I think so, too.

A Sincere Christian

"The finest bread has the least bran; the purest honey, the
least wax; and the sincerest Christian, the least self-love."

                                     --Anne Bradstreet 1612 - 1672 

A sense of urgency

October is such a beautiful time of year here in Michigan.  The deciduous trees arrive at the peak of their fall color and then lose their leaves entirely by the end of the month.  What starts as the most colorful month of the year ends up looking like the start of November: bleak, cold, with a celebration of death right at the end.

I'm filled with a sense of urgency.  There is so much to be done before the cold comes for good; so much beauty to see before it's gone, and only a few more precious warm days to enjoy.  I consider how much time I've wasted earlier in the year, sitting at this computer instead of being outside in the sun. 

And of course, being me, I find that my feelings related to everything in my life.  I wonder if I've spent enough time and energy on my children.  Are they learning what they will need for life on their own?  Am I noticing those little signs that they need help or attention?  Am I being a thoughtful, loving wife? 

Time is short, and the older I get, the more I feel a sense of urgency.  "If it needs to be done, do it now!" I tell myself.  "You'll forget or your feelings will change."  I feel pulled in so many different directions, both from inside and by others.  It's easy to feel confused and disabled by lack of focus or direction.

And then something small will happen, some little thing that I notice will snap it all into focus.  Maybe it's something as small as the new moon floating in the sunset just behind a late October tree.  If the leaves were full, I wouldn't be able to see it from this perspective. 

There is a season for everything, a time for new life and a time to die.  But life lost never leaves a gap.  If the old didn't move out of the way, the new would never have a chance to live.  If the flower didn't die, we would never have the fruit. 

None of these ideas are new, they're just what has been floating around in my head while I mourn the death of the summer season.  How I love the sun! But the sun isn't leaving.  It is still up there, though sometimes behind the clouds.  And winter is lovely as well, with it's blanket of snow.  The sadness of last season's end prepares me to accept the joys of the winter to come.

Late bloomer

A temptation exists to give up when the end seems near, or when one can visualize the end in sight.  I knew a man who wouldn't start any new projects after 1 p.m. because "the day was over."  So many wonderful "senior citizens" feel that they have nothing left to give--just because our whole culture treats them that way--so they sit around waiting for death.

But we need them.  We need their experience, their wisdom, their insight into life that was gained the hard way, via experience.  They remember what really happened, not what the history books tell us.  They have wonderful stories to tell.

Yesterday I found this "volunteer" morning glory vine growing on a fence.  It was covered with spent blossoms and what looked like some kind of green berry (do morning glories bear fruit?), but what really caught my attention was that now in October, when we've had near freezing temperatures for several nights, and the days don't reach seventy degrees anymore, the vine was still bursting with new life.

Wonderful twisting buds, just waiting for a touch of warm sun, were dotted here and there all over the vine. Surely, with all the signs that winter is near, this annual plant must know that blooming now is what some would call a "waste of time."    After all, the fruits will never develop, so why would the plant use so much energy generating the bloom?  It doesn't make evolutionary sense, does it?  I mean, how could the bloom benefit the plant at this stage?

And yet it continues to bloom.  And so do all the other annuals, raising their beautiful faces to the rising sun while they can.  And if you step outside the idea that every living thing only does what directly benefits itself, it becomes obvious that the blooms benefit many others.

For example, it benefits the insects that are still alive and seeking nectar.  It's beautiful.  I can't explain the jaunty, devil-may-care attitude that I felt coming from this vine.  It uplifted me.  And I can't help but feel that the plant exists for more than itself.   I can read a lesson there.

Chilly Butterfly

I was all done and no one cared;

None saw my little death--

But suddenly I was revived,

Brought to with sweet, warm breath.

I thought I was all by myself

Before that sweetness came;

But now I see a dozen more

By that warm breath, inflamed!

This new-found vigor will not last;

I've no illusions there--

But now I see I'm not alone:

Cold, take US, if you dare!

Autumn leaves

Poetry and music unite magically sometimes to create memories that can stay with us for a lifetime.  For me, the song "Autumn leaves" is one of those special unions. 

I love Miles Davis' jazz version from the album "Something Else," and this fall I've been listening to Andrea Bocelli's French rendition, a duet with his fiancee. 

But this one by Nat King Cole is simply amazing.  Enjoy.

Where the clouds run free

I know a hill where the clouds run free,

and no one goes there but me.

No one goes there but me and the clouds who run free;

I am never, never alone.

Beautiful things I've seen this week

This is my miracle Granada rose. After a beautiful season last year, no growth in spring.  I waited until mid-June, but had yet to see any.  Finally, I decided to move on and get another one.  (Couldn't find this same variety, but I must have roses!)  As I began to dig under the root ball, my little guy noticed a few green leaves at the base of the bud union.  Could it be?  I waited.  The first wave of blooms came this week and it made me very happy to know my Granada is back.

From this morning, a fresh perfect bloom from the same plant.

This meadowhawk dragonfly tolerated my presence (and even flew closer to get a better look!) 

Another beautiful bowl by my husband.  See her face?

Lilies!

A tiny beauty on my hollyhock.

The sunset this weekend.

A simple flower

This morning, I intended to spend time drawing a simple flower.  I checked my email and began reading the news (my first mistake.)  I read a few comments at the bottom of the story I had just read and got caught up in the ISSUES.  (For me, that's the proverbial "kiss of death" for creative expression.  The part of me that creates just can't get through when my rational mind is rising to intellectual provocation.) 

Later, I set up my drawing area, and just looked at the blank page.  How could I spend my time drawing a flower when so many important things were happening in the world?  How could I (or anyone else) take me seriously if all I did was draw flowers?  Doesn't the choice of what he or she draws say something about the artist?

So now, what to draw?  Ok, a portrait.   I picked up Harpo Speaks, the autobiography of Harpo Marx, which includes tons of pictures of Harpo over the years

During my search for inspiration, I was surprised to see a picture of Harpo being drawn by Salvador Dali.  Just then, my son came downstairs (much earlier than usual because of his summer cold). I showed him the picture of Harpo being drawn by Dali, then the picture that Dali drew of Harpo.  After than we looked up Dali online so I could show him what kind of an artist Dali was.  In so doing, I came across a website that attributed this quote to him:

"A true painter is one who can paint extraordinary scenes in the middle of an empty desert.  A true painter is one who can patiently paint a pear in the middle of the tumults of history."

What about drawing a flower in the midst of political turmoil? 

I don't know, but my mind went immediately to the paintings of Jacqueline Gnott from South Bend. On her promotional blog, Contemporary Realism, she featured a painting of two perfect pears.  By Salvador Dali's definitions, she is certainly a "true artist." 

So who am I to denigrate a flower?  After all, God thought it was worth the time to make them, didn't He?

Too good to be true?

I'm becoming more interested in the idea of serendipity.  I always thought of "serendipity" as one of those hippy culture words; you know, the ones you have to be high to understand?  But lately, things have been happening that are just too much for coincidence. 

For example, a couple of months ago, we were headed to a festival at a nearby lake.  I was interested in the garage sales, and the guys were just along for the ride.  I took a wrong turn and wound up in the middle of nowhere.  Just after I realized my mistake, we saw a sign for a "Barn Sale."  I turned in, and we met a woman who had recently closed her antique business and was liquidating her inventory. 

In the very back of the barn, nearly covered by boxes, old lamps, an old TV, and countless papers, sat an old piano.  I wandered back as if hypnotized.  We had just been trying to figure out how to fix my old piano, which though beautiful, is near the hopeless stage.  It needed new felts, new hammers, and more. 

So I walked back to the piano.  It was beautiful, and looked a lot like my old one.  Hand-carved mahogany case, a brass sounding board, real ivory keys . . . 

"Is it for sale?" I asked.  It was. $150 for the piano, the matching stool and a pile of music.  We drove to the nearest ATM and came back with the cash.  But how to get it home?  We arranged to come back in a couple of days. 

We rented a delivery van, but arrived to find a 28-foot truck instead.  It was way too big, so we left the truck at the rental place and headed back toward the barn sale.  How were we going to pick up the piano?  Because I had no way to contact the people, we decided to just drive over there.

Along the way, I spied a truck by the side of the road.  It was a short, white delivery van with a lift-gate.  I stopped and pointed it out to my husband.

"You can't just stop and ask a stranger to borrow their van," he protested. 

"Just ask them where they rented it," I said.  "Tell them we're looking for one like it." 

I know he thought I was crazy, but he got out and approached the men.  They were burning brush across a field.  He was gone a long time, but after a while, they all came walking back toward us.  They were laughing and talking like old friends.  I kept looking at the time, worried we would be late.  Then my husband began helping them to unload things from the back of the truck.

When it was empty, he walked toward me with a big smile on his face and the keys in his hand. 

"He said we can borrow it if we fill it up with gas and air up the tires."  No way.  This was a complete stranger!  He smiled and waved at us as we pulled away, then nonchalantly went back to work. 

We drove to the barn sale, picked up the piano, then drove it home.  The lift gate was too large to go directly up to the porch, so we stood around trying to figure out how to construct a ramp that was strong enough to withstand the weight.  Just then, our neighbor stopped by.  "Need a hand?"

With his help, we unloaded the piano safely.  Because the man who owned the truck had trusted us so much, we got the truck right back that night.  I grabbed a plate of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies while I was at home as a gift to thank him.  He seemed overly grateful.  Why?  Another instance of serendipity.  Every morning he eats two oatmeal raisin cookies for breakfast.  They are his favorite. 

And then we had another nice serendipitous surprise.  When we got home and opened the bag with the music, it was full of Louis Armstrong, ragtime, and old swing standards.  "You probably won't like any of these," the woman who sold us the piano had said.  But the music is exactly the kind my son has been tracking down on the internet. 

Serendipity?  Just how and why do strings of coincidences like this happen?  I've been re-reading the book, "The Artist's Way," by Julia Cameron.  (GET IT and READ IT!)  She relates a saying that she has posted near her desk:

"Leap, and the net will appear."  It reminds me of the scene in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" when Indy steps into what looks like an infinity of space, taking "a leap from the lion's head of faith," and then lands on an invisible bridge.    Yes, that's exactly what it's like.

The trick is to conquer the fear.  Because I'm learning over and over that small steps toward our goals, sometimes even the articulation of a dream, can trigger an outpouring of generosity.  It's almost embarrassing.  I feel like I'm getting away with something, or than I'm just really, really lucky, like the lady that's won four lotteries in her lifetime.

But maybe the real problem isn't that life is hard, as I've been told all my life, and have sometimes found true through personal experience.  Maybe our job isn't just to endure what comes our way, but to embrace what comes our way; to participate and follow up on opportunity.   

Like the time I was looking for columbine at a farmer's market, and a vendor gave me her address and told me I could dig all I wanted at her farm. 

Or the time I had 15 minutes to shop for a favorite aunt, and I found the perfect gift, wrapping and card, and still made it to our rendezvous on time. 

Or the time I researched a family heirloom because I suspected a connection to a famous furniture maker, and found instead a possible connection to the town founders?

It feels a little scary when things go this well.  Does my fear mean that there's something wrong with me?  This week, I read in my son's storybook, "The world is your friend,"  and it made me cry.  It seems like everything makes me cry lately.  Crying for joy, though.  Sometimes the unexpected may be better than our greatest expectation.

Identity

We are what we do, not what we aspire to do.

I recently picked up a self-help book in the discount section of my favorite book retailer because the title caught my eye.  The words "national bestseller" was emblazoned on the front, and because the chapters were interestingly titled, I went for it.

It was a terrible book.  I was absolutely shocked that the book was any kind of a bestseller--and that it was published in the first place.  The writing was sloppy and banal.  The "truths" were either simple observations of no great profundity or stolen from common usage--just as the title was.  The one or two chapter titles that interested me were red herrings:  The actual text didn't even address the chapter titles! 

I immediately soothed myself by writing a review of the book (elsewhere.)  I make most of my purchases online or after reading product reviews online, so I felt it was fair to counter the propoganda on the book's cover with a good dose of reality. 

Then it hit me:  I'd bought the book.  I was one of the sheep that made the thing a "bestseller."  All those negative thoughts I'd had about the people who bought the book?  I was the target. 

It was a little surreal.  I began to think through some of the ramifications of the insight, especially what it says about my identity.

We are what we do.  We are not what we aspire to do.

As a person who comes up with new ideas quickly and easily, but has some trouble finishing projects I've started (though I'm much better at this than I used to be), that thought is troubling.  I began to think of some the aspirations I've had in my life: write and publish a novel, become a great artist, have a large family, be a rock in the community, inspire others, have a household that nurtures others through hospitality and acceptance, teach what I've learned . . .

I read the blog "Wisdom of the Hands" by Doug Stowe.  I may not always agree with Mr. Stowe, but I wholeheartedly agree with the reoccurring theme in his blog.  He believes that children in public education today don't use their hands enough.  They don't know how to use power tools.  They don't generate meaningful products while on their educational journey.  He believes that this directly impacts not only the children's self esteem (negatively), but also changes the fabric of life in the long run.

We are what we do, not what we aspire to do. 

An office worker who pushes papers for a large corporation becomes invisible.  The tasks they complete each day are absorbed into the company and reappear each day, regardless of the quality of the work and even regardless of the identity of the worker. 

I had that feeling when I was a retail store manager.  I worked very hard for years, but my work never seemed to matter for more than a day.  After I quit my job to stay home with my son, nothing remained of my work.  The relationships that I'd cultivated over the years quickly died, and I was soon left with nothing meaningful.  The store closed a couple of years after that, so I couldn't even point to the store after a while. 

My dedication to the job (many times at the expense of my family) was a wasted effort.  Now some could argue that I'd managed things well and that had made the company's owner a little richer, and that would be true.  I'd learned valuable people skills--yep.  I knew from the inside how retail business works--yep.  But as far as what I'd actually done, there was no trace.  And once I quit my job, my identity as a store manager evaporated as well.

I wrote poems once.  They're still around.  I wrote short stories.  Still here.  I made some clothes.  They're upstairs.  I made a quilt or two.  They're currently keeping myself and my family warm.  I think of the other things I've done, gathering genealogy information and putting it into a form others can understand.  Making a book of my grandmother's poems and passing it out to family members.

Those things, which I considered "extra" at the time, are the things that define me. Think about how we refer to someone at a party or a gathering:  "There's the woman who made those cookies."  "That's the guy who made that incredible hole-in-one."  "He's the one who never cuts his grass."

You never hear, "See that young man?  He's the one who wants to become rich."  "That lady is the one who wishes she could sing." 

We are what we do.  And the encouragement to do is all around us. 

 "Every blade of grass has it's Angel that bends over it and whispers, "Grow, grow."
                            --The Talmud

The fruit of patience

For years before we owned this house, I would pass beautiful wysteria vines in other people's yards and wonder what they were.  I loved the shape of the vines, the gnarled knuckles, the silvery bark, the lovely lavender blooms . . .

So when we moved in here, we planted one near our arbor.  I waited for that first spring for the beautiful flowers, but only leaves emerged.  A horticulturist advised me to wait, since wysteria doesn't bloom for several years.  So I waited two years, three years, four years.  Finally, I got some advice to "stress the roots."  The idea is that when wysterias receive too much plentiful food, they don't bloom.  If you take a shovel and cut straight down in a circle about 18 inches around the base, a lot of the roots will be severed, and it will "force" a bloom the next spring.

I tried it, but no avail.  Finally, after six years of waiting, two years after I "stressed" the plant, my 20 foot tall wysteria finally bloomed.  And what a bloom!  The flower clusters are easily a foot to 18 inches long and so plentiful that it's hard to see out the top of the arbor.  A few were closer to the ground and have a delicate perfume.  These blooms are only partially opened--but I couldn't wait!

Lilac in the rain

 

The humid air was heavy with the scent of lilacs yesterday.  We've had a steady, gentle rain for days now, and it seems as if the lilacs were waiting for the water so they could bloom.  They were so beautiful out there in the twilight with each blossom a mix of colors, and they smelled so sweet and fresh that I stayed near until it was dark. 

A couple of years ago, I pruned them.  The wood is very hard, with the sapwood (around the outside) a creamy color and the heartwood (in the center) a darker red-brown color.  In olden times, lilac branches were hollowed out to make reed pipes and flutes.  

I thought of the music those instruments might make: haunting tunes of lost love, or sprightly dances for young lovers?  I remembered that lilacs bloom on old wood, like love that cycles back to courtship in a long relationship.  It's no wonder that lilacs are a symbol for love.

There is a Greek myth about the Syrinx, a nymph known for her chastity.  She was pursued by Pan, and was transformed into hollow river reeds so she could escape him.  In response, he cut the reeds and made the first set of pan pipes, which were known as "syrinx."  The genus name for lilacs is Syringa (probably because the stems are easily hollowed for use as musical instruments.)

Sometimes these ideas float through my head while I'm out there, experiencing, and I just don't know what to do with it all.  I only know that it's beautiful and worth saving somehow, so I put it here.  It was so wonderful, the deep blue of the sky, the wet spring green, and those heavenly lilacs, vibrating with color and aroma.

I think I'm going to make a bouquet for someone I don't like, and give it to them.  There's just too much beauty and love in the world to keep it all to ourselves.

Look!

Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything much better.
                                                                                                       --Albert Einstein

Such a wise man, and yet so human! While most of his work was based on math, Einstein had much of the artist about him.  His work was creative; in fact, some of his most famous work was done by "thought experiment."  His son, Hans Albert Einstein, was quoted in Einstein: A Centenary Volume about his father, " . . .he had a character more like that of an artist than of a scientist as we usually think of them.  For instance, the highest praise for a good theory or a good piece of work was not that it was correct nor that it was exact but that it was beautiful."

We say that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder," but I would respectfully amend that to "beauty is in the attention of the beholder."  Sometimes it take a while to really see something.  We humans literally can't see what's in front of our eyes without taking some time and directing our attention to something for just a little bit longer than we usually allow.

Suddenly, details spring to life.  We see the vein patterns in a dragonfly's wing, or the furry texture of a leaf, or the true expression in someone's eyes.  Sometimes that closer look is obtained through the lens of a camera, and sometimes it becomes visible because of an unusual perspective. But Einstein was right; understanding is right before our eyes.

On Experience

I stepped from plank to plank

  So slow and cautiously;

The stars about my head I felt,

  About my feet the sea.

I knew not but the next

  Would be my final inch--

This gave me that precarious gait

  Some call experience.

                             --Emily Dickenson