Trees and Books

January 9, 2013 By
Zoe and Noah climbing a tree. The Outer Banks, 2007

Zoe and Noah in a tree on the Outer Banks, North Carolina, 2007

“A book is made from a tree. It is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called ‘leaves’) imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. One glance at it and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time, proof that humans can work magic.”  – Carl Sagan

Filed Under: Books, Childhood, family, love, Memoir, Quotes, Trees, Wise Words, Writing Tagged With:

Gift Of The Magi

January 5, 2013 By
Christmas in Black Mountain, North Carolina, with Deena, Lisa, Zoe and Noah

Christmas in Black Mountain, North Carolina, with Deena, Lisa, Zoe, and Noah

My annual Christmas doldrums stayed away until the week before the big day. They slowly made their way into those early mornings hours when I worry myself awake. They like to sit on my chest, heavy and soggy with tears, insisting on staying put until I get up and take Sam for his walk.

It helps to watch the eastern sky begin to glimmer with the rising sun in the crisp air of dawn. Robins not yet chilled enough to fly south, greet us with cheery chirps as they scatter dead leaves and broken twigs, looking for a small breakfast morsel of worm or bug.  As the night fades my spirit lightens. The heaviness begins to drop away and when I catch my first glimpse of that brilliant orb of light, the burden is gone.

A few other early risers and their dogs, shuffle by, nodding and raising a sleepy hand in greeting.  When we meet in broad daylight, we often stop and share stories about what is happening in our lives. But early in the morning, it’s far too cold and blustery to stop and chat.  We all rush home for eggs over easy, bacon, and toast. The stretch of daylight before us won’t last long enough for all of the things we need to get done.

The days are hopscotch quick and this year it’s difficult to get things organized for the coming holidays. In order to avoid the madness of Christmas crowds, I order gifts online or buy them from friends who create simple things like bees-wax candles, gingerbread soap, or spicy brown sugar scrub for making one’s skin feel like the softest silk.

I sometimes make a few things myself, like the elderberry syrup that my son loves. It is medicinal and filled with the goodness of not only dark and delicious elderberries, but also elder flowers, rose hips, licorice, orange rind, all steeped together in raw honey and brandy for four to six weeks. Mark pours it over ice cream and other sweets. His interest tends toward the gastronomic, but if his luscious desserts happen to keep a cold or the flu at bay, so much the better.

This year I couldn’t seem to get it together and as the holiday grew ever closer the pall of the shootings in Connecticut stayed with me.  Christmas eve was especially difficult and I’m still bereft for the families who lost their loved ones that cruel, sunny day.

I did make Mark his dream syrup, but the rest of the things I told myself I’d get together didn’t really happen. Despite my sadness, somehow it all worked out and everyone is happy with the tidbits I did managed to gather and pass around.

When Mark and Lisa were little, Christmas often found too many packages under the tree. While unwrapped toys littered the floor, they preferred rolling in torn gift wrap or hiding in empty boxes. When they got beyond that stage, the looks on their faces were more confused than filled with Christmas joy, when they couldn’t figure out which toy to play with first.

As grandchildren have arrived on the scene I’ve become what some kids might consider a Grinchy grandma. I’ve sworn off buying them toys. I go instead for books, games, puzzles, art supplies, or once, it was a fun pair of dinosaur PJs for Noah and a frilly dress for Zoe. Last year, I asked their mom what they needed most. We gave Noah a new pair of prescription glasses, while Zoe got the running shoes, with pink accents that she wanted in order to participate in Girls On The Run.  It may not sound very exciting, but everyone was happy.

This year we gave them a few books and money that they are required to spend on helping others rather than on themselves.  We did that a couple of years ago and they spent their money at the local nature center, adopting wild animals that live there. The money helps pay for food and other expenses for the red wolves, otters, black bears, or other native species that they choose to adopt. Noah and Zoe loved the idea so much that they asked if we could do that again this year.  This proud grandparent thought that it was an awesome request. I was once again reminded of the true spirit of Christmas.

The kid’s handmade gifts to us are magical. Noah built a colorful hanging bird feeder with the help of Deena. Zoe created a small and hysterically funny version of our dog, Sam, using pipe cleaners and small fuzzy balls.  We’ll treasure them for years to come.

We especially treasure the few days we had to spend with them, seeing the fantastic one-man show, Marley’s Ghost, and walking around Lake Tomahawk, while trying to keep hissing geese from chasing us. The ease and simplicity of Christmas day itself was a gift.

Zoe, at age twelve, is suddenly as tall as I am. We now stand eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose when we talk. She has a fantastic eye for fashion, especially when it comes to shoes.  I’ve always teased her that once we wear the same size shoe, I’d be borrowing hers and maybe even taking them home with me if they are comfortable enough. This year Santa brought her a pair of black and pink zebra striped running shoes. I was sorely tempted to try them on, but even though I love wild shoes, I must say they were just a tad over the top for a woman of seventy.

Noah, at nine, is into Big Foot, looking for signs of the beast that so many claim really does exist.  When I told him that I’d probably be scared to death, if I met Big Foot in the forest, Noah told me that Big Foot is a guardian of the earth and would never hurt me.

Christmas is not about the glow and glitter that is touted in the media. It’s not about electronic gadgets, toys, and having more. Christmas is about the birth of one of the greatest teachers of all time. And though I do not consider myself a Christian, I celebrate Jesus along with all of the other great spiritual teachers, as I learn from their lessons in kindness. We all need to remember that when the Magi brought their gifts of Frankincense and Myrrh to the child asleep in the manger, they were gifts of spirit …  irreplaceable symbols of love.

Filed Under: Being Creative, Childhood, Christmas, family, Gratefulness, Kindness, Matters of the Spirit, Memoir, Travels Tagged With: , , , ,

Two Muses … A Thought About Creating

December 31, 2012 By
Store Window, New York City, 2007

Store Window, New York City, 2007

“There are, it seems, two muses: the Muse of Inspiration, who gives us inarticulate visions and desires, and the Muse of Realization, who returns again and again to say ‘It is yet more difficult than you thought.’ This is the muse of form. It may be then that form serves us best when it works as an obstruction, to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.” – Wendell Berry

 

Filed Under: Being Creative, Dreams, Navigating Through Life, Quotes, The Muse, Wise Words Tagged With: , , , ,

Holiday Wishes

December 14, 2012 By

DSC00564The season is moving on and the end of 2012, is not too far off.  Though September is really the month I consider to be my New Year, January is still a landmark time, in that the calendar begins its yearly cycle, bringing us back to the beginning again every year.

On January 1st, I set an intention for the 365 days that are before me, just as I will set my intentions for tomorrow, this evening, and on Sunday night, I’ll set them for the week ahead. Using this idea, taught to me by Debra Marrs, I wake up each morning, knowing what I plan to do for the day ahead. And though I may stray off course from time to time, it’s a structure that I can carry with me into the next day if necessary. Unless I am faithful to these lists, I would most likely arise confused and overwhelmed, trying to figure out where to begin my day, and why.

I do change things around as opportunities for a last-minute visit with a friend arises or if the cat gets sick and I need to take her to the vet. I simply put what I didn’t do today onto the list for tomorrow. The deal is to only write down three or four items to accomplish each day, leaving extra time to keep working if I choose, or to have a cup of tea with my neighbor, weed the garden, or have a cat nap. Those things, which I don’t consider work and often feel guilty about doing, are just as important as taking time to work on my memoir every day, paying the bills, and doing the laundry. They are the self-care items that keep me sane. I’ve learned over the years that without time to relax, I don’t do well. After having used this system of time management for a while, I now know just how much I can accomplish in a given day. I’ve stopped overloading my plate, and don’t feel rotten anymore, when I don’t finish everything I planned to do.

My yearly intentions are a bit different. They are just one or two words that I choose each January to accompany me as I move through the next calendar year. In the past I’ve chosen words such as trust, slowly, and open. When I’m feeling particularly pushed, I’m reminded to slow down and to trust that all will be well.  The word open, really helped me during a difficult time after my mother died, when all I wanted to do was to hide away and lick my wounds. Instead of sitting behind a closed-door, I left it slightly ajar. When I felt it was safe to leave the door wide open, I did, letting in the sunshine, a fresh breeze, new friends and interests. The lineup of these words grows every year as I add a new one. And they often come together like old friends, when I’m feeling in need of a course correction.

This year, I’m starting a few weeks early as a way of practicing before the ball drops on New Year’s Eve. I’ve chosen simplicity, as my word for 2013, hoping it will help me to keep my worst enemy, Perfection, from trying to take over. It should help me to sort out the idea of enough, as in how I perceive myself, and how much time I need to put in working on my memoir everyday.

I want my days to be less complicated and more productive.  I want to keep my goal of finishing a draft of my memoir by September 1st in mind, while finding a way to get it done without making life so complicated and difficult, that I’ll give up and walk away. It will help me to use the word NO, when the temptation to let it go arises, and remind me that what I want most in the world right now, is to write my story.

In the spirit of practicing simplicity, I plan on taking the next three weeks off from writing this blog. I’ll have extra time to enjoy my family and get lots of rest before jumping headfirst into whatever lies ahead.

I wish each and every one of you, a happy and healthy Holiday Season and a New Year filled with fresh dreams!

 

Filed Under: Christmas, Dreams, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, Perfectionism, Time, Writing Tagged With: , , , ,

Children And Guns

December 7, 2012 By
Looking down on Ivy Creek, where I often watch deer browsing.

Looking down on Ivy Creek, where I often watch deer browsing.

When I was a child, my parents kept shotguns and rifles in our home. My father had brought a number of them back with him from Europe after World War II and used them for hunting. My mother often went with him but I think she probably went along just to be in the woods. Though she did sometimes carry a gun, I doubt very much that she ever fired a shot at any animal. She could kill and pluck chickens, catch and clean freshly caught fish, without any problems. But there was something about mammals that caused her to hesitate before even thinking about pulling the trigger.

I remember one cold winter morning, as I watched them practice shooting at empty coffee cans. I was only five or six years old and was fascinated to see who was better at knocking the rusty cans off their perch on an old log. My mom complained about the “kick” of the rifle she used.  When she pulled the trigger, the gun would jam back into her shoulder, as the bullet shot out of the barrel, causing her to lose her balance, sending the projectile somewhere above and beyond those old Maxwell House cans.

I loved being with Dad when he cleaned his guns, attracted by the fruity, banana smell of the oil he used. It seemed a sacred ritual. The guns always had to be cleaned after they were used, and every time he’d tell me how dangerous they were. He always emphasized that one should never ever point a gun at another person even if you know the gun isn’t loaded.  I had no idea where the guns were kept and only saw them when preparations were being made to go target practicing or hunting.

During the same time, the meat on our table was most often, roasted rabbit or squirrel. We had only recently returned from spending a year or two in Germany after the war. My dad was getting his home building business up and running, and I imagine he was stretching every dollar that came his way.  Rabbits and squirrels were abundant and free for the taking, saving money but also providing a source of protein for the family.

I was a curious kid and loved to watch as Dad skinned the bounty, marveling at the layers of fur, muscle and fat that clothed those tiny creatures.  I had no problem eating them. It was what we did and how my parents fed themselves and their growing family.  But I had no interest in guns or killing animals.  And they never became an interest of mine. The only gun I ever held, was a cap gun I used when I played cowboys and indians with my friends.

Many years later, my dad took my brother, Reid, fourteen years old at the time, deer hunting.  He spent lots of time teaching him about the use of guns and again, how dangerous they were. Reid was very excited about the possibility of bringing down a deer, until the day he actually did it.  It was a large, twelve point buck, and since he was hunting alone, Reid had to cut the carcass into manageable pieces in order to bring it home.  He trudged back and forth carrying deer parts on his shoulders until all of rested outside the kitchen door. For weeks afterwards, he was depressed and unwilling to eat any of the meat. He had broken his own heart by taking the life of another creature. He never picked up a gun again.

Last week, as I dug into a big bowl of soup at a nearby restaurant, a young father and his two adorable children, sat at the table next to mine. The kids were probably five and six. They were quiet and well-mannered. While they had their lunch, their dad’s cell phone rang several times.

I find restaurants wonderful places to listen in on conversations for material that I might want to use in my writing.  But this one went further than just a good line or two. While he was cutting up his son’s meat, I heard him tell whoever it was on the other end of the line, that he was on his way to the gun show, in Richmond. He went further, explaining that he had two AK-47’s and another assault weapon he was interested in trading in.

This was one conversation I wasn’t expecting to hear. I sat there stunned and feeling afraid. I have mourned the loss of the many innocent victims of mass shootings all over the world. In 2007, it happened here in Virginia, just down the road, when thirty-two young people lost their lives in what is now called the Virginia Tech Massacre. To my knowledge I have never been in the presence of anyone who owns automatic weapons, until a week ago.  The thought of it still makes me shiver.

Why is it necessary for anyone to own an automatic assault weapon? While I have respect for anyone who needs a rifle for hunting, and putting food on their table, I do not condone the owning of automatic weapons for any purpose.

I fear for those two young ones and the world they are growing into.  The most unnerving part of the whole gun scene, is that when a mass shooting occurs, the sales of guns go up around our country. According to our constitution, we have “the right to keep and bear arms.” But this is a different world than the one those words were written for.  As we keep learning every time innocent people are killed, these weapons are far too easy to buy. And they too often fall into the hands of those who use them to harm others.

I don’t make it a habit of posting words of a political nature on this blog, but I feel this is an important issue for all of us to think about, especially if you have children. I do NOT consider it a political issue. It’s about keeping our families out of harms way. I hope and pray that if you do own a gun or guns of any kind, that you keep you and your kids safe, by educating them and keeping your guns locked up and out of reach.

I support, Hunters For The Hungry, who here in Virginia, help to manage an out-of-control deer population, while feeding those who cannot supply food for themselves.

Filed Under: Childhood, family, Fear, Navigating Through Life Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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