I'd like to tell you that I am a meek and mild woman with a soft voice and genteel manner.
However. . .
My mother always told me it was a sin to lie.
I am only meek when compelled and the only time I am mild is around infants. As for soft voice and genteel manner, I can be appropriate when necessary for the duration of the necessity, but once that is over, I revert to who I really am.
Deep down beneath the wrinkles and laugh lines that define the passage of time on my face is a young woman who loves the feel of the engine revving and the rumble of road beneath the powerful muscle of a sports car.
I have always wanted to have another sports car. I have had two of them in my younger years and loved them both. But, it seems that when you become a mother your name and identity is changed to reflect either a minivan or an SUV.
I long to pull into a dealership and trade it all away for a hot muscle car with flames licking up over the hood and around the blower and down the sides of the car in iridescent color that changes hue as you pass throught the lights of the days and nights of life.
My longsuffering husband frequently teases me saying that we can have a compromise - a minivan with flames.
Oddly enough, I can actually picture that in my mind.
A van that is midnight blue which is well appointed and tasteful . . . with the flames creating the visual image of the family car on steroids bursting through the flaming hoop of death as it leaps through the void over a row of parked cars or perhaps school buses parked side by side on the highway.
Aaaaaah! I can see it all now!
The family flames zipping in and out of traffic at will, burning my way through the traffic jams that detour the weak from their appointed duties. A powerful engine coursing in and around vehicles that seem to be at a standstill as the van of destiny makes it's way around town and on the highway toward the promised land of . . . well, wherever it is I have to go.
I realize my husband would never actually agree to the flames. He is not the type to advertise the truth about his wife - even if I am willing to do so.
Oh well.
Maybe in the old folks home . . .
July 14, 2007
Everything is beautiful
All day yesterday was a harried rush to make sure everything went just right for the big moment.
My boy is a boy no longer and seeing him all grown up and taking on his adult personal responsibilities and covenants was indeed a teary eyed moment.
Sooner than it takes to contemplate and truly be prepared for it, he will walk onto that concourse and board the plane that will take him away from home and deliver him into the future we have tried to prepare him to face as a man.
And knowing that he has now shared with us a sacred sense of the most important questions we can ask makes it better. He has now been brought full circle from God's arms, into our arms and now we return him into the service of God as a missionary of love, truth and light.
Like a prayer warrior sent out into the field to face the opposition of the world armed with the scriptures and the armor they provide, he will teach and preach and offer himself and the training he will receive to be the vehicle for those whom he teaches to move from what they know into what can be their personal inheritence in the kingdom of God.
While I know that it will not be a cakewalk, I know that the experiences he will have will profoundly shape not only him personally, but all of us who sit at home and support him emotionally, financially, physically, and, most especially, spiritually.
My boy is a boy no longer and seeing him all grown up and taking on his adult personal responsibilities and covenants was indeed a teary eyed moment.
Sooner than it takes to contemplate and truly be prepared for it, he will walk onto that concourse and board the plane that will take him away from home and deliver him into the future we have tried to prepare him to face as a man.
And knowing that he has now shared with us a sacred sense of the most important questions we can ask makes it better. He has now been brought full circle from God's arms, into our arms and now we return him into the service of God as a missionary of love, truth and light.
Like a prayer warrior sent out into the field to face the opposition of the world armed with the scriptures and the armor they provide, he will teach and preach and offer himself and the training he will receive to be the vehicle for those whom he teaches to move from what they know into what can be their personal inheritence in the kingdom of God.
While I know that it will not be a cakewalk, I know that the experiences he will have will profoundly shape not only him personally, but all of us who sit at home and support him emotionally, financially, physically, and, most especially, spiritually.
July 12, 2007
Pet Peeves
Out of all the possible moments to do something necessary, why on earth do people wait until the last literal tick of the clock to say "I need this done"?
I have hated being late or waiting for the last minute to do something all of my life. By nature, I am a planner. I have already marked my calendar out of my need to know in advance what is expected of my time. What irks the ever loving stew out of me is when OTHER people are more than willing to make THEIR emergency part of MY agenda.
I only have one question for them: WHY ON EARTH DIDN'T THIS REGISTER AS A PROBLEM BEFORE NOW?!?!?!
I have to believe it stems from the absolute belief that people like me who get stress ulcers in their behalf will always be there for them just to make everything work like clockwork.
I worry. I stew. I plan and I ponder the possibilities and the what ifs ad nauseum. But, do the procrastinators of the world give it a second thought? NO, indeedy! Because I'll be there sweating it out for them and making sure everything comes up roses.
I honestly believe that is why the pictures of the women in the early days of photography and daguerreotypes looked the way they did. They weren't being stern and harsh looking out of some need to show a serious side or a sense of propriety. Oh no! They looked that way because they had exhausted themselves getting the rest of the family ready for the dang photo shoot.
By the time they arrived all pressed and tucked and ready for prime time, the aforementioned women had told their kids (whose shirts were drying on the way INTO town) hundreds of times, "YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME THAT SHIRT WAS DIRTY ON WASH DAY!" Mind you, this poor woman had asked them all week prior to laundry day about that one Sunday-go-to-meetin' shirt and been told, 'No Ma, it's jest fine an' dandy' which led her to believe her work was done.
Come the night before or worse yet, the morning of an event, there is our intrepid homemaker trying really hard not to swear in a most unladylike fashion while she fires up the washpot and gets the water 'on to bile' so that she will be able to 'warsh and wrench' the shirts that suddenly showed up needing her attention!
I can feel the spasms in my stomach already.
If this sounds familiar to you, you are female.
If it just sounds stupid, your shirt will be ready in a few minutes.
I have hated being late or waiting for the last minute to do something all of my life. By nature, I am a planner. I have already marked my calendar out of my need to know in advance what is expected of my time. What irks the ever loving stew out of me is when OTHER people are more than willing to make THEIR emergency part of MY agenda.
I only have one question for them: WHY ON EARTH DIDN'T THIS REGISTER AS A PROBLEM BEFORE NOW?!?!?!
I have to believe it stems from the absolute belief that people like me who get stress ulcers in their behalf will always be there for them just to make everything work like clockwork.
I worry. I stew. I plan and I ponder the possibilities and the what ifs ad nauseum. But, do the procrastinators of the world give it a second thought? NO, indeedy! Because I'll be there sweating it out for them and making sure everything comes up roses.
I honestly believe that is why the pictures of the women in the early days of photography and daguerreotypes looked the way they did. They weren't being stern and harsh looking out of some need to show a serious side or a sense of propriety. Oh no! They looked that way because they had exhausted themselves getting the rest of the family ready for the dang photo shoot.
By the time they arrived all pressed and tucked and ready for prime time, the aforementioned women had told their kids (whose shirts were drying on the way INTO town) hundreds of times, "YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME THAT SHIRT WAS DIRTY ON WASH DAY!" Mind you, this poor woman had asked them all week prior to laundry day about that one Sunday-go-to-meetin' shirt and been told, 'No Ma, it's jest fine an' dandy' which led her to believe her work was done.
Come the night before or worse yet, the morning of an event, there is our intrepid homemaker trying really hard not to swear in a most unladylike fashion while she fires up the washpot and gets the water 'on to bile' so that she will be able to 'warsh and wrench' the shirts that suddenly showed up needing her attention!
I can feel the spasms in my stomach already.
If this sounds familiar to you, you are female.
If it just sounds stupid, your shirt will be ready in a few minutes.
Fitness
Yes. Another day, another stretch and another workout with the equipment in the gym.
It all sounds like such a good idea to work out and get fit and lose those nasty little pounds that keep me in the plus size rack.
But the reality is that every single pound requires a ton of effort to remove. And although it does feel good to complete another session in the gym, it's not like I can step on the scales for a complete before and after success story and photo op.
I'd like to. . . and I wonder if that stray desire makes me a lunatic or simple one of the masses that wants the microwave results and the minimal effort to seem reasonably fit.
Of course, there are women who come to the gym who seem to possess an inordinate amount of energy and desire to hop around on those little platforms that seem to work so well for them but require so much effort and concentration on my part to keep from slipping off and breaking something neccessary.
I admit that I HATE the hopping around to music on those little platforms. It makes me feel somewhat like a knock-off version of a Solid Gold Dancer. My spandex isn't as stretchy and my sequins are tarnished but I am up there shaking it for the masses to watch. Except that the only people watching really aren't.
We are all too busy counting our reps and feeling our muscles cramp and stretch beyond all reason as we attempt to discover that golden link between fitness and fanaticism that we hover over on a daily basis.
I ask myself is 30 minutes in the morning and 30 minutes to an hour at night enough.
Then I question my sanity.
I do know some women who exercise themselves into oblivion. They have ceased to look like women because they have carefully erased their curves in favor of some oddly proportioned body that doesn't look exactly right. It is an addiction to some to find the 'right' look. Instead of seeking to find the body picture that suits their body type, they want to match the image of someone not even remotely near their bone structure or build.
I like food too much for that to become a major worry for me. I am quite sure the remnants of my fudgesicle will always be found somewhere along my body lines in a rumpled section of fat not ready for prime time.
But I have discovered that there is a particular truth that accompanies all of this.
When I exercise I DO feel better and more able to cope. It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt every single time. Because that it is constant. What it does mean is that I am making progress toward my eventual goal.
While my microwave mentality wants it right now, my slow cooker reality says it will take a great deal of time.
But the good news is that my biceps are looking good and I really enjoy my evening walking. I just wish there were more sidewalks around town. There should be some sort of ordinance that compels them to put sidewalks all over our area so that wrinkled, lined and flabby people like me can have a safe place to get out and try to tone up. Or at least a place we can keep from being run down by passing cars.
It all sounds like such a good idea to work out and get fit and lose those nasty little pounds that keep me in the plus size rack.
But the reality is that every single pound requires a ton of effort to remove. And although it does feel good to complete another session in the gym, it's not like I can step on the scales for a complete before and after success story and photo op.
I'd like to. . . and I wonder if that stray desire makes me a lunatic or simple one of the masses that wants the microwave results and the minimal effort to seem reasonably fit.
Of course, there are women who come to the gym who seem to possess an inordinate amount of energy and desire to hop around on those little platforms that seem to work so well for them but require so much effort and concentration on my part to keep from slipping off and breaking something neccessary.
I admit that I HATE the hopping around to music on those little platforms. It makes me feel somewhat like a knock-off version of a Solid Gold Dancer. My spandex isn't as stretchy and my sequins are tarnished but I am up there shaking it for the masses to watch. Except that the only people watching really aren't.
We are all too busy counting our reps and feeling our muscles cramp and stretch beyond all reason as we attempt to discover that golden link between fitness and fanaticism that we hover over on a daily basis.
I ask myself is 30 minutes in the morning and 30 minutes to an hour at night enough.
Then I question my sanity.
I do know some women who exercise themselves into oblivion. They have ceased to look like women because they have carefully erased their curves in favor of some oddly proportioned body that doesn't look exactly right. It is an addiction to some to find the 'right' look. Instead of seeking to find the body picture that suits their body type, they want to match the image of someone not even remotely near their bone structure or build.
I like food too much for that to become a major worry for me. I am quite sure the remnants of my fudgesicle will always be found somewhere along my body lines in a rumpled section of fat not ready for prime time.
But I have discovered that there is a particular truth that accompanies all of this.
When I exercise I DO feel better and more able to cope. It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt every single time. Because that it is constant. What it does mean is that I am making progress toward my eventual goal.
While my microwave mentality wants it right now, my slow cooker reality says it will take a great deal of time.
But the good news is that my biceps are looking good and I really enjoy my evening walking. I just wish there were more sidewalks around town. There should be some sort of ordinance that compels them to put sidewalks all over our area so that wrinkled, lined and flabby people like me can have a safe place to get out and try to tone up. Or at least a place we can keep from being run down by passing cars.
July 11, 2007
For Whom The Garbage Truck Tolls. . .
When I was just a kid, we lived in a neighborhood on the outskirts of town that was more rural than city. There were cows in the pasture behind us and the kids took over the neighborhood streets to play all kinds of games and await the daily run of the ice cream truck and the nice man who sold the cold and creamy treats that made summer endless.
One particular fascination of my childhood was the garbage men who would trek through the neighborhood back yards to collect trash from several houses into a giant garbage can they carried on their backs until such time as it would be emptied into the slowly trolling garbage truck that lumbered through our neighborhood.
They came by a couple of times a week and knew all of the kids, dogs, cats and assorted wildlife that inhabited our neighborhood.
Like the milkman, the garbage men had appointed routes but instead of delivery service, they provided pickup service for anything that was cast off from the homes.
Years later, when the garbage truck comes through, it doesn't take long to see that everything has changed dramatically. No longer going through the neighborhood back yards and fences to bring out the trash, the men who labored to make our lives pleasant twice a week have been replaced with a once a week trip by an automated truck with a giant claw that reaches out and grasps the giant, rolling bins that have been issued by the city in what they claim is a cost saving measure.
Personally, I believe they were seduced to believe that machinery was better than people. It is the cruelest form of 'the dark side' that is possible. For the garbage men were NOT second class citizens, nor were they looked at as being in a horrible profession. They were a friendly reminder that we were one community and that taking our trash to the city dump was a good and well paying job.
I am not sure that our garbage truck drivers think much beyond lining up the claw just right to keep from dumping over the enormous bins that dot our town like dark green eyes on our specific day for pickup.
Even with the changes that have come over time, there is one constant that is immutable and unchanging forever. If you miss that special appointed day, you will be stuck with the growing mound and personal reminder of your choices during the week. Not to mention the stench.
Whether the garbage truck comes once or twice a week, the fact remains that the garbage we generate goes away.
What would happen if they decided tomorrow that our garbage was our problem?
It's too grizzly to contemplate.
Thankfully, the garbage truck just came.
It reminds me of a joke that I heard one time.
A woman, seeing that it was garbage day and she was running late with her household obligations, and the gargabe truck was just rounding the corner, ran out in her ratty bathrobe, slippers and curlers in her hair and hollered "YOOHOO! Am I too late for the trash?" whereupon the garbage man said, "NO LADY! HOP RIGHT IN!"
One particular fascination of my childhood was the garbage men who would trek through the neighborhood back yards to collect trash from several houses into a giant garbage can they carried on their backs until such time as it would be emptied into the slowly trolling garbage truck that lumbered through our neighborhood.
They came by a couple of times a week and knew all of the kids, dogs, cats and assorted wildlife that inhabited our neighborhood.
Like the milkman, the garbage men had appointed routes but instead of delivery service, they provided pickup service for anything that was cast off from the homes.
Years later, when the garbage truck comes through, it doesn't take long to see that everything has changed dramatically. No longer going through the neighborhood back yards and fences to bring out the trash, the men who labored to make our lives pleasant twice a week have been replaced with a once a week trip by an automated truck with a giant claw that reaches out and grasps the giant, rolling bins that have been issued by the city in what they claim is a cost saving measure.
Personally, I believe they were seduced to believe that machinery was better than people. It is the cruelest form of 'the dark side' that is possible. For the garbage men were NOT second class citizens, nor were they looked at as being in a horrible profession. They were a friendly reminder that we were one community and that taking our trash to the city dump was a good and well paying job.
I am not sure that our garbage truck drivers think much beyond lining up the claw just right to keep from dumping over the enormous bins that dot our town like dark green eyes on our specific day for pickup.
Even with the changes that have come over time, there is one constant that is immutable and unchanging forever. If you miss that special appointed day, you will be stuck with the growing mound and personal reminder of your choices during the week. Not to mention the stench.
Whether the garbage truck comes once or twice a week, the fact remains that the garbage we generate goes away.
What would happen if they decided tomorrow that our garbage was our problem?
It's too grizzly to contemplate.
Thankfully, the garbage truck just came.
It reminds me of a joke that I heard one time.
A woman, seeing that it was garbage day and she was running late with her household obligations, and the gargabe truck was just rounding the corner, ran out in her ratty bathrobe, slippers and curlers in her hair and hollered "YOOHOO! Am I too late for the trash?" whereupon the garbage man said, "NO LADY! HOP RIGHT IN!"
July 10, 2007
Everybody needs a hobby. . .
it's been one of THOSE mornings already.
Lacking sufficient sleep to be even remotely alert thanks to a panic attack that threatened to kill me, I spent a miserable night hunkered down underneath a blanket praying for daylight.
I cannot speak for others who suffer the ill effects of panic attacks. Everyone is entitled to experience hell on earth in their own dimension. But for me, it is like a full on assault tidal wave of emotion that threatens to drown me in it's powerful undertow. When it happens, everything I have come to know suddenly becomes fodder for the mill and I wonder if I have done something bad or if I can ever be redeemed.
Sometimes, sleep comes after prayers and music but other times, like a surfer on a killer wave hoping to find the shoreline safely after the wild ride, I just have to hang ten on the monstrous waves on my little board of faith and ride it to the end.
Other metaphores are equally descriptive of the turmoil and danger: avalanche, suffocation, drowning, pulled under, and my personal favorite of all - overwhelmed.
It isn't that I honestly believe that I can just walk through life with no trials at all. Because I realized early on in my life that was simply not possible. No one who spends as much time as I did visiting doctors and hospitals can fantasize about life's perfection and bliss without truly understanding the falseness of the fantasy. But there are some days that I really do wish this was one particular 'hobby' that I didn't have.
People who knit seem to be serene sort of people. If I had paid more attention when I was a young woman, I could be the kind of woman who could sit quietly making something useful and warm from simple threads. Up to now, that has simply been a vehicle for profanity, that like sewing, I choose not to practice. . . some domestic decisions are made because whatever they represent is an issue that REMOVES peace instead of granting it. So, it becomes far better to leave some things for other people to succeed at, rather than painting the air blue with my frustration and angst.
I am quite sure that a lot of this particular 'blessing' of anxiety is tied to a bit of reality on this occassion. Sometimes panic attacks bring their savagery for no reason at all, but this time, I believe my own personal feelings fueled this particular raging fire one stick at a time.
What will my life be like when my oldest son leaves for his mission? When he can't call on his cell phone at lunchtime and when letters or email to him and from him are at both the mercy of what I hope will be an extremely busy schedule and the postal service's timetable? When I am left to an all too quiet house since my youngest really doesn't possess the capacity of speech at this time due to his handicaps and when my husband, though a wonderful man, who DOES possess the ability to speak, simply won't.
Never one to get into 'deep' conversations to begin with (at least not with me), I can tell at a moments notice when my husband is no longer interested in what I am trying to relate. His eyes glaze over and begin to flutter closed, until, in exasperation, I simply shut up.
To be fair to him, I realize that my need to talk has always been far greater than his need or interest in listening. I am by nature a gregarious person who has an opinion on everything. As I get older, I am finding that no one (including my longsuffering husband) truly wants to hear my opinions, thoughts, feelings or ideas. And that is okay a majority of the time.
But in those nights where the terror is palpable and the agony of being alone in a crowd becomes hard to bear, I reach out at times for a bit of assurance that I matter and that I am in the tiniest way important. That becomes another cross to carry since I don't always do that in the right way or with the right people. It has become, too many times for me to count, a double-edged sword with which I have wounded my husband, other people and myself.
I am currently practicing being 'a listener'.
It is hard. Like practicing the piano when you'd rather be playing ball, it takes real effort to stick to it and succeed.
After a lifetime of opening my mouth, frequently to no purpose, I am actively trying to keep it shut. I truly want to hear what is in someone's heart, unsaid, that gets covered up when I am in too big a rush to frame my reply. I want to feel the ripples of their needs from whatever emotional pool they are swimming or floundering in that I have missed all to often in thinking about my next move.
Maybe that is why the most important messages of our lives are repeated so many times. God knew that we would simply not be able to get it right on the first go 'round, and that like all hobbies, we would need to set aside time to practice in order to become better at it.
I konw that I am not noble or saintly, but I am trying to see how people who truly do possess those qualities got that way. If I watch them long enough, I may find how they did it or at least learn one or two of the steps I can take to become a bit better in my own 'hobby' of trying to become a complete person.
All I can say about any of this is that, truly, I am a work in progress.
There will be days where what others see and experience will be more pleasing than on others. But because the construction of a soul is sometimes a merciless process, laying bare the imperfections, the flaws and the items needing major overhauls and corrections, there will be days that will make for an uncomfortable view for everyone concerned. And unfortunately, this applies to those innocent bystanders who get 'construction debris' heaped upon them inadvertantly.
My hope is that the Master Carpenter, who framed both our lives and the creation of all we know, will find it in His infinite wisdom to help the rusty and bent nails in my soul become replaced, renewed or straightened and that those places where the lumber of my life that has warped and bent out of square over time can be brought back into plumb for use in His service.
That is one hobby that will be a constant in my life so long as I draw a breath. I suspect that it may be thus even after my time on earth is completed and I am brought to stand before my Maker. I am hoping for both mercy and justice, but mostly for mercy.
After all, even the black sheep wants the love of the Good Shepherd.
Lacking sufficient sleep to be even remotely alert thanks to a panic attack that threatened to kill me, I spent a miserable night hunkered down underneath a blanket praying for daylight.
I cannot speak for others who suffer the ill effects of panic attacks. Everyone is entitled to experience hell on earth in their own dimension. But for me, it is like a full on assault tidal wave of emotion that threatens to drown me in it's powerful undertow. When it happens, everything I have come to know suddenly becomes fodder for the mill and I wonder if I have done something bad or if I can ever be redeemed.
Sometimes, sleep comes after prayers and music but other times, like a surfer on a killer wave hoping to find the shoreline safely after the wild ride, I just have to hang ten on the monstrous waves on my little board of faith and ride it to the end.
Other metaphores are equally descriptive of the turmoil and danger: avalanche, suffocation, drowning, pulled under, and my personal favorite of all - overwhelmed.
It isn't that I honestly believe that I can just walk through life with no trials at all. Because I realized early on in my life that was simply not possible. No one who spends as much time as I did visiting doctors and hospitals can fantasize about life's perfection and bliss without truly understanding the falseness of the fantasy. But there are some days that I really do wish this was one particular 'hobby' that I didn't have.
People who knit seem to be serene sort of people. If I had paid more attention when I was a young woman, I could be the kind of woman who could sit quietly making something useful and warm from simple threads. Up to now, that has simply been a vehicle for profanity, that like sewing, I choose not to practice. . . some domestic decisions are made because whatever they represent is an issue that REMOVES peace instead of granting it. So, it becomes far better to leave some things for other people to succeed at, rather than painting the air blue with my frustration and angst.
I am quite sure that a lot of this particular 'blessing' of anxiety is tied to a bit of reality on this occassion. Sometimes panic attacks bring their savagery for no reason at all, but this time, I believe my own personal feelings fueled this particular raging fire one stick at a time.
What will my life be like when my oldest son leaves for his mission? When he can't call on his cell phone at lunchtime and when letters or email to him and from him are at both the mercy of what I hope will be an extremely busy schedule and the postal service's timetable? When I am left to an all too quiet house since my youngest really doesn't possess the capacity of speech at this time due to his handicaps and when my husband, though a wonderful man, who DOES possess the ability to speak, simply won't.
Never one to get into 'deep' conversations to begin with (at least not with me), I can tell at a moments notice when my husband is no longer interested in what I am trying to relate. His eyes glaze over and begin to flutter closed, until, in exasperation, I simply shut up.
To be fair to him, I realize that my need to talk has always been far greater than his need or interest in listening. I am by nature a gregarious person who has an opinion on everything. As I get older, I am finding that no one (including my longsuffering husband) truly wants to hear my opinions, thoughts, feelings or ideas. And that is okay a majority of the time.
But in those nights where the terror is palpable and the agony of being alone in a crowd becomes hard to bear, I reach out at times for a bit of assurance that I matter and that I am in the tiniest way important. That becomes another cross to carry since I don't always do that in the right way or with the right people. It has become, too many times for me to count, a double-edged sword with which I have wounded my husband, other people and myself.
I am currently practicing being 'a listener'.
It is hard. Like practicing the piano when you'd rather be playing ball, it takes real effort to stick to it and succeed.
After a lifetime of opening my mouth, frequently to no purpose, I am actively trying to keep it shut. I truly want to hear what is in someone's heart, unsaid, that gets covered up when I am in too big a rush to frame my reply. I want to feel the ripples of their needs from whatever emotional pool they are swimming or floundering in that I have missed all to often in thinking about my next move.
Maybe that is why the most important messages of our lives are repeated so many times. God knew that we would simply not be able to get it right on the first go 'round, and that like all hobbies, we would need to set aside time to practice in order to become better at it.
I konw that I am not noble or saintly, but I am trying to see how people who truly do possess those qualities got that way. If I watch them long enough, I may find how they did it or at least learn one or two of the steps I can take to become a bit better in my own 'hobby' of trying to become a complete person.
All I can say about any of this is that, truly, I am a work in progress.
There will be days where what others see and experience will be more pleasing than on others. But because the construction of a soul is sometimes a merciless process, laying bare the imperfections, the flaws and the items needing major overhauls and corrections, there will be days that will make for an uncomfortable view for everyone concerned. And unfortunately, this applies to those innocent bystanders who get 'construction debris' heaped upon them inadvertantly.
My hope is that the Master Carpenter, who framed both our lives and the creation of all we know, will find it in His infinite wisdom to help the rusty and bent nails in my soul become replaced, renewed or straightened and that those places where the lumber of my life that has warped and bent out of square over time can be brought back into plumb for use in His service.
That is one hobby that will be a constant in my life so long as I draw a breath. I suspect that it may be thus even after my time on earth is completed and I am brought to stand before my Maker. I am hoping for both mercy and justice, but mostly for mercy.
After all, even the black sheep wants the love of the Good Shepherd.
July 9, 2007
Diet, exercise and eat right . . .
In our society of immediacy and microwave attention spans, it's no wonder that our nation suffers from obesity in ever growing (no pun intended) numbers.
Since I struggle with my own issues of weight and the control of it, I can totally empathize for the masses that share that particular concern. Whether you are 5 pound over where you feel you are at your best or hundreds of pounds from the goal, the issues are the same.
Do I look like the kind of person I want others to see?
Am I a failure because I can't lose the weight?
Does it matter what other people think when I know I am desperately trying to stay healthy?
My favorite mantra while sweating out the morning workout and evening walk is 'it didn't all come on overnight and it won't all go off overnight'. As stupid and simplistic as that sounds, it does help me to realize that kicking myself for one momentary lapse in judgement regarding my choices isn't healthy or helpful. I am also learning that if my approach is too strict, I will certainly fail.
Being a better eater means making better choices consistently and being willing to allow myself enough room to enjoy life instead of making every decision a drugery to be suffered through and endured as a prisoner to my choice.
I am heartened by the fact that I can walk for longer periods of time and that I can take the stairs without wheezing like a dying patient on their last legs. Speed isn't the issue for me. Rather, it is distance that I am concerned with and about.
Back in the day when I used to run and when everything didn't hurt, I loved to run fast and stretch out over the track or race course. But now, I'd rather enjoy the scenery and feel part of the world around me that I miss when I move through it at high speed. There is something healing in being able to feel the movement of the breeze of God through the trees and on my skin as I watch the birds and squirrels romp and play in the wonder that is His creation.
When I move too fast, I miss the time I could have to be away from everything that is the technology that both helps and hinders my daily life. How did the pioneers and explorers of our world manage without a cell phone or a gps unit? How did they get by without the internet?
Oddly enough, these are questions that most of our children in developed nations will never have to answer for themselves. They have never known life without them. They don't know the simple pleasure of making tin can telephones or creating stilts or spending a day at the farm chasing the goats around the pasture. To be sure there are children that have experienced these moments. But they are becoming increasingly rare unless they are part of a religious group that requires a life of simplicity minus technology as part of their tenets.
When I take my walk, I wave to the people who sit out on their porch or who pass by on their bikes. Those who, like me, are walking, sometimes get a few words and I am offered a few in exchange. While the conversations are brief, they are a shared notice that we are not alone in our circumstances.
Some nights, I walk to just get out of the house. Although I take the dog with me most of the time, I admit there are times even that seems an intrusion when I feel depressed. That feeling, is a sharp warning to me. When I feel that way, I deliberately take our dog so that I will not retreat so far into myself that I am no longer able to get out.
We have been told since childhood that our bodies are a temple that houses our spirit. I guess you might consider that mine is a temple under renovation. That happens from time to time in both a mortal tabernacle and a physical one. Years of use and wear take a toll, no matter how well you have cared for it. The fact is that a complete examination and redo of buttressing structure will be required once in a while.
Even if the renovation is minor, it always leaves a visible reminder of the effort that is required for the job to be completed.
Just like diet and exercise, it is a job that will not be accomplished overnight. It will require patience and an open mind. And it will also require the greatest leap of faith of all: a willingness to admit that the old structure just ain't what it used to be.
I know I will never look like my wedding photographs again. That ceased to be possible shortly after the wedding and subsequent honeymoon were over. But, I can find an image of myself that I will keep in mind as an ideal I can live with and like.
Does that mean I am settling for second best? Nope.
Instead it means that I am willing to be open about the realities of life that do not involve my rich imagination as a counterweight against the truth.
Change is good. It is an affirmation that life continues.
And I believe that this change will be of use to me far down the road.
See you out there.
Since I struggle with my own issues of weight and the control of it, I can totally empathize for the masses that share that particular concern. Whether you are 5 pound over where you feel you are at your best or hundreds of pounds from the goal, the issues are the same.
Do I look like the kind of person I want others to see?
Am I a failure because I can't lose the weight?
Does it matter what other people think when I know I am desperately trying to stay healthy?
My favorite mantra while sweating out the morning workout and evening walk is 'it didn't all come on overnight and it won't all go off overnight'. As stupid and simplistic as that sounds, it does help me to realize that kicking myself for one momentary lapse in judgement regarding my choices isn't healthy or helpful. I am also learning that if my approach is too strict, I will certainly fail.
Being a better eater means making better choices consistently and being willing to allow myself enough room to enjoy life instead of making every decision a drugery to be suffered through and endured as a prisoner to my choice.
I am heartened by the fact that I can walk for longer periods of time and that I can take the stairs without wheezing like a dying patient on their last legs. Speed isn't the issue for me. Rather, it is distance that I am concerned with and about.
Back in the day when I used to run and when everything didn't hurt, I loved to run fast and stretch out over the track or race course. But now, I'd rather enjoy the scenery and feel part of the world around me that I miss when I move through it at high speed. There is something healing in being able to feel the movement of the breeze of God through the trees and on my skin as I watch the birds and squirrels romp and play in the wonder that is His creation.
When I move too fast, I miss the time I could have to be away from everything that is the technology that both helps and hinders my daily life. How did the pioneers and explorers of our world manage without a cell phone or a gps unit? How did they get by without the internet?
Oddly enough, these are questions that most of our children in developed nations will never have to answer for themselves. They have never known life without them. They don't know the simple pleasure of making tin can telephones or creating stilts or spending a day at the farm chasing the goats around the pasture. To be sure there are children that have experienced these moments. But they are becoming increasingly rare unless they are part of a religious group that requires a life of simplicity minus technology as part of their tenets.
When I take my walk, I wave to the people who sit out on their porch or who pass by on their bikes. Those who, like me, are walking, sometimes get a few words and I am offered a few in exchange. While the conversations are brief, they are a shared notice that we are not alone in our circumstances.
Some nights, I walk to just get out of the house. Although I take the dog with me most of the time, I admit there are times even that seems an intrusion when I feel depressed. That feeling, is a sharp warning to me. When I feel that way, I deliberately take our dog so that I will not retreat so far into myself that I am no longer able to get out.
We have been told since childhood that our bodies are a temple that houses our spirit. I guess you might consider that mine is a temple under renovation. That happens from time to time in both a mortal tabernacle and a physical one. Years of use and wear take a toll, no matter how well you have cared for it. The fact is that a complete examination and redo of buttressing structure will be required once in a while.
Even if the renovation is minor, it always leaves a visible reminder of the effort that is required for the job to be completed.
Just like diet and exercise, it is a job that will not be accomplished overnight. It will require patience and an open mind. And it will also require the greatest leap of faith of all: a willingness to admit that the old structure just ain't what it used to be.
I know I will never look like my wedding photographs again. That ceased to be possible shortly after the wedding and subsequent honeymoon were over. But, I can find an image of myself that I will keep in mind as an ideal I can live with and like.
Does that mean I am settling for second best? Nope.
Instead it means that I am willing to be open about the realities of life that do not involve my rich imagination as a counterweight against the truth.
Change is good. It is an affirmation that life continues.
And I believe that this change will be of use to me far down the road.
See you out there.
July 8, 2007
Climb Every Mountain
There is nothing so impressive as a coloratura soprano really bringing home those high notes.
Being an alto myself, I guess you could say I have range envy.
I was watching/listening to 'The Sound of Music' and appreciating the range and quality of Julie Andrews in her heyday. While the notes that she and the mother superior could sing are well out of my performance range, they are certainly not out of the reach of my ability to appreciate the graceful leap from low to high, from delicate to powerful and from the simple to the sublime.
My late mother was a coloratura soprano who could make Snow White's voice slip from her throat in an effortless moment of joy for her children. Even shortly before she passed on, she could summon Snow White or Maria von Trapp for the entertainment of her family and friends.
One holiday season, years and years ago, I was asked to put together a program which would be our musical Christmas gift to the community. As the closing number for the program, the pianist and I had decided that 'Oh, Holy Night' would be the finale. It wasn't the wimpy choir version that most people remember from the junior high school Winter Pageant.
Instead, it required the gifts and talents of a coloratura soprano to hit the high note and go up from there to the musically dizzying heights of beautiful bell-like wonder that was as a fresh breath in the cold or a brightly wrapped surprise beneath the tree. I had asked Momma to sing this particular piece and the praying began.
Between the pianist, myself and Momma, I am quite sure the Good Lord got an earful on a routine basis during the rehearsals. Not to mention the prayers of the faithful choir who sat each rehearsal with anticipation for the last few measures that were never unfolded to them.
That night, with a chapel packed with those who recognized the wonder and joy of a musical Christmas, the heavens opened and a musical mountain was climbed. Within those soaring measures of musical perfection, my mother amazed and astounded us all with the precision and skill that only practice and prayer can make come to pass.
The entire audience took in as one a breath and held it in anticipation of what was to come, for better or worse, during those last few notes. Either the solo would reach high into the stratosphere for an echoing glimmer of heaven in musical notation or it would simply remain an earthbound but nice closer for an average program.
I can honestly say that night I was witness to a miracle of great proportion. The literal spirit of God touched hearts and shared the joy as everyone indeed climbed the same mountain and hoped against hope to plant their own spiritual flag into the mountain peak of attainment enfolded in the closing strains of that hymn.
When the last echo faded away, the applause was thunderous. My mother graciously acknowledged their love and appreciation which they returned to her and, in short order, she reverted to being that timid and shy woman who shunned the spotlight.
Being an alto myself, I guess you could say I have range envy.
I was watching/listening to 'The Sound of Music' and appreciating the range and quality of Julie Andrews in her heyday. While the notes that she and the mother superior could sing are well out of my performance range, they are certainly not out of the reach of my ability to appreciate the graceful leap from low to high, from delicate to powerful and from the simple to the sublime.
My late mother was a coloratura soprano who could make Snow White's voice slip from her throat in an effortless moment of joy for her children. Even shortly before she passed on, she could summon Snow White or Maria von Trapp for the entertainment of her family and friends.
One holiday season, years and years ago, I was asked to put together a program which would be our musical Christmas gift to the community. As the closing number for the program, the pianist and I had decided that 'Oh, Holy Night' would be the finale. It wasn't the wimpy choir version that most people remember from the junior high school Winter Pageant.
Instead, it required the gifts and talents of a coloratura soprano to hit the high note and go up from there to the musically dizzying heights of beautiful bell-like wonder that was as a fresh breath in the cold or a brightly wrapped surprise beneath the tree. I had asked Momma to sing this particular piece and the praying began.
Between the pianist, myself and Momma, I am quite sure the Good Lord got an earful on a routine basis during the rehearsals. Not to mention the prayers of the faithful choir who sat each rehearsal with anticipation for the last few measures that were never unfolded to them.
That night, with a chapel packed with those who recognized the wonder and joy of a musical Christmas, the heavens opened and a musical mountain was climbed. Within those soaring measures of musical perfection, my mother amazed and astounded us all with the precision and skill that only practice and prayer can make come to pass.
The entire audience took in as one a breath and held it in anticipation of what was to come, for better or worse, during those last few notes. Either the solo would reach high into the stratosphere for an echoing glimmer of heaven in musical notation or it would simply remain an earthbound but nice closer for an average program.
I can honestly say that night I was witness to a miracle of great proportion. The literal spirit of God touched hearts and shared the joy as everyone indeed climbed the same mountain and hoped against hope to plant their own spiritual flag into the mountain peak of attainment enfolded in the closing strains of that hymn.
When the last echo faded away, the applause was thunderous. My mother graciously acknowledged their love and appreciation which they returned to her and, in short order, she reverted to being that timid and shy woman who shunned the spotlight.
Guitar and vocals
As I sat her waiting on time to depart for church, I pulled out my battered guitar and hit a few licks on some of the music I have gathered over the literal decades that I have been playing.
I am not delusional enough to believe I am really good, but I have enough self-confidence to say that I play o.k. and can accompany a group sing-a-long or eek out a solo for myself.
Something struck me as I sat playing today that as our nation migrated from sea to shining sea and from the north to the south in our search for our own piece of sky that guitars had been at least a part of the process.
Hunkered down around the smokey embers of a fire listening to the howl of the coyotes that added their own lyrics to the music, many a pioneer has been lulled to sleep by the sounds of a guitar strumming through the night air to sooth the trail weary souls of those who had many more miles to go tomorrow.
I think I would have been a good pioneer. I say this because I absolutely love camping and have been rough camping more times that I care to count. I love the smell of a smoking fire where the dinner bubbles away in a dutch oven buried in the coals. I love to wake up in the first gray light of morning when the sky hasn't yet decided what color it will be for the day. I can cook even in the rain because I know how to build a 'hatful of fire', as the cowboys used to say. I am not afraid of the work of setting up and taking down camp. I have done it too many times for it to have any real mystery anymore.
I have enjoyed riding horses since I was so small I was held in the saddle by someone else. There is a certain freedom that comes from seeing the world through the ears of a horse that comes in no other fashion. Though it has been many, many years, I have also ridden in a horse drawn wagon with the peculiar version of shock absorbing seat springs that did nothing to lessen the jolts to the lower back as the wagon rode across uneven ground. At this point, I must confess that were I a modern day pioneer, I would insist that the wagon be equipped with some sort of shock absorbers and some serious padding on the seats along with a lumbar support cushion. Just because the pioneers of old didn't have these things is no reason to discount them now. Comfort is in my vocabulary even if it wasn't in theirs.
There is a romance of sorts with the idea that we could willingly leave all that we know and step out into a world that is simpler and less filled with the grind of daily living that has become normalcy for too many people. Commuters ride for hours to reach a job they hate, but that pays the bills. They make the same trek home at night only to see their family scattering for the various activities that constitute the separate tracks of their existence where they pass near one another but never intersect. Like old time locomotives on parallel tracks, they move near but don't really touch lest someone be thrown off course.
The romance and mystery lies in the idea that we could leave the hustle and bustle behind for a life less cluttered by calendars and appointment schedules and more full of the human companionship that made families strong. The fireside chats, the long talks while doing the mundane chores that meant the difference between mere survival and success as a family unit.
Perhaps every family, comprised of whatever members it may possess, should be part of a new great migration. The familiar strains of the music of our lives should be more tightly woven and the harmonies that make us unique should be the multihued threads that make the tapestry a true work of art in the making. It would be hard for people who lack experience to succeed. This is why they should be paired up with others who have the pioneering skills to teach and help them to become surefooted in there quest of finding their particular 'corner of the sky'.
In return, their own skills and talents would be brought to the fore. The skills of management, direction and ability would be combined with the latent skills of pioneering under pressure of survival would be used in all new ways. Being able to stand uncovered and unvarnished under the azure skies of heaven would be a prooving ground of sorts. Within that moment of life, people could discover not only themselves, but the wonder that is inside them all.
I have always felt like that was what we miss the most. The requirement to, as a group, circle our wagons and work together to make the journey more pleasant for everyone.
Just thinking while I strummed....
I am not delusional enough to believe I am really good, but I have enough self-confidence to say that I play o.k. and can accompany a group sing-a-long or eek out a solo for myself.
Something struck me as I sat playing today that as our nation migrated from sea to shining sea and from the north to the south in our search for our own piece of sky that guitars had been at least a part of the process.
Hunkered down around the smokey embers of a fire listening to the howl of the coyotes that added their own lyrics to the music, many a pioneer has been lulled to sleep by the sounds of a guitar strumming through the night air to sooth the trail weary souls of those who had many more miles to go tomorrow.
I think I would have been a good pioneer. I say this because I absolutely love camping and have been rough camping more times that I care to count. I love the smell of a smoking fire where the dinner bubbles away in a dutch oven buried in the coals. I love to wake up in the first gray light of morning when the sky hasn't yet decided what color it will be for the day. I can cook even in the rain because I know how to build a 'hatful of fire', as the cowboys used to say. I am not afraid of the work of setting up and taking down camp. I have done it too many times for it to have any real mystery anymore.
I have enjoyed riding horses since I was so small I was held in the saddle by someone else. There is a certain freedom that comes from seeing the world through the ears of a horse that comes in no other fashion. Though it has been many, many years, I have also ridden in a horse drawn wagon with the peculiar version of shock absorbing seat springs that did nothing to lessen the jolts to the lower back as the wagon rode across uneven ground. At this point, I must confess that were I a modern day pioneer, I would insist that the wagon be equipped with some sort of shock absorbers and some serious padding on the seats along with a lumbar support cushion. Just because the pioneers of old didn't have these things is no reason to discount them now. Comfort is in my vocabulary even if it wasn't in theirs.
There is a romance of sorts with the idea that we could willingly leave all that we know and step out into a world that is simpler and less filled with the grind of daily living that has become normalcy for too many people. Commuters ride for hours to reach a job they hate, but that pays the bills. They make the same trek home at night only to see their family scattering for the various activities that constitute the separate tracks of their existence where they pass near one another but never intersect. Like old time locomotives on parallel tracks, they move near but don't really touch lest someone be thrown off course.
The romance and mystery lies in the idea that we could leave the hustle and bustle behind for a life less cluttered by calendars and appointment schedules and more full of the human companionship that made families strong. The fireside chats, the long talks while doing the mundane chores that meant the difference between mere survival and success as a family unit.
Perhaps every family, comprised of whatever members it may possess, should be part of a new great migration. The familiar strains of the music of our lives should be more tightly woven and the harmonies that make us unique should be the multihued threads that make the tapestry a true work of art in the making. It would be hard for people who lack experience to succeed. This is why they should be paired up with others who have the pioneering skills to teach and help them to become surefooted in there quest of finding their particular 'corner of the sky'.
In return, their own skills and talents would be brought to the fore. The skills of management, direction and ability would be combined with the latent skills of pioneering under pressure of survival would be used in all new ways. Being able to stand uncovered and unvarnished under the azure skies of heaven would be a prooving ground of sorts. Within that moment of life, people could discover not only themselves, but the wonder that is inside them all.
I have always felt like that was what we miss the most. The requirement to, as a group, circle our wagons and work together to make the journey more pleasant for everyone.
Just thinking while I strummed....
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