Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Not Going Even a Tiny Bit Postal

Not Going Even a Bit Postal
After a Crushing Delivery
Cram it in the mailbox. Doesn’t fit? Doesn’t matter. The mail must be delivered. If it gets in the box, that counts as delivered, even though cramming is damaging.
I have a precious (albeit cracked and mended) cup that was wedged in a too-tight mailbox. I’ve pried packages from mailboxes. Recently, a flat package with a hard surface was folded and then pushed into the mailbox. At least the letter carrier didn’t do a complete fold and was satisfied with a bend, so the gift doesn’t have a hard crease all down the middle.
The hard crease is only the top inch of the mat of the original watercolor painting I received. I glanced at the painting for only a moment, and then I focused on the crease. Then I focused on the slight bowed shape of the painting.
The mail carrier is busy, busy. She has a schedule to meet. I’m in a Facebook group for the development where I live, so I know far too many people received damaged mail. I suppose I should be grateful that the gift even arrived at my address. I am, but I’m not grateful for the damage.
I flashed on writing a nasty note to the carrier. I imagined taking a photo of the painting with its bowed shape and crease at the top. I would print the photo, add a not-so-nice note, and place it in the mailbox with the flag up. I also would post that photo on my social media group and sit back and wait for multiple angry notifications as others shared their own mail woes. We could have a collective bitchfest/mini-rage about the mail. I also imagined reporting the carrier to the post office and having her reprimanded.
As I devised my small acts of vengeance and savored the fruits of my anger, I also imagined describing the painting rather than taking a photo. I then realized that I was so invested in being angry that I didn’t really know what the painting looked like.
That stopped me short. My energy was so caught up in anger, spreading the negativity, and contemplating acts of vengeance that I didn’t even know the basics of the painting that had only minimal damage.
I stopped complaining and looked at the painting. The multicolored flowers greet a swallowtail butterfly hovering above them. Looking closer, I realized that it isn’t exactly a swallowtail, but it has similarities. It has deep blue in several shades, so I know my gift giver paid attention when she was here. She noticed the blue throughout my house and knows it’s a color I love. She also noticed that the color isn’t overwhelming. The blue in the painting is subtle—it is only a part of the painting, just like blue is only a part of what could loosely be called the “décor” in my house. The flowers are masses of colors and shapes, just like my flowerbeds.
I spent so much energy thinking about how I would wreak vengeance and express my anger at the mail carrier, that I missed the painting. I missed the colors. I missed the attention. I missed the details.
Anger does that. It obscures most of what is happening with the red film that covers one’s eyes. It isn’t an attractive film. It’s less attractive when the film obscures reason and one then acts on the anger.
I’m relieved that I didn’t vent and complain on social media. I didn’t take photos and leave a nasty note for the letter carrier. Instead, I looked at the painting and focused on what matters to me. I focused on what kind of response I want to make in my life to things that bother me. I focused on the beauty of the painting. Does it have a flaw? Yes, but the flaw is in the mat, not the art. Will I cover the flaw when I frame it and hang it? No, I won’t. It is a good reminder to skip anger and go to what matters in my life: art, beauty, gratitude.

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

I Will Have It

Why I Have Too Much Stuff
Having It vs. Using It
 “I will have it,” he said, after I asked
what he would do with it.
Propped against the stop sign, the piece of wood was no ordinary stick. It was about three feet high and had artful twisted shapes. No mere stick, it called out, “Take me. I’m cool.”
It was cool. We noticed and we wanted. It was there for the taking on that undeveloped street—or not. I turned right at the stop sign and asked, “Do you want it?”
“Yes,” he answered, “but maybe not enough to turn around and get it.”
“What will you do with it?”
“I will have it,” he said.
If we were in a comic strip, a light bulb would be shining in the bubble over my head. “Ah. There it is, the having versus the needing or using.”
I have too much stuff. The problem is that I have it. I don’t need it and often, I don’t use it. I simply have it.
I have some rose-scented dishwashing liquid. I bought it because I had to have it. Rose scents beguile and beckon me like The Odyssey’s sirens.
That rose-scented dishwashing liquid sits on my sink. It’s barely been used. Why? Because I want to have it. I tried using it to wash mere dishes, but it seemed wasteful when I pumped out the precious fluid to clean a dog food bowl or a grease-encrusted pot—kind of like casting pearls before swine. Dirty dishes are not swine, however; they are just dishes. When I consider it, that near-full bottle of soap is just soap, rose scent aside.
I know it’s just soap and I know it has a purpose and that purpose is not to take up space in my kitchen, in my psyche, in my life.
But I want to have it, even while knowing that having it is pointless if I don’t use it. It’s not a Van Gogh or priceless piece of artwork that has worth simply because it is. It’s not precious stones. It’s soap. It is for washing.
I want to use it for washing, just maybe not washing dog food bowls or empty cat food cans before they are placed in the recycling bin.
Having something like soap is use-less if it isn’t used. I know this. I know this about all the stuff I have that I don’t use.
My challenge to myself is to use the rose-scented soap. Maybe I don’t have to use it for the cup with a crusty coffee ring in the bottom. Maybe I don’t have to use it for the bowl I removed from the fridge that held too-old leftovers. Maybe I can put it in a place where the scent will linger and will remind me of the gift inherent in the soap—the scent. My challenge is to use it well rather than have it. I do need soap, so it is use-less if it sits on a sink so I can just have it.

Sunday, May 8, 2016

Mothering Cut Short

Mothering Cut Short
It’s that day when Americans sing the praises of mothers, past, present, and mothers-to-be. Celebrating mothers is a fine thing. Celebrations are a fine thing.
However, it is not so fine a thing that amid the chorus of “Happy Mother’s Day!” are far too many silenced voices. Those are the voices of children lost. It’s a bittersweet day for women who long to hear those voices. Bittersweet because they are mothers, but there will be no mothering of their child today. Bittersweet because mothering their child made them who they are, shaped them, taught them a love like no other. They wouldn’t trade that love for the earth’s finest riches, but they would give away the pain of loss without a second thought—if they could. They cannot.
So, today, they will have a day—but not the Mother’s Day of cards, chocolate, and peanut butter on toast served on a tray, wildflowers in a vase nearby.
They might say, “Yes, I was.” Or they might say, “Yes, I am.” They might stumble through the day with lead feet. They might walk as if on air. They might pull the covers over their heads and decide that, today, they will not walk at all.
One thing they will do today is miss their child—aged sixteen days or sixty years. Mother’s Day isn’t different in that respect; mothers who have lost miss their child every day.
Some days it’s harder. Today, it’s harder. What can you do? Love them. Love them more today. It won’t change the day. It won’t change the loss. Love might make the loss a bit lighter to carry—not only on Mother’s Day but every day.

Thursday, April 14, 2016

Can I Just Sit?

Can I Just Sit?
For Five Minutes?
Can I just sit? Can you? I don’t sit, unless I am doing something while sitting. Can I focus on just one thing for five minutes?

I scanned the amaryllis blooms as I watered them. They are gorgeous. I notice them daily when I walk by or when I’m watering or weeding. They bloom for about three weeks and then they are gone for another year.
Today, I realized that not once in seven years have I taken any time to sit and look at them. Three weeks out of fifty-two I see them in flower, and then I wait for another forty-nine weeks until I see them again. They are so fleeting and I don’t take the time. I challenged myself: “Can I just sit for five minutes and look at these flowers? Can I just sit and notice them for the first time? Can I just sit without answering the urge to weed, water, or trim? Can I just sit and look at them in the context of doing nothing else?”
I fetched my stool and my camera and I sat. I noticed. I did nothing  anything else for at least five minutes. In that time, I noticed that the throat of the amaryllis is deep green. I noticed that it has six filaments. When my five minutes ended, I kept noticing For the first time, I stuck one up to my nose: It smells like watermelon. I noticed that the petals on one flower were chewed. I checked a not-quite-open bud and found a rather satiated unidentified larva. I tossed it in the lot next door because this was sitting time, not killing time.
I noted that only a few buds remain to open and remembered that those will be the last of the blooms. I noted droplets of water sliding off petals and leaves.
I can just sit for five minutes. I can notice. I can see and learn. Can you just sit for five minutes? What will you notice?

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Turn Over a New Leaf—A Real One

Turn Over That Leaf
What Do You See?

It’s a cliché: Turn over a new leaf. But did you ever turn over a real new leaf—a growing leaf, one that just evolved from a tiny red bud on a once-dry, dead-looking twig on a tree or a shrub? Such a leaf has nothing to do with the cliché’s focus on a change in your life, change in your diet, or a change your job/career/living space.
Spring in Central Florida where I live is subtle, so subtle one could miss it by not paying attention. The leaves on my pink tabebuia fall off and grow back again in the same week, so if I don’t stop and notice, the tree looks like it is always green.
Each new leaf starts as a tiny node, and when first opened, it is red, nearly raw, like it must hide from the bright light of the sun. Touch a new leaf and you will note that it is soft, yielding, ready, and open to change and growth. It is preparing for the time when it will spread and become a new color, when it will fan out and provide shade and embrace the sun and its life-giving chlorophyll.
There is a lesson in the new leaf: It takes its time to open; it opens in stages. When we “turn over a new leaf” in our lives, rather than make brash, unwieldy changes that overwhelm us and turn us from red to green and then to brown in over-fast stages, we can evolve like the leaf. We can open ourselves in a conscious fashion, being cautious to not get burned, to protect the softness still present within us before we’re ready to make a change. When we are ready, then it’s time to fan out, like the leaf, embrace the sun, and continue to grow.

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Love Has No Political Party

Love Trumps Politics
YesterdayMarch 22, 2016would have been my daughter Alexa's thirty-seventh birthday—would have been because she died at age seven and a half from brain cancer on November 2, 1986.
I shared Alexa's birthday on Facebook because it's one of the things I do to honor her—to remember her, just as I have her photos displayed in my home, just as I speak about her, just as I continue to love her.
I am abundantly blessed with family and friends who hold me up and show me such extraordinary love and caring whenever I write about Alexa. Hearts reach out and hold my heart. In turn, I get to hold the hearts of others because grief is a universal emotion. We need each other when we experience grief, loss, longing. I receive so much comfort and healing from each person who responds to Alexa's photo on her birthday or her “I Love You Mommie” card on the anniversary of her death.
Yesterday, as I read the kind, caring words of my Facebook family, for twenty-four hours, we each transcended the things that separate us, politics, economics, religion, belief systems. In this election year, politics especially find me drawing hard lines of separation between myself and others.
Yesterday, those lines of separation were erased. Love crossed them out, one by one, and left nothing but caring, compassion, and shared hearts.
I must remember that erasure today and every day. I must place my focus on compassion, caring, and love, because when I get to the core of my essence, the essence of all those billions of people on the planet, we can each transcend and erase the lines that separate us, and leave only love.
Thank you, my Facebook family, for all the love yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Friday, March 11, 2016

Creating Chaos and Creating Beauty

Sowing Seeds of Hope
Today started out crummy. I slept in my clothes, not a good beginning. Yesterday, I ate about thirty smoked, lighted salted almonds and worked a crossword puzzle at the same time, so I didn’t chew them well. I followed the almonds with a huge plate of nachos, and continued to work the crossword puzzle, again not chewing well. An hour later, stomach pains hit. I have been so careful about avoiding such distress that I’ve had little need for Zantac, so mine was expired. I took it anyway, hoping it had outlived its expiration date. It had not, so I retired to bed, groaning in pain. After a few hours, I reached for the Pepto and some ginger ale. By that time, I was exhausted from pain and self-chastisement for eating so fast. I fell asleep in my clothes and stayed that way until this morning.
It’s Friday, so I had to take the trash and recycling cans to the street. I gathered the errant cans, bottles, and papers from the house and schlepped the blue recycling can to the street. Next, I removed the dead (literally) things from the fridge, again chastising myself for not eating those leftovers and not cooking that thawed chicken. When the foul garbage gathering was over, I schlepped the huge trash can to the street.
I always feel creepy after touching the trash and recycling cans, so I decided it was a good time to get my hands wet and water the plants. A huge mound of dirt was strewn across the walkway because something dug during the night and made a mess of the flowerbed I planted on Sunday.
I felt diminished and disheartened and it was only 8:30. I continued to water and then I noticed the seedlings. On Sunday, I planted several blue morning glory seeds. I didn’t soak them like the directions advised, but I wet the soil well and kept it wet each day—after hosing the strewn dirt from the creature digging during the night.
I felt so low that I almost didn’t notice the seedlings. They are so new that they blend in with the surrounding dirt. When I saw them, I smiled. In spite of the dead things in the trash, yesterday’s clothes, and germs on my hands from the garbage cans, I felt hope. Here was something new, something growing, something that will bloom and bring beauty.
Far too often, I berate myself for the chaos I create in my life. Plenty around me reminds me of the seeds of chaos I’ve sown. Not often enough do I congratulate myself for the beauty I create in my life. I sow seeds and I often forget that beauty will result—and not just in the garden. The morning glory seedlings reminded me of creating beauty—and hope. Perhaps the flower’s name is no accident; a bit of glory early in the day brought hope and a smile and changed my day.