Living Simply

November 17, 2012 By

I thought yesterday was October first and here I am preparing for Thanksgiving.  Why do I feel like I’m living in a time capsule that moves forward at a gazillion miles an hour?

As a little kid, I felt time moved too slowly.  Adolescence was the worst.  All I wanted was to be grown up and out from under the boundaries my parents set up for me.  During my twenties it sped up a bit. But being the caretaker of two little people, I still felt pretty limited.  Once those little ones were in school, the pace picked up from that of a turtle to that of a hungry dog anxious to be fed.  Once Mark and Lisa left home there was no stopping the hours from rushing to the finish line.  These days I get up in the morning and before I know it, it’s time for bed.  There are never enough hours in the day to do all of the things I put on my list of daily intentions. It can be so very frustrating.

I want things to slow down a bit now, thank you very much and I don’t think I’m alone in feeling this way. Most everyone I know complains about there being too much to do in too little time.  While we whine about our computers being too slow, we wish for the time to take a nap, soak in a bathtub filled with bubbles, or simply lounge about, dreaming of what a real vacation might look like.

Today is my seventieth birthday.  It’s once more time for me to stop my craziness and think about what is most important to me.  Is it more pressing for me to spend my time and money accumulating more stuff and being seen at every community event? Or is it more important for me to slow down and smell the proverbial roses?  What about seeing friends for lunch or going for long walks in the woods or through streets crunchy with falling leaves? Do I need to go see every movie that is now playing at Charlottesville’s new fourteen screen movie complex this very week? Or might I stay at home, sitting in front of a fire, with a good book, snuggled up with my dog, Sam?

This past year, I seem to have opted for the long walks and the good book with sweet Sam at my feet.  And even though my pace is slowing naturally as I age, it’s not all that easy to stay in the slow lane.  If I’m running late for an appointment, I find myself swearing at the numerous red lights and the heavy traffic that makes me even later.  And if it’s too cold or too hot, I can easily find myself wishing that the season would move on and bring me more comfortable weather.  What I too often forget about, is living every moment as it arises.

I’m not one who is fond of this holiday time of year.  I do love being with my family and eating turkey with dressing and pumpkin pie, but I’m not happy with the consumerism that I sometimes feel wants to devour me.  Now Black Friday is set to begin Thanksgiving evening.  Will we now call it Black Thanksgiving? Those who have jobs in the big box stores that are so popular because of their low prices, are in many cases forced to work on one of the few days of the year that they have off to spend with their families.  A recent news report pointed out two women somewhere in California, already on line at their local Best Buy, so that they won’t miss out on the latest whatevers that they absolutely must have.

I could easily sit here and wish this season away, preferring it were March, and being able to work in my garden.  But where would that get me?  I’d have to skip tonight’s dinner at one of my favorite dining spots, and then hearing our local  symphony orchestra perform Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A major Opus 92.  I’d miss being with my grandkid’s on Christmas day and most likely miss out on a snow storm or two that could transform my world into a fantasy land dressed in white.

It’s true that there may also be some very painful and unhappy days that I might be able to avoid by wishing life away. But if I didn’t enter the darkness from time to time, I’d never appreciate the light and the joy that surrounds me.

Today, I’m reminding myself once again, that rushing my way through life is not worth it. I don’t want to miss the smell of wood smoke in the air, and early daffodils poking their frilly, yellow heads out in February.  Once Thanksgiving is over, I’ll sit down and listen to Handel’s Messiah, while sipping a steamy mug of mulled cider as I write down all of the things I am grateful for this past year.

I’m convinced that I need to live more simply, being present in every moment.  Time here is too short. It should not take cancer or any other dreaded disease to slow me down, forcing me to finally begin appreciating the littlest things that I too frequently overlook each and every day.

Happy Thanksgiving Y’ All!
I hope you enjoy every precious moment.

Filed Under: Animals I Love, Childhood, Dreams, family, Gratefulness, Matters of the Spirit, Music, Navigating Through Life, Thanksgiving, The Garden, The Seasons Tagged With: , , , , ,

All You Can Do

October 12, 2012 By

“All you can do is all you can do, and all you can do is enough.”
A. L. Williams

I got this fabulous quote from my brother, Zed.  It’s perfect for someone like me, who is a perfectionist and an overachiever, especially when it comes to wanting to fix the world and all of the people in it. Fortunately, I’m not one of those who goes around telling everyone that it’s my way or the highway, though sometimes it’s easy to think that way. I’m the kind that tries to keep everyone happy, as though it’s my job to make sure that every person in the room never gets depressed, gets their feelings hurt, or feels anger.

I learned to do that job well when I was a just a little kid. I felt I had to do everything perfectly and exactly as I was told to do it.  If I didn’t do things the prescribed way the first time, I usually had to do them over and over until I got the results my parents were looking for.

I remember spending a long evening when I was about eight years old, learning about fractions. Dad made me stand on a chair at the kitchen sink, filling measuring cups until I learned that four quarts equaled a gallon, four cups equaled a quart, and two cups made a pint, and so on.  I remember how annoyed he was that I didn’t get it quickly enough for him.  I recall that it was snowing outside and all I could think about was getting outside in the morning to build a snowman. Cups, quarts and gallons were not of interest to me.

During one of my “How to Clean a House,” lessons, Mom, wore a white glove to show me that I hadn’t dusted in every little nook and cranny.  Because it felt like I failed to do things exactly right, I began to compensate by trying to do more than I needed to. I felt that I could never do enough, which led to the belief that I, myself, was not enough.  It’s taken me more years than I’d like to admit to figure out that doing more and more and more to satisfy everybody else’s expectations doesn’t make me happy.

It’s been a lesson well learned. I’ve been on a long and delicious journey this past week, learning more about myself and that letting certain things go is well worth the effort it takes to put them to rest.  I’ll be back in a week, but in the meantime, take a whiff of the lovely roses I’ve sent your way. (-:

These roses are especially for my granddaughter, Casey, who at twenty-four has breast cancer and is an inspiration as she travels down an uncertain road with courage. 

Filed Under: Addiction, Childhood, family, Healthy Living, Matters of the Spirit, Mental Health, Navigating Through Life, Perfectionism, The Garden Tagged With: , , ,

Change

August 25, 2012 By

Looking out my kitchen window, I notice the leaves on the dogwood in my neighbor’s yard are no longer their deep summer green.  They are blotched with spots of rusty-red and the tree’s tiny berries are beginning to blush.  It’s late August.  In a bit over a week it will be Labor Day and though the earth’s rotation around the sun won’t yet proclaim it to be autumn, there is an overwhelming and unmistakable feeling that summer is indeed over.  I call this time of year, Late Summer, a season unto itself.  It overlaps both summer and fall, and unlike spring, which pushes itself headlong into the heat, this season holds back, hesitating, as though it cannot make up its mind as to which direction to take. It brings us the warm spells we call Indian Summer, along with chilly days when I wrap myself in a sweater and don socks to keep my feet warm.  Evenings can be frosty and most nights I cover the houseplants that are still thriving outdoors during daylight hours.

I’ve been noticing small daily changes for several weeks now.  A brilliant red leaf on the stairs outside my studio has given away the slow shift of seasons. I look up and down the street for its origin, but can’t find the tree that has sent it my way. The days are shorter and the afternoon light has taken on a soft, golden glow as the sun steadily sinks a bit more to the south each day.  Shadows extend themselves as if stretching before settling in for a nap. The nights are crisp. I sleep with windows wide open, welcoming fresh air and the sounds of night into my room.  Every weekday morning at eight-fifteen sharp, I listen for the laughter of children as they gather just down the street, waiting for the yellow bus that will whisk them away to school.  I’ve missed their voices all summer and welcome back this joyous morning sound.

This is my very favorite time of year.  Spring is always absolutely gorgeous and the color is breathtaking here in Central Virginia, but it only leads to the sizzle of summer, which I am not a fan of.  I do love spring and in March, enjoy cleaning up the garden of its winter dreariness. I get excited as local nurseries open their doors.  I pick and choose what to add to that bit of emptiness over there, next to the day lilies. There are always places that need replanting and I am happy to do it as the energy of new life spreads across the land.

But in late summer there is a slowness that takes the place of that chaotic summer energy.  My body slows as well and by late afternoon my yawns grow wider and noisier.  I begin wanting to go to bed a little earlier than I do in summer.  And my choice in what to wear is beginning to change as well. I’m drawn to long pants versus cropped ones.  A light sweater or hoody in the early morning when I walk the dogs is now sometimes necessary.

My tiny vegetable garden still provides us with fresh tomatoes, sweet peppers and eggplant, while local apples are beginning to appear at the Farmer’s Market.  I already miss those scrumptious, juicy peaches I’ve turned into smoothies and eaten out of hand for the past few months and summer tomatoes will be gone once a hard freeze sets in.  Soon I’ll be enjoying winter squash and lots of roots roasting in a pan sprinkled with fresh chopped garlic and rosemary.  Hearty soups and stews are just around the corner. I always look forward to the peace and settled in feeling I have in October, but this year I’m having a hard time hanging on to that thought.  I’m never ready for the commercial race that will soon begin as we are coaxed into spending our money on the various holidays, stacked up like cord wood, between now and the start of the new year.  I am also not ready for the political fray that has already begun here in Virginia. We’re one of those swing states and our phones are already ringing off their hooks with calls from politicos trying to get our vote.  The local airwaves are filled with the images and words of both parties, dividing us even further, with their insulting attacks on each other. I have difficulty with negativity and this is certainly the season for it.  I will vote, as every citizen of this country should, but I’m not happy with what we have to endure in order to do so.

Despite all of that, I’m looking forward to the scent of wood smoke wafting through the evening hours as temperatures begin to drop … the crunch of falling leaves underfoot … and the continuous changes that each day brings as the season turns.  I wouldn’t be happy in a climate that always stays the same.  If we don’t have ice and snow, we can’t appreciate the warmth of June and July. And if we don’t have our sad moments, we won’t  know what happiness is.

Are you noticing the changes taking place around you?  What is your favorite season and why?  Would you be happy if everything always stayed the same?

Filed Under: Life, Navigating Through Life, The Garden, The Seasons, Time Tagged With: , , ,

On Winning And Losing

July 21, 2012 By

Peony #10, © Joan Z. Rough

Truth is best served by recognizing a viewpoint as only a viewpoint, and refraining from taking that extra step of regarding it as true to the exclusion of all other views.  In other words, all views–even correct views–are best held gently, rather than grasped firmly.  

Andrew Olendzki, Blinded by Views

I first picked up a camera in the early eighties.  Afraid of anything technical, I often asked my  husband to take photos for me. Not interested in people photos or huge, magnificent landscapes, I was drawn to the small miracles that nature had to offer in the shape of a lily or a rose.  After being told how easy it would be for me to learn how to use a camera, I took a few workshops and was hooked.

I had a background in painting and was slowly growing weary of the weaving, spinning and natural dying I’d been involved in for years.  I became fascinated by microscopic views of everything, from the powdery wings of a dead butterfly to the patterns found in rock formations.  But most of all I was drawn to flowers.  The closer I could get, the more abstract my photos became. Encouraged by family, friends and other artists, I put together a body of work. To see what would happen, I entered ten of my images into the Virginia Commission for the Arts 1989 Prize for the Visual Arts, in the category of photography.

Day lily #20, © Joan Z. Rough

In the meantime, I had recently moved to Charlottesville in 1985, which has always been a mecca for artists of every ilk, from writers, to painters, and theatre people.  In this town there is a festival for almost every genre of art.  In November we have the Virginia Film Festival, in March there is the Festival of the Book, and in May, the folks who put together the LOOK3 Festival of the Photograph, hang the work of photographers from all over the country in local galleries and outdoors, in the trees on the Downtown Mall.

As a newbie in town I went about trying to become a part of the art community.  I am an introvert and it was difficult. Afraid of my own shadow, I’d grit my teeth and go to various gatherings to meet other artists and to see what was happening. I was shy and when I opened my mouth to speak, the words often spilled out in a garble of nonsense that even I couldn’t understand.  I felt that my work was unworthy and that I had little to offer the community. Rather than push myself forward I kept myself in the shadows, being grateful for any bit of encouragement.

One evening at a gallery opening, I met an elderly man known locally for his close-up photography of insects and plants.  We started talking and he invited Bill and I to his home to see his work.  I brought some of my own images along to see if he could give me some feedback. He and his wife were friendly enough, serving us a bold red wine and a few nibbles.  They lived in a lovely home tucked into the woods and I felt that I had finally made a friend.  He showed us his Cibachrome prints, all beautiful. There was a shot of a honeybee gathering pollen, close-ups of a variety of beetles and images of flowers. All were perfect specimen shots, ideal for a coffee-table book about the garden or as illustrations in a guide to insects.  He also proudly showed us his massive collection of romance novels that he had written under a pen name.

When he asked to see my work, I brought out a dozen or so glossy cibachromes of my flower studies, so very close-up that you might not realize they were flowers. Similar in perspective to Georgia O’keeffe’s paintings, some viewers described them as resembling water colors.  There were blurry areas and sharply focused lines of the edge of a flower petal or the inner landscape of a daylily surrounded by a pool of pure, sensual color. The first words out of his mouth were, “These are not photographs. They are an abomination.”

As I remember, the conversation went down hill from there and quickly downing the remains of my wine we made a hasty exit.  Although I was somewhat used to rejections of my work as a weaver and fiber artist, I had never had anyone make a comment about my work before in that tone or in those words.  All of the people who had critiqued my visual work in the past had given me constructive suggestions and ideas on how to make my work better.  This man brought to mind my father who would often berate me for not following directions or listening to how things are to be done. This was the first time I had ever been trashed by a stranger. I was devastated, in tears and ready to roll a huge boulder to the entrance of my cave where I would hide and never come out into the light of day again.

Iris #24, © Joan Z. Rough

It took me a while to lick my oozing wound and to bring about some healing. But a few weeks later, a letter arrived from the Virginia Commission for the Arts, saying that I had been given an Honorary Mention for the 1989 Virginia Prize for Photography, by Edward Sherman, of the well-known Benin Gallery, in New York City.

Everything changed.  I went on to become a member at the McGuffey Art Center, here in Charlottesville and those photos, along with other bodies of my work,  went on to be shown individually and in one-person exhibitions in museums and galleries across the country.  And it wasn’t too many months before the phone rang, and the wife of the old guy who had trashed my work, asked me for my advise on getting her husband’s work to the attention of people outside of the community.

Despite occasionally feeling unworthy of being an artist and a writer, I’ve worked hard at not letting the views of others take me down. They are only opinions after all and if I let that happen, I would lose my very being. It’s been a hard lesson, but one of the most crucial if I am to do the work my heart brings to me.

How do you handle criticism and the views of others?  Have you ever been in a similar situation?

Filed Under: Friendships, Gratefulness, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, photography, The Garden Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Cleo, 1995-2012

June 8, 2012 By

She was my Mom’s cat.  I was there when Mom went to the SPCA to find a new friend.  Mom had recently moved here to Virginia from New Hampshire and was finally settled into a lovely small home.  Now she was ready for a companion to share her days with.

There were so many cats waiting for their forever homes, all ready to curl up in a lap and cuddle their days away.  Mom chose two feral kittens about five months old who were hiding in a corner under a table.  They were scared to death and difficult to capture. She named them Cleo and Leo. Leo was a ginger colored tabby and Cleo a beautiful calico.

The first few weeks at home, they made a nest under Mom’s bed in the box springs.  They came out only for food, but after a while realized that she wasn’t going to harm them and took up following her around the house.  When she finally let them go outside, they roamed the neighborhood by day, always returning for their evening meal.  They were afraid of everyone but Mom.  They would occasionally put up with a pat on the head from me, but Cleo had a distinct dislike for men, especially Bill.

When Mom’s health began to decline and she moved in with Bill and me, her buddies naturally came along.  They weren’t happy at first, afraid of our aging dog, Charlie and old Hannah, our Maine Coon Cat.  Leo disappeared a few months later.  We checked the SPCA daily, put up posters in the area and even called the folks that Mom had sold her house to, across town.  But he was never seen again.  There had been reports of Coyotes in our neighborhood. We figured the worst had happened.

When Mom broke her shoulder and then her leg in two separate falls, and I could no longer take care of her, we moved her into a nursing home until she was able to walk again and then into an assisted living situation. Cleo couldn’t go with her, so she came upstairs to join our pack of now two new dogs, Molly and Sam, and recently adopted cats, Peppermint and Lily. She wasn’t happy at first but slowly adjusted but always seemed to be the odd man out.  She disliked most prepared cat food. I cooked chicken thighs especially for her.  Pepper and Lily would have none of it, preferring Fancy Feast and other kitty fast foods that come in cans or bags.  Mom died a few months later and Cleo became a true member of our pack.

We moved here to the city two years ago. Cleo’s behavior changed dramatically.  I have no clue as to why, but suddenly she was greeting guests on her own standoffish terms and spent TV time in the evening settled in Bill’s lap.  But she was also aging and we were told she’d probably be gone in the next six months.  She began losing weight and her kidneys were beginning to fail. We chose not to take any heroic measures to keep her alive because of her advanced age and the invasiveness of many medical procedures.

Most recently she looked like a walking cat skeleton dressed in a fur suit. She hadn’t been eating much including her favorite home cooked chicken.  We knew her time was drawing near.  A few weeks ago I noticed that someone had been peeing on a new carpet we’d had installed and caught her red-handed. One evening while I was out doing some weeding in the garden, I noticed she was straining to pee and looked terribly uncomfortable.

We decided it was time and a week or so ago on June first, at noon, as she sat on a towel in my lap, my friend and Veterinarian, Richard, injected a magic sleep potion into her veins.  As she slowly let go and the light went out of her eyes, I imagine she was scampering off across the Rainbow Bridge to her other Mom, who was waiting on the other side. I feel sad that Cleo is gone, but also relieved. It is so hard to watch a loved one in pain slowly slip away.

With such a loss, there is always an ensuing emptiness.  Cleo’s spirit and energy is no longer here. We all feel it and miss her. In a week or two she will return home in a small box in the form of ashes. We will sprinkle them in the garden where we sprinkled Molly’s ashes not too long ago.

Filed Under: Animals I Love, family, Life, love, Matters of the Spirit, Memoir, stories, The Garden Tagged With: , ,
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