ODDS & ENDS

from Autumn 2016

The past week has been an odds-and-ends experience. Every day seemed to hold a little of this and a little of that to be done, or prepared for, or thought about.

It was, actually, a break from non-stop appointments to have my eyes, teeth, heart, and total bod examined/tsked over/prescribed for.

Now I feel as if I'm in a place where I can take a deep breath.

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The week just ended (Thursday's Child's week runs Thursday morning to Wednesday night) saw plenty of action, but it was all small stuff. And you know what they say about the small stuff--don't sweat it.

So I didn't.

Here are some samples of small stuff:

--transferring my previous car license plate to my current ride; I'd just renewed my plate in August not long before my 18-year-old Buick bit the dust 

--ordering a certified copy of my marriage license to establish why my current name is different from my birth certificate. This is a new requirement of the State of Indiana to procure a "Real ID" driver's license that will fly anywhere. (Doubt that I'll fly off to Rio, nor even off the handle, but if I do, I'll have a photo ID that will get me through security spots.

--buying money orders for certified copies that can't be paid for, via US mail, with a personal check; only cash or money order. (Do people really send cash through the mail nowadays!? My only cash in the mail is in a birthday card to the greatgrands.)

--taking boxes of books to the library annex to donate for the monthly Friends of the Library sales.

--moving tote upon tote filled with sewing paraphernalia into a back room to lighten the load for the guys when they come to move furniture and the BIG totes so they can rip out the existing carpet and replace it with vinyl planking. And--to keep the current-use totes of fabric from getting lost in the construction shuffle.

from Autumn 2016

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Non-small stuff included:

--playing the church service last Sunday (my schedule is all Sundays except one, so 3 out of 4 or 4 out of 5). This is only a big thing because I prepare for it each week, practicing at home until I go to church on Fridays for Heart & Hands--then I practice a half hour before we sew, and another half hour after.

--staying home for the furnace man to come and inspect the boiler, clean up whatever he needed to, and give me the thumbs-up for winter.

--going to a church meeting about our congregation's outreach programs; I reported on the progress of Heart & Hands (313 items made by us and donated to the NICU since January of this year).

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This whole list of small and non-small activities shows me how full my life is.

Is it possible to get bored? Well, I suppose it is. I rarely do, though. Mostly what I get is buried under the pages of my Today Lists. That's when I escape into a book or Netflix series.

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I do have one disappointment. Our local trees aren't showing much color--not as a group, that is; individual ones are drop-dead gorgeous. Maybe that's the way it's going to be this year. We've already had some frosty nights. Guess I'll have to rummage through my digital photos and enjoy the color of previous years.

Last weekend we had strong winds (bringing down not only leaves but branches that made a racket on the roof). Since then we've had several beautiful sunny days. Not warm, mind you, but sunny. Great for lifting the spirits.

Hope you're having a beautiful autumn and that your days are fruitful and joyous.

from Autumn 2014

TEACHING & LEARNING

[I ask your indulgence . . . the past 10 days have been crazy-busy. I've seen two doctors, a dentist, and a clinic where they do the Dracula thing and sip out a little blood. Nothing wrong with me, except that I don't seem to have a handle on scheduling. These are all routine medical visits. Then there's the annual election period for medical insurance coverage--had an appointment for that. And a haircut. 
And--and--and--

So, here's a repeat post, one I'm especially fond of, because it deals with two of my favorite things: teaching and learning.]


In September, 2000 I began journaling daily. September is the start of my personal year--a holdover, probably, from when I was a perpetual student, loved school, and summers were just annoying periods of being hot and unhappy until fall approached and school doors opened once again.

Anyway. That's beside the point, sort of.

My journals are dumping grounds for information, quilting diagrams, emotions, you-name-it. Journals have also become a wonderful way for me to explore ideas.

Take yesterday--I never know where the nudge comes from, but I often find myself writing about something I might want to blog about one day. That morning's nudge was about lessons I've learned--how we learn from each other--about being a teacher, or an example, to other people.

Lessons come from everywhere: friends, family; strangers; neighbors; my dog. . . . Here are some random thoughts from my writings:

• I learn about unconditional love and forgiveness from Joy, my dog. If you've ever owned--or been owned by--a dog, you'll recognize their seemingly infinite capacity for love and devotion. They forgive your bad moods, your ranting about something totally unrelated to them, your forgetting to fill their water bowl or feed them on time. I find that love and forgiving nature quite humbling.
• I learn that time and distance mean nothing with true friends. One friend of over 40 years' standing is as present when she comes to visit three times a year as she was when we spent hours together every single day during our college years. We seldom write letters or emails or talk on the phone. We don't need to, because we are so in tune with each other.
• I've learned about friendship among people with radically different beliefs--there's always some point of contact, some connection that allows us to know we're friends.
• Another lesson has shown me that young people the ages of my grandchildren can be my friends--it's a matter of finding similar interests and respecting our differences; and then being present with each other. Caring is another word for it.
• I constantly learn from my children: about their worlds/careers/interests. They share their beliefs (which are not always the same as mine), knowing that our mutual love and respect mean that we can discuss a wide range of topics without animosity.
• I learn that caring for others is alive and well in my neighborhood--we have only a few young families, with school-age children; most of us are 60+, retired, and in various stages of our lives. Yet there's a little network of checking in with each other, looking for signs that someone needs help, taking food to share with a shut-in down the street. The younger folks get into the act, helping rake leaves in the fall or shovel snow.

Sometimes I wish I'd known these things much earlier in my life . . . they might have been quite useful. But then, each lesson came when my life was such that I needed that bit of wisdom, that insight.

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Teaching and learning are wonderfully symbiotic--teaching someone a skill leads to the teacher learning something as well. And a pupil learning something new becomes, unwittingly, perhaps, a new disseminator of that same bit of knowledge.

A number of years ago I taught freshman composition at Purdue University. Every semester I learned something I hadn't known before. Most of my learnings were about people. With each new group, the chemistry changed. Classes were composed of varying ages: high school graduates, returning students who had left for some reason, or adults recognizing a need or desire to get a degree. My favorite classes were the ones with students ages 18 to 40 (or older). With no planning on my part, I often witnessed the older students teaching the younger.

One year we had an assignment to read about a Christmas celebration. In class, we discussed the reading and told about our own experiences. A quiet woman in her 50s startled the rest of the students by saying, "Christmas Eve is the loneliest time of the year."

I've never heard a classroom grow so quiet so suddenly. The woman went on to say that she had no family, and all her friends went to their families for Christmas.

Clearly, younger students had never experienced such a thing. They were stunned. I suspect a few did understand because their Christmases weren't happy ones. But the majority were hearing about a lonely Christmas for the first time.

That experience happened over 30 years ago. It still lives for me as one of the finest examples of learning from each other, in an informal way.

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Book learning has always been important to me. I don't know what I'd do without books.

But the best lessons--the ones that stick with me longest--are the ones I learn from people.






There's no substitute for family . . . our earliest lessons come from the folks who welcomed us into the group, nurtured us, disciplined us, and eventually shoved us out of the nest.

Today I celebrate teaching and learning. I celebrate the teacher in all of us, and the lessons we've learned--quickly, painlessly; or the tough ones that make, perhaps, a bigger impact.

Keep on learning. And teaching.

LEAVING HOME

[Every year, it seems, we have weather disasters. At the moment Hurricane Michael is in the news. Do we really have so many? Or do we just hear more about them nowadays? Whatever the situation, each news report of a new hurricane heading for U.S. coastal areas reminds me that I'm not completely immune to disasters. The Midwest has its tornado season, and there are always wind/hail storms that come along with thunder and lightning. What would I take if I had to leave my home? I explored that topic a year ago and it's still valid.]

I'm not a news watcher, but I get plenty of information--'way too many videos--about disasters in the world. They come to me via The Weather Channel, which I consult daily for settling questions of wardrobe, heat or a/c in the house, and should I even venture out.

Last Saturday my long-time friend from college days called on her cell phone to say she and her two "kids" (Border collie mix dogs) were on their way from Tampa to Atlanta to stay with family. She had food, water, etc. for herself and the kids; what she needed was fuel for her vehicle.

While she drove, she told me about the oncoming traffic--squad upon squad of emergency vehicles, all kinds, heading into the disaster area, mainly the west coast of Florida, hard hit by Hurricane Irma.

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Her phone call brought it all home to me. These things don't happen in a vacuum. They don't happen to "other people" and so I can shrug them off, change the channel, and say how thankful I am that I live where I do, in northeastern Indiana, where we don't get hurricanes or tropical storms. (We do get tornadoes, though.)

The rector of our church has kept us apprised of the best ways to help disaster victims--through our own church's disaster relief program and other organizations, such as the Red Cross. And we pray each week for those families and homes and cities in the path of destruction.

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All of this causes me to think how I would approach leaving my home.

What would I take with me--not knowing how much space I'd have when I got to a shelter? (See photo at left.)

What would I leave behind--not knowing if I'd ever return, and if I did, would I find anything left of the life I'd had to abandon?

In past years, when tornado watches morphed into warnings, I grabbed a gallon of distilled water, a flashlight, sweatshirt, pillow and blanket, and climbed into the bathtub. My cell phone was always with me for updates. When the dog, Joy, lived with me, I took her food and water bowls into the bathroom, along with a few treats and some newspapers for her potty needs. Then I shut the door and we listened to the wind roar and buffet the house. (I still recall Joy's puzzled look--she had a lot of  facial expressions--as we spent an hour or so in this tiny room, me in the tub, she on the bathmat beside me.)

Sometimes I took my laptop with me, if I remembered.

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What would I take now, if I had to evacuate the entire house and go with people I don't know to a shelter some place?

First, obviously, myself. Medications I have to take regularly. Bottled water. Cell phone.

Beyond that, my laptop; a book to read (preferably one of those 500+ pagers I can escape into); clothes I like--hoodies, sweat pants, tee shirt, walking shoes with heavy socks. (I'd probably have to wear them, with no time to pack a bag.)

If I had sense enough to think of it, I'd take my cell phone charger and the hookup for the laptop. But if I'm in crisis mode, it'll be whatever I remember in the seconds I actually have to think about those things.

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When I was a teenager, I remember how much my clothes meant to me. Looking back at it, I think that was because I had very little in the way of possessions. My clothes were me. I had very few books at that time, very few LPs. The house wasn't mine, nor the furniture.

Now, I can walk away from all kinds of things, mainly because I've had a lifetime of accumulating books and music, clothes and fabrics and yarn, furniture and dishes and ornaments. And a house and car.

Yes, I'll miss some of them, if I have to leave them to their fate. But I had to go forward from a house fire, when I was 14, in which we lost virtually everything, and not grieve about what I no longer had. Grieving didn't  bring anything back. And every time I've moved from one house to another, it seems some things never turned up in the unpacking. (Maybe they went to where all the socks go when we end up with one black, one blue, and one gray.) I could do it again. If I had to.

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What it boils down to is this: All the things in our lives are just that--things. Stuff. We won't be able to take it with us when we die. We could leave it to our heirs--but do they really want it? 

I hope and pray you and I won't have to go through the disruption of our lives that occurs when disaster strikes. But if we do, then I wish us strength and courage to go forward from where we are. We can spare a thought to the memories we have, but turn aside from grief over things.

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P.S. - My friend in Florida is home again--no damage to her house! Thanks be!

IN PRAISE OF SEASONS


[Geese flew overhead yesterday morning when I took my morning walk outside. Later I ran errands all over town--leaves have changed color on nearly every block. They all reminded me of the joy of the four seasons. Here's one song I sang a few years back.]

If I have a favorite month it would have to be October—for her color, her cooler temperatures, her sunny days—October could have been designed especially for me. And on clear days when the sky is a blue found at no other time of the year, I recall a portion of a poem by Helen Hunt Jackson, of Amherst, Massachusetts, writing in the 19^th Century:

   O suns and skies and clouds of June, 
   And flowers of June together, 
   Ye cannot rival for one hour 
   October's bright blue weather;

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Autumn’s passing leads to Winter, and I can hear already the moans, groans, and grumbles of those who “hate winter”; can’t stand to live up north all those long, dark, cold months; or who proclaim it to be the ugliest time of the year.

Really? I’ll agree in part—the cold gets to me and I miss the longer hours of daylight. But ugly? I love the pen-and-ink-drawing quality of a winter landscape. Shadows harbor blue tones. Trees reveal their structure. Evergreens stand out against the subtle whites. Winter always makes me think of “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” Robert Frost’s famous poem; here it is in its entirety:

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.

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I will admit, I’m ready for Spring when everybody else is. Of course I’m thinking of soft breezes, soft sunshine, soft green grass and plants. In reality, Spring in Northeast Indiana brings snow, fog, cloudy days, rain, thawing, mud, and freezing mud. But by April—ah, April, T. S. Eliot’s “cruelest month.”
From The Waste Land, Part I-Burial of the Dead:

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

April became the cruelest month for me when my mother died during my sophomore year in high school. Even today, I am vaguely unhappy during April, no matter how many flowers bloom, how gentle the breezes. But the time passes, and May comes with more and more flowers and trees in bloom and bushes putting forth fragrant perfume. And I am solaced.

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From John Keats’ poem, “On the Grasshopper and the Cricket”

The poetry of earth is never dead:
   When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
   And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the Grasshopper’s--he takes the lead
    In summer luxury,--he has never done
    With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

Summer was always the season when time, for me, ceased to pass. Summer went on forever. Summer never seemed to end. For me that was punishment; I longed for cooler weather, school books, and teachers. (Being an only child meant I had no one to play with. But I managed—I lectured my dolls and made up stories.)

Now that I’m an adult, I distract myself from summer’s too-long visit with enjoyment of my neighbor’s roses, or the lovely shade of the trees surrounding my house.

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Seasons have come to mean more to me than merely changes in the landscape and activities to suit the time, temperature, and condition of the sky.

SPRING is a time of new beginnings; a time to sow, or prepare, or plan.

SUMMER is a time of growth, of tending what has been sown, of appreciation for what is growing.

AUTUMN brings harvest, and a time to take one’s ease after the previous work of Spring and Summer.

WINTER allows us rest, when much of life lies dormant, waiting for a new Springtime.

We can experience all the seasons of life—sometimes in one day, or during one project; in our homes, at work, at school; within ourselves, moment to moment.

If you live in other climates and don’t experience the change of seasons as dramatically as we do in Northeastern Indiana, look for signs of your own seasons—they may be more subtle, in color, shape, length—but you’ll find them. Look within. You’ll find them there as well.