading said, “Give yourself fully to the adventure of today.”  My kitchen adventures took all I had to give, and I gave it.  This was a good day.  A very good day.

Valentine Fancy Day

Today I simultaneously celebrated a traditional celebration and special event: Valentine’s Day and Fancy Day.  Valentine’s Day is special in itself, a day to express love and be loved with red hearts and flowers and words that sometimes forget to be said otherwise. But today my granddaughter and I also took off on a Fancy Day field trip to The City, eager to see the big wide world through 5-year-old eyes.  Our goal was to spend time together, but also to celebrate her family through the process of making special handmade Valentine cards.

First we ran an errand for her mother and purchased a few practical things, and one not-so-practical-but-cute night lite, at the “baby store” (Babies ‘R Us) for her one-month-old sister.  She oohed and aahed throughout the store, gasping with delight at every turn, coveting this tiny hat and the other ruffly dress and oh, those sparkly silver shoes!

After checking out, we drove down the street and scoured the “craft store” (Hobby Lobby), canvassing the aisles in pursuit of materials to make Valentine cards for each member of her family.  We investigated a few other interesting things while there, including pastels (could she draw with some, please?), sparkly beads (could she string some, please), and feathery masks and headbands (could she wear some – yes!).

Finally we drove to the “snack store” (Panera Bread) where we spent the next two hours.  She selected a carrot cupcake from the case and a carton of milk for a snack, and I ordered hot herbal tea.  We found a private corner booth, separated from the bulk of the store’s patronage, where we might get crafty without bothering others.  I explained how this was a public place, not our place, and how we needed to treat it with respect and keep our mess contained and cleaned up as we worked.  It was a teachable moment, and she rose to meet my expectations without complaint, but rather understanding and due regard.

Soon after we settled in, she devoured the buttercreme frosting from the top of her cupcake - but the fun had only begun.  There was a bonus: crème cheese filling!  WOW!  She scooped it out daintily with the end of a knife, quarter-teaspoonfuls at a time: uninhibited refinery.

With the mangled cupcake pushed to one side, she laid out papers, stickers, scissors, and sparkly plastic gems.  Then she patiently fashioned six Valentines, styling each one from our newly-selected papers (she’d purchased a different color for each person: her mother, father, two brothers, and two sisters). The project required unique customization, and she rose to the challenge eagerly, with an artist’s flair for design and color.  Each card sent an unspoken, unwritten message by virtue of her artwork.

A pleasant-looking woman about my age sat nearby eating soup and salad.  She congenially struck up a conversation as if she already belonged to our get-together, and I encouraged her kind involvement.  We learned she was a preschool teacher who simply couldn’t retire because, “The kids are so precious, and they need guidance more now than ever.” She saw right through my little granddaughter who loves elegance, and gave her a knowing wink.  “I can tell you’re a sparkly girl,” she said with surprising accuracy.  She offered to take a picture of us for posterity: the old and the young, both young-at-hearts, making hearts together.

Impatiens Centenarian

A plant flourishing by my picture window should have died long ago. When I purchased it at a greenhouse last spring, I couldn't know it had such ability to live long and live well.  But given plenty of TLC, water, and afternoon sunlight, it continues to thrive.

Typically impatiens, outdoor seasonal plants, bow out by the end of the summer.  Their annual performance ends when dark green leaves fade to anemic yellow and fall to the ground.  Flowers also wane and eventually disappear. As the defrocking continues, stalks eventually stand barren and spindly like the bony skeletons of old people whose flesh has also dropped away. The plants look sick and tired.  Old, used up.  It is not hard to release them, to say goodbye.

This particular plant hung in a basket at the edge of the house all summer, repeatedly wilting and reviving with the rhythm of my inconsistent watering.  As my care grew even more intermittent in September, it lacked the usual signs of aging displayed by my other impatiens. Eventually I rescued this hardy fellow from October’s impending frost and brought it inside.  Still, I expected it to die, just perhaps a little slower than the others.

In its new spot by the picture window, it continued to sporadically throw off half-a-dozen or so blooms at just the right times. It celebrated Christmas with us – new red blooms burst open just before December 25th.  After a season of rest, one striking red blossom fully opened today to usher in Valentine’s Day, with several more buds progressing toward that end.

It seems to have a voice, this plant.  I never expected it to last this long, but it persists with the insistence of a human centenarian.  If it could speak it might say, “I am what I am, and do what I do, without apology or explanation. I simply live the life I’ve been given, and if you think you see me accomplishing good in timely and atypical ways, it is only by reflecting the Giver of life.”

* * *

“We were made for good works to the glory and praise of our Maker, and to imitate God as far as might be.” – St. Gregory the Theologian (329-391 A.D. - intellectual theologian and eloquent writer who studied in Caesarea of Palestine, Alexandria, and Athens)