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Posts Tagged ‘appreciation’

Spelling Gratitude: T-E-C-H H-E-L-P

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on September 23, 2013| 2 Comments »

Life begins where your comfort zone ends. (Karen White, author, “Sea Change”)

My desktop background reflects where I am on my life’s journey in an odd sort of way. I change the picture frequently—just because I can. It displays family memories, a season, a humorous notion, or an uplifting thought or scene. For a few hours I decided it would be fun to rebel against responsibility, so I let Donald Duck stand behind all my icons. He claimed that he wasn’t cut out for adulthood.

I knew when I gave him center stage he wouldn’t be there for long, and eventually chose a sign that fit the moment better: PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE FEARS. It made me smile, yet expressed truth at the same time.

Now, as I talk on the phone to my nephew, Alan, I want to pretend to be Donald Duck and let someone else do the work. Alan is my tech support. I am trying to renew my virus protection on my laptop and it has FAILED. It lets me know in bold, bright, horrifying color. Alan is calm. He is a genius nerd who knows his stuff. I imagine my world locked inside these 0’s and 1’s, swallowed by a monster virus.

“Okay, simultaneously hit Control and J,” Alan says. “That will bring up your recent downloads.”

And it does—the first time. That download doesn’t complete either. My throat is as dry as desert rock on a-120 degree day. My laptop has other plans. it seems to be saying, I’m loading down, sister. taking a nap instead.

I catch sight of my desktop pic and sigh. Won’t feed the fear, but I could use a glass of water.

My nephew remains on the phone. He leads me to safe directions. I see the promised land and read a most precious word: INSTALLED.

Halleluiah! I have passed through dangerous land without being hijacked, robbed, or killed.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling as if I just gave a miracle worker a twenty-five-cent tip.

“Well, if computers worked all the time, we tech-savvy people wouldn’t have anything to do,” he answers.

He’s right, but that doesn’t diminish my gratitude one megabyte.

pic from the Optimism Revolution

don't feed fears Optimism Revolution

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Bye Bye, Plane

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 18, 2013| 2 Comments »

Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans. (John Lennon)

Canceling our vacation plans seemed so strange I didn’t unpack for at least twenty-four hours. We expected to travel to the west coast. However, a family emergency demanded that we stay here, one of those no-brainer situations. Anyone who can spell the word emergency—and many who can’t—understand how that happens. It’s called reality. Insert any situation here. Little imagination required. Our emergency looks like it will be resolved, possibly even erased. Don’t know. That answer is left to the unknown future.

After the shock lifted, time appeared, hours of it. Sure I expected to make friends with a sequoia. That may happen eventually. Instead I tackled a manuscript that had felt like stirring congealed concrete. I finished a major edit.

Next I faced a physical issue I’ve been avoiding. I love parks and the outdoors. A three-to-five mile walk in a nature preserve equals love. I can think like a poet, examine the lines of trees, and follow the flight of a bird from a branch into the clouds. Within the past few months that experience has meant a big pain in the knees. Arthritis? Probably. That Art-form has visited many, many folk. And he doesn’t leave after a casual hint or two. He fights until bone rubs against bone. I have one finger in that condition. The rest of my body isn’t that far gone. It isn’t ready to plod through mountains, hills, and glens either. That doesn’t mean I’m giving up, however. Mr. Arthritis absorbs the couch potato.

My doctor referred me to a specialist. This ten-day space, the time to think, led me to accept vulnerability. I decided to live in the as-it-is present. Of course visions of the past show up as I recognize my awkward, uneven, old-lady gait. I recall my mother as she grasped the handrail and ascended the stairs one at a time.

She didn’t complain about how much each step hurt. Now, I appreciate the difficulty of those movements. She had knee replacements during earlier days of the surgery. She didn’t waste time complaining about her lot in life. Not much point to it. I pray that I can follow her example.

In the meantime beauty exists everywhere: in a sunburst, laughter, a recent uplifting conversation with my brother, Bill, and sister-in-law, Lisa. It appears in words and songs, in encouragement, and in the gift of simply being.

Jay and I will probably make plans for another vacation—some other time. Chances are we’ll actually make it through security and all the way to our destination. I create chaos without at least a little structure. But, for now, my husband and I have been repeating John Lennon’s words frequently. Yep, life is happening all around us, and I feel blessed to be in the midst of it.

enjoying scenery on a detour

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Roadblock, Fire, and Worry

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 11, 2013| 2 Comments »

The best way to live is by not knowing what will happen to you at the end of the day. (Donald Barthelme)

I’m making good time on my way home from an errand—or at least I think I am—when several fire engines, smoke, and a local news team block the road. Fortunately a recreational facility is close by with a driveway large enough for a reasonable exit. I have no idea what happened. Perhaps the six o’clock news will provide a clue. I’m grateful that help is present and there is another route home. It means backtracking and extra driving time, but it sure beats up-in-flames.

A few hours ago I had a sense of caution. I needed to control it before it broke out into full-blown panic. I had passed up a road I knew well. A sense of foreboding followed. I didn’t know why. Something troublesome felt imminent. I drove with excessive caution. Strange, but after seeing the roadblock, the flashing lights on the fire trucks, and the chaos in the street, I felt in control. Concerned, definitely. But I was okay, for no understandable reason. Sure, I could pray for the folk involved. But this was not the time for me to get in the way. My ’97 Toyota isn’t equipped to put out a fire.

Life offers strange twists and turns. Yet this much I know, worry is a circular road that doesn’t go anywhere.

By the way, I’m taking a short hiatus from this blog, but I’m coming back before the end of the month. Happy journeys to all.

driving

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Once Upon a Maze of a Dream

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on September 7, 2013| Leave a Comment »

A well-developed sense of humor is the pole that adds balance to your steps as you walk the tightrope of life. (William Arthur Ward) 

While we are having coffee one younger woman in a group of friends mentions that she had a dream about me. I helped her get somewhere.

One man who has known me for a long time laughs. My poor sense of direction is well-known, and he makes a point of it. I can’t deny it. Turn me around twice; I can’t tell which way is up.

“We were walking,” the young woman says.

“Well, that’s different.” My friend grins and pretends to make left and right moves almost simultaneously.

Actually, I’ve been known to get turned around in a shopping mall, but I would rather discuss moments of discovery instead of loss.

Later, as our small group disperses for the day, the young woman looks over her shoulder and calls back, “Thanks for helping me find the bathroom in my dream.”

I smile in the car as I drive home. Apparently my influence had nothing to do with philosophy, wisdom, the answer to an eternal question, or even the missing ingredient in a recipe. However, it did focus upon a basic need. And the story gave me a laugh—another important part of life.

Sure, I would like to play a major role in other people’s lives, but when I think about it, that sounds like a pretty huge burden to bear. Besides, sometimes even talk that would appear innocent can hurt. “That’s my husband,” I told a woman in the Y pool one day. “We’ve been married for 42 years.” I would gladly have retrieved and swallowed those words if I had known she lost her husband after nine short years of marriage.

There have been times when I have met folk I once knew well and they don’t remember anything about me. Then I speak with someone I scarcely knew years ago and they recall intimate details. Life doesn’t always make sense. I’m not sure it is supposed to. I do know that there is a complicated maze to get from here to there, even for the most fundamental needs.

I am grateful for my dreaming friend. Actually she has shared some significant moments of discovery that I treasure.

Peace, laughter, and joy to all along the way.

laughter words to inspire the soul

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Somewhere Under the Rainbow

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2013| Leave a Comment »

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing. (Agatha Christie)

Rounding I-465, entering I-74 and heading for home, trouble begins. No umpire strikes us out. An act of nature interferes. When my husband and I left St. Louis the temperature registered in the car at 99—before noon. There was enough humidity in the air to boil an egg. Now that handy-dandy gauge on the dashboard of my husband’s car indicates dramatic change: 88, 84, 78…70. Deep, dark clouds hover. A rainbow appears to the left, but to the right the darkness promises action. I pray for gentle rain at least for the next hour and a half. That’s all the time we need to reach home base. However, the blackness swells.

Breathe, Ter, Breathe!

The first lightning, almost a straight line, appears ahead, along the center of the highway. Not a pleasant omen. Within two minutes the electricity has spread. Then hail falls along with enough rain to be a waterfall. Visibility almost nil. Jay turns on his warning lights. Fortunately the car in front of us does also. I can no longer see the color of the vehicle. It was dark blue or black. Now it appears white, like the sky. Two loud splashes alongside us let us know drivers in the left lane don’t seem to be alarmed. They travel as if this day were blue, cloudless, and traffic-free. All we can do is inch ahead, hope the hail doesn’t grow larger, other drivers don’t pull anything crazy, and the storm ends.

I think about our visit with Jay’s aging mother and hope I left kindness behind. Somehow, I suspect we will make it through, but no one ever knows for sure—even on a day that appears perfect. The sun is present; it will return, I tell myself. Then I imagine calmness in my husband and pray it touches him. After all, he is fighting this battle. I am only present within it.

I wonder if one of those daring drivers decides to pull in front of us—and hits our car and not open highway, would my thoughts turn to times when I missed opportunities to do good, or said unhelpful words? Don’t know. Just speculating. And I’m grateful when that chance doesn’t happen.

We live someplace in time, under the rainbow, through the storm, among possibilities. I wonder what today holds.

pic from Positive Thoughts page

rainbow lights through trees positive thoughts

 

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Out-of-the-Box Creativity

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 29, 2013| 1 Comment »

No matter what he does, every person on earth plays a central role in the history of the world. And normally he doesn’t know it. (Paulo Coelho)

At a writers’ conference several years ago, I heard an agent or editor, don’t recall who it was, talk about how important it is to have a polished ready-to-go manuscript. She emphasized the necessity to find a unique approach, a fresh angle. A memoir that simply tells “my story” can’t cut it. However, I believe in tact. When a woman wrote the story of her ordeal surviving breast cancer, this professional bluntly told the woman it did not stand out. It added nothing. In essence it was no different than anything already written. The writer broke down in tears. Perhaps that one-on-one rejection could have come with constructive criticism instead of an ax. But I don’t read so-so manuscripts all day long. I only edit my own groaners.

Writing is a tough business.  I write anyway, whether I make a lot of money or not. I’m addicted. When one small group of folk told me I had touched their lives with my words I felt honored. That doesn’t mean I don’t have goals. I want to write well. But, if I don’t touch hearts, I have failed by writing only fancy words.

Occasionally I also write songs. These are always positive and have a limited audience. When a friend shared a story about a 96-year-old man named Fred who wrote a song about his deceased wife, Lorraine, I was intrigued. He didn’t follow a single rule for the contest. He couldn’t sing or play an instrument. In fact he wrote that if he sang he would scare people. Yet the professionals who conducted the contest were touched by his sincerity, read his lyrics, and decided to record his song. It didn’t follow the guidelines for the contest, but it fit the requisites for the soul of a song.

Warnings appear on the YouTube clip to keep tissues close by, and don’t watch if you don’t want anyone to know you have working tear ducts. (Well, that’s not a direct quote, but it gives a clear enough notion.) http://twentytwowords.com/2013/08/26/widower-submits-a-song-about-his-wife-of-73-years-to-a-songwriting-contest/

Since I have watched the video, several times now, I find myself humming “Sweet Lorraine.” My son gave me a gift card for iTunes. This sounds like a good place to use it.

In the meantime I celebrate an out-of-the-box success. The video has gone viral. The words don’t suggest that there was anything different about Fred and Lorraine. They lived an ordinary life. Well. But, they did it for 73 years. And that is tougher than facing a hard-nosed publishing world with a few pages of printed words.  

Kudos to Green Shoe Studios! You found the treasure because you could broaden your vision. Thanks.

Fred hears his words come to life in song.

Fred Sweet Lorraine

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I Love My Brother, The Toddler Version

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2013| 2 Comments »

The world is like that—incomprehensible and full of surprises. (Jorge Amado)

This photo of me and my brother is over sixty years old. It needs a caption: You mean this is my sister and I’m stuck with her? Or, that wasn’t a kiss, it was so slobbery I thought you were a Great Dane. I can’t use the informal word, pic, for any of the photos I found hidden in our attic. They belong to the time of rotary phones and black-and-white television. Folk wore suits and dresses, even to sporting events.

I can be found among my brothers easily in the collection. I’m wearing the frills. And yet the expressions on the faces of my family remain universal: Enthusiasm. Joy. Excitement. Wonder. Change the hairstyles and put jeans and sweatshirts on the people in the scenes and they couldn’t be distinguished from one taken in a modern family fifteen minutes ago. Although I’m not sure how to describe my brother in this picture: surprised maybe, definitely cute.

Little people remain little people in any age, in any culture. For me life didn’t exist beyond that floral stuffed chair and my back yard, Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa and my brother, Bill. The future extended no further than alphabet soup for lunch or a picnic with Aunt Bette and Uncle Harold. Childhood seemed eternal.  Even at the advanced age of five, the fact that I would one day become a grandparent would have sounded as outlandish as Jack climbing the beanstalk and facing a giant. Actually, the giant appeared more believable. After all, I had scarcely reached the height of an adult’s naval by that time, probably not that high. I was a runt from the day I was born at four pounds and seven ounces.

Children believe life is what they live, wherever it is. In peace or in war. In the city or country. In a healthy home or one where love is only a word.

The multiple scenes of a baby girl in a silly floppy hat give me the notion that my family was excited to begin a new generation. Not everyone has had that experience. People tend to expand their own experience into another person’s thinking. One of my favorite quotes comes from Anais Nin, “We don’t see things as they are. We see them as we are.”

Perhaps that is why I find it so important to tell my grandchildren how innately good they are, every time I see them. At least once. And to encourage them when they show compassion for others. Nine-year-old Kate talks about setting up a benefit for a friend in need. No, I have no idea how she would do it. But that won’t stop me from encouraging her. The world is filled with surprises, and even if those surprises aren’t wonderful, if children learn they have power deep inside, they will be okay. At least eventually. That is my prayer.

Bill and me 08192013_0000

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Patience Power—in Toddler-Size Three

Posted in kindness, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 14, 2013| Leave a Comment »

In this world, you must be a bit too kind to be kind enough.
(Pierre Carlet de Chamblain de Marivaux)

Ella runs toward another child with white-blond hair as if their fair heads were halos meant to merge.

“Hi! Hi!” Ella is finally talking. Her vocabulary is limited. She still uses sign language for most communication. Down syndrome has affected her development. But she has always expressed enthusiasm with complete clarity.

The boy seems puzzled, but accepts our little one’s hug. His sister, perhaps a year younger, continues toward the parking area at the Museum Center. Then she hesitates. I suspect she isn’t going to miss out on the love her sibling is getting. Ella doesn’t disappoint her.

Ella, Grandpa, and I are on our way to the Museum Center. However, our three-year-old girl is in no hurry. Each step on the journey brings its own adventure. She sees a little girl in a stroller and blocks Mama’s path to ooh and ah over someone younger than she is.

While my husband and I apologize for the interruption I hear my name called. I see Marcia, a very special friend who has enlightened my life’s path in deep and beautiful ways. I’m both surprised and happy to see her. Her smile fits the halo image. An embrace feels in order.

She introduces me to Mama and the little one in the stroller. The child is on her way to nap time and barely tolerates Ella’s gushing. Fortunately, the little girl isn’t screaming yet. And I am grateful.

I don’t count the number of stops it takes to get to the door. After all, we aren’t late for a plane. A fountain, a cloud, or a block of cement can fascinate if approached with curiosity. Adult responsibility has damaged a lot of my spontaneity. If I don’t catch my granddaughter’s life lessons, she will show me again, without any sign of irritation.

In one play area inside the museum she insists upon putting on a sheriff’s vest by herself. Unfortunately it includes a scarf with an opening along the back that could be an extra arm hole. Although Ella never figures out how to maneuver the vest, she doesn’t give up, and she doesn’t throw a tantrum and blame costume construction for getting in her way. Life is what it is. Difficult. She has known that since she was born seven weeks early with multiple medical needs. She has overcome most of them.

One girl seems insistent upon going up a slide the wrong way. Ella waits patiently at the top. Within minutes the two children are playing together. The other girl runs back to Ella to give her a hug before she leaves with her grandparents.

One embrace has led to another. So simple and honest. And it took a child with a tripled twenty-first chromosome to begin the cycle. May one kind gesture direct another… and another…and another.

hug

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The Clubhouse in the Attic

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 8, 2013| Leave a Comment »

If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.  (Nelson Mandela)

Service we needed done in our house takes up a large portion of the afternoon: drilling, decisions, and comforting a five-year-old who doesn’t like noise. No time left to go to the Y for a swim. I expect Kate and Rebe to express serious disappointment. They handle the situation well.

Rebe gets custody of PBS Kids on my iPad while nine-year-old Kate and I do artwork in the second-floor storage area of our house. There is no air-conditioning here since we have no place for duct work, but this has been declared girl territory, a clubhouse arena of sorts. The heat isn’t as horrid as August usually offers. I’m holding out. Rebe manages for a while, and then returns downstairs to the cooler air and Grandpa.

“You can have this page,” Kate says, tearing it out of her brand-new book of designs to create and color. “You can make cards for the family, and then copy them on the computer.” Kate is always planning. She wants to turn our storage area into a play room. That will take not only time but ingenuity. With Kate’s enthusiasm, however, I can see it happening.

She watches as I show her how to blend colored pencil, rounding strokes inside a circle, adding depth by easing orange around the edges of yellow. “See how it looks if you leave a tiny bit of white in a block of turquoise—on purpose.”

We share, heart to heart. I feel free to tell her that someday Grandma and Grandma may need to sell this house and move to a condo, when Grandpa gets too old to mow the grass. Not now. Someday.

“I hope that never happens,” she says. “There are too many memories in this house.”

I am impressed by the depth of a child who hasn’t reached double digits yet. She adds that she is not disappointed that she didn’t get to swim today. She got to spend time with me.

I look around at the haphazard space around us: old blankets, photos, a box with my old published materials, the dolls I bought for my mother—nothing of outstanding value. No one from Better Homes and Gardens has ever approached us with an offer to do an article. Nor do I expect any in the future. Yet, I am blessed.

Finally Rebe returns upstairs, her demeanor comments on the heat as she looks at us working in the corner. “Whatever are you thinking?” she asks.

Kate and I laugh. One more memory has been added to the rest.

learning from children morning coach

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Perfect is Only an Adjective

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 5, 2013| 1 Comment »

There’s something ugly about the flawless. (Dennis Lehane)

As a child I thought perfection was attainable. Expected. On multiple levels.

On an achievement test my sixth-grade teacher emphasized how important it was to erase completely. Pencil residue could be picked up and two filled-in boxes would mean an automatic wrong answer. I sat in the back corner of the room and sighed. That day had been particularly difficult, although I don’t recall why.

Not far into the test I needed to erase. The process became gruesome to this literal student. I moved so slowly through the pages that I eventually gave up. The next year the psychologically ignorant teacher positioned us in rows according to the grade we got on that test. There wasn’t enough room for the last two rows of desks—they were shoved together. I sat in the dummy section. After all, if we cheated the answers were bound to be wrong.

I must admit that seventh grade turned out to be fun. I sat next to the class clown. However, the image that teacher had of me stuck and showed up in my grades. Once again, why bother?

Then, that winter we were given an assignment to write a one-act play based on a book by a Catholic author. Mine was taken from “Fabiola” by Cardinal Nicholas Wiseman, first published in 1854, a, thick book from my parents’ book shelves. It spoke of persecution in the lives of early Christians in the catacombs during the reign of Roman Emperor Diocletian. My teacher did not believe I had read the book much less written the play. My parents needed to verify the fact that I had chosen each word with the required fountain pen at the kitchen table. I had to bring the book to class so that both the principal and teacher could see that I had not plagiarized my assignment. Strangely, I was not frightened. I knew the work I had done was honest.

I won first prize in the Greater Cincinnati area from that one-act play. My grades improved drastically. Yet I was the same child, in the same row. By then I wouldn’t have chosen to sit anywhere else.

Those students I sat next to weren’t dummies either. Perhaps their skills didn’t include diagramming sentences and answering multiplication tables within a given number of seconds. I have no doubt that those conjoined rows housed kids who eventually owned their own businesses or who became beloved parents and grandparents, exemplary citizens, military heroes. They became folk who could find that glitch in a car’s engine no one else could find. Many probably graduated from college and earned degrees because they had learned to work for what they wanted.

They created common miracles no one ever chronicled. We are all important—in different ways.

(pic from Positive Words to Love By)

dogs and differences Positive WoRds

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