As I sit staring out my kitchen window, the world is blanketed in pure, glistening white. Seven inches fell two nights ago. Seven inches of snow near the 21st of March, one day after celebrating Spring Equinox. The beauty and stillness of snow is lauded: framed in poems, background to poignant classical melodies, a sign of foreshadowing in mystery novels. But there are two sides to every snow story.
Two snow days are called, meaning no school or school-based activities. Hence, two days of lost wages, but two days to fill with memories or feel nature's pain. When my daughter was young, and later a teenager, our yearly snow vacation brought joy...the chance to remain in the womb of home, the chance with a friend to build snow people and the Tower of Mordor with the roving eye. I loved snow then, but slowly, I have come to enjoy its glory less and less.
This storm brings destruction: up to a thousand trees lose their lives. The first afternoon, I carefully make my way through the semi-cleared, semi-slick streets. I discover it is best to walk in the middle of the street. Snow's advantage is keeping cars parked in driveways. My heart is wrenched as I view the neighborhood's flowering plum trees. The weight of the snow has broken branches, split trunks, felled whole trees. It is these blossoming creatures which herald the coming of spring's brightness and the thawing of winter's gloom. It is biting cold as I pull down my hat, put my gloved hands in my coat pockets and stamp the snow from my rain boots. But the trees keep whispering to me and I keep walking. Farther up the block these trees are safe. I sigh relief.
I named my daughter, Aspen, after a tree. It was not a “hippie” choice, but an unconscious, dare I say spiritual, nudge. I was minding my own business, meditating under a grove of Aspens, when a soft voice spoke: “And her name shall be Aspen.” This was fourteen years before I would give birth to my tall, slender and strong like a tree beauty. The world has continually been a marvelous mystery to me and my daughter's arrival and growing up has been the most incredible miracle of all.
Over eight thousand people in and around Eugene are without power (some for several days) due to this storm. The snow caused a huge limb from one of our giant backyard cedars to fall upon our electrical service line. This pulled our electrical pole down parallel to our deck, ripping the whole fascia and gutter off of the back of the house. But we are lucky. We never lose power except for a few hours while a new pole is being put in. And in a few weeks we will have new gutters. I bow in awe and gratitude to nature's powers. I cannot fully breathe unless I am outside to observe her surrounding gifts, but I know she is not continually giving. She also takes. I think of Katrina. I think of Haiti. I think of -- What we are experiencing here in Oregon is but a minor nuisance.
Snow unites us. Everywhere I go, all over the Internet, people are talking about the storm. Everyone has their story from the grocery clerk to the neighborhood preschool owner. She tells me how the storm gives a young Haitian adoptee a recurrence of earthquake trauma. His pain is real and the skilled preschool teacher leads him back to the safety of his present time. His story reminds me in my life thus far how safe I am and to remember to help those who are not. A friend huddles with her dogs by her wood stove waiting for her lights and heat to be turned back on. She lives on several acres out by Fern Ridge Reservoir and tells of hearing the crack and groan of the trees throughout the night. Neighbors walk over to comfort and be with her. Her story speaks of how comfort and communication come in many forms.
Trees have fallen across highways; trees have fallen upon a few cars. Is nature telling us to wake up, to be more caring and compassionate about our environment, about each other? I know we have no control over the weather, but we do have control over how we treat our air, our soil, our plants, our animals, this precious mother earth we have been loaned for our living.
Our complaints here in Oregon of this spring snow's inconvenience are hallow compared with the current world's human on human destruction. Though I am deeply saddened by the loss of our trees, I continue to be devastated by our irrational, ongoing, ever recurring turn to wars as the solutions to our political and greed induced problems. But perhaps I am slipping and sliding off into another universe of thought.
As I return home from my walk, passing the blossomed branches piled high, passing the blooms blowing down the streets, I breathe in the cleaner, warmer air and notice the liquid flowing pavement. Over the next few days with the melting of the snow, spring returns and turns on her charm. Daffodils have survived; newly planted peas and over winter broccoli reach for the sun. Soon it is as if this snow storm has never been.
I am winding up my home teaching, getting ready for spring break and a visit from my college daughter. But this snow story holds on a little longer. My neighbor repairs his front camellia bush, but decides to cut down another blossoming camellia which I see every morning out my side window. Last year he took down a cherry tree because the neighbor on the other side complained about the falling pits and squashed cherries carried by the birds. I looked to this flowering tree as one of my heralds of spring. My husband says I am a Druid, and I take this as a compliment. I will miss the camellia; I will miss the flowering plums; I miss my neighbor's cherry tree.
I know I am supposed to accept change; I know I am suppose to accept the stark realities of this modern world: the devastating realities of unexpected climatic events and the brutal realities of deliberate human destruction. But I am having a difficult time. Snow is both a beautiful, miraculous phenomenon and a dangerous, slippery precipice. How true of my walk through life. I seem to eternally be caught between joyous, childlike excitement and serious, grown up contemplation. And sometimes the two even melt into one glorious appreciation of being alive, being the overly sensitive woman I am at this time and in this place.
© 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Domestic Bliss
“I fear oblivion,” states Augustus Waters in my new favorite book by John Green, The Fault in Our Stars. What I fear is meaninglessness. Last week after I washed a load of laundry and put it in the dryer, I discovered that our dear dryer wasn't drying. I could hear a whirling noise when I pushed the ON button, but the tumbler wasn't tumbling. Being gender-traditional as far as fixing mechanical things goes, I deferred to my husband Dan, who immediately guessed he would have to replace the belt. So when the weekend arrived and with a new belt secured, Dan started in on this current “home project.” Our weekends are often devoted to grocery shopping, errands and general puttering. In the middle of doing such activities I feel blissfully peaceful, but afterwards, I sometimes wonder where the time went.
The wet clothes in the washer were ripening, so during the week our neighbors were generous enough to let us use their dryer. The old fashioned custom of borrowing a cup of sugar comes to mind and this is, I believe, what builds closer ties and community. Knowing Dan's home projects inevitably take longer than expected, I turned to a bit of spring cleaning and then later worked the ground-cover clover into my raised beds. I also spent a ridiculous amount of time surfing John Green and his brother Hank's video/blog site: www.youtube.vlogbrothers.com. Besides being a teacher of adolescents, I am one of those over-sixty people who enjoys keeping a finger on the pulse of our youth, our future adult generation.
Sitting at the kitchen table, viewing my lap top screen, I feel a hum circulating through our house. It is the hum of simply being in the moment contentment. The light intermittently with the darkening rain flickers through our many windows, our aging dog Lacey breathes loudly lying on the living room rug and my adorable cat, Lissa, slumbers on the kitchen table near my keyboard. Then I hear the scraping and clanking of metal and the releasing of curse words coming from our “mud room.” Dan has the dryer away from its back wall and its parts strewn on the floor like a gutted animal. He is a very methodical handyman, researching each task with step-by-step instructions through the Internet, though often it requires several “takes” to get it right. And this becomes true for the dryer procedure.
I want to help, so I close out YouTube, grab the small brush and dustpan and crawl/squeeze behind the dryer to clean out the dust bunnies and wash the floor and wall grime . Dan has figured out what he has been doing wrong and I feel happily blessed to be by his side doing something useful. Most often when he is undertaking a “home project” I leave him alone to groan and grunt. But then there are these “magical” times when we work side by side and the repair puzzle all comes together as if it is meant to be and we are meant to be.
Home is where the heart is and my heart is my home. Lately, cleaning has become less of a chore for me and more of a purifying ritual. Dan struggles to stretch the belt, but finally gets it on just as I finish up my scrubbing. For the fun of it, after getting a cheap lunch out, we decide to peruse new washers and dryers. I add up the years and realize we bought our used washer twenty-eight years ago from a high school kid repairing washers on the side in his garage. And this is only the second used dryer we have had in as many years. We try not to be consumers but we have been slowly and steadily remaking our empty nest with new furniture, fixtures and drapes. Maybe it is time to purchase a new washer/dryer set for the mud room. But now that the dryer is fixed, we almost gleefully want to see how long it will last.
After oohing and aahing in the Maytag store, we head to our local Jerry's home improvement store. Don't ask me why, but I love roaming these nuts and bolts store aisles with Dan. I even love when we go to the outside yard for our project lumber. I know it's mundane, but clothes, garden or food shopping, looking, gathering construction materials, having lunch, dreaming, conversing are all tasks bringing me joy when I am with Dan.
What I realized that Saturday and have always known, is my relationship with Dan has never been trivial. He keeps my heart pounding loudly and no matter what we do together it turns out to be the most meaningful moments I could ever undertake with someone. We have had our obstacles; we have had our challenges. Over the years we have taken ourselves apart and put ourselves back together again; we have replaced belts; we have continued to fix the leaks. Our relationship hasn't always been blissful, but we have no desire for a newer model. Like our washer and dryer we joyfully want to see how long we will last. And with over thirty years in, I think we're going to make it another thirty at least.
© 2012
The wet clothes in the washer were ripening, so during the week our neighbors were generous enough to let us use their dryer. The old fashioned custom of borrowing a cup of sugar comes to mind and this is, I believe, what builds closer ties and community. Knowing Dan's home projects inevitably take longer than expected, I turned to a bit of spring cleaning and then later worked the ground-cover clover into my raised beds. I also spent a ridiculous amount of time surfing John Green and his brother Hank's video/blog site: www.youtube.vlogbrothers.com. Besides being a teacher of adolescents, I am one of those over-sixty people who enjoys keeping a finger on the pulse of our youth, our future adult generation.
Sitting at the kitchen table, viewing my lap top screen, I feel a hum circulating through our house. It is the hum of simply being in the moment contentment. The light intermittently with the darkening rain flickers through our many windows, our aging dog Lacey breathes loudly lying on the living room rug and my adorable cat, Lissa, slumbers on the kitchen table near my keyboard. Then I hear the scraping and clanking of metal and the releasing of curse words coming from our “mud room.” Dan has the dryer away from its back wall and its parts strewn on the floor like a gutted animal. He is a very methodical handyman, researching each task with step-by-step instructions through the Internet, though often it requires several “takes” to get it right. And this becomes true for the dryer procedure.
I want to help, so I close out YouTube, grab the small brush and dustpan and crawl/squeeze behind the dryer to clean out the dust bunnies and wash the floor and wall grime . Dan has figured out what he has been doing wrong and I feel happily blessed to be by his side doing something useful. Most often when he is undertaking a “home project” I leave him alone to groan and grunt. But then there are these “magical” times when we work side by side and the repair puzzle all comes together as if it is meant to be and we are meant to be.
Home is where the heart is and my heart is my home. Lately, cleaning has become less of a chore for me and more of a purifying ritual. Dan struggles to stretch the belt, but finally gets it on just as I finish up my scrubbing. For the fun of it, after getting a cheap lunch out, we decide to peruse new washers and dryers. I add up the years and realize we bought our used washer twenty-eight years ago from a high school kid repairing washers on the side in his garage. And this is only the second used dryer we have had in as many years. We try not to be consumers but we have been slowly and steadily remaking our empty nest with new furniture, fixtures and drapes. Maybe it is time to purchase a new washer/dryer set for the mud room. But now that the dryer is fixed, we almost gleefully want to see how long it will last.
After oohing and aahing in the Maytag store, we head to our local Jerry's home improvement store. Don't ask me why, but I love roaming these nuts and bolts store aisles with Dan. I even love when we go to the outside yard for our project lumber. I know it's mundane, but clothes, garden or food shopping, looking, gathering construction materials, having lunch, dreaming, conversing are all tasks bringing me joy when I am with Dan.
What I realized that Saturday and have always known, is my relationship with Dan has never been trivial. He keeps my heart pounding loudly and no matter what we do together it turns out to be the most meaningful moments I could ever undertake with someone. We have had our obstacles; we have had our challenges. Over the years we have taken ourselves apart and put ourselves back together again; we have replaced belts; we have continued to fix the leaks. Our relationship hasn't always been blissful, but we have no desire for a newer model. Like our washer and dryer we joyfully want to see how long we will last. And with over thirty years in, I think we're going to make it another thirty at least.
© 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
From My Journal: Seeing and Being Seen
March 2, 2012: “The universe wants to be noticed.” (The Fault in Our Stars)
The lessons of seeing keep being in the forefront these past few weeks. I decide to check out new frames before my eye appointment this coming Monday morning. I park at my usual spot near the Bijou Theater and walk to Rainbow Optics. I hear the echo of John Green's words about seeing the universe as I stroll the sidewalks. The air is clean, the sun is desperately trying to break through the cloud cover, young college students are striding more swiftly than I to their classes or sitting with that last minute cup of coffee. But then, there at the corner up ahead is a short in statue, older, silver haired woman in this luscious purple jacket. I am not the only senior citizen who loves coming to the university area. I pass her by and head into Rainbow Optics.
I have the whole place to myself and this super young gal, Brittany, ingratiates herself by offering to assist me. She is overly eager in her helping and she finally leaves while I try on pair after pair of glasses. She has steered me to the value section after she mentions the $200 and above cost of the designer frames. While I'm trying on frames, I see once again how much I have aged. I never feel as old as I look until I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. It seems that every mirror outside my own home makes me look twice as old.
I know how petty, how meaningless it is to spend so much time trying to find a pair of glasses that will “make me appear” a certain way. I think I want to recreate myself. This time it's into “the intellectual” who for years I have tried to spurn. But since participating in the University's Insight Seminars and since creating a “culture club” with a few women I have met there, I know that being intelligent has been part of my make-up my whole life. I had to veer away from it after graduate school because I needed to balance the rational, the mind, with the emotional and the passionate. It took the raising of dear daughter Aspen to bring me that balance. And with the return to the empty nest, I am returning to my deep love of learning and seeing the universe!
I spend nearly an hour trying to choose three frames that Brittany says I can take home before making my final decision. How vain I am when I consider I rarely wear my glasses in the public world, though now that I think about it, I do carry my glasses everywhere. I can't read fine print anymore without them and so perhaps I need to revise the above statement. I do wear my glasses to read menus, to attend lectures, to read handouts, to teach, etc. But really why do I continue to worry about what I look like? John Green says, “We also want the universe to notice us.” And so I do. But I want to be noticed for my writing, my teaching, my compassion, my conversation, my ideas. I suppose our outer appearance is our first window to the world. People don't see our insides until later and some people never see our insides, the whole of who we are. Seeing takes on many forms.
I'm striding back down the sidewalk towards my car and the sun is brighter and I wish I had another errand to do. I could stop for coffee but lately I've been drinking way too much coffee. I continue walking, wondering why I allow so many gaps of time in my life when time is fast running out. Maybe the gaps aren't gaps but open spaces where deeper vision is possible. The mind clutters our seeing. I know this because I can be outside walking and not remember the scenery I have barely passed by. I shake my head and discover I have been walking around inside my brain instead. So having no goal, not necessarily being productive, can be a good thing if the eyes are wide and taking in the surrounding natural landscape and its inhabitants.
I realize another reason for “remaking” myself is because I am tired of the lonely me, the missing my daughter me. I have this whole other life even if I do get up every morning and make breakfast for one. There are more women in my life than ever before and I have recently come to acknowledge that I don't have to accept every woman who comes into my life as a friend. I can pick the ones who bring me joy, who acknowledge me as a valuable person to know, who get me and see me. The creation of the culture group has given me this resolve. Already I feel more excited and inspired by these stimulating, well-rounded, aging-gracefully women than many of my previous relationships.
How I wish I could erase my self-conscious nature. This directly connects to viewing myself in mirrors, worrying about how others see me on the outside and being nervous about the words that flow from my inside. I am socially adept with strangers, less so with the people I care or want to care about. I reach my car and climb into the driver's seat. It is a quick trip home. Lacey our dog is waiting for me and is ready to go out into the backyard. I know in my heart that for all my social nervousness, I can only be myself. And whether this self gets me into trouble or not is simply part of the process of living my life. I admit I do want the universe to see me. But first I have to see me. I have to see I am who I am and that I am a continual work in progress. I don't want to stagnate, but I don't want to make myself over into something I am not. My passionate heart beats steadily, my over alert mind thinks profusely, my written words continue to strive for a clear and renewable vision.
© 2012
The lessons of seeing keep being in the forefront these past few weeks. I decide to check out new frames before my eye appointment this coming Monday morning. I park at my usual spot near the Bijou Theater and walk to Rainbow Optics. I hear the echo of John Green's words about seeing the universe as I stroll the sidewalks. The air is clean, the sun is desperately trying to break through the cloud cover, young college students are striding more swiftly than I to their classes or sitting with that last minute cup of coffee. But then, there at the corner up ahead is a short in statue, older, silver haired woman in this luscious purple jacket. I am not the only senior citizen who loves coming to the university area. I pass her by and head into Rainbow Optics.
I have the whole place to myself and this super young gal, Brittany, ingratiates herself by offering to assist me. She is overly eager in her helping and she finally leaves while I try on pair after pair of glasses. She has steered me to the value section after she mentions the $200 and above cost of the designer frames. While I'm trying on frames, I see once again how much I have aged. I never feel as old as I look until I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. It seems that every mirror outside my own home makes me look twice as old.
I know how petty, how meaningless it is to spend so much time trying to find a pair of glasses that will “make me appear” a certain way. I think I want to recreate myself. This time it's into “the intellectual” who for years I have tried to spurn. But since participating in the University's Insight Seminars and since creating a “culture club” with a few women I have met there, I know that being intelligent has been part of my make-up my whole life. I had to veer away from it after graduate school because I needed to balance the rational, the mind, with the emotional and the passionate. It took the raising of dear daughter Aspen to bring me that balance. And with the return to the empty nest, I am returning to my deep love of learning and seeing the universe!
I spend nearly an hour trying to choose three frames that Brittany says I can take home before making my final decision. How vain I am when I consider I rarely wear my glasses in the public world, though now that I think about it, I do carry my glasses everywhere. I can't read fine print anymore without them and so perhaps I need to revise the above statement. I do wear my glasses to read menus, to attend lectures, to read handouts, to teach, etc. But really why do I continue to worry about what I look like? John Green says, “We also want the universe to notice us.” And so I do. But I want to be noticed for my writing, my teaching, my compassion, my conversation, my ideas. I suppose our outer appearance is our first window to the world. People don't see our insides until later and some people never see our insides, the whole of who we are. Seeing takes on many forms.
I'm striding back down the sidewalk towards my car and the sun is brighter and I wish I had another errand to do. I could stop for coffee but lately I've been drinking way too much coffee. I continue walking, wondering why I allow so many gaps of time in my life when time is fast running out. Maybe the gaps aren't gaps but open spaces where deeper vision is possible. The mind clutters our seeing. I know this because I can be outside walking and not remember the scenery I have barely passed by. I shake my head and discover I have been walking around inside my brain instead. So having no goal, not necessarily being productive, can be a good thing if the eyes are wide and taking in the surrounding natural landscape and its inhabitants.
I realize another reason for “remaking” myself is because I am tired of the lonely me, the missing my daughter me. I have this whole other life even if I do get up every morning and make breakfast for one. There are more women in my life than ever before and I have recently come to acknowledge that I don't have to accept every woman who comes into my life as a friend. I can pick the ones who bring me joy, who acknowledge me as a valuable person to know, who get me and see me. The creation of the culture group has given me this resolve. Already I feel more excited and inspired by these stimulating, well-rounded, aging-gracefully women than many of my previous relationships.
How I wish I could erase my self-conscious nature. This directly connects to viewing myself in mirrors, worrying about how others see me on the outside and being nervous about the words that flow from my inside. I am socially adept with strangers, less so with the people I care or want to care about. I reach my car and climb into the driver's seat. It is a quick trip home. Lacey our dog is waiting for me and is ready to go out into the backyard. I know in my heart that for all my social nervousness, I can only be myself. And whether this self gets me into trouble or not is simply part of the process of living my life. I admit I do want the universe to see me. But first I have to see me. I have to see I am who I am and that I am a continual work in progress. I don't want to stagnate, but I don't want to make myself over into something I am not. My passionate heart beats steadily, my over alert mind thinks profusely, my written words continue to strive for a clear and renewable vision.
© 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)