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(Please, don’t let my) Dreams Come True!

Edward Burne

 “Sleeping Beauty” by Edward Burne-Jones1871

Blog Post #49

I have cuckoo dreams. My nighttime line-up makes Monty Python look like the archetype of sanity and normalcy.

I write down many of my nighttime dreams for two reasons:

  1. I have been told there is hidden meaning in the symbolic nature of my dreams
  2. Such silliness is good for a laugh

My son-in-law, Erik, is my “Dream Interpreter Extraordinaire.” He is quite expert at recognizing and deciphering what he says are obvious metaphorical representations of my psyche. I often approach him with some of my dreams over Sunday dinner, and am always surprised at the accuracy of his interpretations, because they really do ring true with the things I have been feeling—the stresses and issues I have been dealing with. And perhaps that is the point of my dreams, but that doesn’t make them any less weird.

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In my youthful days, the dreams I most remember were recurring dreams associated with illness. When a headache or fever came on, so did one of the recurring nightmarish dreams.

But my dreams took a marked turn for the comedic worse after I married and began to have children. My first memorable episode involved a transparent stomach with bicycle handles sticking out of it. (And the dreams only got worse.)

Here are summaries of a few others:

In my dreams….

… I was alone on a beach, arms outstretched, with an alligator clamped down on the fingers of each of my hands, their bodies dangling down to my sides.

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… I was swinging by my heels from the rigging on the mast of a yacht (and enjoying it).

… I was Elspeth, the fairy Godmother of all.

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… I was standing in the middle of a box-shaped room that had no windows or doors, but that was full of floating peas. I didn’t dare move or the peas would go up my sleeves, or in my shoes, or into my nose, or in my mouth….

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… I was playing a small role as a maid in a play in which I, first, picked up a pile of stapled receipts that Julie Andrews and Robert Goulet were motioning for me to take offstage, next I flew with flair down a zip cord glider, then, (as inconspicuously as possible), I picked up bushels of tiny lemons that had rolled onto the stage.

… I was riding a brake-less bicycle down a steep hill in San Francisco, and was shocked to see—independently hanging in the center of a hole in the sky—the roots and part of the trunk of a gargantuan tree (the top of which rose through the clouds out of view).

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A sketch made in the middle of the night to remember the bizarre dream of a tree emerging through a hole in the sky

… I was trying to get off a modern, streamlined, ship, fatefully named “The Titanic.”

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One of my dreams even had a commercial break!  The commercial was of a cartoonish female skunk paddling the leaf/nut boat she was sitting in. The skunk’s name, I knew, was “Sally Rushkin.” I was certain she was a character from 1950s TV, and I was delighted to see her appear on the TV screen of my dream. I awoke from the dream during the middle of the night, and got up to draw a picture of Sally Rushkin, so I could look her up in the morning. I was completely surprised to discover there was no such character as Sally Rushkin in existence!

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Sally Rushkin  —  middle-of-the-night sketch 

These are just a few of the volumes of dreams I remember having dreamed over my lifetime. I often wonder about those I’ve forgotten. I suspect that, in this case, forgetting was a good thing.

It’s interesting that we live in an era when the stuff “dreams” are made of—princesses, superheroes, pirates, magical creatures, aliens, futuristic space, shires, ball-parks in corn fields, and make-believe worlds that children and adults alike get lost in are present in all but every waking hour of our lives. Images from these kinds of dreams are worn on costumes, T-shirts, tennis shoes, and backpacks, and appear in a wide variety of merchandise. You can’t escape this stuff—from cereal boxes to phone cases, from nightgowns to music lyrics, at theme parks, in films, and on the pages of storybooks—people, places and things attributed to the fantastic world of dreams are everywhere.

The phrase “dreams come true” has become commonplace, characterized as a happy idea, filled with immeasurable promise of fairy dust, adventure, and the Force.

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But when I look at MY dreams, I am struck by the contradiction. I don’t want my dreams to come true. Honestly, I don’t! It’s enough to experience such surreal, terrifying, silly, nonsensical, weird, abstract foolishness while sleeping at night! So often, it’s a blessing and a relief to wake up before the dream (or sometimes, nightmare) ends. If, in fact, my dreams are a metaphorical representation of some truth about my life that my subconscious mind is trying to let go of, to solve, or to find some resolution for, then I certainly don’t want to face those kinds of issues in such bizarre ways during my waking hours, too!

In fact, I love, yes, LOVE, the stable, predictable, routine of my life. I love the absolute assurance that zombies will not arise in apocalyptic rebellion, that I won’t awake to find spacecraft the size of Rhode Island hovering in the sky over my house, that flying dragons aren’t going to torch our neighborhood, that the stairs I climb aren’t going to, suddenly, move or change direction of their own accord, and that there aren’t ogres, orcs or other horrible demons lurking in our National Parks, or skirting the freeways we frequently travel! Surely, in real life, mankind has already assumed the roles, or created the equal, to most of these nightmares. I don’t wish for my cuckoo dreams to come true, and add to the craziness, and for that matter, I don’t wish for anyone else’s dreams (or nightmares) either!

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I have loved the dream of a dream as much as anyone! I have wished on stars, and at wishing wells. I have hoped for fairy tale endings, and for magical moments in my life. I will always have a tender spot in my heart for the idea of magic and fairy tales. But I prefer they remain in the “dream world” of storybooks and imagination, and not become part of my reality.

We should take great care in what we wish for, because sometimes what we wish for we get.

As I was contemplating my kooky dreams this morning, I felt immense gratitude for true “magic,” which is not nearly as enchantingly magical in imagination as it is in real life.

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My newest granddaughter. A sweet miracle.

My tiny, new granddaughter is a miracle of creation. Wondering about the sphere she left behind to come to earth, the intricate beauty of her tiny little fingers and toes, her beating heart, downy soft skin, the scent of newness in the small of her neck, her spirit awakening to earth life and the immediate and unconditional love of family—are these not magical?

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My granddaughter and her newborn son. Heaven on earth.

Walking a shady wooded area with my eldest daughter, the sunshine beating down from high in the heavens, warming our hearts and our shoulders from the chill in the air, birds dipping and soaring overhead, the bright blue blossoms off the side of the path that had sprung into existence, bringing us joy—are these not wonders and mysteries?

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Walking a peaceful trail at Oak Glen with my daughter, Thalia

The laughter of children, the hugs and greatness of their love, the joy beaming from their faces, the potential brimming in their souls—are these not dreams that have come true, or are worthy of coming true?

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Our son, Jesse, and his twin daughters.  Unbounded Joy!

Even though I love Disney movies, when I think about the lyrics from Disney’s original animated movie “Cinderella”…

“A dream is a wish your heart makes when you’re fast asleep…”

…I hope with all my heart that those words will never be true of the vast majority of my nighttime dreams!

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“Dreamers” by Albert Joseph Moore

The hopes, dreams, and aspirations of my waking, daylight hours are much more charming, enduring, worthwhile, real, and hopeful than anything I’ve experienced in my sleep. Born of beauty, knowledge, joy, and a clear vision of life, and brightened by the promise of Eternal Truths and Saving Grace, my “dreams” for the future and beyond subdue and trample those less worthily conjured by a reckless imagination at night.

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Baby Blue Eyes – the delightful  blossoms we spied just off our path

I choose to place my hope and dreams in promises such as this:

“Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him.”

1 Corinthians 2:9

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End Piece

©April 7, 2017

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, dear friends, for reading.


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Planned Serendipity?

 

This post is dedicated to the memory of my wonderful father, Joseph Culotta, who passed away on August 1, 2016.

Blog Post #43

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ser·en·dip·i·ty

ˌserənˈdipədē/

noun

 1. the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

 My First Blog Post EVER!

There are certain serendipitous scenarios that you just can’t set up in advance, no matter how much scheming you do, nor how badly you want things to turn out exactly as you imagine them. In fact, to “set up,” scheme, or plan anything is the antithesis of serendipity, because serendipity, by definition, involves chance.

 

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My father, Joseph Culotta, Photographer’s Mate 2nd Class, United States Naval Air,           1942-1946

My father, the late Joseph Culotta, served as a naval photographer in World War II. He attended the Naval Training School of Photography in Pensacola, Florida where he labored to memorize all that was required for his area of expertise.  He developed a strong habit of memorization starting at an early age. (See blog post #2 “The True Measure of a Man.”) While stationed at the Naval Air Station in Bermuda, he spent much of his free time in the library memorizing poetry.

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After the war ended, my father (“Daddy”) went on a road trip with friends. Evening approached, and one of the other passengers—looking for an opportunity to show-off—pointed out the setting sun off in the western sky and asked if any of the other fellows in the car (including my father) knew what “refraction” was. At first, Daddy acted as if he didn’t know anything about it (his photography training eagerly churning in the back of his mind). Just as the other guy opened his mouth to enlighten everyone about refraction as it related to the setting sun, word-for-word Daddy interjected the following. “Oh.…you mean ‘the deflection of a ray of light upon entering a transparent medium at an oblique angle, or bending of light when passing from one medium to another of different density?’” He recited this (as he later did countless times throughout his lifetime) with the same uninterrupted, rote speed and tonal quality characteristic of something entirely ingrained in one’s memory.

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Daddy’s notes on Refraction from his photo school journal .

The man was so surprised by Daddy’s impromptu recitation he begged to know how my father did that! When Daddy explained he had memorized that definition while in Naval Photography School, the man decided he wanted to choose the definition of a word to memorize so he could pull that on someone else. The man chose “viscosity” as his word. My father told us later that he thought the circumstances were too unusual for a similar opportunity to arise like that again. He felt that his traveling companion would be disappointed in his scheme, because you couldn’t hope to plan for that kind of serendipitous stunt. Happily, for my father the stars had aligned and he had taken advantage of that unique set of circumstances.

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Daddy in his convertible after the war

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It is this unique set of circumstances to which I refer when I said that you cannot set-up in advance certain scenarios—no matter how much scheming you do. I believe there’s truth in the phrase, “The best laid plans … often go awry!” (Robert Burns)

Many years ago, my family of seven (my husband, Brad, our five children, and I) were on a road trip together with my sister, Karen, and her six children.  We drove two vehicles, one of which was a truck pulling a fifth wheel trailer, and the other, a large van with three rows of benches and two front seats. The eleven children took turns riding in the cab of the truck with Brad, but mostly the two eldest children (my daughter, Thalia, and my sister’s daughter, Bridey) claimed that privilege. The rest of us were crammed in Karen’s big blue van, appropriately named “Big Uggs.”

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A small portion of the family piling into “Big Uggs”

One of the stops on our trip was the Grand Tetons in Wyoming. My sister had been there before, and had a vivid memory of rounding a bend and seeing those magnificent mountains suddenly appear before her eyes. Completely moved by that experience, she wanted to recreate the same inspirational effect for the children (and for me). To add to the effect, we chose to play music that would build and climax at the precise moment when the mountains appeared like a vision before our eyes. (Just the way it always happens in the movies.) The main theme in the soundtrack to the movie, “The Man from Snowy River,” was our music of choice. (I should probably add that this was during the days prior to compact discs, MP3 players, or Bluetooth connections. Cassette tapes had to be re-wound or fast-forwarded—like a video tape—to find the desired location. Unless you had a counter on your machine, you had no idea where to stop the tape to find the song you wanted.)

 

There we were, driving along, following a map, (no GPS in those days, either), and as we approached a bend in the road at the approximate location we thought the mountain range would appear, we’d call out to the children to “Look!” Quickly we rewound the tape,—the  violins building in crescendo to a fever pitch, the French horns ready to signal,—and as we rounded the bend…..nothing. No mountains. Just more road and more of the same scenery on both sides of the road. “Quick! Stop the tape!” one of us would call out. We rewound again, preparing for the next bend in the road —the correct bend.

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This is what we expected to see around the bend: The Snake River with the Grand Tetons in the background.

And another bend soon came! Again, we called to the children, the tape went on—violins building toward the magnificent view. And….nothing. We repeated this scenario perhaps a half-dozen times or more. We heard those violins brace themselves for the climax over and over again (we became quite intuitive as to when to stop rewinding the tape at the perfect place).

Finally, after rounding every bend, the Tetons appeared way off in the distance, like piles of small, jagged rocks, gradually growing larger as we bridged the miles that spanned the distance between us. It was as opposite an experience from that imagined as possible. We let the rest of the tape play out. After the second or third “Look!” the children had tuned us out anyway.

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Although I can’t remember now, this is probably more like what we saw (which, granted, is still absolutely MAGNIFICENT!)

At last, Karen concluded that her initial introduction to the Tetons must have come from a different direction or perhaps from a different road (possibly because she had flown into the area and had arrived in a shuttle). We had to resign ourselves to having made a valiant attempt on behalf of our children—all of whom sat obliviously happy in the back seats (drawing, laughing, talking, singing, and playing together) totally unaware of our desire for them  to regard, with breathless anticipation, the experience we had attempted to orchestrate…that never happened.

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What we envisioned seeing (even though it was long before sunset).

 

Countless are the times I’ve tried to rehearse exactly the right thing to say or do only to have it completely backfire on me. I might lay the blame on my inability to predict the reactions of others, my ignorance of human nature, or my failure to be poised for action at the moment when the stars align.  As I ponder this enigma, I think it all boils down to the idea that you simply can’t plan for unique events that appear like bursts of serendipity sent down from above.

However, I do believe it is completely possible for one to plan and create moments that are special—that are beautiful, touching, emotionally charged (in a good way), and that may be remembered for a lifetime. It takes thought, planning, effort, presence, and a smattering of joy to create an enchanting moment, be it a dinner with friends, a wedding or birthday celebration, a community event, or even more beautiful–a special moment with a child.

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Still, I think you cannot re-create, or manufacture, unique moments that first occur as serendipitous, once-in-a-lifetime occasions. When the stars align, when the heavens open, and when your life preparation unites with the moment, that’s the time to be grateful you were at the right place at the right time.

One more thought….which may shoot down the entire premise of this post.  As I think about that little scheme we set-up during our trip to the Tetons, it was, in its own way, a serendipitous event. We didn’t achieve the desired result, but our bumbling attempt to create a stirring, unforgettable moment was, in many respects, achieved.  The outcome was, in its own right, something we’ve remembered and laughed about for years on end. And isn’t that, in itself a unique little bit of serendipity?

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This photo shows a few members of our family rafting on the Snake River together. The others are in the part of the raft you can’t see.  (That’s me in the back on the left.) You can see the Tetons in the background. 

I’ll leave you to sort this all out. Obviously, I haven’t succeeded.

I sincerely hope you are able to find serendipitous joy when your schemes to create or recreate some wonderful event turn out differently than you had, at first, hoped. If you were chasing rainbows, and found one that was upside down …. well, what could be more serendipitous than discovering a giant smile in the sky?

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An upside-down rainbow (circumzenithal arc)

My First Blog Post EVER!

End Piece

© September 6, 2016

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, dear Friends, for reading.


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The Volunteer

Blog Post #41

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Mojave Desert

This year, our otherwise fruitful garden looks more like the Mojave Desert. After much deliberating, my husband, Brad, chose not to plant his favored vegetable garden because of the amount of water it would require during a time of serious drought. Reluctantly, he sacrificed his annual indulgence of thick, red, juicy slices of homegrown garden tomatoes to go on his homemade bread spread with a generous layer of homemade basil pesto. We still have the bread and pesto, but let’s face it—eating a grocery store tomato is like biting into a bar of soap. I was sad when he told me his plans, because I know how he looks forward to this summer delicacy each year, often eating his healthy, tomato-y treat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all in the same day!

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A few months ago, our grandson, Max, came to do some yardwork and weed the neglected garden plot. As I was showing him what he needed to pull-up, we found a small tomato plant had pushed its way up through the soil and was competing with the weeds for sun and for the gentle showers that were the gift of Kind Providence throughout the winter and spring. I put a stake in the ground next to the little volunteer tomato plant to identify it, and told Max to pull up everything but the tomato. I was excited to show it to Brad when he got home from work!  However, it’s hard to beat “Nature’s Son” when it comes to anything having to do with the natural world. He had spotted it long before I did.

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Hobble Creek Canyon, Springville, Utah

I’m not sure why I thought I could see it first. Eons ago, when we were dating, Brad would be driving up Hobble Creek Canyon in Utah at forty miles per hour, and would point to a mountainside from here to the North Pole, exclaiming, “See those deer on the side hill?” I’d strain my eyes in the general direction he pointed. I saw the mountain all right; I saw trees in abundance, but no deer. Squinting like an utterly bewildered four-year-old intently focused on the night sky at the end of her dad’s pointed finger as she tried to locate Cassiopeia, I’d say with frustration, “WHERE?”  To which he’d once again point in the general direction of Lake Erie and cry, “Those little white things—on the side hill!” “NO! I don’t see them!” I’d cry, desperate, now.  “There!” he’d announce with greater intensity and heightened pitch. Again, I’d stare wild-eyed at the mountain looking for the white things, with one eye wandering (like ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody) toward the road—since someone needed to look at it. Finally, after whizzing by that blur of mountainside, he’d back up the Ford Bronco and pull to the side of the road.

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Old Ford Bronco similar to the one Brad drove

After ten more minutes of straining, at last, I could see the teeny-tiny, spots that were deer way off in the distance, their little white tails sticking up in alarm—as if they knew Mr. Telescope Eyes had caught them in the act of bathing. I marveled each time this happened. (I came to realize his eyes were sharp enough and trained enough to spy those bitty camouflaged specks of deer on the mountain while watching the road at the same time. I don’t know how he did it, but he did it dozens and dozens of times.)

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Lone mule deer on side hill. Imagine trying to locate this deer with the state of Vermont between you and the mountainside.

And I thought he hadn’t seen the little tomato plant….

The Volunteer

 

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The Volunteer

 

As I washed dishes, I watched the little tomato plant from the kitchen window. Moved by its courageous efforts, I went out to admire its deepening red fruit. It stood there, alone, but triumphant in that deserted garden—a monument to the strength and tenacity of a lone, little seed. The thing that most touched me was that this little plant had volunteered. It hadn’t been carefully coddled as a seedling, nor had it been transplanted like a start from a nursery. Someone else had not made the decision. It had sprung up of its own accord, against the odds, amidst neglect, and among weeds that were strangers and competitors of all it required to thrive. Not only did the little tomato plant forge onward and upward, alone in the world, it spread its leaves out and gathered in the rays of the sun, amassing strength and power to benefit its fledgling roots, asking nothing of anyone, and defying naysayers. That would be enough to admire, but that’s not all. This little volunteer is producing fruit. I counted twenty-eight tomatoes in various stages of development on its branches last evening. It volunteered in order to bless others—in a sense, the ultimate sacrifice: to give its life for its friends.

 

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A second volunteer

As I walked back toward the house with my camera in hand, pondering the little tomato plant, I noticed another volunteer. Bedecked in brightly colored regalia, it called to me to notice its offering—that of beauty and cheer. I smiled as I crouched down to take its picture. Living up to its name, little Johnny Jump-up had done just that. I realize some consider this little viola a weed because it springs up readily all over the place and with very little assistance. I see it as one of those volunteers who, tiny as it is, spreads its exuberance and optimism in the least likely places—growing just as well in topsoil as in cracks in the cement. I welcome its offering and praise its purple badge of courage for forging ahead –smiling in the face of the danger presented by its location in the sidewalk.

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I walked through the rest of the yard and was surprised to discover other characters who had long been there, but whose alter egos I hadn’t discovered before.

The Encroacher

 

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The Encroacher

All along the walls of our backyard are encroachers—vines that began growing in someone else’s yard, then gradually, stealthily, snuck-up on ours. They have now climbed and spread their leafy tentacles over the wall. Repeatedly we’ve cut them back, but without regard for our wishes, they continue to march over the wall like another wave of infantry ready for combat on the field of battle. They are determined, and ruthless, weakening the fence on the east until it has taken to leaning, and creeping onto and over the ground on the south. They care not for what we think, or what we want. I resent their pushiness. It’s not as if they’re volunteers—springing up from the ground from a forgotten seed like our little tomato.  No, they’re well-established old-timers—“The Good Ol’ Boys” of the plant world—who, with their cronies, push their network of intolerant “plantism” into our yard where they’re completely unwanted.

The Fighters

 

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The Fighters

In the yard, there’s an old, cement fountain bowl that my father made four decades ago, but cast aside because it wasn’t perfectly round in shape. (I say cast aside, not threw away. There’s a difference. My parents were of the depression era mindset that you don’t throw things away.) In time, my mother filled that old fountain with dirt and planted it with succulent plants and cacti. It sat for years in the corner of the yard on the kitchen side.

When Brad and I moved home a decade after my mother’s passing, I relegated the failing fountain succulent planter to the opposite end of the yard, filled it with fresh dirt and planted it with a variety of pretty flowers and greenery. It looked beautiful that first season, but the drought and heat took their toll and all of the plants died. I thought.

I found that each spring, drought or not, up pop these lovely little purple dwarf flowers  (Nierembergia Caerula) in a corner of the ring. They pay no heed to their location on the nether side of the yard, near the basketball court where they’re bound to get pounded at times, and where water comes in small increments—especially in that old cement bowl. They stand up shouting for respect—respect for their resilience, for their determination to survive, and for their beauty. And deservedly so. They’ve fought root and stem for their right to survive and I applaud their perseverance and admire their beauty!

The Pleasers

 

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The Pleaser

My artichoke plants have really worked hard to please. It isn’t their fault that they were planted in the middle of an ant metropolis, or that they were planted just when we were learning how expensive water is in our community, or how serious the drought had become. And it certainly isn’t their fault that their husbandmen were inexperienced with artichokes and did not know how to take better care of them so their fruit would be moist and tender. They have given their all to produce. They’ve grown to enormous proportions, producing more than twenty artichokes on a single plant. They are amazing! Unfortunately, they are tough to eat, even when picked young. Artichokes can be a labor-intensive dish to prepare (the way my mother taught me is labor intensive, but delicious). After trying to cultivate, harvest and prepare them several years in a row, I have now retired our artichoke plants.

But they are Pleasers. Brad cuts them down to the ground, and they immediately begin growing back with large and flourishing leaves. Soon more artichokes appear. I look at them and sigh. Right now, with the dynamics of our lives, I don’t have the time, energy or patience to wrestle with those tough, spiky, ant-beridden buds only to be disappointed by their toughness. Being the pleasers they are, they don’t give up there. No! After growing to the size of softballs, the buds open up their pointed petals, and begin to produce the most beautiful, soft to the touch, lavender flowers related to the thistle family. Showy? Yes! Worth the wait? Absolutely! They found a way to please—if not epicuriously, then by appealing to one’s sense of mystery, beauty and art.

The Old Stalwart

 

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The Old Stalwart

Walking back toward the house, I stopped and contemplated the great, old Peruvian Peppertree casting its cooling shade umbrella-like over the patio. For close to fifty years it has stood firm and immovable, enduring years of plenty, and years of neglect (during which time my elderly father mourned the loss of my mother), as well as undergoing hefty pruning over the decades. The Old Stalwart created a beautiful canopy for our eldest daughter’s wedding reception twenty years ago, and now, protects my father’s great-grandchildren who play under its branches from the searing rays of the sun. With quiet dignity, it stands apart, a giant beacon of hope, strength, and endurance.  It is both mighty, and serene. It is friend, and grandfather, and it is beautiful to me—like an old friend.

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Each time I walk through the yard—even though relentlessly affected by drought, or maybe because of it—I see our garden in a new way. Mother Nature’s creations are not wimpy, or cowering, but endure with a strength and resilience that demand respect and inspire awe.

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Stopping once more to gaze with admiration at The Volunteer, I am flooded with gratitude to that little tomato plant. I wonder if the seedlings from which it sprang have infused within their DNA the hours of tender-loving nurturing and care Brad gave their parent plants, and are returning the favor in kind. I think Brad will relish every single bite of those precious few tomatoes this year, and they will be the sweetest, most precious ever because they were freely offered!

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“Freely ye have received, freely give.” (Matthew 10:8)

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Einstein Quote

The True Measure of a Man

End Piece

© June 3, 2016

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, dear Friends, for reading.


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“Dwell in Possibility”

 (It has been months since I’ve posted, and I find I must write—something…anything! So here goes…)

Blog Post #35

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I dwell in possibility.” – Emily Dickinson

pos·si·bil·i·ty

ˌpäsəˈbilədē/

noun

  1. a thing that may happen or be the case.
  • ” the state or fact of being likely or possible; likelihood.
  • “a thing that may be chosen or done out of several possible alternatives.

My First Blog Post EVER!

I have always associated Possibility with positive things—with the hope for better things waiting just around the corner. However, it occurs to me that Possibility also has a negative or dark side to it. A prophet of old once said, *“For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things.” It makes sense, then, that Possibility, like “The Force,” has both a good side and a dark side.

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Darth Possibility sometimes sneaks up from behind, or lies hidden around a corner, waiting to startle or take you by surprise (e.g. a loved one discovers he or she has cancer). Sometimes, Darth Possibility lurks in the shadows of time, and surreptitiously tosses a banana peel in your path causing you to slip and fall (e.g. an unexpected job loss). Sometimes, Darth Possibility stealthily eases through the backstage door, and waits in the wings. Then, disregarding any cues, descends on center stage, villain-like, upstaging all other bewildered actors, playing a loudly dramatic role, then swiftly exits, flourishing its black cape for effect (e.g. the untimely death of a loved one). Darth Possibility likes to throw around its weight, employing other often ill-mannered cohorts from The Dark Side: Probability, Risk, and Consequence, to deal their hands into the game called Life.

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When things seem their blackest, Darth Possibility’s kin, Possibility Skywalker, appears and opens a portal to hope. I have noticed that Possibility Skywalker is so powerful that even the tiniest pinprick of the light he carries within him can obliterate the fear of the Dark Side. But one must carry the light saber of faith to ward off Darth Possibility’s depressing influence. Possibility Skywalker is like a bright shoulder angel reminding you that you can get through whatever comes. He whispers that there are always opportunities for learning and growth buried within each trial, and urges you on a quest to seek out the beauty and joy amidst the difficult. He fans the flame of courage in the face of affliction, and shows you that you may rise up and conquer fear and despair. He spreads a feast on your table, encouraging you to taste a variety of flavors, rather than remain in a rut of mediocrity and melancholy.

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When you step out your door and encounter the unknown faces of Possibility, pay attention—you may be surprised to hear birds singing,  to see white puffy clouds floating by, and flowers blooming abundantly around you—as if the whole world is oblivious to the hard things that are happening in your world. How many battles have taken place on a meadow where birds sang, and the sun shone brightly–where men fought, lost in a mindset of war, while carefree birds dipped and soared around the melee?

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When death is at the door, both Darth Possibility and Possibility Skywalker rest comfortably on a porch swing nearby, waiting. Good can come from even the very throes of death itself. In a very real sense, that which we embrace–the dark side or the light side of Possibility–depends very largely on our own choices, and what we decide to do when that moment of reckoning comes.

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Recently, my father was staying in a rehab center after breaking his femur, and I was feeling particularly overwhelmed by Darth Possibility. I walked out of the door to head home for lunch, and was stunned at the brightness and beauty of that winter day! Surely, those twittering birds didn’t understand that my father was feeling despondent about his situation inside that building I had just exited. Those happy children and adults laughing and playing at the park nearby, whose voices wafted to me on the winds of hope, had to be unaware of my mental, physical, and emotional fatigue, or else they wouldn’t have had the nerve to engage in such activity! Or were they really the many faces of Possibility Skywalker coming to save the day? The looming question was: Would I allow myself to be rescued, or would I choose to wallow in the oppressive grip of Darth Possibility? The tall Palms lining the drive of the nursing home stood stately and firm; their rustling fronds professed that nothing had changed. Not really. “Life goes on. Joy continues all around. Stand firm, and wait on the Lord,” they whispered. “In His time, all will be resolved. Look up and be of good cheer.” I could choose to partake of that joy, no matter what other turmoil may be churning within or around me, or I could choose to ignore that joy—relegating it to a shelf marked “someday” or “never.” That the joy was always there, I have no doubt. That I had but to embrace it, and allow it to soothe my aching heart was entirely up to me.

I chose Joy.

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I have discovered that Possibility Skywalker may at any moment rush in and save the day. Just when you may think all is lost, new and transcendent light obliterates the darkness and wonderful new Possibilities appear, if we’ll let them! We always have the freedom to choose which side we will indulge, or with whom we will ally ourselves.

We all “dwell in Possibility.” Which side do you choose ?

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Note – During November and December 2015, our family experienced all of the previously mentioned events: my beloved sister discovered she had cancer which took her life in a mere two weeks from the diagnosis, my son-in-law lost his job, and my 92-year-old father fell and broke his femur. Through divine inspiration, I was told to find joy during these difficulties, and I took that counsel to heart. It has made all the difference. I’m happy to report that joy is everywhere, and “everywhen.” Whenever something hard and heartbreaking happens, joy and hope are as probable and possible as depression and despair, if we will choose them. Worry and fear never accomplish anything–they are disabling. Joy and faith, however, are enabling. Since these events took place, we still mourn the loss of my wonderful sister, Karen—we miss her greatly—but we move forward in faith and hope in the atonement of Jesus Christ and in the knowledge that we will be together again. My son-in-law started a new job that promises a fresh start for their whole family, and my father has completed rehab and is home again. He is improving a little each day, and we are finding new manifestations of joy along the way as we walk in the Light of Possibility.

*2 Nephi 2:11

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Copyright February 9, 2016 

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, dear Friends, for reading.


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Drawing a Blank

Blog Post #30

A blank mind. A blank page. Both suggest one has nothing to say. While appearing to be intrinsically the same, I’m convinced that they are positively different.

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A BLANK MIND.

I’m especially dumb (as in the dictionary definition: unable to speak) when relying solely on my mouth to communicate. A monumental disconnect forms a gaping canyon along the neural route between the plethora of thoughts in my brain and my bumbling mouth. As articulate words attempt to cross the synaptic bridge of neurons spanning the chasm, they topple into oblivion, leaving me speechless—drawing a total blank. A blank mind. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t speak. Oh-ho-ho! No, indeed! I speak because it’s expected, and to fill the void, but a lot of nonsense often ensues. I must make a conscious and focused effort to say something of value. On one such rare occasion, a rather profound sentence–which has become my byword–emerged victorious: “I can say nothing in a million words.” And there you have it. My First Blog Post EVER! A blank mind isn’t always unwelcome. Frequent are the times I think without realizing I am thinking. It requires difficult and deliberate effort to focus my thoughts, but in general, thinking is an involuntary function. I’m grateful I don’t have to think to make my heart beat, or to breathe, that my brain is at work 24/7, whether I’m aware of it or not. The fact is I can’t seem to shut my thoughts off, even when I most want to. ill_pg_044_lg Two-thirty in the morning is the worst time for cognitive awareness—what I call the “twilight hours” of the brain. I am beyond counting the number of nights I have lain awake thinking. Sometimes, twilight thoughts merely annoy, distract, and burden with reminders of what I did or didn’t do that day, or what I need to remember to do the next. Other times, they plague me with an itchy pox of unanswered questions, or magnified views of my faults and failings in a relentless and irritating way. Thoughts often torment once I move from the vertical to the horizontal position, morphing innocuous, productive ideas into destructive, unsettling—sometimes frightening—nightmares. We all experience nightmares during sleep from time to time, but “awake-mares” can be even worse. There is a greater sense of credibility to these tormenting thoughts, as I lie wide awake when I should be fast asleep. When I’m startled awake by a nightmare, I can shake it off, saying it was only a bad dream, but when I’m awake in the dark of night and my thoughts shift from annoyance to torment, it’s difficult to separate what is true from what isn’t. I’m not sure why this happens, except, perhaps, that I am so tired, my mind can’t think rationally anymore.

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“The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters” by Goya

Twilight thinking occurs during a state of limbo between waking and sleeping, fluctuating between reality and fiction. It is at these times, I long to flip a switch in my brain and shut off thought altogether!  A blank mind would be a welcome relief. I have found prayer the only means of deliverance from this state—crawling out of bed during the wee hours to kneel by my bedside and ask for help turning off the incessant drone of faithless thoughts. Fear is nearly always tangled-up in twisted twilight thoughts, which is why faith in God is the necessary antidote. “Faith and fear cannot coexist in our hearts at the same time,” said Elder Neil L. Andersen. I’ve found this to be true. Once faith conquers fear, my mind is eased and I am able to drift into a sleep of blank-minded sweetness (only to discover I finally fell asleep a half-hour before my alarm was set to go off).

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A System of Elocution, with Special Reference to Gesture, to the Treatment of Stammering, and Defective Articulation (1846) by Andrew Comstock

A blank mind may occur at other times, too—times less welcome than in the middle of the night—namely, any other hour of the day. It is helpful to have intelligent, worthwhile thoughts when one is awake. These can lead to intelligent, worthwhile conversation and discourse. Having the thoughts is one thing, expressing them verbally is another. When it comes to speaking, I am a slow processor. It does not necessarily follow to believe that a person who is skilled in, and enjoys writing, is also adept as a spontaneous speaker. In most cases, impromptu speech comes clumsily to me. If I am expected to answer a question, make intelligent remarks, or add to a conversation with any degree of clarity, I often have to contend with a blankness equal, or exceeding, that of a king-sized, white bed sheet. My hands, almost by necessity, must be involved if I have anything at all to say. They fly about in direct proportion to the intensity and strength of my motivation, but they do not (I repeat: DO NOT) in any way, assist my mouth in fluency of speech. It is only when my hands themselves are directly related to the creation of the words that they wax eloquent. I suppose if my fingers shriveled up and fell off, I would essentially, be left speechless. This leads me to the other “blank,” that of the blank page. 433099854_39c0d130c9_o

A BLANK PAGE.

Many people consider a blank page daunting—the blankness prompting questions such as, “Where do I start?” or “What do I say?” Writer’s block, artist’s block, and other forms of blankness may cause anxiety, and delay progress. For many, a blank page is as unwelcome as a blank mind. A blank page may even trigger a blank mind, or vice versa. 2bcfc60e72daf7116600c0b6ee6aebad To me, a blank page stands in direct contrast to a blank mind. A blank page flashes with opportunity, freedom, articulation, and countless other possibilities. A blank page shouts, “Just start, and see where it takes you!” My First Blog Post EVER! A physically blank page usually requires some type of physical contact by a hand-held medium—the use of paints, or a ballpoint pen. (A virtual blank page, such as a computer screen, may allow for voice activated commands, but that places me right back at square one with blank-mindedness.) When my hands become involved with the blank page—touching a keyboard, or holding a pencil—my neural network kicks into gear, bypassing my dysfunctional mouth, getting right to work. Suddenly, I am able to make coherent statements, and clear analogies. My hands, instinctively, know how to transmit and translate a madcap assortment of thoughts into a form that makes sense, sorting the superfluous from the necessary, the ridiculous from the practical, and the idiotic from the profound. download Sometimes, my hands begin typing and I’m surprised to see what they will say! I’m not kidding. As each sentence unfolds, I discover things I didn’t know I knew, or find new insights I had not consciously thought about before. Somehow, the connection flowing between mind and hands engages my spirit, causing a discernible ink of language to appear on what was, moments before, the blank, white bed sheet of my mind. I learn when I write. Words I didn’t know that I knew appear on the page. After checking with the dictionary, I am surprised and delighted to find I had used them correctly and in context. Sometimes, I discover what I really think about things, I find reaffirmations of my beliefs, and resurrected knowledge appearing before my eyes.  I find joy in the written word. Language is a gift and is beautiful—I’m speaking of virtuous, uplifting, worthy language. Sure, a commonplace, counterfeit, vulgar variety of language is always out there, but I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about elevated intelligence flowing into one’s spirit, enlightening and filling with joy. notebook-paper-pencil-drawing-sketch-bird-draw Language isn’t the only way to fill a blank page. My heart takes wing when drawing, sketching and creating beautiful images with pencil and paint. Swirling hues and tints in a kaleidoscopic rainbow of color add to the joy, and heighten expression. Sometimes, black and white and subtle shades of gray are required to express truth. Equally worthy to spreading joy and hope, is the expression of truth, virtue, and beauty. These form the epitome of worthy expression. Filling a blank page with things that drag down and depress may express truth, but do little to fill someone’s cup, and elevate their soul. images The same is true of a blank sheet of music manuscript paper, a silent musical instrument, an empty stage, or other worthy possibilities of expression. 2d434d834dc0b979b8c5546482e18757vk7gF Blankness is paradoxical. On the one hand, a blank page, or a blank mind, signifies muteness, while on the other hand, the same signifies an opportunity for expression. Blankness signifies an impediment, as well as a doorway to possibility. Blankness also signifies a source of anxiety, and a path to peace. This morning, I sat down to a blank page with my mind blank as to what would fill it. I let my fingers touch the keys, and watched what unfolded. It’s always exciting to see what the blank page will teach me. muscari-114577_640

If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft, and from thy slender store Two loaves alone to thee are left, Sell one, and with the dole Buy Hyacinths to feed thy Soul.

– Muslihuddin Sadi,  13th Century Persian Poet

© July 15, 2015

© July 15, 2015

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, dear friends, for reading.


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Painting the Roses Red

Blog Post #29

As Alice explored Wonderland, she happened upon three gardeners in the form of playing cards busily painting the queen’s white roses red. When she asked them why they did this, they explained that they had planted white roses by mistake, and were frantically attempting to conceal the error with red paint before the queen found out, lest they lose their heads.

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The image of the playing cards painting the white roses red sprang into my mind a few days ago, as I took stock of my 60-year-old image in the mirror. After conflicting emotions, and months of deliberation, I had decided to stop painting the white roses red. (More accurately, I decided to stop painting the white roots brown.) I couldn’t help but see the comparison. I applied paint hoping to camouflage the white “roses” lest someone noticed they were white instead of red. I’m not sure who would care that the roses weren’t red, or who I thought I was fooling…the only person I can think of is—well, me. I am short at only five-feet, one-inch tall. Anyone even a hair (no pun intended) taller than I could easily detect shimmering silver peeping through unnaturally dark locks atop my head. Most people are too polite to say anything—most, that is, but not all. Twenty years ago, when I was barely forty, a young fellow who stood two heads taller than I detected the shimmer, and with stunned candor, announced to the world (at least, the world inside our house) “you have gray hair!” At that point, I may not have lost my head, but I remember that I lost my composure. I didn’t know how to respond to that, and shrank into silent embarrassment. I had been “found out!” I would have found it no less disconcerting if he had yelled, “Off with her head!”

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For many women, aging means a buffet of life-changes in multiple courses, many of which are sometimes difficult to swallow. Oddly enough, the Smorgasbord of life begins with a feast of desserts! Sweet and palatable, Youth is oblivious to the effects of age, coming with a devil-may-care attitude, a sense of indestructibility, and of time standing still. As one grows into young adulthood, one eases into appetizer trays rich with deep-fried flavor, unhampered by worries of clogged arteries, or muffin tops. Following earlier, carefree times are meat and potato entrées that may consist of choosing a companion, furthering one’s education, pursuing a career, and the responsibilities of family life. A jog around the block pushing a stroller keeps one fit and one’s thoughts far from the vultures of time and gravity waiting patiently to pounce on the carrion of one’s future. One’s thoughts may wander to advanced age, but possibly only in reference to asking grandparents to babysit. Middle age is the time for salads and smoothies—watching what one eats, and guarding one’s health. Finally, during advanced years, one dines on entrails (innards). Awareness of the aging process becomes more difficult to ignore during the entrails course since as one gets older, one’s bodily counterparts to innards tend to become more outspoken. In addition, evidence of other aging issues may be hard to swallow—even when “painted red” by tucking, squeezing, dying, exercising, studying, meditating, or moisturizing. Body shape and size, hair, skin, attitude, behavior, mental acuity, physical capacity, and other sundry changes are inevitabilities of life, leaving bare chicken bones and crumbs from the feast on the plate for one to shiver at with dismay.

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The truth of what I once was, outwardly—a lithe, fair-skinned brunette—is not quite the truth of what, outwardly, I am now. Traces of the past remain, even though, from a distance, one may not see significant alterations. Up close, the telltale signs are flashing in neon. It is hard to avoid the persistent work of time and gravity over the years—evidenced in wrinkles, lines, discolorations, sags, and so on. The mirror reveals the truth bluntly and without the least bit of sensitivity, especially in broad daylight. By evening, the mirror is kinder, but only because the sun in its time of setting paints the light into a soft and rosy hue. (Ah! It appears that as each day ages, the setting sun has sympathy on other aging things, and paints the roses red!)

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During a discussion with my oral hygienist one morning, she declared that of all the changes that come with aging, the loss of pigment is the saddest for her. (She was referring, of course, to her hair.) My reply to this was, “I haven’t lost my pigment. It has relocated: from my head to spots on my face.” We laughed about it, but it is one of the unsettling facts of life that aging has a way of shifting things around, such as pigment, muscle tone, and the “F” word: FAT.  Although my weight is the same as what it was in my youth, how it is distributed is startling and a bit discomfiting. Even dendrites—the neural networks of the brain—are sometimes rearranged or reduced in number and efficiency, wreaking all sorts of havoc for some poor aging souls.

We talk about ‘growing old gracefully,’ but what does that really mean? Is it referring to one’s appearance, one’s mental or emotional state, or one’s behavior? I suspect, all.

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It is, precisely, the question of how one grows old gracefully that prompted my thoughts about painting the roses red. As I stared at my image in the unforgiving mirror, I asked, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, where is the girl who, once, I saw?”

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The glaring feature prompting this chant was my hair. Truthfully, I was never proud of this feature. My hair had always been dark brown and wildly curly—in a frizzy, windblown sort of way. When I was a teen, straight hair was in, and mine was not. I never ironed it, (though it was faddish to do so), nor did I do anything drastic like that, but I did go through time-consuming gyrations to smooth and straighten it out. Inheriting genes for prematurely gray hair, at age fifteen, I held a single strand between my fingers, announcing to my peers, “Look! A blonde hair!” That’s when the mindset that led to ‘painting the roses red’ began. I was in denial, even as a teen. In my early thirties, I was appalled to see myself in a photograph wearing whitish earmuffs on either side of my face around the area of my temples. I wasn’t ready to be gray by thirty-five, so I began the unhappy task of painting the roses red. I didn’t want to be a blonde, or a redhead. I was happy just being what I had always been: a brunette.

After thirty years of applying layer over layer of my “natural” color to mask the gray, (no salon for me—I did it myself), I found I was finally sick and tired of being a slave to white roots. They are persistent and devious—making paparazzi appearances at the least opportune times. Standing in front of the mirror, I wondered if I had strayed from the graceful path of aging. Is covering gray, or accepting it for what it is, considered graceful? I’m not sure I know the answer to that question; one must answer that question for oneself. I do believe growing old gracefully encompasses physical, mental, emotional and behavioral aspects of oneself. I have always envisioned it as meaning one gratefully accepts the inevitable, and makes the most of each blessed day of life—living optimistically, fully, joyfully, and trusting in the eternal plan of a loving Heavenly Father.

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In response to my idea of gracefully aging, I believe it really doesn’t matter if one paints the roses red or not–especially if one finds joy in the process and outcome. Some might argue the “truth thing”—that one is hiding the truth, or deceiving others into believing one is what one is not. Really, now? Is it any different from wearing a little mascara, or blush, or from tanning creams, high-heeled shoes, or control-top pantyhose? A favorite author from my past said that ‘even a barn looked better painted,’ and that one should care enough about one’s appearance to repair broken fences, and add a coat of paint now and then. Who likes an eyesore? Part of taking care of one, and contributing to one’s self-respect is presenting oneself as clean, tidy, and well-groomed. For some, a spot of blush just might brighten one’s appearance and one’s outlook.

At any rate, and thankfully, hiding one’s silvery roots won’t cause one to lose one’s head! It causes me to wonder why it seems such a big deal in the first place—at least to some (including myself). Just as one gradually ages, I have decided to ease my way into my ‘natural’ hair color—or lack thereof. The beautician who cuts my hair, told me I am one of the “lucky ones”—that my roots are silvery white (thanks to my mother), not salt and pepper gray. This “easing into whiteness” will be a gradual process, so as not to shock anyone (most especially so as not to shock me). I will strip the roses of their red paint, and enjoy the beauty of the white roses. White roses have a beauty all their own, do they not? And a white rose, by any other color, will still smell as sweet.

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I will still be me. The me inside—my eternal spirit—still looks out of this aging shell of a body through sixteen year-old eyes. Perhaps therein we find the answer to the question of growing old gracefully. Perhaps growing old gracefully means living the truth of who and what you are within, no matter what alterations occur without. If this is the case, then growing old gracefully should begin in our youth, for shouldn’t we all live a life true to the values and attributes we cherish? Living true to one’s values means not allowing someone else to paint you red if you are truly white.

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I have begun the process of stripping the red paint from my white roses.  Just as one liberates and refinishes an old piece of furniture as one strips layers of chipping paint and faded stain gradually revealing a naturally beautiful wood grain quietly enduring underneath, there is, likewise, a liberating and refinishing quality in tossing out the ‘red’ paint, and relaxing into the ‘white’ reality shining through. Like Alice, one might ask why paint over the white roses in the first place. I might ask myself the same question. I’m not sure the answer is as clear to me as it was to the playing card gardeners. I hope I don’t react like the Queen of Hearts and shout, “Off with her [my] head!”  Perhaps a better question might be, will I come to appreciate and enjoy the white roses for their truth and beauty?

I like to think the answer will be ‘yes.’

© June 12, 2015

© June 12, 2015

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, dear friends, for reading.


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"Bridges"

Blog Post #15

bridge1
brij/
noun
noun: bridge; plural noun: bridges

1.    a structure carrying a road, path, railroad, or canal across a river, ravine, road, railroad, or other obstacle.
“a bridge across the river”
·       something that is intended to reconcile or form a connection between two things.


The other day, I passed a house that had a cute little footbridge spanning a faux rock creek bed in the front yard. After stopping to admire the scene for several seconds, I continued my errand, all the while wondering why the addition of the little wooden bridge made the scene so engaging, and if I would have even noticed that yard without it.


I think quaint, old, weathered bridges of wood or stone are charming and picturesque. Beginning in childhood, if I came upon a bridge—even if it was merely a flat slab of stone laid across a muddy flow mixed with rain-gutter run-off—I felt almost compelled to cross it, (provided it was wide enough for a generally klutzy person such as I to maneuver across without losing my balance and tumble into the mire). Let me note that a narrow, fallen log traversing a coursing river five or six feet above the waterflow does not have the same effect on my psyche. I am more inclined to take a picture of my wildly coordinated husband and children in such a scene than race to cross it myself.)
 

Narrow, & slippery with moss: Unsafe.

Wide, with railing: Safe.
Still, any footbridge that looks relatively safe calls to me, and I will go out of my way to cross it. If not to cross it, then to stand on it, leaning delicately on the railing, daydreaming and feeling picturesque myself—like a willowy fairytale figure who had lightly skipped to the rail, lingering there before flitting off, butterfly-like. (Then, someone really does snap a picture. When I see it, there is immediate shock and dismay. The picture my imagination took was, by far, more enchanting and attractive than the real thing. Instead of a graceful nymph bathed in soft, glowing light sprinkled with magical pixie dust, there—in the harsh reality of day—is the image of a frizzy-haired, T-shirted housewife leaning ponderously on the railing, as if every ounce of energy spent plodding along to the bridge had been exhausted, and its sole purpose was to bear her up.)

Bridge scene from “The Lord of the Rings”: Arwen and Aragorn

Nevertheless, being on a bridge transforms me inside. There’s something mesmerizing about standing on a bridge watching the water gently pass beneath, with its floating cargo of leaf boats and twig sprites frolicking blithely along.  

There’s something emotionally stirring about bridges. Moviemakers apparently think so. How many scenes of a romantic, tense, or threatening nature culminate on a bridge? (The Bridge Over the River Kwai, Anna and the King, The Music Man, It’s a Wonderful Life, Sabrina, Gone with the Wind, The Lord of the Rings, and The Bridge to Terabithia are just a few with moving scenes that occur on a bridge.)
 

Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life”


Bridges have also inspired many songs. What child hasn’t heard the 17th century nursery rhyme about the ill-fated London Bridge? Everyone who lived in the late 1960s knew the fictional Billie Joe McAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge (Ode to Billie Joe by Bobbie Gentry), while Simon & Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water moved listeners with the power of friendship.
Ancient London Bridge


A bridge, in very name, is more than a physical structure. It is a symbolic manifestation of its purpose. Maybe that’s the reason for my connection with bridges. Because they connect. They bridge gaps, overcome obstacles, link together, span chasms, and simplify journeys. Life is replete with obstacles—both physical and emotional. We step to the edge, and hope for a bridge to help us across. Sometimes, we wade in the muck before a large flat stone appears that provides a means of stepping up, and out.

I find it interesting that an arch bridge has no structural integrity until the stones meet in the middle at the keystone. It’s in the meeting of the two sides that gives the bridge its strength. Because placing the keystone can be a tricky business, scaffolding or other means of support are required to aid in construction. Once in place, an arched bridge needs no mortar to hold it together, and may stand for millennia.
 

Arkadiko Bridge, Greece – oldest standing arch bridge

Ca. 1300-1190 BC

So true of people, too.  Once the keystone of a relationship is in place, it can stand the test of time. Obstacles of differing viewpoints, backgrounds, and habits flow like water under the bridge when people have struggled through building the abutments of a relationship and recognize the inherent keystone of worth in each other. In forming a bridge with someone, we bear one another’s burdens, we meet eye-to-eye, we understand through experience, we withstand tension, we create an equally firm and binding yoke that provides safe passage. Those relationships take on the substantial, but charming quality of a quaint old bridge: pleasing, aged, tried, solid, and true. Clinging, trailing vines of laughter, endurance, thoughtfulness, and kindness adorn and beautify life’s bridges, adding a cheering, optimistic aspect.


I suppose the bridge, the brook, and the flora and fauna might have been viewed from the riverbank. They make a pretty scene from any angle. However, I prefer to step on the bridge, to linger there, and to, eventually, cross over. Crossing to the other side to see from all angles makes the experience complete. 


© Copyright July 31, 2014