Endings… and beginnings

It seems funny to me to be writing about my divorce after 32 years of being so. Like I had to hit the ground flying right away. Even though I had less than most to juggle and was more fortunate in many ways. A family business to work in and a family who actually welcomed me because things were kind of tough at the time, a 2-year-old son who was remarkably placid and obedient, and a car that ran. So I had a lot going for me, but I had a lot to regroup too, like most single parent women I guess.

First was I had really believed in marriage. Ultimately not mine obviously, but when all was said and done and the dust settled I had to grieve the death of it. I had never realized in my youthful naivete that the marriage itself was a living, breathing entity ostensibly nurtured by the two presumably cooperative and loving participants. But we weren’t. Loving or cooperative, at least not at the end and actually, during the 4 or 5 years of it, not usually at the same time, either. But somehow it seemed to work.

Until the baby came.

Throw a baby into an already thin-iced mix of problems and you basically go crashing through the surface into frigid depths. And the baby has to be protected at all costs from becoming collateral damage. Because it was never anything s/he had anything to do with in the first place. S/he was meant to be an expression of love, not drunken lust or selfish ambivalence. If both participants in the marriage aren’t equally enthusiastic about this newcomer one of them has to carry the heft and one can’t. It’s something both parents are meant to do together. Not the baby’s problem.

So yesterday was the anniversary of the end of my marriage and the beginning of something I was never going to be ready for- single parenthood, family business and figuring out why I’d got to that place in the first place. Most parts found their wholeness. For better or for worse my son did grow up, found a solid career which he enjoys, and a girlfriend. The family business thing did not work out because my dad and I could not find a level playing field. I never figured out what I was gifted for, so maybe now, on my own with no one but me and a devoted canine friend to be responsible for, I can.

Hope springs eternal, and where there’s life…

Limbo

There is something about overcast days. I don’t mean cloudy or partly-sunny days, days where the clouds actually have shape and forms and occasionally there is some blue or whitish blue, depending on how hot it is, sky with sun sparkling around the edges. I mean those days when the whole sky is covered in varying shades of off-whites and greys and there is daylight but the sun is completely behind the clouds. The whole day.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, people are out, lawns get mowed, shrubs trimmed, birds are busy at feeders or fending their nests from other bird enemies, dogs are walked, cars rushing to and fro. But the day itself. It’s like it’s waiting for something. What, the sun to shine without cloud obstruction? Afternoon, then evening, then night, then tomorrow? Then what? But really, it’s like it’s on the very edge of something– the verge of…  ?

I like cloudy days. It’s kind of like being snug under the covers on a cold wintry night. Or sweatered and muffled and booted with mittens and a hat outside on a frigid morning. But it’s also like the sun is taking a breather. Like even the sun, working hard to shine on the grasses and trees and flowers, feeding them with their photosynthesis, finally gets a day off. But it doesn’t really. It might not be making an appearance here but it’s shining somewhere. It illuminates our entire solar system. Other parts of the galaxy can see our sun. The opposite side of the universe has some awareness of it, as soon as the light years enable its rays’ brightness to reach there.

Sometimes I let my brain take a day off. As though it’s illuminated my little world enough for a while and needs to replenish itself. Even when I think I have successfully turned it off it is still running. Still doing something even if it is unconscious. So eventually we can look back out and see the brightness from the sun again, our minds begin working, thinking, figuring, planning, hoping.

Some things, even at rest, never really stop.

Sharecroppers or squatters??

I live for gardening. This is something that, had my father not usurped my spring and summer Saturday mornings as a teenager weeding the front yard rock garden I am sure I would never have much cared for. That I lost those precious time-for-me days to such a pastime in itself should have made me hate gardening for life. Another of life’s ironies I suppose.

I never cease to marvel at the miracle of my planting a seed or small sprout, or even buying a fully-grown plant at Lowes or Wal-Mart, and that it actually lives and grows. Or bears fruit if it is of such inclination. My first vegetable garden was ambitious. I was a young bride living in very rural Tennessee. I wanted everything, so I planted everything I liked- tomatoes, peppers, corn, cucumbers, squash… I planted both yellow and white corn, curious to see which would grow better. Not thinking of pollination I was mildly surprised to see both yellow and white kernels on all the ears. Tasted just as good. I also learned that different fertilizers produced different effects. The previous owner of our home had left a generous heap of chicken droppings. So I used it. Liberally. When I proudly told a neighboring honest-to-goodness farmer of my achievement he could barely breathe from laughter. Finally catching his breath he said, tears streaming from the outer corners of his eyes, “You’ll burn up the whole plot, that stuff is so hot!” I learned later what he meant was that form of fertilizer is so acidic it must be used sparingly. So from then on I used the offerings from neighboring cows.

From this humble beginning I now plant some of the same things, though I have a more civilized area in which to plant and do not require a tiller. And I have learned from experience that deer will eat pretty much anything so I now put tomatoes in large pots on the deck, along with okra and blueberries. The birds and I share the blueberries, not the tomatoes, and in the yard I plant spinach, squash, zucchini, eggplant and herbs. So far nothing, rabbits included, have partaken of these.

Something, however, is making good use of the other plants on the deck. I also have, more ornamental than anything else, bananas, lemon tree, avocado, coffee bean, more herbs, and a rose. Whatever it is, and I suspect it is a chipmunk that enjoys the birdseed, uses the potting soil in these plants to stash his sunflower and other seeds. He either has a bad memory or forgets all together because every so often I come across a tiny sprouted clump of baby sunflowers or wild grasses which I pull out.

At that point they aren’t doing anybody–  not the plant, nor me, nor the chipmunk  — any good.

 

Mt. 13:18-23, 31-32; Jn. 12:24-25; 1 Cor. 3:6; 1 Pet. 1:23

Welcome guest

Mostly, Mondays are pretty routine for Lily and me. We go for our morning run before sunrise, have breakfast, put seed out for the birds and water the garden and plants if there hasn’t been any rain. In fact this is what most of our mornings are like. Then a scattering of cleaning, trip to the library, reading, crossword, errands, writing, not in any particular order. We’d just come home from the library, I started picking stuff up, reorganizing before I vacuumed when I heard a thumping clatter, sounded like out on the deck. I looked around for Lily and when I did not see her looked out the window to the deck. Nothing. Maybe a bird took a swipe at a window which happens occasionally. So I went out to get the mail, sorted through it, perused through a Bible study workbook I’d ordered when I heard it again. This time I pretty much knew it wasn’t outside, and Lily stuck her head around from the kitchen to look at me to see if it was me. I told her we needed to search this noise out and she followed me to the back part of the house. Sure enough, I walked into one of the bathrooms and saw an object fling itself up in the air to my left. A mourning dove, pretty young from the looks of the spots on its wings, exhausted and terrified. Lily, not one for sudden strange movements or noises she can’t identify withdrew back into the living room.

Moving slowly I stood on the edge of the bathtub, speaking softly, watching its little chest expand and contract faster than 3 per second and brought my hand behind it. Off it took, slamming into the mirror opposite the window. It came to rest behind the sink faucet and again, glacially slow, speaking soft words I moved toward it and gently grasped it. It flailed and flung its wings against its unknown but likely enemy captor and after a few moments quieted. I saw an angry pink abrasion just above its eyes and grabbed a tube of antibacterial ointment. This was no easy feat, cradling a shock-stricken dove in my left hand and one-handedly opening and squeezing out a tiny amount of the stuff, then reclosing it so the rest of the tube did not keep running out. The dove allowed me to apply the salve to its head, maybe it felt good, maybe it was beyond tired to fight.

I walked back outside to the deck, all the time crooning to the little bird, whistling as a dove parent would to its young and gently opened my fingers where it clutched one finger and sat, balancing with its beleaguered tail feathers. And it sat. I sat on one of the Adirondack chairs. Lily, curious, crept through the dog door to come look at the little bird, then retreated. I thought to get my phone and take its picture to send to my son but as I brought my other hand up to steady it, off it went, into a sweet gum tree.

Be like a flower… ?

I had one of those chaotic, frenzied days recently. Nothing went right, got stuck in some kind of snag everywhere I went, things were out of stock, traffic was slow or stopped, drivers cutting in and out, turning suddenly with no indicator, cyclists everywhere. More frustrations for a single day than most. So I *finally* get home, unload stuff, lug it all inside, put it away. Remembered I needed to water the seedlings and flowerbeds. After I watered everything I looked at the foxglove with their tall, noddiing flower stems, daylilies pushing forth new buds, yarrow with its soon-to-be crimson flower heads, the Russian sage about to burst forth with bright blue bloom spikes, meadow rue, rose-of-sharon, four o’clocks, coreopsis, echinacea and so many others all waiting their turn to proudly display their lovely flowers.

Every year these beauties put out their showy and lovely display. They are pollinated, their flowers fade, and the birds feast on the seedheads through the winter. They don’t grow impatient waiting for the next rainfall, or envious because the butterfly weed bloomed before the daisies, or even angry that their flowers were not as plentiful or as bright as the year before.

They simply are.

Each year they have their season. The hyacinth, daffodil, iris, vitex, hibiscus, columbine. Each flower pushes up through the newly moistened earth, bringing forth new flower buds, they bloom. Their flowers gradually fade, bringing seeds for the next season. Tirelessly, effortlessly.

Why can’t I be more like that?

Squirrels, chipmunks and other such diversions

One of my dog Lily’s favorite pastimes in summer is to lie on our deck at the top of the stairs and watch the backyard vigilantly for squirrels. They have learned if they hang from their hind toes upside-down on the sunflower seed feeder they can easily get the bounty of seeds, peanuts and cranberries in there. They are not stupid, either. When Lily has decided her still presence has been camouflaged by her lack of movement she will stealthily rise and slowly creep down the stairs. I have noticed there is usually another squirrel, or two, at the base of the feeder and when Lily starts her run in earnest the squirrels each race to a different tree, leaving Lily in a dire quandary as to which one to pursue. Having satisfied herself that the squirrels are safely treed she starts her search for the moles that dig in the soft earth below the feeders. She will stand, head cocked, listening intently for their motions below. And yes, she has occasionally brought one to the surface and if I am not quick enough, dispatched it handily.

The rabbits that eat the tender grass sprouted by same birdseed are usually only about in the early mornings. Lily knows these are too fast for her but she will every so often give chase just to keep her hand (paw) in. And the chipmunks she looks for by their panicky squeaks, having gnawed the bark off the lower foot of two small trees being certain they live in the hollowed out cavity.

We also have the occasional possum and skunk. The possums she will stand off, curious about the angry hissing as she confronts it. The skunk mercifully Lily has not encountered.

It’s only May but it feels like summer is here

Did I miss Spring? Something so all-consuming, the pain of my Murphy loss and I missed an entire section of a year?

The greening of a lawn… tiny miniatures of oak leaves, silvery-shining in their infancy as trees awaken. A luna moth drops from its chrysalis onto a forgotten splice of driveway, warming its wrinkly, vermilion gold wings into sun-strength.

Peeper frogs give procession to the dawning chorus of birdsong as sun defrosts a newly soft earth. Spiderlings take flight on tiny gossamer parachutes from their newly-hatched egg-webs. A succulent smell of honey suckle streams into the air lifting early springlike nuance and burgeoning trees lazily fill the blue sky gaps with growing leaves. Once-sparse ground white snows of clover blossoms and leaves, vinings and tendrils stretching their sleepy stems across the forest floor. Dandelions and daffodils nodding bright cheer from the sun. Gentle rains puddling drops to hibernate-thirsty roots and swelling streams.

And finches, red-wine dipped color over their lovely faces and throats, the hummers buzzing again, squeaking territorial disputed life. Tiger swallowtails, flitting aimlessly, flaunting delicate yellow streaks with black, boldly circling the new air.

Yes, this year I saw.

Something to think about

Reblogged on friendwise.wordpress.com. “Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.” –Sun-tzu

Just Cruisin 2

There has been a lot of talk about where our current
president beliefs are founded. Some say that the new
breed of politicians, including the president, follow
the Communist Manifesto. Others mention Saul Alinsky.

But as happens sometimes, to make a better story and
engage the readers, the truth gets stretched a bit.
In his book “Rules for Radicals”, Alinsky spoke of
power tactics. Here is his list of those rules:

Always remember the first rule of power tactics: Power
is not only what you have but what the enemy thinks
you have.

The second rule is: Never go outside the experience of
your people. When an action is outside the experience
of the people, the result is confusion, fear, and retreat.

The third rule is: Wherever possible go outside the
experience of the enemy. Here you want to cause confusion,
fear, and retreat.

The fourth rule is: Make the…

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Mirrors

They only reflect, they do not accurately inform. They may be flawed, warped, narrow. They are two-dimensional. They do not accurately portray who we are. They only use what is before them, the light, the image, the backdrop. Yet we are so much more than what we see in a mirror.

I’ve never paid much attention to mirrors. I have them, in the bathrooms, over my dresser, in my dining room, one just inside the front door in the foyer. They are only there to let me know whether or not my sweater is buttoned right, or my hair is combed. I do not let them tell me I look too tired, or got too much sun or gained a few pounds. They merely provide me with technical information so to speak, not personal.

Now Murphy, my little dog who recently crossed the Rainbow Bridge understood more of what mirrors could do. If he was ready to get up for the day he would use the mirror to look into the next room, in case I happened by. Then he would catch my eye, his head would bob up and his ears would perk. He would turn to look away from the mirror at me, and I would know he wanted or needed something. So I would go get him. If he watched for me and did not happen to catch my eye and wanted something he would bark, and I would then see he was up and ready for the day.

For him mirrors were very personal. They helped him function in his daily life. And they helped me be more of whatever it was he wanted or needed.

Time

We all have numbered days, so we are told. We don’t know what they are, God does, but we waste what we have so flagrantly as a derelict prince with riches that are not his. We say when we are old or unwell that we live on borrowed time. Whose time is it if not our own? If we are still here then it is still our time.

Since I stopped working at a job a few years ago I stopped wearing a watch. This was a clear indication to me that my measurement of time by my watch was such that I would keep to someone else’s time, not my own. Yet who else do we keep time for? Our employers, if we are a guest at a friend’s or an inn for whatever schedule is theirs. But when it does not matter to us what time it is, then we simplify our time to day or night. Or further broken down to morning, afternoon, evening, overnight. We have time to read, to laugh, to listen, to tell, to hope, to think, to create, to rest, to play, to eat, to share, to become ill, to become well. To live.

We speak of the fullness of time, time that has its realization in its own truth where it has been so well spent that we are satisfied, happy, as after a good meal or a happy time with our families or a friend. It is also when something long awaited has finally come and we are not disappointed. Its realization, this event, or its fullness has consumed and filled us so completely as to bring us to that point of completeness, joy and grace that we have grateful memory of it for all our lives.

Time was important to my father. He did not waste it. He kept himself busy, whether in his workshop or at his business, or vacationing, or even just in thought. Whatever he did he did it so completely that he left no question that there was nothing missing or left out or forgotten. The flight of time did not escape him. He rode its magic his entire life.

I have an old kitchen clock that had belonged to my dad. I have had it repaired twice and the second time the chime simply stopped working. It was a loud chime so for a while I missed its waking me in the night, faithfully alerting me to the wee morning hours… 2 chimes, then 3 and so on as though by sleeping I was missing the most important time. When it stopped I decided it had relented to the meager human need to restore oneself with sleep and am grateful. Still, its loud tick-tock during the day breaks occasionally into my thoughts or activities and I am glad it reminds me to keep pace, not lose time or be wasteful. Dad might be pleased of this.

“Think not thy time short in this world, since the world itself is not long. The created world is but a small parenthesis in eternity, and a short interposition, for a time, between such a state of duration as was before it and may be after it.“
        Sir Thomas Browne—Christian Morals. Pt. III. XXIX.