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Posts Tagged ‘perspective’

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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True and False Memories and a Ten-Cent Parking Meter

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on March 20, 2013| 1 Comment »

The future is there…looking back at us. Trying to make sense of the fiction we will have become. (William Gibson)

I have just picked up Kate from school on the Friday of Kate’s ninth birthday party. We are on our way to get her little sister, Rebe, at her baby sitter’s house.

“Remember when I was in pre-school, Grandma?” Kate remarks. “You used to pick me up every day.”

My brain has an overflow valve. When it gets full, memories leak out. But this scenario is most unlikely. When Kate was four-years-old I worked in a hospital pharmacy. Sure, on Fridays, my day off, Kate and I went to the library for story-time, but that was not a daily event. I tell her so.

“Uh uh, I remember it.”

Apparently that time at the library expanded in her short-life’s memory data base. Books, a delightful children’s librarian, and Grandma must have been important to her. Somehow I don’t feel compelled to argue about facts, details. Her emotions surrounding that Friday event remain solid, valid, despite exaggeration. Some other day we will explore reality.

Recently my husband, Jay, and I traveled with another couple to Grantsville, West Virginia, where he and his friend since high school visited in the late 1960s. They stayed at a hotel owned by a navy friend of Jay’s. Our traveling team had no expectation of reliving those days; the hotel closed and the owner died several years ago. However, Jay’s friend had wanted to return to the area. The trip was a pilgrimage of sorts.

The charm of Grantsville  has remained, population listed on the 2010 census as 562. It went up to 563 in 2011. Grantsville is located in the heart of West Virginia, the quintessential small town. I knew where we were going to stop for lunch when I saw the sign on the local restaurant: Come in as strangers. Leave as friends.

The first person we met, at a small local museum, had an eerie resemblance to the hotel owner when he was younger. However, he said he is not related to the owner in any way. The hotel is set for demolition. I’d hate to think we went back into time—via Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone series that aired from 1959 to 1964.

Since we left intact, I’m pretty sure we didn’t journey into another dimension. The parking meters, however, did belong to another time, a pleasant surprise. Jay pulled a quarter from his pocket. There was no slot for it, only for nickels and dimes.

Therefore, I had to have a photo of that meter. Someday we can say, “Remember in 2013 when we stopped in that town and got 1 ½ hours’ worth of parking for 15 cents?”

Actually, I’d much rather recall snuggling with my grandchildren on the day of Kate’s birthday party—and maybe even exaggerate the heck out of how long that time had been. A little equal time in the false-memory game is fair play.

parking meter Grantsville WV March 2013

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Pretending 101, Further Lessons

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on March 13, 2013| 5 Comments »

Nothing is better than simplicity (Walt Whitman, 1855 “Preface to Leaves of Grass”)

As Rebe stuffs a cloth doll under her shirt I know she is Mommy and I am Daughter. Again.

“When’s the baby going to be born, Mommy?”

She changes her mind several times. First the birth will occur on Tuesday, then Saturday, then Sunday. All the while, Mommy shifts baby’s position, not down, but up—as high as chest level.

Somehow I refrain from laughing. After all, I’m either three or five-years-old and couldn’t understand the absurdity of a bumpy-chested pregnancy. Pretend mommy keeps changing her mind about my age. Doesn’t matter. I’m in this game to celebrate my granddaughter’s simplicity for at least a little while. It is a precious invitation.

The birth occurs in a hospital, suddenly, appearing directly from an imaginary car to a bed. Mother drives herself, by the way. And three-or-five-year-old daughter is present for the entire experience. A C-section. Mommy doesn’t know that word, obviously, but she knows the baby needs to appear somehow.

“The doctor has to cut my belly,” Rebe says. “Then he has to put me back together again with a needle. That’s the tricky part.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“She cuddles the doll with genuine maternal instinct.”

“Where’s Daddy?” I ask.

“He’s the doctor.”

“Right.” I nod. “That’s why he couldn’t stay. Because he is so busy.”

“He is also the nurse.”

I bite my lip, and then add, “Really, really busy.”

“He also does the laundry.”

I want to ask if she means the laundry at home or in the hospital, but I can feign a serious face for only so long.

“So is the baby a boy or a girl?”

“A boy.”

“Have you decided what we are going to name my little brother?”

She thinks for a minute, and then says, “PBS Kids.”

Uh, I have a brother named PBS Kids. I am known as Daughter. It’s too bad Dad is so busy as doctor, nurse, and laundry worker. Maybe he would have chosen more conventional names.

Rebe hands me my newborn brother, a cloth doll with eyes that don’t close, dressed in pink frills, and further humiliated by being forced to wear a diaper made of a facial tissue and Scotch tape. Sure I have imagination, plenty of it. But, it isn’t pure like my five-year-old granddaughter’s.

I have a to-do list for the rest of the week that would be too much for the next two months. But, right now, I can forget about all that and spend time with a little girl who won’t be small forever.

save the kid in you

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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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THE BIG PICTURE AND PINT-SIZED PERSPECTIVE

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on March 1, 2013| 1 Comment »

Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does. (William James)

Five-year-old Rebecca knows the days of the week now, and she knows I pick her up from preschool whenever I can on Wednesdays. However, the message didn’t get through the system today, and the kids lined onto the buses a minute or two earlier than usual. Since the parents and grandparents have to wait outside, this freeze-cat grandmother waited in the car until the last minute.

Rebe sees me from her bus. She had already told the bus driver, “Grandma could be coming.” All turns out well. I am known at the school and my appearance is part of an established routine. However, I am glad the confusion happened because it is concrete evidence of how important I am to this little girl. She told all her friends, including her favorite bus driver, she was spending the day with Grandma.

Rebe grins. Fun time begins. A stop at the grocery that should take five minutes requires twenty because Rebe sits in a car cart, her taxi, and we stop in the wider sections of the store to pick up and drop off imaginary passengers.

When I bring her home she becomes the mother and I am the child, always an interesting scenario.

“I’m going to have a baby,” she says as she pats her cousin’s cloth doll, positioned under her shirt. “Today.” The delivery, of course, is simple. She pulls the infant out from under her shirt. No hospital admission. No paperwork. No bed necessary, really.

“So what is the baby’s name?” I ask.

“She doesn’t have one yet. She was just born.”

At least we know the baby is a girl. “Oh, well then how about Emily, Grace, or Mary?”

Rebe looks at me with complete seriousness: “Hadalittlelamb.”

“The baby’s name is Hadalittlelamb?”

“Yes.”

Do not laugh. Smiling is okay. But the full-blown guffaw is forbidden. “Okay.”

“We can go home now.” All life is shortened and edited in Rebe’s imaginary world. I don’t always know where we are in it, however.

“I’ll go get the baby’s car seat. Okay, Mom?”

Apparently I made the right choice. It’s hard to tell with a child’s fluctuating imagination. But Rebe forgives me for not reading her mind in the world of pretend. After all I’m pretty rusty at it.

I do know that there will be Wednesdays when I won’t be able to be at school for a variety of reasons, so she will have to ride the bus to her babysitter’s house. My little girl will need to know—in advance.

Yet, somehow, I feel like I will be missing something on those days, too. We’ll catch up on the next week. She won’t be little forever, and my wrinkles deepen just a little bit more every day. May I savor every precious moment.

pic from What Makes My Heart Sing

from What Makes My Heart Sing

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A Positive Look at a Dirty Dust Cloth

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

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. (J.R.R. Tolkien)

Cleaning and organization have never been my forte, but since my house has never learned to clean itself, the job falls on me. I suspect that if I ever learned how to direct that magical act, I could earn big bucks. It’s not going to happen. My budget doesn’t include paying for a housekeeper.

Therefore, since there were five kids playing in my tiny abode yesterday, I may as well roll up my sleeves, get to work and put toys back on shelves, clean up spills, and remove multiple fingerprints from the computer, walls, and table tops.

At one time I resented the time housework stole from my creative work. Then I learned to tidy up my spiritual life as I wiped down floors and removed Cheerios from the couch cushions. The ordinary actions of home maintenance remind me of the people who bring the most gratitude.

Sure our refrigerator is old and rusty. However, it has held countless drawings presented with love by some incredible grandchildren. It’s something of a grandmother’s unframed Louvre. No, the artwork doesn’t resemble anything painted by Monet, but the pieces were given with enough enthusiasm to warrant wiping off the ranch dressing smeared around the borders—even if those marks were made by the artist.

Cleaning is a time for me to recall what I have versus what I don’t. Oh, that doesn’t mean stray thoughts don’t sneak through, those negative notions that can ruin a moment like a fly dropping into a bowl of soup. But those interruptions don’t need to snowball.

Okay, dust cloth. Let’s get to work. And thanks, my dear husband. I am sure other wives will agree: There are few visions more beautiful than a husband on his hands and knees scrubbing a rug. Love you, sweetheart!

this place was clean . . .

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Ageless Enthusiasm

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2013| Leave a Comment »

We are always the same age inside. (Gertrude Stein)

My maternal grandmother was a consummate seamstress. If she could imagine it, she could sew it. When she was a young woman she took a notebook to store windows, made crude sketches, and then went home and recreated what she saw—tailored to size for select customers.

Once she made a dress with a spider-webbed skirt. I never saw it since she had constructed it long before I was born. It remains part of the legend of Grandma. No one ever mentioned how much she earned; I got the clear impression her work was severely under-priced.

I decided to become a fashion designer when I was in middle grade school, probably because of the stories I heard about Grandma. I loved to draw. I made detailed descriptions of the front and back of dresses. Since I wasn’t keen on cleaning up after myself, I left my work and crayons lying around for Grandma to pick up.

Instead of complaining, Grandma made one of my imagined designs for me: a teal sleeveless dress with V-neck and V-back with a long fabric bow that reached almost to the hem line, a cinched waist, and billowing skirt. My grandmother always made clothes for me that were a tad too big, a result of Depression-era thinking. Clothing needed to last—for as long as possible. Hard times could appear again, by her way of thinking. She knew what it was like to have no food in the house. She remembered an occasion when her cupboard had been bare until her brother stopped by with a bushel of green beans. So, my custom-made dress was mad to last a loooong time.

Perhaps that fear that those few dollars she spent on cloth may never be replaced made her gift even more precious. Nevertheless, I recall how excited I was when I saw her creation, the shine in Grandma’s blue eyes—her payment, a granddaughter’s enthusiastic thank-you. I felt an appreciation of my ability to be creative, too. I could put down an idea on paper, then watch it develop, step into real life.

Enthusiasm comes naturally to a child who knows she is loved. That love doesn’t have to be perfect, just available, from some steady source. Grandma’s quiet presence and steady needle were always there.

I may never know what gifts I leave to my grandchildren. I can only guess. When I picked up Rebecca from pre-school last week she told me she had a surprise and couldn’t wait to show me: a picture of mittens, one colored yellow and the other blue. The text read: “If my grandma made me mittens . . .” I gathered that she was stating that whatever I give my girls, it wouldn’t be traditional. So far they each have a song and  a poem. Rebe envisions mittens in mismatched colors.

As long as joy is included in some form, it doesn’t matter how it arrives, colored in yellow, blue, plaid or indigo.

“What should we play now?” I asked her, eye to eye. After all, we were the same age at that moment, both children in spirit, eager to share our enthusiasm for one another.

“House,” she answered. Always the same answer, never the same game.

growing old optional

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To Be Or Not To Be—A Sponge

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on February 7, 2013| 3 Comments »

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be. (Lao Tzu)

Somewhere I read or heard that washing a sponge in the dishwasher is a good way to destroy lingering bacteria. As I take a sponge that’s been through considerable scrubbing, with residue of Ella’s yogurt, spilled coffee, and whatever was imbedded on the stove top, I feel as if I could use a thorough run through the dishwasher.

Sure it’s great to be the confidante for several wonderful folk, but a time comes when I need to rinse all of that information away, relax, and begin again. I do not have a degree in psychology. I do have access to twelve-step material, a good church community, and an intimate woman’s faith group known as Apple. They all serve me well. Moreover, there is nowhere anyone can live—truly experience life—without picking up a few hints along the way. Nevertheless, all the assistance in the world doesn’t protect anyone from wearing out.

These are some of the hints that tell me when I am ready to wash my mental sponge with some downtime: meditation, fun reading, a cup of tea (without caffeine), an additional exercise routine or walk, perhaps a call to an understanding friend:

             sleeplessness or waking too many times during the night

            dreading that the phone will ring with more bad news

            an intense desire to overdo the chocolate

            losing and/or forgetting things.

These are some of the signs that come to my mind. In the meantime, I rinse out the excess soap and grime in my trusty sponge and put it in the top shelf of my old, but reliable dishwasher, and then wait for the full cycles of time to complete the process.

Eventually, the sponge will give up. It always does; it is made of finite material. But, hey, it’s been a good cleaning tool and has served its purpose. Fortunately, the human spirit can be taught depth, richness, and an ability to accept even greater challenges.

Okay, one…two…three. Press the start button and go.

dear stress

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February and Warm Possibilities

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

Learn to pause … or nothing worthwhile will catch up to you. (Doug King)

There is a good possibility that snow could change all my plans today. It’s February, sometimes the longest month of the year. At least it feels that way when Friday begins with a traffic accident blocking traffic at the top of our street! However, as I wake up on Saturday I decide I am going to make this day worthwhile—whatever becomes of it. I recall the words of authors, Deepak Chopra MD and Rudolph Tanzi PhD:”

“In Superbrain, we argue that the real you is the “observer” or “witness” of your brain’s activities. Your brain brings you emotional feelings and intellectual thoughts, which most often present themselves in the incessant internal dialogue and monologue of the mind. We argue that the true “you” is the self-aware “you” that is astutely cognizant of the feelings and thoughts being evoked in the brain, but then uses them to enhance your awareness and elevate your state of consciousness, promoting a more enlightened lifestyle.” http://intentblog.com/deepak-chopra-reality-making-and-the-gift-of-self-awareness/

I saved a picture a family member took of ice on the windshield of a car at sunrise, such an appropriate image for today. The sun is present. It rises, but the ice obscures the view. Or—it could present another image: a beautiful design painted by Mother Nature, an opportunity to pause and enjoy instead of hurrying.

This hasn’t been a got-my-way kind of week. The writing I wanted to finish just didn’t find a time slot. The house looks like it’s been run over by three kids. It has. But this time has been blessed, too. The same kids who left fingerprints on my “things” left deeper marks on my heart. I smile as I wash those fingerprints away and look forward to the next round.

I’d like to say all the news I’ve heard has been good. One situation wants to tear my heart apart. All I can do for that one, however, is say the Serenity prayer, and be prepared to say the right word, offer love, and be present when necessary.

In the meantime, the wind rises and falls as winter rules the weather; a spring spirit thaws the mind any time.

photo by Jane Filos Dagley (taken in Camden, Maine)

sunrise through the icy windows Jane Filos Dagley

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Feeding the Inner Wolf

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on January 26, 2013| 2 Comments »

I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet strange, I am ungrateful to these teachers. (Kahlil Gibran, mystic, poet, and artist 1883-1931) 

I am aware of choice, a precious gift. When the beautiful appears I want to savor and celebrate it. Every moment can’t be mountain-top glorious. If it were, the wonderful would turn into take-it-for-granted.

In the past few weeks, life has given me many lessons. However, I am alluding to only two events. The first occurred one afternoon when I was unexpectedly confronted by someone who holds a long-term grudge against me. The second, far more pleasant,  took place as I prepared a family party. The details  of the first situation don’t need to be shared to be understood. Almost every living person faces folk on different wave lengths. This is the only point that matters: Do I allow someone rent-free space in my head or not?

When I think about scenario two, preparing to celebrate four family birthdays, however, I smile. Eight-year-old Kate painted assembly-line style, and told stories about what she drew: hearts, swirls, action. Enthusiasm for each person being honored flowed as she created. Five-year-old Rebe worked quickly with a few wild strokes across the page. She picked out which tablecloth we should use, and then played with Grandpa. Okay, so the afternoon wasn’t newsworthy. It highlighted the beauty of the gift of family. I treasured that, and didn’t waste the moment fussing about something I couldn’t control anyway.

The Cherokee legend of the Two Wolves explains choice well. The following story is taken directly from FIRST PEOPLE, THE LEGENDS: http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/TwoWolves-Cherokee.html

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil—he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good—he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you—and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

I would like to say that I have completely forgotten about the person who harbors resentment against me. I haven’t. I am fortunate enough to have made very, very few enemies in my life. Strange, as I think about it, the great people of the world have fought many adversaries. Hmmn, looks like I may be meek, but I also don’t take many risks. Perhaps I am now in a position of opportunity, not threat. This place may present a new taste for the Good Wolf.

Whenever this person’s name comes into my mind I pray that she receives the same blessings I would want for myself. Then, all I feel is sadness for her and joy for me as the sun shines through the seven child-simple paintings hung along my back window. Seven is the ancient Hebrew symbol for wholeness, creation, good fortune. The Good Wolf symbolizes healthy spiritual choices in life. I think I’ll keep the girls’ art gallery on display a tad longer—as a reminder of greater possibilities.

feed the good wolf Optimism Revolution

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