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Posts Tagged ‘imagination’

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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Hurray For a Younger Sister

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 11, 2014| 1 Comment »

Sisters function as safety nets in a chaotic world simply by being there for each other.   (Carol Saline)

When I was sixteen-years-old my mother gave our family the gift I always had wanted—a sister. Sure, I had great brothers. But I was an all-girl girl, and I didn’t understand the male species.

My brothers would engage in rough play with Dad until they cried. I declared outrage, but seconds later my brothers would be at it again with a grin on their faces I interpreted as lunacy. I soon learned that it made no sense to try to protect them.

I remember telling Mom I wanted an older sister. She never seemed to understand that even at the age of six I’d figured out that was impossible, although I suppose secretly I wanted someone else to guide me through the make-believe and the real world with wisdom. Life didn’t always make sense, and grownups definitely belonged to another galaxy. They knew all the rules and expected kids to know them, too. Most of the time I learned rules by breaking them first.

Of course by the time my sister was born my dolls and childhood belonged to a long-ago past. As a teenager I played the role of built-in-babysitter and big sister.

Claire’s birthday is Monday. She hasn’t been a baby in a long time. She works as a pastor’s wife, which means she has a schedule that requires a wall-sized calendar. She has a married son and a daughter-in-law now.  I could call her my little sister, but she isn’t tall. However, I’ve shrunk, and she is quick to point that out.

I don’t mind. Our relationship has nothing to do with height. I don’t recall when the bond between us developed into something that transcended the difference in our ages. Once, when my sons were still at home, Claire and I got into a deep discussion about our lives. We were standing outside my house by the barbecue grill, white with flaming charcoal. Our mother could see us from the back window. She came outside to see if we were all right. We had shared how we really felt in a way only sisters can understand. Of course we told Mom everything was just great. We told the truth even though we had spoken of sadness and fear as well as hope: we had each other and I knew we always would.

Happy Birthday, Sis! Thanks for being you.

from Positive Energy

best kind of people from Positive Energy

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Snow, Hot Chocolate, and Imagination

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

Family is not an important thing, it’s everything. (Michael J. Fox)  

Snow keeps Jay and me indoors today with two of our grandchildren—three of their friends also arrive. Our house is economy-sized. The children’s sound belongs in a gymnasium, or perhaps the great outdoors. Some of it is channeled into the cold as they make a snow man. However, they dry off inside, and then finish two large bowls of popcorn, a pot of homemade hot chocolate and a full can of whipped cream.

The girls may not understand why I insisted on holding their minor feast at the dining room table, but I am grateful later when a broom and a dust pan repair the floor damage in minutes. The rest of the house may be another matter, but more snow will come soon. Time for cleanup will happen then. Perfection is not my mantra. Somehow the noise and confusion don’t matter either; the young people do. The clock tells me it isn’t 11:00 AM yet. Nevertheless, exhaustion leaks everywhere from my forehead through my toes.

Then my oldest granddaughter, Kate, tells me I need to play the part of the principal in their pretend school because they have been fighting for the role. She gives me the name Mrs. Orange. When Mrs. Orange comes into the bedroom and makes a ridiculous mock speech Hannah, one of our guests, smiles. My toes wiggle with a tad more enthusiasm, and so does the rest of me. Amazing how such a simple gesture creates energy. I am going to survive. Perhaps the children tire, too, because they switch to television, a PBS program. Rebe snuggles with me and I borrow some of her youth through her warmth. By dark the house will become quiet again. The temperature outside will plummet, and I will have a choice: I can either remember the times I felt torn in as many directions as there were people in the house, or I can savor the joy and the laughter.

May the New Year bring new cheer. Peace to all!

(the girls’ creation)

snowman Jan 2, 2014

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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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Inside the Long-Ago Dollhouse

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

The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been. (Madeleine L’Engle, 1918-2007) 

I made a big mistake when I told my two older grandchildren about the time my brothers climbed into the dollhouse my grandfather made for me. Since the house had been created for thumb-sized dolls, not little boys, the walls collapsed onto them.

Kate and Rebecca were horrified. Two giants had invaded precious pretend space and demolished it. Back then I probably saw the torn walls as slaughtered puppies. Now, I understand the viewpoint of my younger brothers, an exploration into uncharted territory. I really don’t think they planned destruction; it happened as a side-product of their exploration. Somehow, I expected my little girls to see with my adult point of view. They didn’t.

When Kate knew my youngest brother was coming to the house, she asked, “Is he one of the brothers who broke your doll house?”

“Uh, no, he was too little.”

I have a few weeks before my other brothers face my girls’ wrath—for a misdemeanor committed before computers, space travel, cell phones, and flat-screen television sets existed. Any pictures from that era would have been in black-and-white. They couldn’t have been instantly posted on Facebook.

Then again, my granddaughters may forget all about the long-ago dollhouse. Actually it’s likely. The holidays are filled with far more interesting opportunities. If the subject comes up I could ask if they ever made a mistake and then felt sorry about it later. The word, oops, appears early in a child’s vocabulary. I could mention again the story about the time my brothers and I wanted to play Indians in the basement when I was about four-or-five-years old. We needed a campfire. So I gathered some sticks from the front yard, placed them on the cement floor, and then lit them from the pilot on the hot-water heater. Fortunately, my mother had a good sense of smell.

“Did you get a spanking?” Kate asked.

“I don’t remember that part. But you can be pretty sure I did.” I certainly earned one.

The consequences of a fire in the basement didn’t occur to me at preschool age. I had planned to put it out. There was a faucet a few feet away, right next to the wringer washer. As an adult the thought of flames in the house strikes me with intense fear. I’ve apologized to my parents many times over the years.

Yet, somewhere deep inside me is that little adventurer who wondered what-would-happen-if? She learned to respect the parameters of reality, but appreciates the spunk of the kid with just a touch of mischief inside.

Yes, I loved that dollhouse my grandfather crafted for me. He was an incredible, gentle man. I loved my brothers even more. And, I still do.

save the kid in you

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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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Go With All Your Heart

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 6, 2013| 2 Comments »

Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart. (Confucius)

Kate sits on my bed with my guitar between her knees as I tell her the names for the strings: E, A, D, G, B, and E. Some of the strings are as much as a full step sharp. They need considerable adjustment. Pain has curtailed my playing for longer than I’d like to admit.

“One of the first things you are going to need is an electronic tuner,” I tell my granddaughter. On the bed isn’t the best place to play, but we aren’t going to get as far as a real song. Not yet. We’ll just see where the open chords are, and how they sound.

I hold my Big Baby Taylor for the first time in a long while. The weight feels precious in my lap and I realize I’ve missed her even if she hasn’t missed me. “This is what a minor chord sounds like and this is how a major chord sounds. They each have a different feel.”

Kate listens carefully and I realize that one chord is not enough to show a mood, just as a single word is never sufficient to give an adequate view of anything. I should have played at least a phrase or two. A first impression isn’t always accurate either. When one of my water exercise classes became aqua zumba, I thought, I dance like a cardboard cutout. I’ll never learn it. The class has ended now and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“Taylor,” Kate says looking at my case. She’s a Taylor Swift fan and loves the song, “White Horse.” I hold my breath, unsure how much my nine-year-old granddaughter understands about romantic relationships. The love inherent in everyday giving seems sufficient for a girl who still treasures her American Girl dolls.

“Your turn.” I give her the guitar back. “This is an expensive instrument. But I trust you.”

Kate’s E-minor sounds amazingly crisp for a first-time try. She and I both smile. She talks about all the instruments she wants to play. And I encourage her.

“Not going to be easy,” I say hoping my smile hasn’t faded. “But it will be worth it.”

Kate may not be old enough to be in double-digits yet, but she’s seen the ups and downs of life already. One of her school mates died of cancer this summer. Another friend was disabled by a freak accident when she was three-years-old. Kate has volunteered at the Free Store. She knows designer clothes are not her natural right.

She has no idea how beautiful she really is.

“You play,” she says.

There isn’t much time before Daddy will be here so I show her a few chords: C, G, E, and F, using a variety of strums and picking patterns.

“That sounds pretty,” she says.

“You can do it, too. And more.”

Her long legs are tucked under her and I suspect her thoughts reach into possibilities. No, I can’t see her thoughts, only her expression and glistening eyes. I suspect she sees some day, far away. I see now, a fourth-grade-girl with the world ahead of her.

Wherever you go, go with all your heart, Kate. Go with all your heart.

secret of genius child Optimism Revolution

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I Forgot; I Can’t Do That

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on October 1, 2013| Leave a Comment »

Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right. (Henry Ford)

Pain has lightened in my legs and knees at least for a while. The exercises for my back feel familiar and I move with hope. The feeling extends outside the borders of the physical into the impossible—or at least it appears that way.

One of my best friends is coming to our house to celebrate his birthday. I enjoy preparing special meals for the people I love. He likes custard pie. So does my husband.  In my enthusiasm I forget about the blog I wrote on September 9, 2012, “Recipe for Bowl Pie.”

Because of an asthmatic condition I use steroid inhalers. They make my hands tremble. Spilled egg and sugar mixture in a hot oven trigger the smoke alarm. Not only is the sound set at cat-fight high-pitch offensive, the smoke could interrupt a trained athlete’s breathing. Last year I made my friend’s pie in an old Pyrex bowl, and the experiment worked.

This year I forget about that trick and focus only on my final creation. I make a beautiful whole wheat crust in a standard pie plate.

Ack! Ack! Triple ack!. Just what do you think you are doing, Ter, I think as I remember the pour-into-crust step?

But I am in a hey-you-are-going-to-beat-this-back-problem mode. So, why not tackle the shaky-fingers situation as well?

When the filling is ready I pour it into a liquid measuring cup and transfer half of it into the crust. Then, when the pie is on the oven shelf, protected by a cookie sheet, I carefully pour the rest. Pushing the shelving back inside and closing the oven door takes an extra breath and some patience, but the filling cooperates.

Okay, this is not a cooking blog. I write about positive outlook. But here is my custard filling recipe anyway for anyone who wants to make an easily prepared dessert. The crust recipe came from a cookbook, with a few personal adjustments of course.

Set oven to 350 degrees. Warm two cups skim milk or plain Greek yogurt thinned with skim milk. Add one-half to two-thirds cup of sugar over stove while also warming crust in the oven. I add nutmeg to the custard mix, but it can be placed across the top of the pie just before going into the oven. Warming the crust and filling at the same time keeps the bottom from getting soggy. When the milk and sugar reach steam level, whisk in three beaten extra-large eggs and about a teaspoonful of vanilla. Pour into warmed, but not fully baked crust (approximately five minutes). Sprinkle with chopped or slivered nuts if desired. Bake for about 45 minutes. Cool on wire rack. Refrigerate.

Then celebrate transformation. Ordinary eggs have blended with sweetness and milk. They have abandoned their preconceived notions of who they are to become something else.  I have to admit I don’t always like the baking part of change in my life, the heat and the work. But willingness to give yields something better.

Here is a picture of the finished pie, now only a memory.

pie

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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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