Soul Breathing

Inhale, soul breathe, I tell myself.  Draw in life-giving courage, dignity, spaciousness, stamina, hope.  Creativity. Beauty. Wonder.

Look around. Breathe goodness.

  

Wedding Magic

As a child I was required to rest for half-an-hour after lunch, usually on a couch covered with stiff, protective plastic that stuck too-too tightly to my bare legs. I hated that plastic. And yet as soon as I stretched out and quietly submitted to the awful stickiness, the magic began. Mother flipped the switch on our old Victrola, positioned the needle on the outside edge of a revolving 78 rpm record, and I was suddenly somewhere else.  And someone else.  

Disney stories and their accompanying songs wafted through the air, 8 minutes on a side.  When side one ended, and the needle rubbed the center label causing noisy static, Mother dutifully appeared to flip it to side two.

I remember staring vacantly at the wooden beams on the living room ceiling and being swept up into those stories.  In my imagination, I became Snow White as she was surprised by a clan of unique little men, or freshly awakened by the Handsome Prince. The story was about me; it was all happening to me.  This is the magic of childhood.

* * *

A similar feeling resurfaced a few days ago.  In some childlike way, I was again imbedded in a bigger-than-life, magical story - a real-life fantasy full of mystery and hope and happy endings.

We were guests at an outdoor wedding held in a lush green cathedral-of-a-valley that featured a quintessential pond fed by bubbling springs.  A tulle-draped gazebo stood nearby with daisies and black-eyed susans growing in profusion on one side, and a rain-swollen stream rushing pell-mell on the other.

Detailed decorations fit well with the natural surroundings.  A rustic-but-professional banner reading “The Wedding Trail” hung over the winding dirt drive to invite each guest into the magic.  On either side of this trail, tree trunks displayed twine-affixed family pictures, while colorful round crepe paper flowers dangled from overhead branches like oversized hydrangeas. 

At the end of the trail, daisy-filled glass jars wrapped with strips of lace-and-ribbon-accented burlap seemed artfully positioned by a resident wedding designer, some valley-dweller who was also part fairy.  An artistic archway of rustic logs marked the entrance to the aisle of stepping-stones leading to the gazebo, the site of the ceremony.

We witnessed the groom’s pledge to love his bride for better or for worse, and the bride’s mutual commitment to him. They exchanged rings as a token of their promises before God.  Soft breezes swept over the valley like ministers of mercy and grace. Simple.  Profound.

After the ceremony, the entire assembly convened beneath a large tent filled with tables outfitted to match all the other pioneer-bride-turned-princess decorations.  A two-tiered cake topped with confectionary daisies stood tall above pillars, surrounded by ranks of cupcakes and twine-crafted flowers.  Each guest received a hand-made favor, a tiny glazed bowl fashioned by the bride on her potter’s wheel and fired in her kiln.

Dinner was delicious and fitting, an upscale version of a home-style picnic: fresh vegetables and fruits with cheese for hors d’oeuvres, followed by barbecued pork, scalloped potatoes, baked beans, tossed salad, and broccoli salad.  The meal was topped off with a dessert buffet: an assortment of home-baked pies and cookies, some displayed with a touch of refined decorum on elevated plates.

* * *

I’ve been mulling over memories for several days, asking myself to pinpoint the most special one.  There were so many lovely moments…and yet I decided there is one that calls me back to gracious simplicity, to fantasy that can be touched and felt, to childlikeness and wonder and awe.  

When the pastor, bridal attendants, and groom were all in place in the gazebo, and it was time for the bride to walk the stony aisle with her father, she was nowhere to be seen.  Those of us seated in the audience craned our necks and whispered guesses back-and-forth, but no one knew what grand entrance could be in the works.  This was a well-kept secret.

Finally a beautiful Clydesdale-like horse clip-clopped slowly along the Wedding Trail pulling a regal white carriage with red velvet interior.  The radiant bride was seated behind a stoic driver, a princess approaching her waiting father, one expectantly riding toward a future of promise.

We held our breaths for some very long moments as she drew nearer and nearer.  Finally she descended the steps of the carriage and took her father’s arm.  

As father and daughter walked the stony aisle together, the bride's face glowed with a sort of splendor-gone-real. Her Cinderella-style dress, with its gold, gem-studded bodice and swishing net skirt, ushered her along as if she were floating. 

Later, after the bride and groom kissed and were announced as “Mr. and Mrs.,” they rode the carriage from the gazebo down the Wedding Trail.  Guests blew bubbles that floated softly around and above them: romantic effervescence.

Magic indeed.

Swimsuit Image

The hunt for a new swimsuit has changed dramatically in this later stage of life.  In the old days, I went for flashy and skimpy, maybe bordering on revealing (with just a touch of Sophia Loren allure).  A sassy image. Now I’m on the lookout for something attractive in a matronly way that provides ample coverage.  It’s about pleasing practicality rather than pizazz. 

I purchased a suit a week ago made of openwork fabric – black with tan underneath – that seemed to say “old lady” in a stylish sort of way. However, it wasn’t an absolutely perfect fit, and after trying it on at home, I decided the look just wasn’t for me.  I felt almost like Morticia in the Addams Family, and goodness knows that’s not the image I’m going for.  Even though I dream up some unusual concoctions in the kitchen, I didn’t want anyone thinking I might take the next step and prepare eye of newt for dinner.

So today I returned the textured black suit and picked out another soft navy blue one with shirred side seams.  It is uncomplicated but chic, as if understating simple elegance. I am confident I’ll stay covered while grandkids are crawling all over me in the water, and it makes me feel like a mature version of the reasonable, common-sense wife (Jane Wyatt) in Father Knows Best.  A much better image.

Image.  In the female world, we all know swimsuits are all about image.   

House Molt

Every few years our house molts, reptilian-like. Of course this isn’t because it is outgrowing its exterior, but the paint splits anyway with little hairline cracks.  Eventually these open to expose nude patches of wood underneath.

A putty knife coaxes whatever wants to come off easily (which seems far too much),  leaving the house looking wounded and vulnerable.  Then we come to its rescue and paint over the bare underboards with new skin.  Again.  Until the next time.