Thursday, April 29, 2021


 TAKING TIME OFF . . .

No vacation trip . . . no visitors descending on my little house . . . no scheduled surgery or other dire event--just feeling at low ebb during the annual Allergy Season. Which apparently begins the minute the sun starts warming things up and trees and flowers and bushes and grass all get into the act--Spring. Gotta love it, but I do wish it came with fewer allergens that invade my eyes and nose and make me want to sleep for hours on end.

You want to know how bad it is? I can't even read! I can't see well enough to do my word puzzles or follow a DVD episode of something I enjoy. Thinking is almost a forgotten art. My favorite activity at the moment is lying down with a cold wet washcloth over my eyes. Last night I turned on the A/C. 

I'll leave you to it--enjoy Spring, if that's your thing. I'll see you one of these days.

And if you're a fellow-sufferer, I'll pass the Kleenex!

Blessings,

Thursday's Child


I'll enjoy the picture!


Thursday, April 22, 2021


HAVE YOU TRIED DABBLING?

Back in the 1980s (if I'm wrong about the date, please let me know--that's how I learn)--as I say, back in the 1980s Merit as a measure of achievement became a tarnished word. No longer did one need to show talent, or giftedness, or even keen interest in a topic, subject, or endeavor--all one needed to do was make an attempt. This was the era of treats/awards/recognition for all.

I know you think this is going to be a defense of Merit, but you'd be wrong. Sorry, no cigar.

Neither is it going to be a defense of the Everyone Is a Winner practice.

Today we're going to make a somewhat in-depth study of Dabbling. Let's start with a definition:

Dabbling - engaging in an activity superficially, or without serious intent; playing around; puttering; tinkering.

(The above is an amalgam from various sources.)

There's also a definition that applies only to ducks who bob for their food; it's called dabbling, and they're sometimes known as dabblers. But that's not what we are.

Back to our subject: Dabbling.

I was a bit taken aback by my Roget's Thesaurus which appeared to delight in pointing out the superficial, non-serious, and (implied) hardly worth mentioning, interest

Today I want to focus on the positive benefits anyone can reap through Dabbling.


Take art--I've recently renewed my acquaintance with watercolors, cold-press paper, natural vs. synthetic bristles, mops/hakes/riggers/round points--the entire enchilada. I've bought and borrowed books, found a painting partner (she's better than I am, so that's a plus--I can learn a lot from her), and managed to work my way through several lessons in a book to re-learn anything I had once been taught (decades ago).

In no sense of the phrase can I call myself a serious artist. In a word, I dabble. And I love it! It's fun, it's crazy, it lifts me up if I'm in a blah place. The results don't have to be showable, not even to my nearest and dearest; they're simply what happens when I play around, putter, tinker . . . you know, dabble.

However, if I had a mom with a bare refrigerator door, I'd be awfully pleased if she used her cute magnets to put one of my paintings up for public gaze.

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Dabbling is more than just filling in time. Whatever your area of Dabble, you'll be engaging your brain (this is guaranteed, though not by me), encouraging it to work with your other organs to see, hear, smell, taste, feel more, recognize more, learn more about the physical world. I love to read, but unless the book is musty (definitely an olfactory sensation), all I do is see the pages and try to engage emotionally with the story. 

Doing something else--art, woodworking, sewing or other needlework, tinkering with motors, making a garden, designing a gazebo or pergola for your back yard (you don't to actually build it, just designing it is good for the brain), thinking up games for your grandkids or practicing your reading techniques for the read-aloud time at the library--any of this, and more, can engage your brain and through it, the other organs that keep you alive and perking along. You don't have to go for a Ph.D. in anything (unless you really want to)--just play around, try things out; revel in the joy of not having to reach a standard of achievement. 

In a word--Dabble!

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At the start of this essay, you probably expected me to defend Merit as the only barometer for human achievement. I hope you've given up that expectation--I do still think, and probably always will, that Merit is a valid method for awarding recognition.

Look at the Olympics--look at the US World Series in baseball--look at the numerous awards given to authors, journalists, musicians, artists, scientists, outstanding citizens (you name it, there's an award for it) . . . . We do applaud the excellence, even the beauty, of performance. 

Yes, I'm still all for that. 


But for a great majority of us, excellence and beauty are within reach so long as we don't let go of our enjoyment. We don't have to let art or music or any of our activities overshadow our joy in living. We don't have to choose: our families and friends versus the pursuit of greatness. So what if we don't win a Nobel Prize? Or a Pulitzer? Or an Oscar? Did we have the excitement of learning and doing something, like a sport or music or helping out at a homeless shelter? Did we see beauty somewhere in our world, despite conditions we didn't think could possibly exist?

It may not have been a lifelong endeavor, but it certainly doesn't have to be seen as superficial. Or merely playing around. 

Dabbling can be done with serious intent, so long as we remember to let joy come in.

Why not try it?



Thursday, April 15, 2021

 SPRING IS . . .


[I looked for something new to say about Spring and how it affects our lives and what it means to a world that is emerging from winter, yes, but also has spent a year in various shapes and sizes of lock downs and life changes. And I couldn't find anything beyond some thoughts I published a few years back--Spring has come, and that's enough for me.]

On March 20th, just three and one-half weeks ago, I read on my calendar that we were experiencing the First Day of Spring. But I didn't find much to fill my senses at that time.

In the week past, I have seen and smelled and experienced completely the meaning of Spring. Here we go:



I am going to try to pay attention to the spring. I am going to look around at all the flowers, and look up at the hectic trees. I am going to close my eyes and listenAnne Lamott, American novelist and non-fiction writer

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You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming. Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet-diplomat










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No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn. Hal Borland, American author, journalist, naturalist










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Behold, my friends, the spring is come; the earth has gladly received the embraces of the sun, and we shall soon see the results of their love! Sitting Bull, Hunkpapa Lakota holy man




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Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush. Doug Larson, columnist and editor in Door County



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Wherever you are, enjoy Spring!

Thursday, April 8, 2021


 OUTSTANDING PEOPLE



[I'm repeating this post because I think showing our appreciation for what others do or have done for us is always in style. It's another kind of gratitude.]

Since the first of the year we've honored the late Martin Luther King, Jr. with a day of his own; birthday-observances of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. We've celebrated St. Valentine, St. Patrick, and journeyed through Lent to the joyous day of Easter.

Today I’d like to honor some ordinary folks who don’t have their own day carved out of the calendars we all hang on our walls, but who are, just the same, outstanding. I’ll give them aliases so they won’t be embarrassed if they find out they’ve been discovered.

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My mother’s first job outside the home was in a truck stop as waitress. She was perfect for the job—friendly, big smile, hard-working, full of good will. So my first outstanding person is a waitress I'll call Margo. Margo reminds me a lot of my mom: short blond hair, blue eyes, confidence in herself and her ability to do the work, personality-plus. I eat at the restaurant where Margo works about twice a month, more often in good weather. I always sit at one of “her tables” so we can chat. She knows what I like, even though my tastes change from time to time. She remembers little things, like salad dressing on the side, no croutons-no onion, on my salads.

A couple of times I ate at that restaurant when Margo was on vacation or it wasn’t her day to work. The other servers were good at their job, but I discovered I had to work harder to get my meal the way I wanted—Margo’s memory helps mine so much I don’t have to strain my brain.


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My favorite clerk at the pharmacy where I pick up prescriptions is Jenn. She’s nearing retirement, and I’ll hate to see her go. We’ve had a rapport from Day One—she remembers my name (I’m not there often enough to be considered a “regular”), always smiles; if I see her out in the store, away from the prescription counter, we always take a moment to chat. Not long ago I was at the pharmacy in the cold-cold weather, and we agreed we didn’t have cabin fever yet. She said, “I wouldn’t get cabin fever anyway! I always have plenty to do—reading, stitching, cooking . . . .” Sounded like something I’d say.

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The Post Office clerk I liked best was Pat, who has now retired. I saw her one day at Walmart and almost didn’t recognize her—she’s let her hair grow long. But she’s still outgoing and we recognized each other. Her knowledge of her job was wonderful; if you had a question, she could answer it. If you wanted to know the quickest way to get your package delivered, but didn’t want to mortgage the ranch to pay for it, she could provide possibilities—usually more than one. She always wished the postal patrons a good day when they left. I definitely miss her.

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So far I’m not worried about my family doctor (whom they now call the primary care physician) retiring soon. She’s the age of my son, about 10 days younger, so I can always estimate just how long she’ll probably be practicing. Naturally I continue to seek her advice because she’s good at her job—not just caring and compassionate, but intelligent and willing to work with a patient who refuses to take another pill (moi) or go to physical therapy again (also moi). 

But there's a plus-side to our visits, such as: what brings me there that day (usually 5-7 minutes on that one); how my writing is going (she writes books about anecdotes from her practice, a la James Herriott); how her writing is going; or if not writing, her current involvement in a triathalon, marathon, family wedding, or trip to a developing country with medical students. I leave her office feeling healed in spirit, as well as in body.

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Finally, I want to lift up three teachers who touched my life so that the ripples of their knowledge, their teaching, and their caring for their students are still opening out.

First was Miss Kincaid. (I've written about her before.) Ercel Kincaid taught fourth grade at Lincoln Elementary School in Charleston, Illinois. She was gentle and kind. She never humiliated a student. She encouraged talent. In her class I wrote my very first fiction story—I think it might have covered the front and back of one page of lined notebook paper. I fell in love with writing because of Miss Ercel Kincaid.

As a college undergraduate in English, I stressed over every darned paper I had to write. The problem wasn’t getting an idea—it was presenting all the information I needed to make the point. A three-page or five-page paper presented little problem; I could get my head around that size. But a 10-pager? Or 20?! I had the good sense to enroll in Advanced Rhetoric—which as we all know sounds like the dullest of the dull. But in the capable hands of Hank Sparapani, a recent IU Ph.D. recipient, the course was a joy to go to. I fell in love with writing all over again, all because Dr. Sparapani said to me, “You have great ideas. You just need to learn how to organize them into essays.” Nobody had ever told me I had great ideas. I nearly wept with joy. And I did, indeed, learn how to organize my ideas into essays.

The third teacher was Professor Steven Hollander, another English Department instructor, who taught several of the graduate level classes I took for my Master’s. This was another case of instant rapport—we had a similar sense of humor, liked the same music, read the same authors; we became friends, as well as teacher and student. When I taught comp classes in the department, Steve was the comp director. From him I learned how to teach—not because he gave lessons, but because I observed him in his classes and recognized his methods would suit me also. 

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Do you have outstanding people in your life? Of course you do. The connections we form with folks we meet often, or seldom, do a lot for us: lifting us up, teaching us something about ourselves, and treating us as if we’re important to them, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if we are.

Let someone know you appreciate who they are, what they do, maybe how they do it. You'll make that person's day!


Sunday, April 4, 2021

 BLESSINGS!






After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said.




Thursday, April 1, 2021

MAKING ALL THINGS NEW(ER)

The house next door north has been empty for two years. The former owners had to leave--the man had ill health and had to go to a nursing home. The woman who had taken care of him went to live with family members. Our neighborhood, without any formal organization about it, took on the responsibility of looking after that house and yard. Our concern was that it become a derelict property.  Even though there were mini blinds at some of the windows, it was clear to anyone who made a study of it, that the house was unoccupied and, basically, uncared for. But the grass was mowed from time to time and trash was removed from the patio.

A few weeks ago we learned the house had sold at sheriff's sale. Then we began noticing people coming around to do a little work on the yard--blowing leaves from the past two years into piles and shifting them to the curb out front. Picking up the sticks brought down by wind and rain.

Recently that house had a break-in. It happened in the wee small hours of Sunday night/Monday morning--patio door broken and apparently someone entered. We woke up in the morning to learn that our street had been full of police cars and officers milling around, lights on, people checking out the house inside and out, neighbors out rubbernecking. Except us. All this had taken place around 2 AM. I sleep on the side of the house nearest that patio and I heard nothing. (So much for claiming to be a light sleeper.)

Couple days ago a crew of young men arrived at 7 AM and began to replace the old roof, part of the necessary rehabbing of the property. I'd been away most of the morning and over the lunch hour. When I returned at 1:30 there was a trailer load of old shingles standing in front of the house and a new medium gray roof up there. The roofers had departed to another job.

That's what I call renewal.

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Tuesday, on my way home after a busy morning, I spied a forsythia bush in full bloom and bright color. Wonderful welcome to April!

My bird feeders are half-empty again. We filled them last weekend! The diners are: goldfinches, now wearing their bright summer clothes; house finches, with purple cloaks; blue jays occasionally; sparrows looking their usual inconspicuous brown (good for hiding in plain sight among other sparrows); and from time to time, grackles. (I do think God made a mistake with grackles--they should be out eating stuff in the fields and roadsides.)

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With all this renewal going on around me, I had to get into the act myself. A week ago a friend invited me to her house so we could work on watercolors together. Not on the same picture, you understand, but each of us doing her own thing. I was amazed--nay, shocked--at how much I'd forgotten about painting with watercolors. But little by little the brushstrokes and color mixing are coming back.

In a week or so I'll be starting a new quilt. Recently I went with my quilting friend Jane to visit our favorite fabric seller, an independent vendor who works out of her  home. Jane took a large wall hanging to be machine quilted; I shopped for backing fabric for the soon-to-be-started bed quilt in many shades of gray. 

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Amazon had promised to deliver my book order yesterday, so I knew that would be a good day. Any day when there's something new to look forward to--a book order, the promise of a new quilt to make, a text stating that a letter was mailed and I can look for it in my mailbox in about three or four days--that's a good day. (The books came before suppertime.)

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Renewal and promises bring us to Easter, which is nearly here. Now that was a promise to look forward to. The disciples had been told that their Lord would die and rise again from the dead in three days. Did they forget? Didn't they dare believe it was possible? Or were they, like us, so distracted by pain and suffering and grief that they couldn't see beyond the moment to a time of something good?

All we can do is look for the good stuff--keep our eyes on the possibility of joy to come--remember what hope looks like--and share what we see and remember and hope for with someone who needs it.

Blessings and Happy Easter!

Thursday's Child