Living Well

As I grow older, living well has come to mean releasing my own expectations in a given situation rather than obsessing over whatever seems not-quite-right. Living fully and well means trusting the Author of the larger emerging story.   Accepting what is.

Recently I ordered a new rope hammock to replace our old weathered one that was on the verge of becoming unsafe.  When the new hammock arrived, I threw away the box (the trash man was due, so why not?), as well as the old hammock.  Several days later I discovered that I’d ordered the wrong size; the new hammock was much too short!

At first I was frustrated and angry with myself for wasting money and time, especially since the 4^th of July is just around the corner.  But this morning I swallowed my pride and tried hanging the short hammock between two other (close-together) trees.  It will work perfectly as a child-sized hammock for the younger grandkids! This evening I ordered another rope hammock that has more desirable features than either the old one or the one I intended to order the first time, and it was on sale with free shipping!

This is a simplistic illustration, but to me it says life events aren’t accidental; there is always a reason that ultimately fits with the bigger picture.  “When unforeseen things occur, let me not forget that all comes down from Thee.” (Orthodox morning prayer)

In fact, this kind of recovery looks like a kind of redemption to me.  It is generous and obvious, and enables changes that wouldn't happen any other way.  Sometimes there are other cases when I can’t grasp it as tangibly (the illusive dangling carrot), but am aware of being changed for the better in deep-seated ways because of the challenge.  Either way, acceptance is comforting and freeing, a way to live well.

Through His Eyes

This past week I imagined what it would be like to see myself through the eyes of our visiting 10-year-old grandson, a respectful, responsible young man.  Whether or not these perceptions are accurate is debatable, and yet my guess is they're probably close.

I’m not nearly as adventurous, silly, or funny as Grampa, but am loveable none-the-less as the official fish fryer and cinnamon roll baker, and the one who sympathizes with a cut toe or open-eye hit during a pillow fight. I can’t hear conversation much of the time, but smile a lot and fake animated expressions to compensate, which is sometimes funny and other times sad.  I take walks with my cell phone in hand just in case (a security blanket), and sometimes retreat to sit in front of the computer like a stone, absorbed in whatever old ladies think about.  Oh, and I maintain the contents of a big basket on top of the refrigerator – cookies and crackers that are off-limits for adults, but keep me in good standing with my grandkids who like being spoiled.

Yup.  That about covers it.

Enchanting

Yet another Fancy Day has come and gone.

Today began with the project du jour: a shoebox-turned-puppet-stage, and popsicle sticks decorated as puppets (we ended up with over 20). My ingenious, talented 6-year-old granddaughter designed the stage backdrop.  She also created the features and clothing for many of the puppets, including one pregnant Aunt Katie with a round, circular midsection and one non-pregnant Aunt Katie holding a miniscule stick-figure baby. 

Of course we swam in the lake, and the grand-girl discovered that an inverted fishnet worked very well in deep water as a slow motion pogo stick.  Two winsome baby turtles defied her every effort at feeding.  We found various sizes of striped, tri-colored rocks (pink, white, and brown), and decided they were members of an extended family named Neapolitan.

There’s always a cooking component to Fancy Day, and today we created her favorite pizza.  Remembering our other yeasted bread projects, she slipped right into the mindset of “yeasties” having a “party” when they “wake up” in warm water.  She finds the idea of yeast particles “coming alive” delightful, and every time asks the same question: “If they’re living creatures, are they bugs?” Her creation, a many-layered meat-lovers pizza complete with ham, sausage, pepperoni, and bacon, plus mozzarella and parmesan cheeses, went home to her mom to bake for dinner. 

As I review our day together, it is obvious she was enchanted the entire time, as if living out a fairy tale.  “This really IS a fancy Fancy Day!” she remarked when I first explained the goal of making the theater with puppets.  “This is the best Fancy Day EVER,” she added when the curtain and glittery swags were in place on the stage, and the puppets had been dressed and named.

Swimming was a glorious adventure, and cooking an art form.  In the wake of it all, I am grateful to have shared her fascination and enchantment with such simple pleasures.

Thanks, Mac!

My computer sadly expired due to heat exhaustion on June 14^th, 2014, which explains my recent week-long absence here.  Its last gasps included agonizing bleeps and blanked-out screens that I knew could only mean death. Feeling the loss, I went into withdrawal – a sort of techno shock. 

But I’m back in the swing now, thanks to the generous gifting of a brand spankin’ new MacBook Pro. I’m still ga-ga over this.  It seems almost too much to grasp since my past generations of computers, all hard workers who served me well, have been hand-me-downs.

Having a computer is extremely therapeutic for me, like owning a customized playground.  Creative writing especially guides my mind away from the constant scream of tinnitus.  Composing for thirty minutes in front of the screen eases accumulated stress that would otherwise compound, threatening to send me to the funny farm.  Or maybe beyond.

And so, thanks are in order.  Thank you, primary and secondary donors. Thank you Apple computer engineers, wizards that you are, for helping me manage a chronic disability.   

Thank you, Mac, for your big screen, clean keyboard, and countless blank pages waiting to be filled.  Thank you, too, for my eager new cursor, urging me to type something, to just get it down.  Thank you for browsers that open cyberspace and answer questions right here, right now, even in the middle of the night.

I salute you, Mac. May you live long and prosper beneath my hand.

The Beat Goes On

Spitting rain dotted the windshield like silver glitter as I drove out of the funeral home parking lot, my wipers rhythmically swishing the flecks with each stroke: schwump-shcwump, schwump-schwump, schwump-schwump.   Soon the drops eased their pace, and the cadence of the wiper-song slowed.  Water specks glittered longer between strokes, sparkling like miniature diamonds.  Thwap – pause – thwap – pause – thwap - pause.   

Each swipe of the blades slowly and rhythmically erased more and more of the glittery gems, somehow reminding me of swinging.  I began daydreaming about my childhood backyard swing, imagining what it felt like to pump my legs and stretch them out toward the sky only to fall backwards toward the ground and back up into the air with lift-off-the-seat-pauses at the apex of each ascent and descent.  I remembered the exhilarating sense of flight in-between the rhythmic ups and downs, the sense of separation from the earth while remaining safely grounded. 

Meanwhile the wipers continued thumping out a tempo, drumming with a pulse that seemed to surge with remembered life.  The memory of an elderly woman named Marie had been honored at her funeral just a few minutes earlier, and I sensed the flowing pulse of time and existence as the miles flew by and the wipers continued their beat.

Marie lived for eighty-nine spirited, inspiring years marked by inevitable challenges and hurdles. A niece said, “When facing the valley of a severe personal crisis, I thought, ‘I can do this because Aunt Marie could do it.’  She held the bar high for the rest of us.”

Pastor Tim commented that Marie’s life mattered because it was about love: God’s love for her, her love of family and friends, and their love for her. “We stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before us,” he said.  Those carrying Marie’s banner will face sorrow, hardship, and vulnerability common to mankind, while also being upheld by her legacy.

This is the rhythm of life, I thought, the throbbing tempo of love as it passes between us.  It pumps us full with a surging, pounding heartbeat mimicked by the thwap of the wipers and the memory of my creaky old swing chains: a pulse of life and love.

Fox Books is Coming

In the movie “You’ve Got Mail,” a charming, privately owned children’s bookstore (The Shop Around the Corner) is threatened when a mammoth bookstore (Fox Books) moves nearby.  Eventually the superstore’s massive inventory, low prices, and fancy cappuccino capture the hearts of local buyers.  Priceless customer relationships are severed forever when Fox Books steals so much business that the owner of The Shop Around the Corner is forced to close her doors.

Something similar is happening here, only not with bookstores.

We live in the boonies, surrounded by small towns.  Actually they’re not called towns here, but villages, which is much more quaint.  One village about 25 minutes from us seems somehow immune to change.  Its streetlights – black wrought-iron-looking ones with globes resembling those that housed candles in the really-old days – replicate those I remember in the 50’s and 60’s.  Storefronts on the downtown strip haven’t changed much since they were built in the 19th century.  A stone-constructed post office, with tall, steep steps (awe-inspiring if not handicapped accessible) rouses memories of a time when it was normal to respect and honor governmental agencies and officials.

I like this village, and often frequent its privately owned grocery, coffee shop, and gift store. Residents survive quite well here without being squished by commercialism.  After all, The City is only half-an-hour away via interstate if you need something more than the village provides.

However, next month a new Wal-Mart will open just barely within village limits.  It has been under construction all winter, and now appears to be preparing for opening day.  Last evening as we drove by on our way home from a grandson’s Performing Arts Summer Camp program, we noticed brash lights blaring across the bare parking lot.  The hard expansiveness felt cold, and those towering mega-lights seemed out-of-place.

Although I’ve never been a Wal-Mart fan, I’ll enjoy having one close in the same way the folks in the movie celebrated Fox Books.  The enormous inventory will be convenient. I’ve heard Wal-Mart is chumming up with Whole Foods somehow to offer more organic produce at reasonable prices.  That alone will lure me through the door.

Some people call this progress, and part of me agrees.  And yet I’m also grieving, in The Shop Around the Corner sense.  What will happen to the little gift store, and the loyal grocery that has supplied hungry locals for years?  The village will never be the same again.  A certain quality of life will be changed.  And there’s no going back.

Here and Now

This afternoon I was greeted by an expanse of blooming clover as I turned a corner during my walk.  Lake winds rustled millions of tiny round leaves and flowers, tossing them playfully until they danced in undulating waves.

For a few seconds I squinted my eyes as if to pretend the clover blossoms had become a dainty sprinkling of snow. But no, that was a few months ago!  Time marches on, I thought, and it always delivers change; it is not mine to possess.  What I think of as “my time” is actually beyond me, and my expectations for it. 

I reopened my eyes wide to enjoy the simple beauty if this floral dance troupe.  The present moment was precious.  In a sense, sacred. For the present is always where God is, where He discloses Himself.