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Posts Tagged ‘humor’

Ha ha, It’s Snowing Again?

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on February 15, 2014| Leave a Comment »

The best way out is always through. (Robert Frost)

Three to four more inches of snow, that’s the current prediction for our area. I watch as the street disappears under the white. Mother Nature didn’t listen to the forecast. She adds a tad more. Fortunately, February, 2014 will belong to the past in less than two weeks. March doesn’t end winter, but it promises spring by introducing buds and blossoms.

Complaining doesn’t help. Besides, when I think about it, the people in California are facing a fourteen-month drought. That would be far worse. Until the thaw arrives I have plenty of writing to do. However, housework pleads to be done first. Besides, mindless work helps me to focus sometimes. I think about what I can change and what would be a waste of time and energy. Ordinary household chores open my mind to think about other people, too. One friend was admitted to the hospital via the emergency room today. I imagine her whole and well as I scrub the kitchen floor. Later I get a chance to chat with her via Facebook. When she responds with LOL, I feel better and hope she does, too.

Thinking about someone else—something else, anything else, always helps. The thought strikes me: humor makes a good companion. I still laugh when I see offers for free snowman material on a sign in a yard buried with white, or the picture of the multi-stabbed snowman with the caption: “Die, winter, die.” True, I am a gentle woman. It’s the out-of-the-box thinking that makes me smile.

Yes, the best way out of any situation is through it. However, without a sense of humor, the snow shovel becomes twice as heavy. An hour feels like a week. And I feel cold, but don’t recognize sun.

what did you do with the grass

 

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Blessed Time in the Waiting Room

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 3, 2014| 3 Comments »

In a gentle way, you can shake the world (Mahatma Gandhi)

Perhaps everyone has heard some variation of the old joke: What’s the difference between major and minor surgery? If you are having it, it’s always major surgery. Someone I know and love is facing something huge in the next few weeks. I pray for her frequently. However my husband is approaching a simpler procedure with an overnight hospital stay now, this last week in January.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature is in a bitter mood. Below zero temperatures and brutal winds have closed schools. My loving mate is concerned for my safety, so I will be staying in a hotel for the duration. The hotel provides shuttle service.

My sister-in-law, Kris, calls and asks if I want company for a while when my husband is in surgery. I’m surprised and pleased. She works long hours at the hospital. Her gift of time is precious. I have this strange sense something special and unexpected will come from accepting her offer. I have no idea how right-on that omen is.

“I’ll meet you in the waiting room around seven,” she says. Then she calls my cell at seven fifteen, the exact moment when I leave the pre-op area to enter the waiting room. She locks my heavy coat, scarf, and backpack in her office. (Before the day has ended I have a suspicion that my coat and backpack would feel as if it had gained 150 pounds, probably more if aggravation could be measured.)

When my shoulders are free she gives me a tour of the hospital. This is significant since the only directions I know with any certainty are up and down. In the cafeteria she pays for my yogurt and coffee, Starbucks, the good stuff.

Somehow Kris has tapped into the spiritual realm of perfect timing. She calls exactly at the moment my husband is being brought to the Recovery Room and then again as he is wheeled into his room. That evening she appears just when I want something from my backpack before I go to the hotel. It’s uncanny! I feel a strange sense that all is well even though my husband’s recovery process hasn’t yet begun.

The next morning I ask at the front desk of the hotel where I can get some coffee. Transportation to the hospital may be free, but coffee isn’t. However, when I tell an employee at the restaurant that all I want is take-out coffee, something about me must bleed not-here-on-vacation. She gives me a complimentary cup of fresh, hot java. And I feel the blessings continue to flow—in the form of caffeine.

More incredibly timed situations occur. And I’m not sure what part my awareness plays on their sacredness. I do suspect that one goodness can touch another and then another, like ripples on a lake that travel from one shore to another.

I also believe that it is important to send those ripples back from the other shore and bless the original giver. Thanks, Kris. I wouldn’t have made it without you.

angels as ordinary people Optimisim Revolution

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A Straight Walk Along a Crooked Path

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 29, 2013| 2 Comments »

One eye sees, the other feels. (Paul Klee)

This year will probably be the last one for our artificial Christmas tree. The bottom lower branch no longer lights. Our angel has toppled so many times she lies, as if exhausted, at the base. She is supposed to be reigning from above. Maybe she is afraid of heights. I suspect that is better than being a fallen angel.

My husband and I celebrate the full twelve days of the season, even if those days include the ordinary chores of laundry, rug-scrubbing, and bill-paying. Holiday music plays in the background. The greatest celebrations include a full day with our grandchildren.

On December 26 Miss Rebe pretended to be mommy-having-a-baby. Her imagination swelled as she followed that experience with a brain, and then a heart transfer with her newborn. None of these moments fit into anything resembling real life. However, Rebe did understand that surgery includes cutting followed by blood. Even in play young people recognize suffering.

“Don’t look, Daughter,” she told me. Of course within seconds the transformation had occurred and been reversed—several times. In a kindergartener’s world magic slips into the ordinary as easily as wind blows through an open window.

Somehow Rebe’s fantasy touched something real. Physical brain and heart transfers don’t exist beyond imagination. Empathy does. Answers may not come in easy packages. Time may not heal. In-a-better-place isn’t always the best response. Yet a quiet soul and listening ear can speak in unexpected, healing ways.

Most holiday seasons are tainted in some ways; that’s the nature of anything that has created form. This December has been filled with sadness, illness, and tragedy. I have seen friends and acquaintances suffer. Some have died, suddenly, at a moment when the lights were expected to be brightest. Instead they extinguished.

After her imagined ordeal Rebe told Daughter it was time to go home. Apparently she had returned into pretend-mommy mode. Baby, yet unnamed, lay tucked in the crook of her arm. We were on our way. She didn’t say where.

But then, life’s journeys aren’t mapped anyway.

pic from the Optimism Revolution

love tainted world Optimism Revolution

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Protected: Thank You, Carbon Monoxide Detector

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on December 6, 2013|

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Asthma, Focus, and Putting Myself in Another Person’s Shoes

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 15, 2013| 2 Comments »

There is no such thing in anyone’s life as an unimportant day. (Alexander Woollcott) 

Ordinarily quiet and I get along like cake served with ice cream. However, I’d rather be at my aerobics class. Unfortunately, my breathing sounds as if my lungs were tossing pebbles at one another. After a while those pebble turn into stones and they sting. This isn’t the best time for lively exercise. Left kick, right kick, mamba, turn, and wheeze. Besides, my cough could scare off a class of battle-trained marines.

Since the monster wheeze responds only to steroid treatment I am now faced with the steroid monster’s side effects. I have the attention span of a two-year-old who has devoured half a bag of candy, and I probably won’t sleep much for the next twelve days. However, breathing is not generally considered an extra.

Okay, Ter, focus. How can I do that when one-thing-at-a-time feels as possible as collecting a foot of snow in a thimble?

First, drain that coffee and switch to herbal tea for heaven’s sake! Then try one task that requires physical effort—but not too much since my mind may think I’m marathon-ready. My body will balk.

Ah yes, one small section of an untidy cabinet. Face it, girl. Only one portion of cabinet. Slowly. Yeah, I know buzzed-on-prednisone brain, you also want to write an entire synopsis, make your Christmas presents, scrub the floors, finish this blog, annihilate every cob web in the house, and do laundry…all before your husband comes home from that beloved exercise class and the grocery store. Oh, and you will check your e-mail 47 times in between.

Right. Maybe that’s not the most efficient plan.

After that one reorganized section looks decent, I notice there’s a spill in the microwave. My actions snowball, with only one, okay two stops to check e-mail. As I struggle to keep my thoughts under control and lungs working properly, I think about the difficulties other people face. My husband is reading, “The Reason I Jump,” by Naoki Higashida. When Jay is finished he has promised to let me read it. When he comes home from class and the store he tells me he is ready to share the book.

I turn to David Mitchell’s Introduction and I’m lost in words, in pages, in this world opened by a boy born in Japan in 1992. This story explains the autistic world. It isn’t what an observer sees; it is as different as the interior and exterior of a locked cabinet, a wrapped gift, or a capped unlabeled bottle. Seeing the actions of an autistic person doesn’t tell what happens inside.

Day dissolves into dusk and I continue to read, needing to pause once for a drink of water and once for an inhaler break. Naoki answers questions that appear almost rude, with style and grace. He is thirteen. He cannot speak. He uses an alphabet board. Not all autistic people are alike any more than all people are alike.

One experience Naoki relates concerns listening to others instead of looking at them. Eye contact is too overwhelming. He sees with his ears and that is sufficient stimulation. Thanks to Naoki for helping me to focus, using my heart, paying attention to someone else instead of my own petty miseries.

Here is the Amazon link to his incredible and beautiful story: http://www.amazon.com/Reason-Jump-voice-silence-autism-ebook/dp/B00BVJG3CS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1384473869&sr=8-1&keywords=the+reason+i+

walking in someone else's shoes

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A Son Who is Sunshine on a Rainy Day

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

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)

My raincoat may repel the drizzle, but cold penetrates the coat’s surface anyway. Maybe I’d better get the gloves out soon. However, as soon as the revolving door of Mercy Hospital spins open, a blast of warmth runs through me. That sudden change reminds me that today is my second son’s birthday. Steve is the practical talent son. He holds a belt in Six Sigma; he’s the thinking-out-of-the-box problem solver of the family. Steve has a lemonade-out-of-lemons attitude. The party starts when he arrives. “Nobody is sillier than Uncle Steve,” one of his young nephews claims.

When Steve was a kid he would sneak a pony between cereal and eggs on my grocery list. He would walk with his arm around my shoulders at the mall without fear that one of his friends would see him being attentive to his mother. Sure, kids learn from their parents, but it works the other way around, too.

Last week we needed an old smoke alarm and carbon monoxide detector replaced. Steve had little time to do it. However, he managed to replace our detector and get his daughter, Ella, home to bed at a reasonable time, too. He didn’t complain.

Steve plays an active role in Ella’s development even though he works sixty hours a week. While Ella has Down syndrome, there is nothing down about her smile—or her daddy’s.

Yes, Ella’s Daddy will get the standard birthday gift, but sometimes words need to be spoken—or written. There are other folk like my Steve, people who give just because it is the right thing to do, because it is who they are. Blessings to all of them as well; to all of you, peace.

live like someone left the gate open

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Playing Follow the Leader with Rosie the Riveter

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 16, 2013| Leave a Comment »

Man is most nearly himself when he achieves the seriousness of a child at play. (Heraclitus, philosopher, 500 BCE)

Sometimes what begins as a mistake can end right-side-up.

I’ve left physical therapy and I’m on my way to pick up Rebecca from kindergarten. Her daddy calls my cell phone. Both Daddy and I remembered the wrong dismissal time. Rebe’s big sister is in fourth grade now. That seems like longer ago than it is. Morning kindergarten ends at 11:00, not 11:30. Since the time in my car reads 11:10, the chance of a punctual arrival doesn’t exist. My ancient Toyota has no time-machine properties. In fact it locks and unlocks with an old-fashioned key—not a remote control.

“Rebe’s okay,” my son assures me. “She’s in the office.”

Now I need to keep the speed somewhere close to the limit. The needle on the gauge wants to jump into the panic zone, next to how I feel. However, after turning left instead of right only once, I arrive. My granddaughter has the attention of everyone in the office. She trusts that Grandma will come. Her smile calms me immediately.

Since Grandpa is out-of-town until Tuesday he couldn’t have helped. Her babysitter isn’t available today. We would never have planned for the office to take over for a half hour. But today it worked, and I’m grateful. My therapy didn’t end until 11:00.

“We have six hours of Grandma-Rebe time,” I tell my granddaughter.

“Is that long?”

“Long enough to have lunch, go swimming, and have dinner together.”

“Yay! Can we go to your house, too?” she asks.

“Don’t see why not. It’s our day. Let’s play follow the leader. You lead.”

“The kids stay on this side of the sidewalk because it’s safer. We had a fire drill today, with fake smoke. I kept away from it though because we were learning what to do if it was real.” Rebe walks as if she were on a tightrope. My act looks less natural. I consider it a privilege to follow the kids’ route.

I watch my granddaughter and know the example I follow is worthy. She enjoys the moment, recognizes its beauty.

“What are you going to dress up as for Halloween?” I ask.

“Rosie, the Riveter.”

“Great. That’s history. From what was called World War II. Did you know that Rosie, the Riveter is older than I am?”

“Older than Mommy, too.”

I’m grateful for swallowed laughter. Our little girl’s feelings get hurt when she thinks I’m laughing at her, not her innocence. Rebe’s mommy is a tall, attractive brunette—she’s the same age as my son. However, time and age are relative terms in our kindergartener’s world. When she turned six a little over a week ago, she told her daddy, “In ten years I can drive.”

Right now I would rather play follow the leader, and act as if time didn’t exist. This day is precious. The gift of unconditional love abounds. And I’m enfolded in its child-sized arms.

Rosie-The-Riveter-Button

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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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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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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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