Possibilities

[I discovered I'm re-visiting one of my perennial problems...not enough time to do what I want to do. This post looks at that "not enough time" issue--it's all about perspective. And while we're at it, will somebody please look into the irritating recurrence of these same problems/issues/irritations? Thank you.]

There’s a line in The Golden Spiders, by Rex Stout, that I really like:

Archie Goodwin is badgering Nero Wolfe to do some work:

“You’ve always said it’s not enough to earn your money—you have to feel like you’ve earned your money. So let’s earn our money.”

-----

[Note: This post is not about making money. Sorry. You really don't want to get advice from me on making money. Trust me on this.]

A couple of months ago I had a day when I did several things, and accomplished a lot, for me. By the end of that day I had the satisfaction of time well spent. I felt—emotionally—as if I’d accomplished a lot. Some of that satisfaction came from knowing I’d finished something: a task, one large part of a task, or even a small step.

I won’t tell you what all I did—I do hate to see your eyes glaze over. But I say proudly, I wiped out, completely, my Today List. And it wasn't a short list either.

Sometime back a blog post by the late Writer/Teacher Louise De Salvo entitled “Little by Little” explored what it means to make progress on a project when you have a debilitating disease or condition. Louise De Salvo never knew ahead of time how much energy she would have the next day—maybe none. Maybe only a short time to do a little writing. If it’s 10 minutes, then she used those 10 minutes. If it’s an hour, then she wrote for an hour. And the work got done, “little by little.”

I found her blog post inspiring. Too often I sigh and ignore the little bits of time that could be used to move a project forward.

Do I really have to wait for two hours of free time? Isn’t there something I can do in whatever time slot I have available?

The late Nancy Zieman, host of a long-running quilting/sewing TV show, Sewing with Nancy, believed that's possible. She published a book called 10-20-30 Minutes to Quilt. There’s another inspiration. For each quilt she lists the steps: what can be done in 10 minutes (choose fabrics, perhaps), 20 minutes (cut fabrics), and in 30 minutes (assemble quilt blocks).

My job: Look at my Today List and estimate how many minutes each task will take.

Besides tasks, I like to build in time to rest between, say, starting laundry and vacuuming the hall and bedrooms. This isn’t lying down for a nap kind of rest; this is doing something sitting down—writing checks, knitting a few rows of an afghan, looking through a music book for pieces I can learn. Then back on my feet for the next activity.

-----

The true issue at hand, I believe, is perspective. Remember the old glass half-full vs. the glass half-empty? Time perceived as "too little to do much with" is still the same amount of time perceived as "just enough time to do one step of that task."

One of the most positive people I know is my family doctor. We discussed time one day--I think the subject was time to read--and she said two minutes might be all the time she had but she'd use those two minutes to skim an article.

Perspective--what you see from where you stand--has a lot to do with perception.

If you're standing in your own way, you won't see anything but your own reflection. If you get out of your own way, you might see something new--or something old in a new way--or something old that can be morphed into something new.

Perspective influences perception, which leads to possibilities.

There you go--three words that begin with P. Juggle them and see what you come up with.

And have a Perceptive week, developed by looking from where you stand, into a future of possibilities.

Blessings,

Thursday's Child

 CELEBRATING A LIFE

[This post appeared many years ago, when Thursday's Child was in its infancy, so to speak. As I get older--something everyone is doing along with me--I begin to understand more about the elders who went before me. This essay introduces you to Hilda, with whom I attended church nearly every Sunday. And along the way, you'll meet other folks. Possibly, you'll recognize yourself--not as you are now, but as you may have been long ago. And yet, I wasn't writing about you at all.]

Yesterday I attended a funeral at my church. Hilda was 97 years old when she passed, and she had been a member there long before I came on the scene. But she was a part of my church life from the first day I attended, because she and her seatmate always sat directly in front of me. (We don't really have assigned seats, but we might as well have.)

There weren't many there for the service. Most of Hilda's contemporaries are also gone. We did meet her two children, both of whom live in New York State, plus other family members. But the folks who came--my, how they sang and prayed and recited Psalm 23 together! We celebrated the life of a woman we had all known, to one degree or another.

-----
In my 20s and 30s I dreaded going to funerals--they were so, well, funereal. 

My first experience of the Celebration of Life service was 45 years ago in a church I attended when my children were young. Yes, we mourn the one who has passed. Yes, we may be saddened by the suddenness of the death. And yes, if we are adults, we naturally are reminded of our mortality. 

But we also celebrate the faith and recount stories about the one whom we see no longer--the funny things, the odd things, even the ornery things that have occurred. Yesterday, Hilda's son said his mom was indeed strict. He remembered it well, along with what she did to keep the family going in hard times. A caregiver and close friend of Hilda's remembered her as strong, stubborn, hardheaded--and loving, joyful, a true friend. She told little-known anecdotes about Hilda's escapades when eating out with a group from church.

I love those stories. They illustrate that we are all a jumble of characteristics. We're not paper dolls; we're not formed in a mold. Listening to Hilda's friend and her children, we got a true picture of the Hilda most of us knew. And if you were a stranger in the congregation that day, you would feel as if you knew her, too.

-----

Do you tell family stories to your children or grandchildren? Or to nieces and nephews? 

Many adults I talk with don't remember their grandparents. Family stories can fill in those gaps. They give us a sense of connection we wouldn't otherwise have. The stories may even explain why our family lived the way it did--and where it did. 

We are such a mobile society that the stories are more important than ever. I was born in Illinois, moved to Missouri, Kansas, Michigan, and finally Indiana. My children were born in Illinois, Michigan, and Indiana. Whenever our family gets together for a visit, we often play the "Do you remember" game. What one remembers, another may not. And most often--the memories are very, very different. Makes for a spirited visit, let me tell you.

-----
Storytelling is an art--no doubt about that. But that doesn't prevent each one of us from taking part. A story can be as short as telling your young children their grandparents' given names. Or it can be more involved, explaining where your ancestors came from, if you know; or bringing to life the cultural differences in your family. 

If your storytelling starts getting complicated, try writing down the anecdotes and experiences you'd like to share. No one is going to grade your work, so feel free to express yourself as you would if you were talking to your audience. 

Can't get started? Then try the traditional approach:
     "Once upon a time, there was . . . ."

Works every time.

 SENSES

[Autumn--a wonderland of sensory detail! Yesterday's bright blue sky reminded me how much we can take in with our five senses.]

Without getting into metaphysics, let’s agree that we have five senses: Sight, Hearing, Smell, Taste, and Touch. Okay with you?

One of the most basic tenets of writing—essay, story, poem, letter, note to your kid's teacher, whatever—is that the author include sensory detail. Helps the reader get in on the act--communication takes place.

Some sensory detail is pretty easy to do—sight is probably the easiest, if your eyes are reasonably dependable. You can describe a purple iris, orange Mini Cooper with a missing headlight, green tee-shirt with holes all over; a tiny seed to be planted, a dog big as a small house; a wagon with one wheel missing; porch steps that sag to starboard. . . .

Hearing also seems to be doable. We have tons of words for types of sounds—whispers of leaves, crunch of snow underfoot, snap of bonfire flames, roar of the football fans at the school game.

Taste and Touch are both friendly with simile—something tastes smooth like ice cream, has the feel of rough wool.

That leaves the sense of Smell. This one is much more difficult to pinpoint. We can use comparison—the air smells like fresh spring rain. But then, we have to know how fresh spring rain smells. Or, Grandma’s kitchen smells like the cinnamon and nutmeg she uses in her apple pies. Works for me, but does it work for you?

-----

The sense of Smell is thought to be the most evocative of the senses.

Marcel Proust wrote seven large volumes of a novel, Search for Lost Time (also called Remembrance of Things Past) in which he wrote about the fragrance and taste of a madeleine he’d eaten as a boy, which evoked such a strong memory that he explored it in great depth.

Proust’s method was to describe the immediate pastry he’s eating, to realize the intensity of the sudden memory that appeared to him, and then to recall the memory itself in detail—a madeleine he was given, as a young boy, by his aunt when he went to say good morning to her in her boudoir.

(The madeleine is a type of sponge cake, baked in a special pan that produces shell-shaped pastries. It is often flavored with lemon and contains ground nuts, usually almonds.)

I know people who say they love the smell of coffee perking, but they never drink it because they don’t like the taste!

Then there’s bacon frying. Nowadays so many of us have given up eating fried foods, I don’t know how anybody can wake up on time, even if they don’t imbibe.

Toast—now there’s a nose tickler. But only if it doesn’t get to the charred point. (I recall being told as a child that eating burnt toast would make my hair curly. Then a few years later my mom gave me a home perm. Hmmm. . . . Apparently the amount of burnt toast has something to do with the amount of curliness.)

-----

How do you describe smell to a child?

I recall saying, “Doesn’t that smell good?” when cookies were baking.

Or, “That rose has such a sweet smell.”

Or, “Empty the cat pan before it begins to smell.” (They knew what that meant, all right.)

We talked about the smell of burning oil in a car that needed service. Or rather, was ‘way beyond needing service. We sniffed the air and said rain was coming; there was something that triggered the memory of rain. Or after a rain—what we later learned was ozone that seemed to bring a freshness we’d been missing.

-----

In the 1960s we were exhorted to “stop and smell the roses on the way.” Not literal roses, necessarily, but a reminder to slow down, pay attention, notice what’s around you. May be good. May be not so good. But notice it anyway.

-----

Now that Autumn has arrived and I’m smiling a lot, I begin to notice autumnal fragrances—fresh crop apples, dry leaves (already quite a few on the ground), last-chance grilling sessions (hot dogs cooking wafts through the neighborhood). If you go to bonfires, you’ll catch the sweet smell of marshmallows, if they haven’t gone too far and give off a carbonized odor; a chili cook-off will fill your olfactory sense with hot spices; and if you’re very, very lucky, somebody dear to you will bake an apple pie with the new fruit just on the market, and your mouth will water at the anticipation of sugar and spice and everything nice.

Celebrate your sense of Smell today. Autumn is a great time to celebrate. But don’t forget Winter’s evergreen trees and holiday cookies and fruit cakes and spiced cider and hot chocolate . . . .

 WHERE DO YOU FIND WISDOM?

I've discovered Wisdom is never out of style. Not as a subject. As a current point of view, it may vary with the prevailing societal norms. I happen to like my Wisdom in the tried-and-true variety. Here's some vintage stuff from several years ago.

Sometimes Wisdom arrives unexpectedly. A chance remark by a stranger . . . an old saying pops into mind . . . a half-remembered quotation that I have to look up to get the proper wording.

Many folks go to the Bible for words to live by. They have favorite verses, favorite psalms committed to memory; or perhaps favorite hymns from their worship services. These bring comfort in times of distress or sadness. Brick-and-mortar bookstores have shelves sagging from the weight of such books—whatever direction your faith has taken you, there’ll be something for you to read if you want to. Or try the public library, or the library of your faith community.

-----

Then there’s the Wisdom—or what passed for Wisdom—that we grew up with. Such as:

Waste not, want not!  How often did we hear that one in our youth? Folks who grew up in the Depression  (roughly, 1929 to 1941) would understand this one all too well. And they passed along the message to their children.

A penny saved is a penny earned. Well, not really, not in today’s financial climate; but there’s no denying, a penny saved is a penny saved.

See a pin, pick it up, All the day you’ll have good luck. Offering us good luck was one way to keep pins off the floor where little kids and pets might come to harm. Or barefoot adults. A good reminder for safety. And the corollary worked the same way: See a pin and let it lay, Bad luck you’ll have all the day.

If your nose itches, company’s coming. This was one of several dozen my mother quoted—if it wasn’t an itchy nose, it was dropping silverware, each type indicating the gender of the company to come. Later on I heard it another way: If your nose itches, you’re going to kiss a fool! Hmm, not a very exciting prospect. I’d prefer company coming.

My mother also told me about itchy hands—and to this day, I can’t get this one out of my head. If your left hand itches, you’re going to receive money. (Yay!) If your right hand itches, you’re going to shake hands with somebody. (Meet someone new.)

Another one about money: Foam on the top of a cup of coffee or tea was called “Money on your cup.” (I don’t think this includes cappuccino, though. Just bubbles that form when you pour the liquid into the cup. Sorry about that.)

-----

Some sayings had honest-to-goodness sense behind them. 

Take this one: As the twig is bent, so grows the tree. That was about more than bending your young tree into an interesting shape; it was meant to warn us how to rear our children (twigs) is such a way that they would grow up into the type of adults (trees) we would like them to be.

Or, The apple never falls far from the tree. Seems obvious, if you’ve ever had/seen an apple tree. After all, the tree doesn’t fling the apples around, even in a windstorm, and the fruit is heavy enough to fall pretty much under the tree it grew on. This was another metaphorical piece of wisdom: Don’t expect your children to be much different from the parents. (I seem to recall the children so described were usually budding delinquents.) In the Nature vs. Nurture debate, this one seems to straddle the fence.

-----

From what I’ve observed, what we glean from old sayings, proverbs, and family wisdom depends on our family’s history and experience. We were pretty much Midwestern agrarian—hence the practical nature of the quick pieces of advice I learned from childhood on up.

Dig around in your memory bank for those words to live by that your family treasured. Bet you haven’t heard them recently. But they’ll still resonate with you.

If you don’t think they’re especially wise, see if you can file them under Advice. Or Insight. Or, Old Sayings.

-----

Here’s my current favorite saying (on a whiteboard at the Y)—hope it says something good to you:

YOUR SPEED DOESN’T MATTER…FORWARD IS FORWARD.

  LET ME COUNT THE WAYS

[I racked my brain for new things to say about Autumn, the season that tops my list of favorites. There was nothing more that I needed to add to this love song from a few years ago.]

(With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I'm borrowing her phrase, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." From Sonnet 43 in Sonnets from the Portuguese.)

This is my love song to Autumn.

I love Autumn for its colors--never the same twice; adjusted and revised, tinted and deepened, over and over and over. Leaves, flowers, pumpkins, cornstalks.


I love Autumn for its fragrances--smoke from wood-burning fireplaces and stoves; the last barbecue of the season; the wine-y smell of fresh apples gathered into the barn at a local orchard; the spice of chrysanthemums ready to plant in flower beds.

I love Autumn for its sounds--lawn mowers and leaf blowers, the municipal vacuum truck; homeowners and carpenters finishing the last bit of repair or construction before the weather changes; rain--wind-blown or gentle--against the roof at night.

I love Autumn for the tastes we create, now that we can heat up the oven--raisin-studded oatmeal cookies, muffins, brownies (so quick to make!), apple pies and fruit crisps; chili in the slow cooker; pork roast with root veggies in the oven; soup, any kind, just so it's soup.

I love Autumn for the touch of soft leather gloves, the rasp of a hand-knitted scarf against my chin; the weight of a shawl or ruana over my turtleneck; corduroys and heavy denims for warmth. And socks! Heavy socks, reaching up the shins to keep out chilly air.

-----
As I gathered my thoughts for this post, a phrase kept playing in my mind: "Heaven and Nature sing!"

Well, of course they do! In every season Heaven and Nature sing a different song. I celebrate all of them--yes, even summer, my least favorite--but my true love is Autumn.

Even when we have the little season called Indian Summer, with its few days of sun and warmth, Autumn is much too short. Frosty nights are a foretaste of weather to come. 

But until that time, celebrate Autumn. Revel in her colors and tastes. Make room for cookies and soups. Heat up the outdoor grill one last time. Wrap up warm and go to your favorite team's football game.

Yes, indeed. Heaven and Nature sing!

Blessings,

Thursday's Child

-----

OLD FRIENDS . . .

Every so often I go off the rails and start ordering books--Evergreen (library statewide inter-library loan service), Internet sites, even author's sites that show their wares for sale.

In one of my recent binges, I began collecting a couple of authors I haven't read for 30 or more years. They're used books, of course, and some must be rarer than others by the same author because prices range from affordable to "never mind."

Now you may wonder why I'm back into collecting books, having (I think) mentioned that I've given away a number of books in the past decade or so, when the decluttering bug had bit me, or I had run out of shelf space in the house and books were being stored in the garage (along with dust and insects). Our local library welcomed my surplus, both for its monthly sale and in some cases to fill in a hole in the library's offerings. Anything that wasn't acceptable because of age or condition was further donated by the library to charities that use books to teach reading in other countries.

Wonder no more; the answer is simple: I miss my old friends. Those authors who have been absent from my life for few-or-many decades always had something to share with me. 

I've also learned some of my children like those same authors. Books about country living, country cookery, raising dogs . . . . And the authors were folks who read--poetry, newly published novels, philosophy; and who listened to recordings of composers I've long admired. Didn't they have television, you ask? Yes, Virginia, TV had been invented many, many decades ago; and as with anything new, it didn't continue to fulfill everyone's needs for entertainment. Some folks went out to concerts. Some stayed home and played records and tapes and CDs.

It all boils down to hanging out with old friends.

-----

Why do we do it, anyway? Why do we enjoy meeting up with old friends, sharing a meal--drinking a fancy coffee together--shopping together--taking a walk, with or without a dog--sharing a hobby like knitting, woodworking, gardening, painting. 

Experts tell us that we need friends to help us cope with life. I like that. So, what about a chance meeting? For me, it's pure enjoyment. An unexpected gift of time with someone who knew me once upon a time. 

While we're talking about non-people friends, here are some thoughts:

• I never feel lonely if I've got a book - they're like old friends. Even if you're not reading them over and over again, you know they are there. And they're part of your history. They sort of tell a story about your journey through life. -- Emilia Fox

• Old books that have ceased to be of service should no more be abandoned than should old friends who have ceased to give pleasure. -- Bernard Baruch

Do you have movies you like to watch every so often--the same ones? Or old TV shows? 

I've worn out some of my favorite LPs (back when I had a stereo setup); fortunately those same albums came out on CDs, but I'll be the first to admit the playback isn't the same. But still--I haven't lost those old favorites. (And I'm not yet ready to stream everything or have it play through my browser.)

-----

Ultimately, an old friend actually is a person--the author of the book; the composer of the music; the orchestra members or soloists (vocal or instrumental) who played for the recording; the person who wrote the screenplay, the director and the producers and certainly the actors, all of whom were required to make the story come alive visually.

Old friends. They're everywhere in our lives. Celebrate them. Give thanks for them. They're often just the blessing we need to keep on keeping on.

Blessings,

Thursday's Child

 MARY OLIVER X 2

She read to her dogs.

If you haven't met Mary Oliver before, let me introduce her.

She was born in Maple Hills Heights, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, in 1935. She died 83 years later in Florida. She loved nature and dogs, and wrote dozens of poems about both subjects.

If you want  more information about her life and growth as a poet, look at the Poetry Foundation's website for a detailed critique.

-----

Today I'm sharing two of her poems.

WHY I WAKE EARLY

 Hello, sun in my face.

Hello, you who make the morning

and spread it over the fields

and into the faces of the tulips

and the nodding morning glories,

and into the windows of, even, the

miserable and the crotchety--

 

best preacher that ever was,

dear star, that just happens

to be where you are in the universe

to keep us from ever-darkness,

to ease us with warm touching,

to hold us in the great hands of light—

good morning, good morning, good morning.

 

Watch, now, how I start the day

in happiness, in kindness.

      [from the collection WHY I WAKE EARLY, 2004]

-----

THREE THINGS TO REMEMBER

As long as you're dancing, you can

     break the rules.

Sometimes breaking the rules is just

     extending the rules.

Sometimes there are no rules.

     [from the collection A THOUSAND MORNINGS, 2012]

-----

Blessings,

Thursday's Child