Dream Come True

My husband began cardiac rehab in January of 2014 after suffering three very close calls with heart failure last fall. Several nurses working with a rehab physician monitored his heart during 32 sessions of increasingly rigorous exercise spread over several months.

At a rehab conference meeting as the program launched, he was asked to identify two key goals - one short-term and one long-term.  He replied without hesitation.  He wanted to be able to play 9 holes of golf by springtime, and water ski by summertime.  As the nurse affirmed his wishes and recorded them in his chart, I fought to contain my frustration.  Why were they allowing him to choose unrealistic goals that were obviously out of the realm of possibility in his case? 

However, he slowly but steadily improved as the weeks progressed.  The rehab doctor said she was "astounded"at his "unprecedented" progress.  At the end of the program his heart’s ability to pump blood was still significantly below the low end of the normal range, but he felt strong and was functionally able to do many things that were out-of-the-question at Christmas.

As we turn the page into the month of June, he’s playing golf in a weekly league (walking the course, no golf cart).  Today he donned the ski vest and slipped his bare feet in the slalom bindings for the first time since 2011.   Then he took a spin behind the ski boat, grinning ear-to-ear the whole time.  

The impossible has become feasible.  What I thought inconceivable is happening.

I’ve been thinking about the wisdom of the rehab team in inviting him to dream and set personal goals (realistic or not, who can make that call anyway?), and then supporting him to carefully, responsibly, and persistently work toward realizing them.  This kind of respect, care, and encouragement seems an inspiring model for what we all want in various areas of our lives, and what we might consider doing for and with each other.

The Visit

Although our son moved 2,300 miles away over two months ago, he returned to greet us this afternoon.  The shadow of distance lifted like a curtain as he walked down the airport ramp; rays of relational light bathed us as we hugged.  He was home!  HOME!  I can’t explain the emotion that welled up in me, tsunami-like.  It reminded me of the awe-struck wonder and hope I knew upon seeing him for the very first time after his birth over thirty-five years ago.

This will be an abbreviated visit.  He’s here on a mission to close on the sale of his house.  His life is elsewhere now.  He belongs in that faraway place.

I am happy for him in the way every mother wants to be happy for her adult child: with gratitude that he’s found a fulfilling lifestyle that fits his experience, abilities, interests, and convictions.  Part of me – perhaps the piece of my innate being that recognizes him as its extension – rejoices with him in ways that cannot be expressed, only felt.

Distance will soon swallow him again, for a longer stint this time.  Although a mother never gets used to goodbyes, I wonder if the release will be less painful.  As he leaves to return to his remote commission, I will celebrate with him and praise God for this unique opportunity.  And in that, joyful gratitude promises to outshine the shadow.

Green Peaches and Cream

Here’s a list of what I had for breakfast:

water

cod liver oil

peaches

banana

flax seed

hemp hearts

walnuts

almond milk

raw spinach

raw kale

stevia

I bet you can picture me pinching my nostrils - choking down odiferous oil and chasing it with lots of water.  Maybe hurriedly spooning up sliced fruit sprinkled with seeds/nuts and topped with almond milk to cover the fishy taste.

If so, you’re not even close.  Actually, that possibility doesn’t explain the spinach and kale, either.  Or the stevia.

Here’s the truth.  I blended all of these ingredients together in my powerful Vita-Mix blender to create what I’m calling “Green Peaches and Cream” (despite the fact that there was nothing close to cream included).  It tasted rich and creamy like a milkshake, but without any (inflammatory) dairy products.  And sweet, without any (inflammatory) sugar. Who would have guessed raw spinach and kale were thrown in there?

In case this idea seems too downright distasteful, I should add that the cod liver oil was lemon-flavored.  This helped “Green Peaches and Cream” reach a serious quality of yummy fruitiness while still adding healthy fat (think tongue-schmoozing creaminess).  And the fruit was frozen, which created a thick, milkshake-like texture. 

It was worth sipping.  And savoring. Slowly. 

Wow – with protein and omega 3’s from the nuts and seeds and super-serious nutrition from those dark greens, what an amazing way to start the day!  “Green Peaches and Cream” was quick to prepare, and required very little clean-up, too.  But the best news of all? It was deeeeelicious.  Mouthwatering.  Nummy-nummy.  To the very last swig.

In Memory of Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou had a way with words that was straight and honest, real to the core, influential.  Optimistic. Encouraging.

She passed away yesterday at age 86, leaving a legacy: joy emerges in the midst of life’s diverse, sometimes stark, realities. She was spirited.  Energetic.  Unafraid. Passionately human. She has been called “a modern Renaissance woman.”

“I’ve learned people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”  -Maya Angelou

I’ve correspondingly learned people don’t care about the person you think you should be, or would like to be, but want to know the real, authentic person you are.  If you’re candid and genuine, they’re more willing to risk transparency in return. “People will never forget how you made them feel,” if they can find safety with you in the context of a world that teaches guardedness and self-containment.

Candid and Pure

The sun had already slipped below the lake’s edge as I walked the road, unable to hear birdcalls and waves but intent on visually spotting small things in waning light.  Crook-necked swans. Lily pads. Dandelion fluff-balls. Pebbles. A tiny weed-flower rising from among tall grasses: fragile beauty, candid and pure, like a glowing mini-sun framed in elegant, lacy rays.

Flowers have an expression of countenance as much as men or animals. Some seem to smile; some have a sad expression; some are pensive and diffident; others again are plain, honest and upright, like the broad-faced sunflower and the hollyhock.

~Henry Ward Beecher

A Castle and The Kingdom

Three grandkids and a young friend engineered the construction of an impressive sand castle today.  When completed, it loomed large and fat with a long road ascending to an ornamental topknot.  Of course a moat circled the bottom.

But Memorial Day wasn’t all about sandbox creations – or kayaks, croquet, or baseball (also on our agenda for the day).  I remembered individuals I’ve known personally, and those I haven’t, who have passed on - lives cut short during military duty or otherwise, lives lived for many years into old age and beyond.  I pondered their time here on earth, and consequently the progression of my own days.

This evening the fun-in-the-sun visitors have departed, and all is quiet once again.  I’m thinking about how the Kingdom of God is within those who recognize their need for the Lord, and earnestly seek Him.  The Kingdom path is not recreational.  It is not an easy, smooth passage, but rather a complex, involved trail where we are visited and comforted by Christ Himself.  The Kingdom is where we finally see ourselves more clearly, in large part because of our proximity to Him. This is peace.

It is within Christ that the Kingdom is to be experienced. For this reason, we cannot think of the Kingdom as something we are either “in” or “out” of…The Kingdom is a dynamic state, wherein we grow in perfection through God’s grace. Our journey is not to the Kingdom, our journey is in the Kingdom.

…The Kingdom of God is not a fluffy pillow or a down mattress. It is found by the nun sleeping on a board, or the elderly woman suffering in her hospital bed. The Kingdom of Heaven is a spiritual condition that no earthly situation can overcome. The nun sings songs, and the afflicted woman offers pure prayers. They both go through hardships that draw them closer to Christ.

-Bishop Joseph

Launching Summer

The lake exploded around 2:00 this afternoon, an aquatic beehive poked with a Memorial Day stick.  Buzzing boats hauled screaming thrill seekers on tubes, creating a happy drone synonymous with summer.  Temperatures soared into the 80’s.  The sun’s radiance baked earth into a grass-covered brick, a timely welcome for the soles of bare lakeside feet.    

It’s quieter now.  The setting sun hangs low in the sky, and most boats have returned to their piers for the night.  Only a few pontoons idle here and there like oversized swans paddling through the evening, relaxed and content.  A rowboat just ambled by, carrying a white-haired gentleman at the oars and his sweetheart of many years on the back seat.  It sliced through the sun’s golden path, an easy-going symbol of belonging.

Tomorrow we’ll join the weekend activity as grandchildren’s squeals erupt along our little segment of shoreline. The hammock will sag, overloaded again.  Lake water carried to the sandbox in plastic buckets will soak away from hand-dug moats surrounding hand-molded castles.  These traditions are worth practicing.

Then after tomorrow we’ll settle into the longest, warmest days of the year, days filled with dragonflies and watery breezes.  Days of cosmic and personal blossoming and fruit bearing. No wonder I count my years in summers.

Transparent Ties

Time measures ongoing existence, moment-by-moment.  We live in current seconds and minutes, remember those in the past, and anticipate more in the future. This evening it was just the right time to enjoy dinner with old friends at an upscale restaurant in a quiet nearby town (see blog for May 6 entitled “Linking Up”).

We hadn’t seen this couple face-to-face for over two decades and hadn’t lived life with them for nearly three, and yet the long-ago days of connection seemed like only yesterday. Although the years had sculpted each of us differently with refining chisels, our relationships had not been worn away by the winds of time or distance.

How can this be explained? It may have to do with mutual experiences during our earlier time together, but seems more than that.  We were open and authentic from the beginning – no masks or pretenses allowed – and that still applies. Perhaps transparency is the glue that seals lasting friendships and enables old friends to pick up where they left off, even another lifetime ago.

I'll Tell You Why

Yesterday an online acquaintance posted the following on Facebook:

“Why do I write? 

In the hope that one day after I am gone a young man or woman will read my words and find worth,

And in finding worth in my words, they will in turn bring to life their own words.”

This challenged me to think once again about my own motives. Honestly, I feel selfish in comparison. I write because it is therapeutic  - remedial, even curative. Because something inside me needs to come out, and there’s no other escape route.  Because I discover new, uncharted realms in the process. I write because I must.  Not writing is stifling.  Maybe deadening.

For decades, life’s necessities denied me writing space, or so I thought. Ten years ago, on June 6, 2004, the ice finally broke and I wrote an essay by moonlight between midnight and 2:00 a.m. The next morning, I was awash in afterglow, and gave myself permission to keep going.  Regularly. Prescriptively, like a tonic.

Maybe defining a different kind of space is the real point, the real answer to “why” I write. As words begin to parade across my computer screen, a fissure opens into an expansive place that would otherwise be overlooked: inner space.  As the writing ensues, that crevice closes behind me, and the real world takes a back seat.  It’s like descending to a root cellar where all the good stuff is stored.

While quasi-conscious, creative thoughts and images sail by like leaves floating in an underground stream.  Time stands still, but the current keeps them moving.  In this space I am cleansed and renewed, and can record thoughts and images that were only shadows back where normal life happens.  I am restored somehow as a result.  If a reader happens to also benefit, I consider that a bonus.   

Coming Home

Yesterday my husband unveiled our pontoon boat, stripping its winter cocoon-like shell (plastic shrink-wrap) until it stood naked and open to the sky for the first time in many months.  Then he and a couple of buddies hauled it to the public landing where it slipped turtle-like into the lake, an amphibian vehicle happy to be seaborne again.

The annual maiden voyage followed this afternoon. Appropriately clad in swimming suits even though the water is still much too cold for swimming, we cast off from the pier and the pontoon churned across the water to our favorite private cove.  Delicious water-laden wind bathed us, every inch of us.  This was our element. 

We put down anchor in a spot surrounded by sharp green spikes (new cattails on shore, unfurled lily pads in the water) and lingered there for an hour of quiet stillness.  A pair of wild swans provided our only company.

I lay belly-down on the front platform, my nose only a couple of feet above the water’s surface, and watched blinking fairy-lights scamper toward me: sunlight reflecting from the tops of tiny waving ripples.  They approached eagerly like an advancing fleet of shiny messengers announcing the forthcoming summer.  I inhaled deeply, recognizing both tangible (obvious, immediate) and invisible (mysterious, ongoing) realities. Sun and water.  Comfort and hope.  I was home. 

Recovering the Cover

At my request, a seamstress friend graciously changed the cover of the pad on my old stool with a new one today.  In other words, she recovered (covered anew) the pad, and in so doing, recovered (salvaged) the whole piece.  I am grateful!

The existing pad had a faded pink cover.  I vaguely remember my mother making it when she started using the stool at a dressing table located in front of her bedroom’s massive French windows.  The table was protected by a dresser scarf edged in tatted lace, and covered with little round tins of brightly colored rouge, clear nail polish and metal nail files, lipsticks of various colors, and an oval ceramic dish holding face powder and a puff with a satin ribbon across the back.

Today when my seamstress friend removed the pink cover, we discovered – voila, déjà vu! - an older cover that very much resembled the fabric I’d selected for the new one.   The similarity was uncanny.  She thought I’d subliminally remembered that old fabric from my childhood and selected the new to match it, all without conscious awareness.  I have no idea, but the parallel colors and weaves do seem remarkable. 

Later, when applying felt protectors to the feet, I removed metal slides (apparently original to the stool) with a 1911 patent date stamped inside each one.  Underneath the seat “394 ½” had been painted in black.  I looked online but found no clue as to the meaning of that number.

I’m sentimental about my “new” old stool as it displays a few baskets this evening, and can’t help but wonder about its origins, uses, and owners.  I wish it could talk and tell me about its life.

Silence

I walked the road this evening in search of inner silence - pervasive, known, felt - in the context of the sun setting over the lake.   I found it.

The following quotes are credited to Mother Teresa:

We cannot put ourselves directly in the presence of God if we do not practice internal and external silence.



In silence we will find new energy and true unity. Silence gives us a new outlook on everything. 



The essential thing is not what we say but what God says to us and through us. In that silence, He will listen to us; there He will speak to our soul, and there we will hear His voice.



Listen in silence because if your heart is full of other things you cannot hear the voice of God. But when you have listened to the voice of God in the stillness of your heart, then your heart is filled with God. 



The contemplatives and ascetics of all ages and religions have sought God in the silence and solitude of the desert, forest, and mountains. Jesus himself spent forty days in the desert and the mountains, communing for long hours with the Father in the silence of the night.



We too are called to withdraw at certain intervals into deeper silence and aloneness with God, together as a community as well as personally; to be alone with Him — not with our books, thoughts, and memories but completely stripped of everything — to dwell lovingly in His presence, silent, empty, expectant, and motionless. We cannot find God in noise or agitation.



In nature we find silence — the trees, flowers, and grass grow in silence. The stars, the moon, and the sun move in silence. 



Silence of the heart is necessary so you can hear God everywhere — in the closing of a door, in the person who needs you, in the birds that sing, in the flowers, in the animals. 



What is essential is not what we say but what God tells us and what He tells others through us. In silence He listens to us; in silence He speaks to our souls. In silence we are granted the privilege of listening to His voice.

Standing at the Center

A certain Household Problem (I give it a Name and side-step details because of space constraints) has refused to resolve over the past several days, stubbornly persisting to annoy us like a sassy child waggling his tongue.  We had no retaliation but to keep trying and trying to unravel the mess.

This afternoon I felt a little pouty.  After all, we’d done everything right.  It should be fixed by now.  How much longer?

Then I remembered something I’d read recently about the ancient Christian hesychast tradition.  Hesychasm is peace beyond human understanding, found in the abundant Presence of the Almighty.  It is stillness and tranquility.  It is silence borne of awe, no matter the circumstance. 

“Be still, and know that I am God. “  (Psalm 46:19)   “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” (Isaiah 30:15)

While the Problem shook its finger in my face with Grinch-like insistence this afternoon, I stopped obsessing and looked away - actually the other way, toward God.  Imperfectly, but sincerely.

As I type this, it is 9:00 p.m.  Our neighbor is here voluntarily trouble-shooting with us, gathering more information. Narrowing the options. And guess what?  The Problem is on the run.

An author I respect and admire says this: “By bringing your mind into the presence of God, you stand at the center where He rules and sustains all.  At that place, prayer really does change things.”

Paying Attention Here and Now

I’ve seen disturbing YouTube clips depicting people so engrossed in their iPhones or computers that they entirely miss out on reality, and the tangible moment is lost. While perhaps I’m not as addicted as the young man who goes through his day ignoring the beautiful girl at his side in favor of his phone, I confess to understanding the habit-forming nature of the Internet.

Sadly, the vastness of cyberspace can capture our attention to the point that it seems almost more real (desirable?) than life itself.  The Internet is so compelling, so vibrant and endless in scope, that our ordinary lives may appear cramped and boxy in comparison. 

We can end up alienated from just about everything concrete when glued to a techno-screen: ourselves, each other, nature, the God who is “everywhere present, filling all things.”  Technology breeds a sort of restlessness, a tendency to scan the horizon for whatever is new.  Fidgety uptightness born of constant stimulation keeps us wound tight.

This restless alertness can become a form of brokenness.  Aside from cutting back screen time (the obvious answer), an antidote to the magnetic draw might be to cultivate what ancient Greeks called nepsis, or intentional, vigilant watchfulness.  Nepsis involves quieting and guarding the heart and mind against whatever is extraneous to truly living as God designs - assigning a part of the mind to watch over the rest of the mind, cutting short thoughts that lead to compulsion, addiction, and captivity.  Turning thoughts back to God: Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.

St. Hesychios the Priest describes what happens when the mind in no longer troubled by “logismos” - temptations, provocations, and distracting images:

A heart that has been completely emptied of mental images gives birth to divine, mysterious intellections that sport like fish and dolphins in a calm sea. The sea is fanned by a soft wind, the heart’s depth by the Holy Spirit.  ‘And you are sons, God has sent forth the spirit of His Son into your hearts, crying, “Abba, Father”’” (Galatians 4:6). 

New and Beautiful

Here’s what I am when using existing assets: resourceful. Give me some hand-me-down furniture and an empty room, and I’m good to go.  Here’s what I am when home decorating from scratch: clueless.  

Recently my husband has been inspired to “get things done” that have been on the back burner for a long time.  I’m not quite sure what to think of this.  The honey-do list is shrinking, and fast. It’s exhilarating for me. 

The closet door in the spare bedroom is fixed.  I have a new garbage disposal (motor burned out in the old one) and kitchen faucet (old one leaked).  The heavy wooden venetian blinds have been re-strung with new cords.  Antique guns are now displayed in an attractive rack on the wall.  A new water heater has been ordered.  Family pictures are in the process of being hung chronologically.

Not long ago he invited me to shop for a new couch and recliner. Our old ones were second-hand freebies that had finally turned the corner into shabby-ville.  At the time, I couldn’t believe it.  This never happens.  We never shop for furniture.  Never.

Of course I was grateful and excited, but a sense of overwhelm also kicked in.  In almost 43 years of marriage, I’ve only purchased two pieces of furniture (other than bedding, which doesn’t count because it’s a no-brainer).  Where to start?

First I visited the hardware store to gather paint sample cards matching the colors in our current rug.  This involved some trial-and-error, but I finally got the job done.  Then day-before-yesterday we hit the furniture stores.  True-to-form, I couldn’t make a decision – not with that many options. And they were so expensive! So we came home. 

Yesterday morning we narrowed the possibilities based on the previous day’s scouting, and decided to return to a chosen store to finalize an order.  However, when we arrived, my priorities - deep-down preferences that had been brewing for who knows how long - came out of hiding.

I saw another couch I liked better than any we’d seen the day before.  It had a nice weave, perfect color, attractive shape (camelback and small arm rests), comfortably firm cushions.  I decisively marked it with my stamp of approval - just like that!  And we bought it!

After that, the recliner was easy.  We’d already decided on an older style rather than the popular puffy types that invite you to sink deep into marshmallow-land.  It was simply a matter of selecting an accent fabric that would complement the couch and go with the rest of the room.  Easy peasy. 

Afterwards we stopped for lunch at Panera, and my Greek salad with chicken seemed a little more special than usual.  Now we have up to 8 weeks to wait for our pieces to be delivered.  I’m pregnant with anticipation, knowing exactly what I’m going to have.  And believe me, these two new additions will be beautiful.

Goodness

A fuzzy moon hung hazy overhead, cocked to one side of the sky,

As we sat outside at dusk on the hard wooden bench,

Bewitched by warm winds breathing over the lake, inhaling us.

He spoke with wonder of heart failure recovery - incapacity redeemed -

And how unbelievable it felt to traverse the golf course with a body

Strong enough to walk the fairways, even up the steepest hills.

Just minutes later I heard him groan as his hip twisted unexpectedly,

Gave out in angry protest as if to splinter the upturn - the magic -

With pangs of distress and fear that golf might again disappear.

A day passed, and another, and part of me strained tense and defensive,

While his dragons fell to a doctrine of selfless and unusual generosity,

Even buying gas for a stranger’s car in the wake of seeming misfortune.

Today my heart unbolted to swing free in the wake of his example,

To loosen so many things I tend to hold protectively tight to the vest, 

To expect God’s presence anew – His goodness, His gracious mercy.

“For thou art a good God, Thou lovest mankind - and unto Thee we ascribe glory...” –St. John Chrysostom

Beyond Expectation

I’d just hung up the phone from talking for a very long time with our son who lives in Mexico.  He’d called to wish me Happy Mother’s Day.

“We have some good kids,” my husband said from the recliner as he shuffled electronic cards on the computer in a game of solitaire.

“Really great kids,” I murmured.  A knot of emotion rose in my throat, blocking further words.

It has been an unusually special Mother’s Day for me.  If my husband and our four children had gotten together in a pow-wow and planned an approach (you get flowers, you call on the phone, you send a card, you post something on facebook, you buy a gift, you orchestrate her day with meaningful activity, etc.)  it couldn’t have been more thorough.  But they didn’t plan ahead.  Each one simply reached out to me in his or her own way, and the cumulative effect was astounding: humbling, edifying, enabling.  I can’t think of enough adjectives.

Sometimes when I look at myself in the mirror - a face well marked with years - I wonder how my children see me deep-down. Do they recognize the depth of longing, devotion, admiration, and hope that still compels this old bag of bones to love them fiercely, chronically, sometimes compulsively?  Do they understand such crazy mother-love can never die, but instead will live on through them after I’m gone? 

I can only muse and marvel, and be grateful for a Mother’s Day that proves they love me back.

The Sky's the Limit

A veteran stunt flyer buzzed the north end of the lake this morning, performing curves as if inscribing his initials in the endless blue sky.   We watched from our living room, enchanted by the bald eagle’s dignified composure and airborne poise.  If only I could be a wing walker!

Before long he narrowed his flight path and swooped down for a fly-by just inches above the smooth surface. Although we were viewing the same lake, he saw it from a drastically different perspective. With landing gear extended, he plucked an unsuspecting fish from the silvery surface and flew off with it dangling from his talons.

This magnificent bird’s viewpoint was above and beyond. The sky truly was his limit.

The Molt

It is easy to grow thick skin in this life, an invisible shrink wrap that holds loose parts together while denying unwanted outside influence.  At first it slinks around us like a sultry film, until one day in the heat of pain or loss it contracts.  Sucks us up. We’re trapped, even gagging, but curiously okay since the compression offers some sort of needed parameter, a way of making sense of things.

A season of molting may come just as unexpectedly years or decades later. Then like a snake, the old tight skin splits and we wriggle out, new and enlarged, changed and ready.

This reminds me of a story told by Frederica Mathewes-Green, who decided to become a Hindu while attending college in the 70’s.  She had just married and was traveling abroad in Dublin when her self-imposed wrappings - ideologies that fit her perceived needs at the time - suddenly cracked and she emerged from behind a contrived veil into Light.  She was never the same after that, but rather enlarged to become an outspoken ambassador for Jesus Christ.

In a block of business buildings we came upon a church and decided to go inside for a look; even declared Hindus can’t travel Europe without being exposed to some church architecture. I strolled around the dimly lit building, admiring stained glass windows and stonework. Eventually I came upon a small side altar. Above it there was a white marble statue of Jesus with his arms held low and open, and his heart exposed on his chest, twined with thorns and springing with flames. This depicts an apparition to a French nun in 1675; she heard Jesus say, “Behold the heart which has so loved mankind.”

I can’t really explain what happened next. I was standing there looking at the statue, and then I discovered I was on my knees. I could hear an interior voice speaking to me. Not with my ears–it was more like a radio inside suddenly clicked on. The voice was both intimate and authoritative, and it filled me.

It said, “I am your life. You think that your life is your name, your personality, your history. But that is not your life. I am your life.” It went on, naming that “life force” notion I admired: “Beyond that, you think that your life is the fact that you are alive, that your breath goes in and out, that energy courses in your veins. But even that is not your life. I am your life.

“I am the foundation of everything else in your life.”

I stood up feeling pretty shaky. It was like sitting quietly in your living room and having the roof blown off. I didn’t have any doubt who the “I” was that was speaking to me, and it wasn’t someone I was eager to get to know. If someone had asked me a half-hour earlier, I would have said I was not sure the fellow had ever lived. Yet here he was, and though I didn’t know him it seemed he already knew me, from the deepest inside out.

  

Going Back

The lake smells like childhood this evening, as steady breezes scuff waves and bathe my face.  It won’t let me be as old as I am, as stiff and elderly, but insists on playing hide and seek with the child I used to be, on carrying me back to liberation with each little swell. 

I don’t resist, but play along and find myself anew.

I Messed Up - Literally

There’s no good reason I should waste anyone’s precious time with pictures of plastic-infused brownies and a melted Tupperware container.  Except I want to tell a story.

Yesterday we’d almost run out of gluten-free baked goods (my fault, shame on me) so I dedicated the entire afternoon to baking, hoping to get a lot done in the hours between lunch and dinner.  By 1:30 I was humming along (figuratively), and had completed a pan of weird but tasty chocolate brownies made with sweet potatoes, coconut flour, and stevia.  Also almond flour crackers with dried onion flakes. 

As I pulled out the recipe for the next project, something we affectionately call maple donuts although they do not have a hole and are not fried, I placed the cut brownies in a Tupperware container on the back burner (I actually did this, they were not figuratively “on the back burner”).  As I measured ingredients for those would-be donuts - imposters that are not donuts at all, but yummy enough to fool anyone’s tastebuds - I put coconut oil in a small pan on the other back burner to melt.

I probably don’t even need to say what happened next. 

Soon flames leapt a foot high, consuming the rectangular Tupperware container (my favorite size that has been discontinued).  Melted plastic oozed over the coil and lay in strings on the brownies: a toxic-smelling, non-confectionary white glaze.  I’d turned on the wrong burner.

I confess I did not handle this situation well.  I was dismayed at the destruction, disgusted at myself for the error, and terrified by the out-of-control fire.  Fortunately I thought and acted quickly, and within 60 seconds the situation was at least minimally under control.

I, however, was not.  Under.  Control.  Nor was my stovetop.

It took a couple of hours for me to clean up the residue and regain composure.  After the donuts-that-aren't-donuts came out of the oven I stopped baking, too frazzled and drained to continue with further projects.

The moral of the story: Don’t become too attached to time, Tupperware, or weird custom-made brownies.  They may go up in smoke - and not figuratively. Literally.