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Posts Tagged ‘appreciation’

Internet-free, Temporarily

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2015| 3 Comments »

The answers you seek never come when the mind is busy; they come when the mind is still, when silence speaks loudest. (Leon Brown)

I am off the grid. No Internet. No cell service. Nature presents the better show at Hocking Hills State Park. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. My husband and I have just arrived. Nature hasn’t had enough time to tell stress to cool-it yet.

The weather couldn’t be better—mid-fifties in the morning climbing to the mid-seventies in the afternoon. Few clouds. No rain expected. I ignore time. My husband and I don’t have a schedule. Our cabin provides no frills. We don’t need them.

People who go to parks tend to be friendly. Striking-up conversations is easy. Serendipity brings unexpected gifts. Since Jay loves to talk about travels, conversation with folk who have already checked out the area directs us to the better trails and the most beautiful views.

I relax—well, somewhat. The restaurant area has a Wi-Fi connection. I am like an ex-smoker opening a pack of cigarettes or a gambler entering a casino. I say I will post just this picture. Then write this message. Then…

The grid becomes gridlocked. And I need a lot of self-talk to press the off button on my iPad. Answers never come when the mind is counting likes on a post. Okay, that is only part of the problem. But I get it. I get it!

Search for

serenity. One more time.

Sun. Hemlocks. Red. Yellow. Orange.

Sandstone caves. One crow calling to another in the distance.

A single step followed by another. Peace. Harmony. Yes, it is possible.

hocking hills sun through trees

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One Little Girl, One Huge Heart

Posted in Down syndrome awareness, positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 19, 2015| 3 Comments »

Any fool can be happy. It takes a man with real heart to make beauty out of the stuff that makes us weep.  Clive Barker

Ordinarily when Jay and I pick up Ella from school he drives and I sit in the back with our granddaughter. I monitor snacks, play games, or read books with her.

Today I am at the helm of my ’97 Toyota. Ella repeats, “Grandma’s car.” She wants to know where Grandpa is.

“He went to the doctor. He will be home later,” I tell her. But I can’t see her face in the rear-view mirror. My mindset is in sync with her older cousins. They think that a hypodermic needle is to be avoided at all costs. But since Grandpa is a grownup, he would be just fine. I assume Ella’s viewpoint to be similar.

“If Grandpa gets a shot we will give him a big hug!”

There is silence in the back seat, followed by, “Grandpa be okay. I be okay.” Ella’s sweet voice cuts through me as the chorus repeats.

“Yes, he will. Grandpa will be home soon.”

The drive from Ella’s school to our house is just over ten miles. I feel as if I am driving cross-country.

Text Grandpa as soon as you get in the door, Ter. Tell him to call so that Ella can hear his voice.

On the outside I would appear calm. The car remains on the road. I stay within the speed limit. Inside I chide myself for a stupid mistake. Ella has had two open-heart surgeries and one minor surgery on her wrist. The word doctor opens a Pandora’s Box. She does not want her grandfather to fall prey to its powers.

Fortunately Grandpa hears the beep on his phone. He is leaving the office. “Grandpa be okay” takes on a new tone as Ella hears his voice.

“Let’s hide,” she says, anticipating hide-and-seek when Grandpa returns. Our little girl has no sense of time. Jay will not be home for another twenty-five minutes. I hold her in my arms and look into her huge blue eyes, possible now since I am not behind the wheel of the car and she is not bound to her car seat.

Sure, I will play this mock-game with her. The hiding place she chooses is in plain sight. And so is our little girl’s incredible beauty. Her internal powers shine: the gifts to love unconditionally, to simply be without comparing herself to anyone, and to bounce back after every fall.

I suspect there are people who look at us as we go to a park or enter a restaurant and think, How sad! That little girl has Down syndrome. Or worse, they identify her as a tripled chromosome and call her a Down syndrome child, throw around an R-word or two, and dismiss her importance. I can’t change that notion on my own. But I can make a dent in that perception.

Organizations like the National Down Syndrome Society and our local group, The Down Syndrome Association of Greater Cincinnati, help to crush myths and show how valuable each individual is. Success for many more persons with Trisomy-21 is possible, even inevitable. Yes, the child born with the genius IQ someday may create formulas, ideas, new drugs, and inventions that change the world. But the child born with an extra chromosome has the knack for changing the heart. Now.

Ella may not be able to express Osho’s quote pictured below in words. However, she lives it. I am fortunate to be her student.

life is not logic Osho

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Same Kind of Different—the Hidden Everyday Gifts

Posted in book review, positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 15, 2015| Leave a Comment »

There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story. (Frank Herbert)

From my grandchildren’s point of view my published book is something like an honorary mention trophy. Nice on a shelf. When I gave my eight-year-old a copy of “The Curse Under the Freckles,” she wanted to know where the pictures were. The girls are more impressed by ice cream—chocolate chips blended in sweet raspberry flavoring. Or a day of pretend with Grandma. Touch a child’s life directly; that is what matters. The words will hit later.

My older son, Gregory Petersen, is also a writer. His book, Open Mike, was published through Martin Sisters several years ago. He is working through an agent with his next book. Greg is capable of writing thousands of words a day even though he has a full-time position that includes a leash phone; he takes his job as daddy seriously. I am more proud of him for his excellent relationship with his daughters than I am for his incredible ability with words. And his gift for expression is exquisite.

All life can be presented as a story. I often have difficulty turning that perception off because imagination doesn’t always fit the moment. For example: in the middle of the night. Oh sure, I’m told to write ideas down, whenever they come. But that doesn’t seem to be realistic when the notion isn’t a one-liner. The rolling avalanche of a plot and the inevitability of sleep deprivation are counter-productive in the long run.

Sometimes relaxation comes from reading—letting the thoughts of others feed me, especially when those thoughts lead to the profound. My sister Claire shared a book she had already read, Same Kind of Different as Me. It fits into the grab-the-soul category. Thanks, Sis.

Authors Ron Hall and Denver Moore tell a true story. Ron is an international art dealer. Denver is a modern-day slave, a sharecropper, who runs away into a life as a homeless person and decides it is better than being unofficially owned. The love of Ron’s wife, Deborah, leads toward an unlikely friendship.

Denver Moore says, “I found out everybody’s different—the same kind of different as me.” What and how he discovered that similarity, the human center-core spirit, is where the beauty of the story lives—sometimes clothed in miracles, or incredible pain, or deep sadness.

Stories never really end. The characters in my own tales develop a kind of reality. But in fiction, at least before publication, entire chapters can be erased and rewritten and then changed again. The past, present, and future are as pliable as soft clay.

In Hall and Moore’s story the facts of their lives remain solid because “The Same Kind of Different as Me” is non-fiction. At the end of the narration at almost seventy, Denver admits he has a lot to learn. The last page is not the last page.

In April Paramount plans to release a movie starring Greg Kinnear, Renee Zellweger, and Djimon Hounsou based on Ron and Denver’s New York Times best seller’s impossible journey. I did not know this until I checked the Internet for more information about the original publication.

Impossible, hidden, a forgotten acorn that becomes an oak…who knows? The story continues…Any story can continue…

same kind of different as me

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Dreamers Merchants, Diane Grover, and Dignity for All

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 8, 2015| 1 Comment »

Successful people keep their eye on the goal. If they encounter obstacles, instead of focusing on the obstacle, they find a way around it by keeping their goal in mind. It is a mindset of courage which makes it easier to pursue success. (Dr. Anil Kumar Sinha)

Meet Diane Grover, mother of five, a beautiful person inside and out. Diane founded the International Down Syndrome Coalition. She also started the Grand Strand Down Syndrome Society. Now she has created Dreamers Merchants.

This is no ordinary business.

Most employers look at appearances when hiring, even if that bias is subconscious. Somewhere between 17% and 20% of people with disabilities are employed. Diane’s mission is to change that statistic. She does more than hire—she gives these individuals a living wage and recognizes their dignity. In Diane’s blog, Cheerful Persistence, September 2015, she celebrates the definition of dignity.

I applaud people who realize that dignity is innate. It is not the exclusive property of the genius, the wealthy, the gifted, the privileged… In fact, sometimes the educated individual teaches biased info. My friend, Bethany Brianne Hall, helped to clarify some of that misinformation with one of her college professors.

“Genetics and Statistics show that all people with Down syndrome will not attend college. It is nearly impossible for them,” he stated in the context of his lecture.

Bethany did not sit still and fume. She responded with statistics. After class. Bethany was fortunate. Her prof heard her out.

“Do you know who Angela Bachiller is?” she asked. Knowing the question was rhetorical, Bethany continued. “She was the world’s first person with Down syndrome to hold public office. She lives in Spain. Tim Harris owns his own restaurant. And Sujeet Desai, a musician, went to college. He earned a 4.3 average. These are only a few examples.” Bethany suggested that he update his statistics. Perhaps if she had appeared confrontational in front of the other students he may have been defensive. It is hard to say in hindsight.

Then she shared her experience on Facebook. I smiled the width of my face. Perhaps wider. The links in the previous paragraph lead to these persons’ stories. Desai mesmerizes an audience with his music. Tim dances his way to his restaurant. Angela Bachiller’s photo shows a woman either patronized or ignored in public settings. Wrong! She is a public leader and servant.

I smile again now. Diane Grove is destroying the myth that the handicapped are poor workers and less-than individuals.

Di’s youngest daughter, Mary Ellen, has Down syndrome. She calls herself ME. Me! The same pronoun we all use to refer to our inner selves. And that self is incredibly beautiful—no matter how many chromosomes it carries.

Seven of Diane’s Dreamers Merchants stores opened on October 5. There are now eight stores. Freshly ground coffee can be ordered online. A great gift.

“Maybe, just maybe,” Diane says, “the world is hearing us.”

dreamers coffee10072015_0000

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Wisdom, Second-Grader Style

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 4, 2015| 1 Comment »

I remind myself every morning: Nothing I say this day will teach me anything. So if I’m going to learn, I must do it by listening. (Larry King)

Rebe, my soon-to-be-eight-year-old granddaughter, loves to play any game that involves mommies, dolls, and the lives of families. My role changes at her whim. And I am okay with that. My pretending stays within the realm of fiction. Reality intervenes, even in fantasy. Plot, grammar, logic, and a reasonable timeline are required. Even an insane character requires motivation, albeit skewed.

Play doesn’t come naturally for me anymore. Unless it includes humor. Then it isn’t really pretend; it’s called drama. Too much time has passed since I wanted toys for Christmas. Sometimes I act the part of Rebe’s offbeat daughter.

“Mommy, can I drive your car to kindergarten? I won’t smash it into a tree this time.”

That makes her laugh. Or, she tells me I’m in fifth grade not kindergarten, and the event never happened. Another reason why following Rebe’s imagination is impossible to follow. For the most part however, I listen, and discover who my young descendant is.

At first she is the mommy. Then she takes her baby with the soft tummy to the doctor. And she assumes the role of pediatrician. I’m not sure whether I am the sit-in for the mommy or an older child as she examines baby with makeshift instruments: a plastic spoon and knife, a key chain, a puzzle piece.

Her expression turns serious. “Most babies are normal,” she says. “And that is good.” Then she pauses after more pokes and probes and faces me. “But this baby has special needs. And that is good, too.”

She hands me the doll. My jokes have disappeared. I am in awe of a second-grade girl who speaks with wisdom. The softness of the toy and the softness of her words sink into me.

I have nothing to say.

doll

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Friendship Soup

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 29, 2015| 4 Comments »

Life isn’t about getting and having, it’s about giving and being. (Kevin Kruse)

Our friend, Tom, likes homemade soup. So I am making several varieties for his birthday gift. Unusual? Maybe. But I went to college with Tom’s wife, Linda. The four of us have grown through both joy and trials. We now have grandchildren; an off-the-shelf purchase doesn’t seem adequate. So, I’m sending him healthy food, a tangible wish for long life and tomorrows filled with celebrations.

My husband and I did buy a one-hundred-percent-practical item, an insulated Tervis cup. He will be happy with it because he is a grateful person. But soup takes time to create flavor. It sends out a wholesome scent throughout the house.

Homemade soup is symbolic of the time a friendship takes to build, to develop into something unique. Linda and I were part of a larger group in college. My mother told me that another relationship I had would eventually fizzle out. We didn’t have a lot in common. But that Linda and I would be friends forever. Mom and I were not close, but she recognized quality when she saw it. And Linda’s capacity to give seemed to have enormous potential. Mom was right-on.

When Linda met Tom I knew the mix was right. My husband Jay liked Tom, too. Friendship soup was about to brew.

Usually when I make homemade soup I use our small crock-pot. Then I go to exercise class, shop, clean, or write, and let a low electrical setting do the work. Today I fill the largest pot I have with meat and seasonings and simmer the mix on a back burner. I watch the pot to make sure the boil is steady and that the mixture doesn’t burn or overflow.

Since utopia is fantasy everyone’s life sticks to the bottom or boils over. Eventually. I had a pulmonary embolism. Tom and Linda have experienced crises in their lives as well. Our strengths have survived.

Tom is the consummate teacher. He retired and then returned at the same high school under the public school system—not because he needed to do it—because he loves to teach. He earns less yet works as much if not more than he did before.

Tom’s love of teaching does not appear in his classroom as soft and fluffy. In fact the students see him as a hard-liner. He prepares them for real life. Although they may not have the maturity to recognize it. Yet. To a kid, homework seems pointless. Good teachers know the outside-the-classroom exercise gives the instructors even more to do. The work is for the student’s benefit. The world is not necessarily forgiving. Even in the wild, the animal that decides to skip a day of hunting will go hungry that night.

To continue to persevere despite an atmosphere of apathy shows integrity. I applaud Tom for it.

The soup takes hours to boil, cool, and then boil again into tomato, cheese, vegetable, or rice varieties. But I enjoy every minute of the process.

Giving and being, that kind of success is possible for almost anyone.

soups for Tom

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When the Body Says Uh-Uh—The Next Step

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 22, 2015| Leave a Comment »

You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don’t try to forget the mistakes, but you don’t dwell on them. You don’t let them have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space. (Johnny Cash)

Somewhere around two in the morning I waken with a throbbing right hand. Did I roll over onto it? Did my sleeping body drift into the past and forget that arthritis rules my right thumb. Inflammation tells each movement what it can do and what it can’t. And it is a strict taskmaster.

Of course I rebel. I have writing projects to complete, and the cooking, cleaning, and laundry don’t do themselves. Fantasy appears only in story form. Even on the written page reality intervenes. Sure, I can invent a character, a girl who floats into the air at will. However, if she levitates at the local Seven-Eleven havoc will appear, unless, of course that is part of the plot.

A cold compress helps my hand. It tells it to stop complaining for a few minutes anyway. Somewhat. So does calming thought. But sleep does not return. I get up at four and begin to write, trying to embrace the silence as a gift. I add a page to my next novel, then another. This does not mean they won’t be backspaced later. A story has progressed. The missed sleep will demand to be repaid later. For now I take advantage of the moment.

The ache reminds me that I am alive. Fully. In this moment. I’m told this is the most common form of arthritis. Osteoarthritis. As my parents, aunts, and uncles told me: “It won’t kill you. You’ll just die with it.”

Finding someone with more serious problems is easier than I would like. I’ve been praying for a young friend who is expected to be in intensive care for longer than the two weeks originally expected. She, too, is a writer. And a reader. Her security is a book resting on her chest along with the ambiance of IVs, monitors, and an existence where pain owns the building. She has had two surgeries. Complications continue. So far her miracle begins with survival.

A child close to me has a friend who died of a rare inherited disorder; her sister has the same disease. My little friend is reluctant to talk about her grief. So I cannot reveal her identity. Life and joy do not circumvent difficulties. They travel through them.

The sun peeks through the window of my office, also a toy room, the place where my grandchildren and I play. The rays will find family pictures, disorder, my half-empty coffee cup, and possibilities I don’t see yet.

Sure, I would like to take the brace off my hand post-miracle. But I’m not going to count on it. However, I haven’t typed the ending to my story yet. That choice isn’t mine anyway.

 

seeing the inside brightness

hand brace09212015_0000

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Kindergarten, Ella-Style

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 15, 2015| 2 Comments »

The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes. (Marcel Proust) 

Ella is scarcely buckled into her car seat after kindergarten when she dumps out her backpack. “See,” she says opening a black binder. “My homework.”

“This is mine,” she adds showing me a page with squiggled lines of crayon. “I color.” Papers fly all over the back seat. I grab them. My juggling skills need practice. Jay is driving. I am sitting in the back seat with Ella—not to spoil my granddaughter, but to spoil me.

She turns to an earlier page. The paper clip sealing those completed pages flies off. I have no idea where the clip belongs, even if I could locate it on the dark floor. Chances are her mommy will know what to do. For now I gather the loose items into Ella’s backpack and ask our granddaughter to pretend to be the teacher. I will be the student.

She points to numbers one through ten and identifies them in a clear, I-know-this voice. If I ask her to repeat the lesson she will refuse. Either I catch it the first time or lose. Ella will not perform. She has been reading phonetically for over a year. On her own terms.

See-what-I-know is not in her repertoire.

Eventually, perhaps, she will learn how to play the going-to-real-life-school-game. For now I try to discover what she understands from what I can discern. Not from what I assume.

I kiss her on top of her white-blond head. “Want to go to the park?”

“Playground,” she answers.

I smile at an even-better-than-yes answer. She has chosen a synonym.

“You’ve got it!”

Our little girl may carry an extra chromosome, but she sure isn’t a syndrome. Yes, it may be easier to say Down syndrome child—but it isn’t accurate. She doesn’t fit into a category, a label. She has blue eyes, a winning personality, straight blond hair, the flexibility of a wet sponge, and Trisomy-21. She has the syndrome, but it is only one small part of who she is.

And I wouldn’t want her to be anyone but Ella. She reminds me of life’s priorities. They live in her spirit. Because of her I have the opportunity to become a better person. A little bit at a time.

We learn together, taking turns as teacher and student. Student and teacher…Graduation isn’t on the agenda. We both continue to grow.

at West Fork park September 14, 2015

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Hello, Labor Day. The AC is Out!

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 9, 2015| 1 Comment »

The art of life is a constant readjustment to our surroundings. (Kakuzo Okakaura)

“Are you hot in here?” Jay calls from the living room.

I’m not. But warm air rises and my body doesn’t reach that far off the ground. Besides, my short frame doesn’t want to leave the frame of a bed. I spent two hours in the deep end of the pool at the Y and then went out to dinner with some of Jay’s family. My idea of a great vacation day. Now I am ready to revitalize—from a horizontal position.

“Well, the thermostat reads eighty degrees,” Jay announces.

I’d like to say he needs new bifocals; his vision is A-OK.

This is not a good sign. My headache, the one that develops at four in the morning, doesn’t help. The heat inside my skull battles with the heat in the air. So far, no winner.

Hours later we discover our cooling system has a leak. So does the checkbook. Service calls on a holiday cost extra. I have grown so accustomed to comfort that I didn’t realize how old the system was. It will make it this year. Probably. Next year? Maybe.

I have an incredibly blessed life. Sure, I’ve experienced trials. I didn’t think I would make it through some of them. But, that was yesterday’s vision. I don’t live there. Nevertheless, remembering what it was like during the ugly times helps me empathize with people who walk through them now. Sometimes they barely breathe from one moment into the next. Walking isn’t necessarily an option.

So I guess trials have their purpose, too. Comfort from someone who has existed on cushioned silk is empty.

Cool air flows around me. It is a gift. I celebrate the luxury and at the same time wish I could spread it around, extend the temperature control into a troubled, ugly, world. I pray that I stop taking what I have for granted. Give more. Complain less. A constant readjustment. At least until I reach perfection. And that isn’t on my to-do list. Even into a fantasy world like the one I created in “The Curse Under the Freckles.”

Even in magical realms there are limits.

Readjust…readjust…readjust…

having what you want, wanting it

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Little-People Art, Creating It and Living It

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2015| 3 Comments »

When will you learn that there isn’t a word for everything? (Nicole Krauss)

Ella has had enough play for the evening. Daddy is playing in a softball tournament. His team won the first game and the second is in progress. She doesn’t even want my iPad, usually a sure thing. She eases into my lap as we sit in the concession area and asks for her friend Nona. I didn’t see the little girl during the first game.

Nona is years younger than Ella. But our granddaughter doesn’t limit her friendships to children her age. Nona has a sparkling personality. And she has inherited artistic skills. I suspect that she and Ella communicate on non-verbal levels, through action, color, play. Little people see more than adults realize.

artwork by Nona Adams-Jones

artwork by Nona Adams-Jones

Ella puts her head on my chest. I straddle the hard bench and I’m amazed at the length of time my senior body remains still without stiffening into one four-foot-eleven-inch cramp. Something innately beautiful in Ella softens me.

Simultaneous loud conversations merge into a rumble. Ella’s arms are covered with dirt from the playground area. Her hair could use a brush. At the table across from me someone spills a beer into peanut shells on the concrete-slab floor. The noise and distraction don’t stop my granddaughter from falling asleep. I can’t take off her glasses without waking her.

This frozen-grandma scene would not appear to be pleasant. Nevertheless, I choose to remember it—every detail. I have no desire to join the laughter surrounding me. I would rather savor holding this blonde little girl, recognizing the trust she has in me, basking in her unconditional love. Another kind of artistic moment.

Soon she will awaken, sleepily, and see Daddy. He is her world. She is excited to give him her coloring page from daycare. I will give up this moment soon enough. For now there is no need for words. I remain still. Privileged. The grandmother of a girl with Down syndrome and up gifts.

Art comes in all forms. Sometimes words fail when they try to capture gifts that develop and change as this moment eases into the next.

shirts from past celebrated Buddy Walks

My husband and I wear these often as we watch our Ella grow.

Buddy Walk shirts

 

 

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