movingforwardslowly

Today I went Christmas shopping. I decided to go to Tyson’s I shopping mall, and I drove all the way down Route 7. The traffic was fairly slow, so I had time to think about my environmental surroundings and how they have changed over the years. I’ve lived in this area long enough to have witnessed farm land being transformed into a highly populous urban area. My family attended a church in the 7-Corners area of Falls Church, and the older man, who had sold the farm land that is now the Tyson’s development, attended our church.

When I was growing up I shopped at Tyson’s I. This was before there were multi-deck parking garages and before the mall was expanded, and long before Tyson’s II was even a dream. As a matter of fact, my family regularly ate at Hot Shoppes cafeteria after church on Sundays. It was one of the few restaurants inside the mall.

Today when I stood in the outside parking area of Tyson’s I and looked around me, I had a feeling of surrealism sweep over me. The office building directly across the road looked like it had been constructed with a toy erector set. It was so shiny and new looking. I even wondered if real people worked there. Though from my experience of cars and trucks on the road and all the people inside the mall, I was convinced it must be real.

As I was conversing with a young black man at the Footlocker shoe store, I heard myself saying that even middle-aged white women are stereotyped. Then I wondered if I was even considered middle-aged anymore since I’ll be 59 years old in about 2 months.

Before my conversation at the shoe store, I had gone looking for the Disney store. My daughter has been asking for an Elsa doll for a couple years now. I kept telling her she was too old for dolls. This year I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. So, at the age of 27 she will getting a gift doll set of Elsa and her sister Anna.

While in the store, I looked through the Star Wars merchandise. I have very recently seen their latest movie.  There was a nice white and black Storm Trooper sweater tunic. I tried it on and it fit, and I thought it would look good with black leggings. I laughed as I purchased it for myself. I just needed the perfect shoes to go with the outfit.

This is how I ended up at the Footlocker shoe store. I purchased the smallest men’s size in a Timberland black leather slip on ankle boot. They looked to me like they could pass for Storm Trooper boots. They were very comfortable and they had no women’s shoes anything like them.

I showed the young man who had been helping me my new sweater. He loved it and he agreed I had picked out the perfect boots to match.

So, this Christmas both my daughter and I will be defying the normal expectations for our ages. Fortunately, I can get away with wearing this since I work at a middle school.  I can imagine it will spark a conversation or two with some of the young boys and maybe a few of the girls.  Though it is usually the boys who make comments to me about these things.

 

 

 

 

            Image taken from grit.com

When I was young and living at home with my parents, the Christmas season was filled with candy-making. My father was the one making it, using traditions handed down from his father.

He would make fudge with and without nuts. Black walnut fudge was my favorite. Opening and picking out the kernel of a black walnut is notoriously difficult.

He would make sheets of peanut brittle. He would break it up into smaller odd shapes to fit into containers. He made caramel candy which we would wrap individually in wax paper.

As I got older he would sometimes make rum or bourbon balls.

The strangest candy he would make was called Divinity. I often wondered how it got its name. I don’t ever remember having this question answered.

All of these memories were brought back to me today. Recently when I was picking up art supplies for my daughter at a store named Michaels, I saw a recipe magazine/book that caught my attention. I purchased it on a whim. I don’t normally do this. The book was published by Southern Living, Special Collector’s Edition. It was titled Best Cookies & Bars.

Hopefully, this Christmas season I’ll do a little more baking, though none of us need the extra calories.

I am at home today still recovering from a fever and chills that wracked my body yesterday. The fever is gone now, though some residual stomach and intestinal problems are still settling.

Since I am at home alone, the quietness inspired me to pick up this recipe book and begin to look through it. On the last page of this book is a recipe for Divinity. This particular recipe calls for one cup of toasted pecans, or as an alternative, you can omit the pecans and substitute them with one cup of chopped red candied cherries.

I don’t ever remember my father adding anything to his Divinity. His version was plain white, feather-light, and “tender”. Maybe, this is how it got its name.

 

 

 

I still collect fortune cookie fortunes. They no longer have the power to be my puppet master. I keep them now as reminders of my dark days when paranoia clung to me.

Some of them are rather interesting. One in particular has been mulling in my thoughts recently. “A good memory is fine but the ability to forget is the one true test of greatness.”

At first I thought this statement was ridiculous, and I still think this to a certain extent. I have never heard anyone say that forgetfulness is a quality of greatness.

There are libraries full of history books to try and insure that people don’t forget. Though, a certain degree of skepticism can be a helpful tool.

Unfortunately a lot of history is forgotten by many people, and this does not in itself make them great people.

As usual I could not just drop the fortune cookie thoughts. I had to pursue what virtue the fortune writer might be alluding to.

I have decided that the word “forget” needed to be followed by the words “or forgive”. The writer must have been associating the word “forget” with the words “let it go and move forward”.  In order to do this grudges must be released either through forgetfulness or forgiveness.

This release will liberate the mind and bring a joie de vivre that will bring forth a great life!

To end my thoughts for today I will share a silly poem I wrote some time ago.

The Beast

The under belly of the beast is the soft fleshy part that is closest to the ground. It growls when hungry for food or mischief.

The tongue paints strokes of persuasion stirring up the pot in search of flavor and energy.

The eyes shift, roll, open and close, trying to sustain focus on multiple directed tasks.

The brain is inundated with information waiting to be processed and filed. It looks for cohesion and purpose and assesses risk and reward.

The tail can be long or short depending on the day. It helps to steer and guide and maintains balance within its life.

The boat couldn’t sail without its rudder.

 

 

 

Dear God,

Please help me to see the good in people and focus on their strengths rather than their weaknesses.

Please help me to see beyond myself and forgive those people who I feel have done me wrong. Help me to see that their actions are based on their own imperfect perspective, and are not necessarily a reflection of my truth.

Give me the strength to carry on with hope, love, and charity for all.

I pray for those that are suffering. My hope is that they can find it within themselves to persevere and see the good in people and in life.

Amen.

I start back to work on Monday. The summer has flown by as usual, and eventhough, I didn’t do anything extraordinary by other people’s standards, I feel great about my summer.

I have much greater peace of mind now that I’ve cleared away a ton of clutter, and brought beauty and organization back into my personal spaces.

Finally, I was able to give up some of my mother’s things that I realized I would never or rarely use.

I set up an art table for my daughter using an antique desk that had been my mother’s when she was a young woman. The desk had been in my bedroom just taking up space. I was using it as a repository for unfiled papers and junk mail, piling them up on top. Finally, I went through all this paper, and set up files for important information and other less important information that was still worth keeping. I shredded the rest. It took me about 2 weeks to do this. The shredder barely survived.

I gave away boxes of my mother-in-law’s Avon collectibles. Someone had given me the idea that they had value and I should try to sell them. I finally accepted the fact that I would never do this.

I still have some work to do, but I feel like I’ve moved mountains, and I’m taking a break. My most important areas have been cleared and beauty has moved in.

My husband’s work space is another story, and a future project for me. However, I will let it be for now.

I’ve neglected my running tree of thoughts here, which has been very important for my mental health, and helped me to work through an emotional and sensory bombardment that I was exposed to. But, the time had come to move from the thoughts and words in my head and more into the physical reality around me.

This movement has done wonders for me. Words without action eventually become meaningless in a living reality.

I now harbor an energy that I had forgotten was within me. I now realize that to keep this energy going, my actions need to feed it. My mental stamina is now aligned with the physical tasks ahead of me.

I am my daughter’s legal guardian, and my actions need to be able to keep pace with my responsibilities.

And, I will define my success by my own standards.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I find myself slowly returning to the roots of my parent’s mind-set. They were both movers and shakers until illness overcame them. When they passed away they left no clutter or untended business for their surviving spouses to clean-up.

On the other hand, my mother-in-law had forty plus years of accumulated disorder left for my husband and I to tackle. Though, I don’t want to judge her because it is hard to keep disorder at bay. It takes discipline and daily attendance to keep the things going out equal to the things coming in. She had an attic full of unused products, no doubt purchased on sale.

Now that I am on summer break I’m assessing my closets and cabinets, and I’m realizing that I have many things I no longer use nor plan to use, and even some things I’ve never used nor plan to use. I have the time to bag them up and throw or give them away. I need to do this away from my husband’s eyes because he is always taking things out of my trash. Everything has another purpose in his mind. Recycling is in his blood, whereas I have to make a conscious effort.

We are both products of our upbringing and our parent’s modeling. However, twenty-seven years of marriage has had an impact on both of us.

I got weary of the daily struggle, working alone to move things out. My discipline suffered set-backs, and other tasks claimed my attention, and of course the modern escape of the internet was insidiously claiming more and more of my time.

My energy and will is returning. My desire to fight the tide of disorder is returning. I do have the wisdom of age to draw the line between what I can control and what I can’t. Hopefully over time I will be able to nudge my husband in the same direction. Our daughter will not be able to tackle our mess when we are gone.

 

 

The heat of summer has finally arrived. The leaves of some will wilt under the sun’s glare.

The dried up shells of locusts litter the ground and some still cling with might, though their essence and pulse are long gone.

As I sit outside I feel engulfed by an unwanted embrace. I pray for the relief of a cool breeze, even though I know that prayers are not intended to serve our every need.

The swelter and sweat can build character. Some perish, and others break ground to try and claim this land. We all know the land will outlive us, and win in the end. We still play this game.

As I sit on my deck under the small relief of a ceiling fan, I see a young praying mantis lounging on a leaf of the Schip Laurel hedge. It seems content to bask in the sun. I leave it alone.

I hear a crow screeching behind the trees. Then silence. A desolate interlude is broken by the mewing of a catbird. A few minutes later the silence returns.

I look up to see fluffy wisps of clouds held together in the loose form of a mermaid blowing foam in the sky. It quickly breaks apart as if it suddenly realizes I can see it.

Some thrive in this heat. I look off into the garden section near the flute boy fountain, and I see the refreshing lavender color of three open six-petaled clematis flowers. The mother plant is named Silver Star and she was a Mother’s Day present to myself. There is a towering Dahlia cluster growing next to her. I believe its height will break some sort of record. The flowers are still forming. The multiple shades of pink Echinacea flowers are beginning to show their full faces.

Next to the pond I have two robust groups of yellow and orange Kniphofia. All their torches stand tall and proud. My garden is mostly a summer garden, and as the summer swelter rolls out, more and more blooms will thrive.

So, although it takes awhile to get accustomed to the summer heat, I say : Bring it on!

The catbirds are back visiting me this summer. I have a few of them. It is hard to tell them each apart. They wear a slate-gray suit with a slick black cap upon their head. Their rusty-red rumps have swag. Their tails point up and down, sometimes mooning me with their underparts.

They like to watch me when I come outside upon my deck or step down into the garden. They are self-appointed guardians of this domain. Upon my arrival one will fly close enough to give me its curious side-eye stare. Its eyes are dark and clearly focused on watching me.

Sometimes it will sing a song, but mostly it seems to question me. Our language barrier does not stop either one of us from trying to inquire about the other’s business. Eventually it will lose its nerve or be distracted, and then it will hop, skip, and fly away deeper into the canopy of trees.

However, I’m not fooled for it moves from hiding place to hiding place, always aware of where I am. If I’m lucky, it will sit and entertain me with its playful run of song and sounds.

 

Long before I had my crisis of faith I set out to create a heaven in my own backyard.

The events in my life kept me home-bound more often than I might have otherwise been inclined.

I’ve environmentally inherited a love of nature, and it is probably also written within my genes. The idea of building a garden year after year appealed to me. I could not afford to have someone else put it in for me all at once, so I set out to put it in myself slowly over time, and I paid incrementally for a few construction projects in the first few years. However, most projects we did ourselves.

The garden outside my kitchen window is my idea of what heaven should be like. A place where birds are welcomed and an abundance of greenery and flowers can flourish.

Skunks, raccoons, squirrels, and groundhogs find their way into my garden and sometimes they try to break my peaceful solace.

The feral cats, that want to make my covered deck their personal condo, have been pushed out to the edges of my garden. A power-washing and new seat cushions have restored my human domain, at least for the next couple of months while I’m on summer vacation.

When I sit outside and focus on the color, beauty, and magnificence of all the textures, shapes, and over-flowing exuberance of life, I can find peace and comfort in my mind. The worries of the world can be pushed out to the edges to keep company with the feral cats.

The songs, whistles, squeaks, and buzzing of the animals keep me in the present, experiencing the heavenly good of the here and now in my own backyard. An occasional squawk or unknown sound reminds me to be alert to changing conditions.

I’m inside right now writing this because the blessing of rain is nourishing my garden today.

 

ie

This summer we attended the wedding of one of our nieces. She is a devout Christian, and she met her husband on a Christian dating website.

It was a Baptist wedding, and during the ceremony she raised both her arms in an upward motion, and her palms faced upward. She was singing praise, and her arms remained outstretched in front of her. The groom stood in front of her. His arms remained down.

I had never seen this arm motion during a wedding ceremony. I took her arm signals to be her genuine expression of her devotion to God, and a display of joy on her wedding day.

I was surprised by how my emotions seemed to rise with her actions. This is the snapshot of her wedding that is now lodged in my brain.

Later in time I pondered our human need to add hand and arm expressions to our communications. Some people use their hands more frequently than others. Usually this is a sign of emphasis or raised emotions. Just to name a few, we have the victory and peace sign, the middle finger raised in anger, the military salute, and the high five. And let us not forget the praying hands.

Many seem to be a signal of power or subservience, and all appear to me to be more powerful than words. They are rooted deep within us, and often they are instinctive reactions to the people and events around us.

These thoughts were brought back to me today while I was walking down a hall at school. A young man, a co-worker, was walking toward me, and he raised his hand into a high five position.

My first thought was of a student who has frequently raised his hand into a high five position, and then jokingly withdrawn it as I was about to make hand contact. I’ve learned to just smile at this student, and I no longer reciprocate his action.

As my co-worker approached, I had the thought: Is this a joke? I decided to give him the benefit of my doubt, so I raised my hand up high and lightly slapped his hand. He is seriously tall, so I had to stretch. He smiled, and we passed one another.

I could feel my emotions lifting up from our simple interaction. Words were not necessary in this brief show of support.