Stocking Up

It’s true that sometimes the best things in life come in small packages.  Other times they come in big ones, like today when the UPS man delivered a large box that had travelled all the way from California. 

I was excited about the contents without even looking. 

My husband gallantly carried the heavy carton into the kitchen and set it on the counter.  I slit the tape, pulled out the blue plastic shrink-wrap liner, and cut a hole in it.   Behold, twenty-five beautiful pounds of blanched, finely ground almond flour for a bargain price - almost half what I’d pay for the same poundage in small bags at the local grocery stores!

Let me tell you: this kind of abundance lights the eyes of the gluten-free.

Some people like to stock up on things like potatoes, or maybe canned beans.  I get excited about stocking up on almond flour, which redefines carb-loaded baked goods into protein powerhouses.

Mirro Matic

I’m sentimentally attached to my wind-up Mirro Matic kitchen timer. We go way back to summers in the 1950’s when I helped my mother make blueberry jam at the lake cottage.

The timer is predictably accurate and reliable, so it’s not to blame for the fact that I burned a tray of Christmas cookies today. I simply could no longer hear its sweet, chiming “ding.”

For this reason, I've decided it must be time to retire the Mirro Matic. 

My oven has a timer built into its digital panel, one that wails a continuous, raucous ba-bleeeeeep, ba-bleeeeeep, ba-bleeeeep like some screaming, eccentric lunatic.  I'll be using it now. At least I won’t be able to ignore its riotous cries, unless I’m not wearing my hearing aids in which case I won’t hear a thing and could easily burn more cookies.

Thanks for sharing minutes in the kitchen with me, Mirro Matic.  You’ve been a loyal friend.

Farewell

Our friends’ son passed away last evening after a year-and-a-half battle with brain cancer.  He was 35 years old, leaving behind a wife and young daughter.

I imagine him living on in the hearts and souls of his loved ones, safe from the invasion of renegade cancer cells.  He will shine there, sparkling and brightening their grief, reminding them to love fully and draw close to each another.

He will not become only a misty memory, but will be honored in beautiful moments when sacrifice and joy define the same love he knew: when humility outshines pride, generosity rules greed, happiness overwhelms envy.  Those who loved him will be inspired to live generously, unselfishly, and courageously. And then one day they will see his radiant face once more, and be blessed beyond any earthly measure.

His mother is my “sista.”  It’s a pet name, something that happened one day in a text message.  I can’t fully understand her loss, her depth of hollow mourning.  But I can stand with her and wonder at the gift of her son's life - a divine blessing that extended from her own being, and yet now is no longer present. No parent expects to be preceded in death by a child, and yet this crushing loss won’t consume her. Rather, she may only see more clearly those things that matter, and as a result, live an illumined reality.

Dancing the path

Today my audiologist invited me to consider a new resource: a hearing aid especially designed for tinnitus patients, the Widex Zen.  As well as provide acute and specific amplification of outside sounds, its technology offers continually playing background fractal tones (think non-repeating wind chimes) that stimulate and distract the mind from annoying internal sounds.  Voila, relaxation…all for the low low price of $4,510.

We talked for a long time, a fascinating privilege since he has been practicing for 20 years and has lots of compelling stories to share.  As an active listener, he validated every aspect of my conversation. He said he could hear the weariness that accompanies a long journey (42 years) in my tone of voice - the overwhelm and need for help with new coping skills as my condition worsens. 

I also explained, however, how tinnitus has changed me and continues to guide me down new pathways. I am richly blessed by a growing focus on one-on-one relationships. Creative writing and online communication (without auditory stress) have also become profoundly fulfilling. He responded that in twenty years of practice he has rarely known patients with my stage of tinnitus and hearing loss to be able to recognize the opening of new, hopeful doors as old familiar ones shut.  I told him discouragement over closed doors is real, and I couldn’t begin to pry the new ones myself.  But once they do graciously open, I choose to dance the path and expect divine purpose to lead me in a choreography that causes the torment to pale in comparison.

“We must have our gaze fixed on heaven.  Then nothing here can shake us.”

 - Priestmonk living on the island of Patmos

“The meaning and purpose of dancing is the dance. Like music also, it is fulfilled in each moment of its course. You do not play a sonata in order to reach the final chord, and if the meaning of things were simply in ends, composers would write nothing but finales.”   - British philosopher

A Year Later

My husband was hospitalized several times a year ago last fall with issues related to serious heart failure.  In January I couldn’t help but wonder if he would live to see another Christmas. I remember dismantling the tree and wrapping each ornament carefully, nostalgically.  Then climbing the drop-down steps to the attic and stacking the boxes neatly, thinking I might be a widow the next time they came to light.  Although accepting of the situation, I was anxious.  Fearful.

This afternoon I climbed those steps again.  I carried the boxes into the living room, and unwrapped the ornaments – one by one by one.  My lively husband hunted down the Christmas CD’s and filled the house with music.  He built a fire in the fireplace before parking himself in a chair near the flickering flames with a good book.

For a couple of hours I trimmed our skinny little tree, perfect for our modest house, and decked the halls with stockings and candles and poinsettias.  In the process, I remembered what it was like this time last year.  How uncertainty loomed big, how I wondered what the future might hold. The heart failure specialist later confessed he expected my husband to die before the New Year.  As it was, his recovery was unexpected and unprecedented.

As I enjoy our festive house this evening, plenty of things are still unknown.  Others are more real, more focused. I seem changed in some core way.  Perhaps I’m more aware of others and their needs, as well as my own. My perspectives are more flexible, more open. I’ve learned that less is often more, that diligence pays dividends, that the pursuit of God leads to an encounter with glory that shines more brightly than any vision of what I think is best.