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Posts Tagged ‘gratitude’

Dust, Flaws, and Possibilities

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 29, 2013| Leave a Comment »

To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle. (George Orwell)

Last week while Jay and I vacationed in Colorado, a housekeeping crew caught the dust before it settled on anything. In my home dust moves much faster than I do. But it doesn’t need to be my enemy, even if it is listed among the many allergens that make me sneeze or wheeze.

Actually, the only reasons I bother cleaning are to breathe and to live without complete chaos. No innate satisfaction involved. So, to keep my mind from feeling like a soiled rag I need to think deeper than spilled soup on the stove. What lies above and below the stains? What is important? What isn’t?  What should change in my life now, and what can only happen slowly? Not always as obvious as the question sounds. It’s so easy to wipe off the surface of a problem and leave resentment behind.

When someone admits a flaw I can relate. The trick seems to be in finding a balance since I tend to be easier on others than I am on myself.

Sometimes, to clarify perspective I try to see through the eyes of someone with simpler vision. On Wednesday our five-year-old granddaughter spent the day with us. She loves spending time with Grandma. As she pretended to give birth to twins, two soft dolls stuffed under her shirt, she said, “Look, they are wearing caps.”

Impossible in the real world? Well, yes. But she is centered in childhood’s innocence. The fact that her grandparents slept until five minutes before she arrived, didn’t faze her. She needed an unmade bed for her thirty-second spontaneous doll delivery, and a too-neat bedspread would have been in the way.

Grandma plays with her. Maybe I don’t have the same spontaneity as a kindergartener. I’m a bit stiff when it comes to switching roles mid-play, and I get distracted when the pretend world creates too much clutter in the world the grown-up Grandma will need to repair later. However, there are many levels in this existence, all happening at once. Dust and grime, imagination, beauty, and infinite possibility—all coexisting. I don’t want my blackened dust cloth to distract me from the whole.

pic from Positive Inspirational Quotes

different perspective PIQ

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Talking Freckles

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on June 11, 2013| 1 Comment »

If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud. (Emile Zola)

On land I could never run with a lanky nine-year-old girl on my back. In the water, however, I pretend to be a horse. So does my husband—with five-year-old Rebe on his back. Jay moves much faster. In or out of the water. I’m more pony height.

When Grandma horse and Grandpa horse trade riders, Rebe gives me a name. At first it is Sleigh-ride. Then she changes it to Head-chopper. Kate turns Grandpa into a dolphin, more appropriate for the water. Imagination “reigns.”

Then Kate chooses another game. What if things spoke? What would an object say if it could? She calls out a word and my job is to give it a voice in two to three sentences. Most of my responses wouldn’t be worth editing. Fine for grandparent-grandchild play, but way too silly for a public forum. Moreover, I can’t remember all of the inanimate objects she suggests.

“Freckle,” Kate says.

A good friend calls them angel kisses. Summer has made Kate’s darker and larger, a random pattern like wildflowers scattered in a field. I see part tomboy and part let’s-pretend feminine. I see blossoming kindness, innate to her being.

But I don’t alter the game with metaphors, even if they do compliment my young granddaughter. I say something about how the fresh dark freckle chatters away to a face, and that face ignores it. Somehow, Kate finds the scenario hilarious.

Objects don’t communicate, except in fantasy. And people aren’t always that good at it either. I know I can assume. Sure, I hear what another person says. Sort of. Not on every level. That takes time.

Perhaps I’m not always clear either. It helps if I can learn to live as out loud as my grandchildren. Celebrate life as it comes. Learn. Be. Grow. No matter what. Celebrate color as if it had the power of breath, and recognize the power of dreams.

I dream in color

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Gravestones, a Sparrow, and Time

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 3, 2013| Leave a Comment »

“I don’t ask for the sights in front of me to change—only the depth of my seeing.” (Mary Oliver)

In a small Indiana town I stand admiring a gravestone from the mid-nineteenth century—it bears my name. Sure, I added my husband’s  surname more than forty years ago, but I wore this one until I married. And that part of me exists, if only in the past. I have no idea who this woman was, or anything about her husband, Leonard. However, there is something sobering about seeing your name engraved on a gravestone, something that triggers the imagination.

As I wonder through the roughly parallel lines of monuments I see other graves with the same last name I had. My father didn’t know all his relatives. And he lived in Indiana for several years. I don’t know the full story about the distancing among those persons, only one incident that stands out because it reveals my dad as an innocent, vulnerable child.

He had an uncle, known to be cruel. At my father’s home he asked my father if he wanted to see a match burn twice. Dad always had a scientific mind. And, like all children he understood words at face value. The uncle lit his cigar, and then burned my father’s young arm. Dad howled and his mother came to his aid. She asked the uncle to leave and never come back.

No one else in that family ever returned either. The family tie burned as well. I never asked for the uncle’s name. The mama in me had the same reaction as his. I dismissed the uncle, too. Now my father has died.

I look at the layering of graves, from the earliest to the most recent. Moss covers some. The oldest are swallowed by black algae as well as yellow and green lichens. Time, rain, and wind have erased names, memories. No flowers decorate the older side. However, the past leaves unanswered questions. This person lived only twelve years and this one managed to reach his eighties. Unusual for early 1800. Personalities lose their touch. What color hair did she have? Did he treat his wife as an equal, or with the attitude of the times? Even the most ornate statue remains carved stone. It never speaks, leaves clues about the human spirit.

My meditative stroll reminds me of the last four lines of Robert Frost’s poem, “In a Disused Graveyard:”

It would be easy to be clever

And tell the stones: Men hate to die

And have stopped dying now forever.

I think they would believe the lie.

A baby sparrow hops among the stones. I maintain my distance. Unnecessary fear helps no living creature. He is no longer in that area when I return ten minutes later. Perhaps he has found his way to the sky. Perhaps not. I can’t help him any more than I can help my father’s long-ago past, or anyone’s past—including mine.

Instead I fly back into the moment: overcast, yet warm, externally quiet, internally alive with possibilities. The secret is to stay in the present and to love with as much power as I have. Now. On this June day. I pray to remember that, for longer than it takes to think it.

Peace to all, continuously renewed.

(pic from Morning Coach.com)

only live once MorningCoach

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Lost Keys, Panic, and Peace

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on May 30, 2013| 2 Comments »

Hooray! Hooray! The end of the world has been postponed! (Hergé)

One definition of serenity: mind and body occupying the same space at a given moment in time. Tranquility, calmness, and peacefulness, all show up as synonyms on dictionary.com and meriamwebster.com. Sure, I’m serene; that’s why I can’t find my car keys. And I know they have to be in this small house. Somewhere. I used them less than two hours ago. And I need them again—now! Amazing how the loss of a few slivers of metal can create instant panic.

Okay, what story did my friend Carol share just a few hours ago?

She had been mowing the grass. She had a lot on her mind at the time, a mountain of responsibilities. Her husband has a rare and crippling disability, and he needs constant care. Life hasn’t compensated with extra privileges to make her job easier.

Yet, she knows how to redirect counterproductive thinking. She gave herself a task: a one-hundred-item gratitude list. It eased her work, lightened her being. I can do that. Who knows? It may even free my mind enough that I can focus and find my gosh-darned missing keys.

These blessings could appear on my list: a cool breeze on a hot day, a swim at the Y, an unexpected invitation to brunch, a perfectly brewed cup of coffee. At least they make a good start.

One activity at a time, Terry, I tell myself. Think logically. I already searched the pockets of the pink Capris I wore this morning. But, that was in panic mode. This time I explore more carefully. And the keys are in a side pocket. No mysterious disappearance at all. “Minor Armageddon” averted.

As my gratitude list grows I realize that sweetness comes from contrast. Dark versus light, cold versus warmth. A delicate spring flower expresses a deeper beauty because it survived winter. No one can live long without embracing sadness, even horror. However, what’s the point of living in the past? In cold or darkness.

That doesn’t mean I would ever tell anyone not to be sad, no matter the reason. An emotion is what it is. I would say, don’t isolate. Find a friend. See your own goodness, despite appearances. Sometimes a positive attitude takes work. And that is okay.

I start my ’97 Toyota with a single turn in her ignition. Okay, she’s old. But, by a young person’s measure, so am I. But not too old to begin again. One intentional step at a time.

negative committee

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Watercolor and Imagination Meet the Storm

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 12, 2013| Leave a Comment »

Perhaps imagination is only intelligence having fun. (George Scialabba)

My two older granddaughters want me to do watercolors with them, an honor. However, painting my hand and then splatting it on paper asks a bit too much. This artistry is part of their Mother’s Day gift for their mommy. And they are excited about doing it, in deep, dark purple.

My computer paper supply slowly diminishes and the dining room table looks like an upside-down wastepaper basket.

Finally Kate decides it’s hand washing time, much to my relief, and she begins another drawing. A purple girl with turquoise hair and a green hat. Her project has purpose. The girl has a story, in sci fi form, with human feelings, a past and a future. I listen, looking down at my wimpy sapling with a few dabs of pale green for leaves. I had no interest in creating it to begin with. It felt like a doodle on perfectly good 20-lb weight paper destined for the trash.

Rebe experiments with color. What happens when orange blends with blue? An odd shade of brown. Then what happens if it is streaked with purple? A storm has been brewing for the past hour. At the tender age of five Rebe knows what a lightning strike can do. The last crash felt farther away. She says that artwork has distracted her. Her wisdom brightens me.

I’m amazed at how easy it is to underestimate the insight of a child. The next day our little girl will pass her next swim test. I won’t be there, but will hear the joy in her voice when she tells me about it on the phone.

Then I will need to use my imagination, envision her quick strokes in the pool, not on paper. And hope that perhaps someday I can approach the world with the simplicity of children at play.

Somehow, as a child, I thought growing up meant knowing-it-all and freedom. Yet, if I’m really learning I discover that wisdom, truth, love, can’t be grasped and held. They expand and grow. Always. Like orange blending into purple and a child’s drawing becoming story, as an older woman watches two young girls embrace color as a gift. Not circles of hardened pigment swirled with water.

The storm passes. For now.

(pic taken from Morning Coach)

learning from children morning coach

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Once Upon a Laugh

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on April 30, 2013| 2 Comments »

A good laugh overcomes more difficulties and dissipates more dark clouds than any other one thing. (Laura Ingalls Wilder)

I should have known my son Greg would grow up to become a stand-up comic. Actually, both of my boys had a knack for making me laugh. When Steve was in grade school he sneaked items like “a pony” onto my grocery list, somewhere in between milk and cereal.

Once, when the two were teenagers, they were watching sports as I left for my weekly shopping. Snacks and drinks were scattered on the floor by the living room couch.

“Be sure to have this cleaned by the time I come back,” I told them.

“Sure, Mom,” they said.

The fact that neither one of my sports enthusiasts blinked could have been a clue. The scene didn’t look any better when I returned.

“It’s okay, Mom. We’ll take care of it. Turn around,” Greg said.

“Uh huh.”

“No really.”

Sure, I sensed a conspiracy, but I turned around anyway, for about ten seconds. The boys grabbed an old throw rug and covered their dirty glasses and bowls with it.

“I don’t understand it,” Greg said. “It works in the cartoons.”

I’d been had. However, they repaired the damage. They probably brought the groceries inside—after I finished laughing. That part of the story isn’t part of the punch line. Good kids create a great family, but don’t add much to a joke.

Now Gregory Petersen is awaiting the summer publication of “Open Mike,” Martin Sisters Press, a fictional story about a comic on tour. Michael Clover delivers quick-wit lines that make his audiences laugh—most of the time. Self-healing takes more than a joke at another person’s expense.

Laugh on one page. Cry on another. Yet, each scene fits the way the ocean yields to high and low tides. It’s life in fictional form.

Please note: my son’s book is one-hundred percent fiction. We are not a prototype of the Clover clan. And I am grateful. In fact, Greg has told me that he can’t make it as a full-time comedian; his youth wasn’t horrible enough. He works a day job.

Ah, well, I am thankful for all the fun my sons continue to provide. I am blessed and know it.

laughter words to inspire the soul

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One Gentle, Annoying Infinite-Loop Song

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on April 23, 2013| Leave a Comment »

Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth, but by washing away from it all that is not gold. (Leo Tolstoy, novelist and philosopher, 1828-1910)

A song I wrote recently runs through my head as I hunt for something I lost—the steroid inhaler I use to prevent asthma attacks. It was on my dresser. Now it disappeared, melted as if it were some kind of metallic ice, and then evaporated. The repeating song has an uplifting tone; my spirit doesn’t want to go there. Is this just a walk along a city street or is this a way of seeing? The words explore attitude. Do I notice soot-stained curbs or bird-filled trees? All a matter of attitude.

My attitude wants to sink, throw something rather than systematically search. No, I am not facing immediate danger. Discomfort? Yes. And I am missing my writing time by organizing areas where I could have accidentally placed it while doing a bad job of multitasking. This wasn’t in the day’s plan. Moreover, my effort delivers nothing. Yet.

The song continues to play through my skull like the hold music that comes after, “Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line. There are 615 callers in line ahead of yours.”

Okay, I hear you, song. I’ll try to find the good in the moment. Ah, what is this, hidden on the side of my dresser? Something that I was absolutely certain I put somewhere else—and I need it in three hours. Hmmn, yeah, well, I guess that could be called good news. And I finished organizing an area or two that’s needed it for months.

You can stop that incessant singing at any time now, Terry, I tell myself. I got the message! Oh well, I guess it’s better than the old camp favorite, “A thousand bottles of beer on the wall,” especially since I don’t drink anything stronger than orange juice.

Ear plugs don’t help in this situation; one step at a time does, maybe with a little rhythm added.

pic from Positive Inspirational Quotes

stumble part of dance PIQ

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One More Time, From the Top

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on April 2, 2013| 4 Comments »

My grandfather always said that living is like licking honey off a thorn. (Louis Adamic)

I feel ridiculous. Sure I know how to tune my guitar. Strings get out of tune—all the time. I did this last night in forty seconds. Too much warmth and the wood swells; the sound becomes sharp. When the temperature drops the wood contracts. The E string goes flat and the others drop out, too. But, I’m using a different kind of tuner. The Snark works even in a noisy room. The room is filled with conversation, shouting, laughter. I’m the one distracted, not the electronic device.

Fortunately, a few deep breaths and minor adjustments remind me of the obvious. Externally, I appear calm. All I have to do is tell my internal self to do the same. I have at least thirty minutes of music prepared. Won’t need anywhere near that much for the few minutes I have at the YMCA senior luncheon, before and after the speaker. Today’s topic: “The Wise Way to a Healthier Brain.”

My part of the preparation feels like studying for an important exam: sixty hours of an intense mental workout for an hour’s worth of questions and answers. But then music is different. It is something the soul gives itself, for its own sake. The music lover doesn’t count practice hours. Actually, I have no idea how many hours I have spent getting ready.

Several years ago I stopped playing for months, many months. During that time my hands succumbed to arthritis. When I came back to my Big Baby Taylor, my fingers didn’t want to do what they once could handle easily. So, I did what anyone else who is foolish would do, I scheduled a gig, and forced those digits to cooperate. They did. Somewhat. However, since this girl didn’t pluck a string until she was in her mid-fifties, she can hardly be called a professional. Stubborn? Well, that is another matter. I have sat on my bed and played, paused, and then thrust my hand into a warm wrap to recover before continuing.

Come on, you can do it, I think. The arthritis pain is low right now. My middle finger on my right hand suffers most. But, my friend, Antoinette, did healing touch on it yesterday, and showed me how to send warmth to the swollen site. Here is one of the suggested techniques: http://www.spirithospital.com/Article–Healing-Mudras.html So far it is working. Positive thinking, more than a concept.

“The sound is ready. Go ahead,” I’m told.

Well, the sound could be better. I do what I can and give my best anyway.

Oh, very little in life is perfect, but several folk ask for the words to my original work. That is a plus. Seniors don’t applaud unless they mean it, and they clap with enthusiasm. My three-year-old granddaughter waves to me from the back, but doesn’t try to run from Grandpa and leap on stage. Perhaps the size of the group is too intimidating for that move. There are at least 150 people at the luncheon, not that I would stop to count.

I started awfully late in life to become a great musician, but if all I wanted was perfection I would miss out on a lot of joy, a lot of opportunity, and find regret instead.

Smiling, I pack my supplies after the event ends.

“We’ll have a better sound system for you the next time,” the set-up person says.

Okay. I guess there is going to be a next time. A few inflamed joints can’t win yet!

pic from The Optimism Revolution

music feelings The Optimism Revolution

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Scrubbing the Stove, Freeing the Mind

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on March 26, 2013| 4 Comments »

There is a road

that runs straight through your heart.

Walk on it.

(Macrina Wiederkehr, “Seasons of Your Heart”)

The top of my stove needs a good scrubbing. It wears the residue of dinner, at least the splattering from it. I’m amazed at how much it wants to remain adhered to the surface, like a memory: a trauma perhaps, or a life changing event.

Instead of staying with these thoughts I think about the joy I’ve had preparing special foods on this surface. I have created my own recipes, many that worked. I have also followed the directions in a cookbook, then dumped the result into the garbage, like the time I added baking soda instead of corn starch to a cherry pie filling. That caused one bubbling mess before I realized what I had done wrong. The clue came when I saw an unopened box of cornstarch on my counter. It helps to smile at my own foibles. After all, no one, except the cook, suffered from that experience.

The word suffered brings me back to my original concerns. Some folk I love are hurting. And I can’t scrub out their problems with elbow grease and a steel wool pad. I can diffuse the energy that binds me by cleaning—praying all the way. Somehow, that helps. Don’t know how, but it does.

You can’t change anyone but yourself. Not a new concept. But haven’t most of us tried, in one way or another? “Shoulding” all over someone leads to frustration. Distant silence translates into I-don’t-care. How, just how, do you find a way of letting people find answers? I listen. Yes, but it feels so helpless sometimes.

Eventually, as I scrub, I look outside and see the trees covered with snow. It’s the end of March. That isn’t out-like-a lamb, the way spring is expected to appear. Mother Nature doesn’t need permission from the calendar. The branches create an incredible, random pattern of white, one that won’t remain forever. Spring will arrive. At least it always has. The snow on the street has already melted.

The passageway out has opened. Now that the stove shines again, I look for the road that runs through my heart. It considers the possibility of miracles. They could happen. Maybe not. In the meantime, I release all choices that are not mine, and whisper love without judgment for someone special to me. The gray lifts as the sun peeks through, just a little. Hope. No promises.

I accept that as enough, for now, and take a stroll through the road that passes directly into my heart.

walking in the light

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Replace the Word Re—d with Respect

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on March 6, 2013| Leave a Comment »

The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be either good or evil. (Hannah Arendt)

Computers fascinate my granddaughter Ella. She knows how to maneuver the icons on her Samsung Galaxy tablet, and her small fingers move with alarming speed from screen to screen. Sure, her tripled chromosome adds learning challenges. However, since she creates an atmosphere of joy wherever she goes, her efforts spread courage, too.

If Ella can work harder to reach a goal, so can I.

Since I have experienced the wonder and beauty of a child with Down syndrome, I wince when someone uses the R-word, that taunt that ends in a d. It is not used by the medical community, only by the unthinking. (By the way, Ella is a child with Down syndrome, not a Down syndrome child; the difference may appear subtle, but it isn’t. She is first a person, and second, she is a child who has a challenge to overcome. Also,  the word syndrome is not capitalized unless it is part of a title, such as the Down Syndrome Association where the emphasis is on an organization, not a person.)

Grammar, however, is secondary. An understanding of people is what matters.

Today is the day to pledge to end the r-word:   http://www.r-word.org/

Many folk who have handicaps have more determination than college graduates. Actually, with help from the caring, some people with special needs have earned college diplomas.

So, today, right now, replace that put-down word with respect. It goes a lot further and delivers a lot more truth.

r words

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