movingforwardslowly

This summer when I was reorganizing my bedroom and clearing space for a more peaceful and serene setting, I did a little redecorating to usher in the new me. I took off all the old pictures on my walls with the exception of a water color painting of yellow and purple pansies. It is in an exquisite antique frame. It had been painted by my paternal grandmother’s mother, Estella Grant Stamps. She apparently was deaf, but still managed to raise three daughters, and she was married to my grandmother’s father.

If you were to see the painting, I think you would agree that she was a talented artist, though I don’t think she was ever recognized as one. This is one of the few things that I have from my father’s family, so it has a great deal of sentimental value for me.

I have digressed with this little bit of family history. I set out to tell you about a new piece of art I purchased this summer. I wake up to it every morning since I placed it on the wall right next to my bed. It seems to haunt me in a way, and yet it also challenges me, though at the time of purchase this wasn’t clear to me.

It is a photograph of a conch shell resting on the beach with the ocean waves gently curving behind and around and down a stretch of sand. It is printed on a large canvass, so it deceptively looks like a painting. The sunlight is lighting up the spiral details of its head. I was drawn to it for many reasons.

Following the death of my father a number obsession took hold of my brain, and it had me tumbling down a path in a frantic search for patterns. The shell’s spiral seems to symbolize this for me. It is almost like a ghost on my wall and a reminder of hidden messages. Now that I  have made it out of this tunnel, it still seems to push me forward.

The other day a restlessness took hold of me. It was as if my subconscious had picked up a new message for me and it was trying to communicate it. I was compelled to look up the word shell in my dictionary, though it felt like I was grasping at straws slipping away from me. And then at the very end of the definition I saw: she’ll. This is slang for she will and she shall. The message pierced my mind and made an imprint.

The picture no longer symbolizes a cast-a-way of life or as a ghost of past lives. Now I see it as a motivational message for the future. She shall overcome and move forward.

I think my thoughts were being influenced by all the female empowerment that I have been watching on the news recently, however, I am taking it on as a personal challenge for myself.

 

 

 

 

 

The word that has caught within my mind’s snare today is the word “scratch”.

If you look it up in the dictionary you will see that is has many varying definitions, all depending on its context.

The best cakes that I’ve made in my life have been from scratch. In this context, it means to use basic ingredients, nothing pre-packaged. Though to be honest, some basic ingredients have been packaged in a way.

In any case, today the word scratch applies to my mind-set when I sit down to write. I’ve always been a writer in my heart, however, my vision has suffered greatly over the years. Part of the human condition is a self-centeredness that demands that all our thinking revolve around ourselves. (For ex: How do I benefit?, or listen to me, or watch me.) All our choices and decisions are inherently centered around our own well-being, and our own desire for attention and admiration.

Since none of us live completely alone in a vacuum, we need to navigate our world. Our vision has learned to look beyond ourselves to our family, and neighbors. We have learned that to survive we need to build alliances. Trouble comes when our vision cannot see far enough into the future to see all the tribes that extend out from our own world. In order for the tree of life to survive, humans need to extend their vision and honestly see the condition of our shared world, and all the hidden connections.

I will stop preaching now since I don’t believe I have it within myself to be a preacher. I always have a low level of discomfort when telling others how they should live their lives. Personal choices need to come out of individual hearts, and not be coerced.

My own heart has a heavy streak of resentment when someone tries to tell me what choices I should make. This is called oppositional defiance. I believe this breed is the hardest to teach. However, we are teachable if the teacher can be patient enough and constantly experiment with different approaches.

The whole strangeness of my thought process these past few years is that I believe that both the student and teacher has resided together within my own mind.

Scratch can also mean an aimless search, and this too has applied to me at times.

Today is the first day of the new year (2018), and I have decided that I really do need to sit back, and extend my vision, and practice it daily. And maybe then I will be able to tell the story  my heart wants to tell.

 

 

These are two pictures that I took several years ago and combined in a photo editing program. I was just playing around.

Today I wrote a poem about the moon and I was reminded of this picture.

Here is the poem:

Watching the glow of the moon in the night sky has fascinated humans for centuries. Animals in the wild innately follow her cycles. She controls the tides which can wash life away or bring it to shore.

Upon inspection at higher resolution, one can’t miss the craters on her face. This is a price she has had to pay to protect our earth and hold our lives within her grasp.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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.