It has been a busy month. I notice it has been the same with others who are among my favorite sites. For one thing, life keeps changing, and sometimes we would rather live it than write about it. And when so much is going on, and I am noticing so much, it is hard to focus on a single topic. I decided a long time ago not to journal, per se, in my blog. So it has been difficult to write.
And I seem to be in a period of life where I feel hugely, but seldom strongly in opposition or in anger. Is this a natural process of aging? or where I am going in maturity and spirituality? I hope both. That will make aging a more pleasant process, I think.
I was surprised on Sunday to have my family tell me I am anal. How can that be? I'm sloppy, have to work at organizing. Like to work hard in spurts, then loll around reading books and maybe eating sandwiches because I'm too lazy to cook. But when I cook, and increasingly I do again, I mostly like to start from scratch. Today I will make a white sauce for a chicken pot pie, for instance, instead of using canned soup. Which I sometimes do. But this time I want to flavor the white sauce with sage and poultry seasoning for just the right taste... just the right....hmmm. Anal is inflexible, isn't it? Yes, I can be particular. But I don't wear makeup. I have wash and go hair. I buy a few pair of good shoes, then wear them for years.
When my sons popped the A-word, with much laughter, I appealed to my oldest granddaughter. She smiled sweetly and demurely looked down. She might be agreeing, or choosing not to be involved, but still. And then I looked at my youngest granddaughter, who is carefree and often mussed. Sooner or later, when I come in the door, she knows I am going to say, "Brush your hair." It is very fine, thick and beautiful, and tangles easily. Hopefully that will be something she will remember about me someday and smile. Currently, she rolls her eyes. But she does it. Her father once said I told him to tie his shoes more often than I told him I loved him. But he still knows I love him. Maybe I'm anal about that, too. Can anal be another word for steadfast?
Huh. A peek at how others see me, and an unexpected picture. Maybe I really WAS a good bureaucrat.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The Daily Practice of Happiness
I met a woman recently whose family is concerned about her--she's in her late 80s, slipping slowly into Alzheimer's and a little confused, but still with life and personality in her eyes. She really likes people. I had met her before, but didn't thik she would remember me. Her face lit up, and she said,"Oh, I've missed you! Where have you been?"
Her family adores her. We talked for awhile, and it struck me, and it had before, that this was a woman who has been happy all of her life. She looked for the goodness in her life throughout, and she found it. She's had plenty of cares in her world, but she has focused on the good things going on in her life.
And I began to wonder, is happiness a gift or a talent? I think we expect it to be just given to us. We don't expect to work to expand it, to make it grow, to sustain it. Every day, though, our attitudes, our expectations and our focus have a great deal to do with whether that day is happy or sad.
Sometimes, life is just sad. Several decades ago, I was terribly sad for a spell, and I started a habit of waking up in the morning and writing down the good things I expected to happen. I remember one day all I could think of was, "the sun came up." Every evening I would review my list and write down any additional good things that had happened. And there always were some. Every single day. I learned to look hard for those things.
If happiness is a talent, then some are more gifted at it than others, and I believe this to be true. Some just excel at it. I had to practice, because I have a melancholy streak that rises periodically--but as the years have passed, learning to focus on each day's blessings has helped keep maloncholy at bay. No matter what, these days I know with certainty every day will have good things happening in it. No matter what.
I plan to pratice happiness, and keep getting better at it on a daily basis.
This old woman I talked to is fading now, but she is retaining the central essence of her personality, I believe, through long practice. She is happy. She is kind. She is loved.
Her family adores her. We talked for awhile, and it struck me, and it had before, that this was a woman who has been happy all of her life. She looked for the goodness in her life throughout, and she found it. She's had plenty of cares in her world, but she has focused on the good things going on in her life.
And I began to wonder, is happiness a gift or a talent? I think we expect it to be just given to us. We don't expect to work to expand it, to make it grow, to sustain it. Every day, though, our attitudes, our expectations and our focus have a great deal to do with whether that day is happy or sad.
Sometimes, life is just sad. Several decades ago, I was terribly sad for a spell, and I started a habit of waking up in the morning and writing down the good things I expected to happen. I remember one day all I could think of was, "the sun came up." Every evening I would review my list and write down any additional good things that had happened. And there always were some. Every single day. I learned to look hard for those things.
If happiness is a talent, then some are more gifted at it than others, and I believe this to be true. Some just excel at it. I had to practice, because I have a melancholy streak that rises periodically--but as the years have passed, learning to focus on each day's blessings has helped keep maloncholy at bay. No matter what, these days I know with certainty every day will have good things happening in it. No matter what.
I plan to pratice happiness, and keep getting better at it on a daily basis.
This old woman I talked to is fading now, but she is retaining the central essence of her personality, I believe, through long practice. She is happy. She is kind. She is loved.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Magic of Thanksgiving
Around the holidays, we do get magical. Can't help it. This, for me, is a magic story.
A couple of weeks ago, I visited a longtime friend in East Texas. For you roustabouts who don't know anything about the very large state of Texas,this means a 100 miles or so east of DFW Metroplex.The sweet gum were coloring. So were the oak and maple. The sun was blooming for the first time in a week.
But the weather was so mild the flowers, particularly the roses, were still blooming.
My friend has a beautiful home in 11 acres of gardens, trees, meadows and stock tank. Wow.
Along with the superb coconut creme pie she made from scratch, she showed me her favored china. She opened the door, and asked, " Do you remember this?" She pulled out a blue serving plate rimmed with gold trim, with six matching plates.
My face convulsed. She was alarmed. She said ,"You can have it back if you want to," and I am proud to say only for a moment did I want to.Because when I got all my gandmother's china, when I realized what she had, I realized it was too much. I sold a lot of it. I lost some in storage, and I gave some of it away. Ultimately,
I lost it all. But I gave some of it to persons I loved. Anita was one of them.
When I visited Anita and saw the plates, in a way I had never acknowledged I realized what I had lost, and what I had gained.l saw that I inherited, never owned, my grandmother's china. At the same time I realized by giving these few plates away,I had them forever, in the home I gave them to.
No wonder she had trouble reading my face. I am so proud that once upon a time I don't even remember I gave them to her. I don't even remember it except peripherilly. But at least I knew even then that she was important. I gave the gold-gilded plates to someone I loved 40 years ago. And we still love each other.
Well, she will have her Thanksgiving and so will will I. I don't know what plates will be used in either place. We don't own them, y'all. We simply use them while we are here. I still own the memories of my grandmother, my father, my mother. The plates bring them more to mind. But I don't need them to remember.
That is all. Thanksgiving is hope for the future. I have been blessed. How about you?
A couple of weeks ago, I visited a longtime friend in East Texas. For you roustabouts who don't know anything about the very large state of Texas,this means a 100 miles or so east of DFW Metroplex.The sweet gum were coloring. So were the oak and maple. The sun was blooming for the first time in a week.
But the weather was so mild the flowers, particularly the roses, were still blooming.
My friend has a beautiful home in 11 acres of gardens, trees, meadows and stock tank. Wow.
Along with the superb coconut creme pie she made from scratch, she showed me her favored china. She opened the door, and asked, " Do you remember this?" She pulled out a blue serving plate rimmed with gold trim, with six matching plates.
My face convulsed. She was alarmed. She said ,"You can have it back if you want to," and I am proud to say only for a moment did I want to.Because when I got all my gandmother's china, when I realized what she had, I realized it was too much. I sold a lot of it. I lost some in storage, and I gave some of it away. Ultimately,
I lost it all. But I gave some of it to persons I loved. Anita was one of them.
When I visited Anita and saw the plates, in a way I had never acknowledged I realized what I had lost, and what I had gained.l saw that I inherited, never owned, my grandmother's china. At the same time I realized by giving these few plates away,I had them forever, in the home I gave them to.
No wonder she had trouble reading my face. I am so proud that once upon a time I don't even remember I gave them to her. I don't even remember it except peripherilly. But at least I knew even then that she was important. I gave the gold-gilded plates to someone I loved 40 years ago. And we still love each other.
Well, she will have her Thanksgiving and so will will I. I don't know what plates will be used in either place. We don't own them, y'all. We simply use them while we are here. I still own the memories of my grandmother, my father, my mother. The plates bring them more to mind. But I don't need them to remember.
That is all. Thanksgiving is hope for the future. I have been blessed. How about you?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Happier Kid Without a Dad
Followup to the boy who broke my heart. I've seen him every Wednesday for the past two weeks. And learned more.
He stays from 6:30 am to 8 pm four days a week with the young woman who brought him. She has a really healthy, two-parent home with three sons who love each other and are rambunctious. It is a very good place for him to be.
Turns out he is four. Very limited ability to play or interact with other kids. His mom calls him a loner. At four. His father is an alcoholic who told his son these damaging words in a pity party when his wife told him she could no longer support the family and his habit and he had to leave. The boy seems happier. He still doesn't know how to play with other kids, or much about play at all.
I am new in this community. And most folks just think all he needs is stability and love, which he is getting. In my professional (ret) opinion, he should go to the play therapy clinic with sliding fee scale at the nearby university. I will suggest it. I doubt the outcome. But he has his mom three days a week--hopefully--and a healthy, happy family with three boys around his age four days a week.
As I say, I would like to make it still better. But I am glad it is as good as it is. And his mom was brave to do what she did.
He stays from 6:30 am to 8 pm four days a week with the young woman who brought him. She has a really healthy, two-parent home with three sons who love each other and are rambunctious. It is a very good place for him to be.
Turns out he is four. Very limited ability to play or interact with other kids. His mom calls him a loner. At four. His father is an alcoholic who told his son these damaging words in a pity party when his wife told him she could no longer support the family and his habit and he had to leave. The boy seems happier. He still doesn't know how to play with other kids, or much about play at all.
I am new in this community. And most folks just think all he needs is stability and love, which he is getting. In my professional (ret) opinion, he should go to the play therapy clinic with sliding fee scale at the nearby university. I will suggest it. I doubt the outcome. But he has his mom three days a week--hopefully--and a healthy, happy family with three boys around his age four days a week.
As I say, I would like to make it still better. But I am glad it is as good as it is. And his mom was brave to do what she did.
Mistaken Identity with Cell Phones
Do I believe safety issues exist when drivers talk on the phone or text while driving? Oh, yeah.
Funny thing is, 97 per cent of Americans, in a recent poll, think the rest of you are dangerous. A majority, on the other hand, thought they personally were safe.
Not me, by golly. I wasn't polled, but I would be one of those saying, "I'm about as safe behind the wheel with a phone to my ear as I would be in rush hour traffic with three shots of Wild Turkey on an empty stomach."
So I always pull over, and if a pullover place isn't immediately available, I probably won't answer before the phone quits ringing. Which creates a distraction of its own. After trying several times to snag it out of my purse while driving a stick shift in rush hour stop'n'go a few years ago, I wisely decided not even to try till I was safely stopped. Even though my current vehicle is automatic.
Oh, I have coordination, of sorts. I can walk and chew gum. The problem is when I try to talk and do--almost anything else. When transporting foster kids all over creation and North Texas on often unfamiliar byways, I missed so many exits while in conversation that my kids expected my cheerful rejoinder to "you just missed the exit" that we were again taking the scenic route. I am pleased that it became a point of camaraderie among us. At least, I thought so.
And that was with an actual person sitting beside me.
Cell phones, however, factor more than just on the road.
I play Yahzee with three friends every week, where we play all six games at once. This results in scores usually over 7,000, and I prefer to use my calculator. (Two of us add in their heads faster than I can with my calculator but I forgive them, and they forgive me.) I got a telephone call on my cell the other day and after the call I brought it back to the table with me. My cell and my calculator are approximately the same size. I was talking to my friends while deciding to add a column, and had punched two musical digits before it occurred to me I was trying to add on my cell phone. Yes, I know I actually can do that, but I wanted to use my nifty sun-powered calculator which I've had since the 80s. They didn't notice.
So of course, I confessed. And was ribbed unmercifully. And then a friend confessed she had been watching tv last week when she decided to make a call and absentmindedly picked up the TV remote and tried to dial. Wasn't she good-hearted to share that?
I'm the woman who had to train myself to hang up my car keys each time I entered the house after one nerve-wracking morning when it took us 30 minutes to find the keys in the refrigerator. And when we did, I remembered how that happened. But when I am thinking about something else, my hands do things I hesitate to take responsibilty for, although ultimately I must.
I once knew someone who could read while driving 80 mph down the highway, simultaneously carry on a conversation, watch tv and read--although with delayed reaction times--and never miss a lick.
Me, I can walk and chew gum. Oh, and I can cook and talk at the same time. Definitely not write and talk. Drive and talk a little bit--although I can listen with better driving concentration.
Fortunately, the computer and printer have discrete functions. Else I might never post.
Funny thing is, 97 per cent of Americans, in a recent poll, think the rest of you are dangerous. A majority, on the other hand, thought they personally were safe.
Not me, by golly. I wasn't polled, but I would be one of those saying, "I'm about as safe behind the wheel with a phone to my ear as I would be in rush hour traffic with three shots of Wild Turkey on an empty stomach."
So I always pull over, and if a pullover place isn't immediately available, I probably won't answer before the phone quits ringing. Which creates a distraction of its own. After trying several times to snag it out of my purse while driving a stick shift in rush hour stop'n'go a few years ago, I wisely decided not even to try till I was safely stopped. Even though my current vehicle is automatic.
Oh, I have coordination, of sorts. I can walk and chew gum. The problem is when I try to talk and do--almost anything else. When transporting foster kids all over creation and North Texas on often unfamiliar byways, I missed so many exits while in conversation that my kids expected my cheerful rejoinder to "you just missed the exit" that we were again taking the scenic route. I am pleased that it became a point of camaraderie among us. At least, I thought so.
And that was with an actual person sitting beside me.
Cell phones, however, factor more than just on the road.
I play Yahzee with three friends every week, where we play all six games at once. This results in scores usually over 7,000, and I prefer to use my calculator. (Two of us add in their heads faster than I can with my calculator but I forgive them, and they forgive me.) I got a telephone call on my cell the other day and after the call I brought it back to the table with me. My cell and my calculator are approximately the same size. I was talking to my friends while deciding to add a column, and had punched two musical digits before it occurred to me I was trying to add on my cell phone. Yes, I know I actually can do that, but I wanted to use my nifty sun-powered calculator which I've had since the 80s. They didn't notice.
So of course, I confessed. And was ribbed unmercifully. And then a friend confessed she had been watching tv last week when she decided to make a call and absentmindedly picked up the TV remote and tried to dial. Wasn't she good-hearted to share that?
I'm the woman who had to train myself to hang up my car keys each time I entered the house after one nerve-wracking morning when it took us 30 minutes to find the keys in the refrigerator. And when we did, I remembered how that happened. But when I am thinking about something else, my hands do things I hesitate to take responsibilty for, although ultimately I must.
I once knew someone who could read while driving 80 mph down the highway, simultaneously carry on a conversation, watch tv and read--although with delayed reaction times--and never miss a lick.
Me, I can walk and chew gum. Oh, and I can cook and talk at the same time. Definitely not write and talk. Drive and talk a little bit--although I can listen with better driving concentration.
Fortunately, the computer and printer have discrete functions. Else I might never post.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
When a child breaks your heart
I took my grandchildren to a midweek church function. A young woman I know showed up with a little boy, about 3.
He was clingy. She left him with the kids who were playing games. And he began to cry. Someone who didn't know him asked if his mom or dad was there. He cried harder.
"I don't have a daddy anymore," he sobbed. He's only 3.
I asked for him. Hugged him. Whispered he was safe, and he was loved. He cried.
He cried with all his heart, full force. Kids do that, when they stub their toe, when they bump their heads or when they are so sad they can't find any comfort.
The woman came back and said this was his first day staying with her. I whisperered what he had said. and she said yeah, that was the truth pretty much. She offered him a chance to go talk to his mom, and he nodded and went with her. He came back with her, having talked to his mom at work, and somewhat relieved.
I've separated kids from toxic parents numerous times. I've offered comfort. When parents are so toxic, the grief is less for the kids. But I held this boy, and as he cried, I began to cry too.
Is his dad really gone? or is this what a furious, hurting mom told her baby boy? I don't know. I just know a baby told me, "I don't have a daddy any more."
He's safe. He's cared for. But at 3, he hurts. How does he deal with it?
I am older now. I really feel the pain. Literally.
I wish I could make it better.
He was clingy. She left him with the kids who were playing games. And he began to cry. Someone who didn't know him asked if his mom or dad was there. He cried harder.
"I don't have a daddy anymore," he sobbed. He's only 3.
I asked for him. Hugged him. Whispered he was safe, and he was loved. He cried.
He cried with all his heart, full force. Kids do that, when they stub their toe, when they bump their heads or when they are so sad they can't find any comfort.
The woman came back and said this was his first day staying with her. I whisperered what he had said. and she said yeah, that was the truth pretty much. She offered him a chance to go talk to his mom, and he nodded and went with her. He came back with her, having talked to his mom at work, and somewhat relieved.
I've separated kids from toxic parents numerous times. I've offered comfort. When parents are so toxic, the grief is less for the kids. But I held this boy, and as he cried, I began to cry too.
Is his dad really gone? or is this what a furious, hurting mom told her baby boy? I don't know. I just know a baby told me, "I don't have a daddy any more."
He's safe. He's cared for. But at 3, he hurts. How does he deal with it?
I am older now. I really feel the pain. Literally.
I wish I could make it better.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
When Different Can Mean Happy
Visiting a friend in the hospital recently, I approached the volunteer desk to double-check the room number. One of the women was about my age-in her case with smooth, lovely skin, pretty features and simply cut silver hair. Pretty. Not pretentious. Not particularly conscious of her "presentation", wearing her volunteer jacket and serving her shift. Oh--and her clothing? Ordinary.
We fell into conversation, and she mentioned her husband is 97, blessed with good eyesight hearing and an active mind, but with declining knees.
"We are blessed," she said.
I grinned. "He must have done some cradle-robbing to get you," I said, because this lady was nowhere near her 90s. (Although lately, I've been fooled a few times).
She gave a rowdy laugh. "He sure did! He's 31 years older than me. We've been married 33 years."
Here smile reflected contentment and pleasure at the unexpected longevity of her marriage.
There's a story there. A good one. She was in her 30s, he in his 60s when they married. A love match. She may have been dropdead gorgeous, but she just doesn't have the moves of a woman who counted on it or traded on it. She still loves his personality, sooooo? Maybe he was, or is, very rich. But she was out in public not dressed like it.
I remember the couple I approved for an adoption where she was 26 years older than he. I remember neighbors with the same dynamic. In both cases, the relationships involved equable relationships. Really good ones. Like this woman and her much older husband.
Individuals still defy the cookie cutter systems of categorizing.
I'd love to know the story of the hospital volunteer. I don't need to, though. It's validation everytime I hear about folks who are leading good lives outside any mass demographics. The more we get along with different lives and voices, the better. In a chorus, it's called harmony.
"They" don't all have to be like "us", thank gooness.
We fell into conversation, and she mentioned her husband is 97, blessed with good eyesight hearing and an active mind, but with declining knees.
"We are blessed," she said.
I grinned. "He must have done some cradle-robbing to get you," I said, because this lady was nowhere near her 90s. (Although lately, I've been fooled a few times).
She gave a rowdy laugh. "He sure did! He's 31 years older than me. We've been married 33 years."
Here smile reflected contentment and pleasure at the unexpected longevity of her marriage.
There's a story there. A good one. She was in her 30s, he in his 60s when they married. A love match. She may have been dropdead gorgeous, but she just doesn't have the moves of a woman who counted on it or traded on it. She still loves his personality, sooooo? Maybe he was, or is, very rich. But she was out in public not dressed like it.
I remember the couple I approved for an adoption where she was 26 years older than he. I remember neighbors with the same dynamic. In both cases, the relationships involved equable relationships. Really good ones. Like this woman and her much older husband.
Individuals still defy the cookie cutter systems of categorizing.
I'd love to know the story of the hospital volunteer. I don't need to, though. It's validation everytime I hear about folks who are leading good lives outside any mass demographics. The more we get along with different lives and voices, the better. In a chorus, it's called harmony.
"They" don't all have to be like "us", thank gooness.
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