WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY?

Right now, what makes me happy is turning a corner and suddenly coming into the presence of a stunning Autumn-colored tree. It happened yesterday, on my way home to a haircut appointment. Probably a maple, totally dressed in red, orange,yellow, gold--probably some other colors, too. (Did you know Autumn plays no favorites with color selection? True.) So on the way home, I stopped to take a photo of that gorgeous tree. I was on the wrong side of it, going toward home, but I took the photo anyway, getting a sign and some other stuff. But the tree! It was overwhelming.

Trees aren't the only happiness objects in my life. Lots of things I see give me joy. Clouds in unusual formations. Dogs, any dogs, anywhere. 

Also, fragrances--spring flowers (lilacs, especially)--roasting chicken in my kitchen--roasting vegetables, also in my kitchen--almost any baking (brownies and fruit crisp are my top picks)--fresh air after a rain . . . .

And tastes! Oh, my, good winter soup, full of veggies and  rich broth--risotto (which we have at least once a month)--Mediterranean mixed veggies, sauteed stovetop--morning coffee calmed down a little with creamer--good chocolate--lemon anything . . . .

What about things heard? I still love music, much of which is now on the Internet and available quickly. I'm partial to '70s tunes that I remember from my years in college (as a {ahem} mature student), and to what a lot of people call classical music, though my tastes run to 16th Century, then 17th, and 18th. And jazz! My life in the '50s was always happier when I could play jazz LPs and that taste continued the rest of my life.

That only leaves touch--fabric has long been a tactile happy thing. I've sewn doll clothing since age 8 (by hand) then my own wearables beginning at age 12 (4-H club), learned to make my own fabric by knitting (sometime crocheting). I'm grateful for relaxed styles, such as sweatshirts, and the concept of layering to improve the warmth of clothing when the weather tanks big-time. I also like the feel of wood (my dad was a carpenter most of my life)--the touch of printed pages (books, of course; and they also smell great)--the feel of a pen in my hand, writing across a journal page (the sound is comforting) . . . .

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Here's a quiz for you--What one thing brings out all the senses? (Answer below.)

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Take your senses for a walk--what wakes them up, gives them a boost when you're feeling a little less than Up. And most of all--what makes you happy? Do some of that today!

Blessings,

Thursday's Child

Answer to the quiz:

You see it, hear it, smell it,

taste it, and (grab a handful) 

feel it!

 SOMETIMES . . .

Life being what it is, things don't go smoothly . . . not all the time. Not always. Not even for long periods. We tend to shrug and say, "Well, that's the way life is." But as September segues into the shorter days of autumn, I find myself meandering around in deeper thoughts, such as:

- Sometimes . . . you don't need to leap out of bed just because the alarm rang.
What would happen if you hit the SNOOZE button and gave yourself 10 more minutes to prepare to meet the day? [The danger here is that you can hit SNOOZE time after time.]

- Sometimes . . . your greatest need is your own health.
Pushing yourself again and again beyond your normal limits may not be a good thing. Is the committee meeting going to fail because you aren't there? Will the office shut down because you need a mental health day? [We're not talking excuses here--we're looking at our own health.]

- Sometimes . . . another person's need is greater than yours.
Ah, there's the rub. How do I assess someone else's need? Is it a 10 today? Or merely a 4? Perhaps only a 2. Forget the numbers. Look at what's being asked of you--a few minutes on the phone; a cup of coffee at the shop where you can talk without being interrupted; a helping hand because nobody else will do it; or a request for prayer.

- Sometimes . . . life is totally unfair--day after day.
You have arthritis. Your hearing is rapidly declining. Your appetite up and left you and you're losing weight your doctor is unhappy about. Your dog has to be put down. Your neighbor makes racket long after your normal bedtime (say, 10 PM). Or your family members are so wrapped up in their own problems they don't call/email/text. And if they do, they vent. [Hard to see a ray of sunshine in this scenario, isn't it? This is when I scrounge around for one thing--just one!--to be grateful for.]


- Sometimes . . . you just need to listen--seriously listen.
Not every appeal for help requires you to do something specific about it. Listening, really taking it in, is doing something. [You're not even required to remember what you heard. Just be an ear.]

- Sometimes . . . all you can do is cry.
When it all gets to be too much, have a good weep. Letting the valves open can be a great cleansing of overloaded emotions. Or if the hurt and grief are too deep for tears, write about it--talk to yourself or the person you grieve for or to God--put it on paper. Later you can shred the pages, because they've done their part in allowing you a place to pour out your feelings.

- Sometimes . . . all you can do is laugh.
When it's too much for a good cry, laugh! There are still some things in my life that haven't got to the laughing stage, but a great many have. [You may recall the hard-boiled eggs on the kitchen ceiling episode. I can laugh, now.]

- Sometimes . . . all you can do is walk away. You can't fix it. Maybe nobody can but God.
This is probably the hardest of all. We need courage to admit that we can't "fix" something--that the only thing we can do is express our caring, if that's possible, and pray for relief.

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I know, I know--this isn't a feel-good post. But then, Life isn't always a feel-good place to live, is it? Sometimes . . . we just have to grit our teeth and get on with things. Or, maybe, find another way to get through. A friend can help a lot.

Have a blessed week.

Thursday's Child

Noah's Challenge

CHALLENGE . . .

Challenge -- "a task or situation that tests someone's abilities."

This all came about because I'm participating in an art challenge--5 days--each day's challenge based on a prompt emailed to me by the artist whose challenge it is.

I am free to interpret the prompt as I wish--literally, metaphorically--so long as I work with the art supplies recommended by the artist.

At the end of 5 days, I'll have 5 pages (or more) of "art stuff"--five pages I wouldn't have had if I'd not signed up for the Simple Things Art Challenge.

And what am I going to do with what I've created, you ask? Why, nothing, unless I want to. The challenge is only for myself. There are no right or wrong ways to do the work. No one needs to see what I've created unless I wish to show my work. I get no money, no award, no certificate, no--well, no anything!

So, I hear you thinking, what's the point? I'm glad you asked.

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Here's how it all started. . . .

After my heart valve surgery, and cardiac rehab, and eventual release by the various medical teams who checked up on me, I realized I'd gone through at least six months when my life didn't seem to be my own. If I wasn't sitting in a doctor's office, I was riding in the car on my way to an appointment. Once cardiac rehab was in place, I worked hard three days a week and crashed the other four. To put it in a nutshell, my life was focused on getting through surgery and post-op stuff, so I could get back to former activities.

At the time, I didn't think any of that was odd. It "just was"--the surgery was necessary, I got through it, the rehab was necessary, I got through that . . . that was the focus.

Months later, I began to look around and see things I'd neglected while I was medically occupied. And guess what? I realized I hadn't picked up a paint brush for months. Hadn't watched videos by artists I follow on the Internet.

To be clear--I'm not a professional artist--art is my hobby, one I enjoy and like to practice--so I'm not missing out on commissions or pay checks. But I am missing out on the way visual art makes me feel. Is my stuff any good? Don't know. Don't really care. I paint because I like to paint. Some people like what I do, but I don't join competitions or seek shows to display my work.

Thus--The Challenge! Five Days of testing my abilities. After months of no painting, how will I know if I met the challenge, since no one is checking? I will know if I've painted for 5 days in a row . . . if I continue to paint with no one giving me prompts . . . if the way a summer sky looks like it ought to be painted and I'm just the one to do it . . . .

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Challenges--testing your abilities--are everywhere:

• losing weight to get into the suit you plan to wear when you walk your daughter down the aisle at her wedding
• modifying your language so your young'uns don't pick up bad habits
• 
  keeping notes in notebooks so you can remember things, like what the doctor said, or when to renew subscriptions before they expire, or home repairs that need doing next summer
• keeping a list of how many books you read in a month (or a year)

They can be as simple as challenging yourself to get up at the same time every day (if that suits your life); paying bills at least a week before they're due; answering emails before you realize it's been a month since you heard from your child/sister/good buddy.

It can be fun--it can be serious--it can be totally frivolous. It's your challenge. You decide.

One of my greatest challenges--besides the heart stuff and the current art thing--is taking care of myself. Remembering to be kind to others, because it helps me be kind to my own body and life. Remembering this: concern is not the same as worry. 

Blessings,

Thursday's Child

 COVERS

Ocean Waves Quilt

Blankets, sheets, quilts, afghans, lap quilts, cover-ups . . . whatever the size, whatever the intended use by the manufacturer, my house bears witness to my obsession with covers.

Some of these I can explain away as clearly utilitarian--where I live we have mostly very cold winters, with an occasional lapse by Mother Nature (or the global warming goddess). Temperature drops into the forties and farther down, starting in October, call for an extra layer of something on the bed to keep body heat in and outside chill out.

The number and style of coverings became obvious recently when I had family visiting for eight nights in August. We covered up in variety:

     - quilts (3 that I made)
     - duvet (purchased long ago and still serviceable)
     - flannel sheets (bottom and top) 
     - regular sheets (a couple of those for whoever didn't want flannel)
     - ancient woven throw (falling apart but still cozy)
     - lap quilts (for an extra layer, if needed)

But utilitarian doesn't explain the four baby quilts, four fleece blankets, and two (super-heavy) all-cotton blankets (used as bedspreads in years past), all stored in a convenient closet.

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The real explanation possibly--even probably--lies in my upbringing. Grandma Jenkins made a quilt every year. She started piecing the blocks in the spring, working through the summer and into the fall; by Thanksgiving she had a quilt top ready to join with batting and backing on the heavy wooden quilting frame. Grandpa hauled it down or in from wherever it had been stored for the past six or eight months, set it up in the living room, and the quilt was loaded onto the frame for hand quilting by my grandmother. That was her main occupation through the winter months. After all, gardening was over--everything that could be canned was already in jars on the shelves in the spare bedroom, the canner was scrubbed and put away, and next year's garden was only a dream occupying Grandpa's winter months.

Double Irish Chain

Memory grows hazy here. I don't know who received Grandma's quilts. Perhaps one or more of the 10 Jenkins kids--all grown and flown by the time I came on the scene. Or perhaps grandchildren as they married and started a new home. The only covers I remember at Grandma and Grandpa's house were two she made, one on their big brass bed that stood so high I couldn't climb on by myself, and one on the smaller bed in the spare room where I slept when I stayed the night. In memory, one quilt is blue and white--in a pattern I now know was an Irish Chain. The other was made of small triangles in every color God created--that one was probably an Ocean Waves quilt, but that's guesswork from the distance of more than half a century.


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My personal experience with making quilts started roughly 30 years ago when I took a class with my oldest daughter. It was called Quilt in a Day--a technique made possible by Eleanor Burns who revolutionized quilt making by introducing us to strip piecing. No longer did we cut each square, rectangle, or triangle for our pattern . . . we could cut strips, sew them in explicit ways, and then cut into pieced units. The class we attended made it possible to turn out a baby quilt (about 40 inches square) in one day of cutting, sewing, more cutting, more sewing--and then we put the quilt top, batting, and backing together. Voila! A finished baby quilt. 

After that class, both my daughter and I were hooked. She went on to make many baby quilts for people she knew starting their families, and eventually joined a large quilt guild where she was inspired by many innovative practitioners. I tried various patterns--some with more success than others--and learned what parts I liked best about quilting, what parts would need a lot of dedicated time, and what patterns I'd pass by as too demanding for the time I wanted to give to a project.

Over the years, I've felt a connection between my grandma and my aunts who made quilts. Once it was what we had to do if we wanted our family to be warm in the winter. Now we often make quilts just to be trying something different--new color combinations, new patterns, new sizes. Wall hangings, table toppers, table linens (placemats and napkins), bed toppers . . . there's always something new coming down the pike.

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Besides utilitarian usage and gift giving, covers have long been an ingredient in the creative play of children.

Take one big old cover, add a card table, and you have an instant cave/castle/den/secret room. No card table? Use the cover on a chair--upholstered or wooden--or the end of a sofa.

Nap quilts/covers became a requirement of nursery schools. Each child had a space to lie on, rest, possibly nap (though I doubt it). At home a nap quilt's individual space became a child's very own island--room for a book, a snack, possibly a cat.

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Another quilt that lives in memory came to my hospital room when I had surgery in 1995. My youngest daughter had found what looked to me like an antique quilt--not full bed size, but larger than a baby quilt--at an estate sale. She was intrigued by it and bought it just to have a quilt in her apartment. When she came to stay with me during surgery, she brought the quilt and laid it on my hospital bed while I slept. I think of that quilt as the first of many healing quilts I have known--they bring with them the prayers and good wishes of the giver, and that positive energy is somehow transferred to the person who needs healing. I like to think it's the alchemy of love.

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We're closing in on the season of quilts and covers. Sometimes I wrap up in a light cover while I watch a movie. And a little extra something is de rigueur for afternoon naps--grandmas take naps, too.

I'm grateful for the time I grew up in, and the family I had. They were folks who knew about love and laughter, and good food, and warm blankets. Thanks be.

Blessings,

Thursday's Child

Modern Strip Quilt--I've made this
pattern at least three times in different
color combos.

  FRIENDSHIP

[This essay first appeared some years ago. Lately, though, I've been thinking about friendship--how important it is for our well-being--so I decided to repeat these thoughts in preparation for a celebration, however quiet, of Friendship. And even more important--don't limit yourself to a one-day celebration! It's an Everyday Thing!]

August 7 is friendship day. That was last week.

But friendship has been on my mind and heart lately and I want to explore some definitions and thoughts on what friendship is, and what it is to have—or to be—a friend.

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The most elemental definition I’ve ever seen is the title of Joan Walsh Anglund’s book, A Friend Is Someone Who Likes You. It was published in 1958 for children 4 to 7 years old. A friend is…someone who likes you. Simple. Direct. Easy to understand.

But as we all know, we grow older, and life takes twists and turns, our experiences cause us to make leaps and bounds. Or go backward. Or fall on our prats. Sometimes what we go through is, well, less than joyful. Here are some thoughts to keep your hearts and minds engaged in friendly paths as you find your way through the jungle.

* * * * *

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.   --C. S. Lewis (1898-1967)

Who among us has not had a friend who kept us sane, even for a little while? Or who held our hand in a dark time? Who talked us down from a scary place—real or metaphorical—to continue living?

* * * * *

Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over.   --Octavia Butler (1947-2006)

If you have a friend, then you, yourself, are a friend. It’s a reciprocal relationship, not one-sided, but a meeting of equals. So if you are a friend, you know what it means to remain silent when they “hurl themselves into their own destiny.” Sounds scary, doesn’t it? But we know we can’t live other people’s lives for them, no matter how much we care, how much more experience we have, how clearly we can see the pitfalls they will face. We can “prepare to pick up the pieces,” and I would add, resist the temptation to say I told you so. Even if you never said it in the first place.

* * * * *

One more idea:

We call that person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower that man who has lost his wife. But that man who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call him? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in impotence.  -- Joseph Roux (French surgeon, 1780-1854)

Ignore the out-of-date pronouns and focus on the thought.

No one wants to lose a friend. Friends are more precious than silver and gold, than perfect gems, than all the possessions we can ever amass.

Yet, sometimes a friend is lost. To death, yes; but that is not the harshest loss. The loss that stabs our hearts and wrenches tears from our souls is the loss we have caused—or have been unable to prevent—for whatever reason.

John Donne (1572-1631) wrote, “Any man’s death diminishes me.” I would add, “Each friend’s loss takes a valuable part of me, and I’ll never regain it.”

* * * * *

To send you off with a happier thought:

If instead of a gem, or even a flower, we should cast the gift of a loving thought into the heart of a friend, that would be giving as the angels give.  --George MacDonald (1824-1905)

Celebrate your friendships. They may not number in the hundreds or thousands, they may be virtual friends you’ve never seen. True friends are the ones who know you, warts and all . . . .

Blessings,

Thursday's Child

Blessings, my friends-----

Thursday's Child

 HOW MANY GREENS?

Now that our weather has moderated (a little), I'm interested in looking around outside. Not long ago I had an opportunity to drive out into the country a few miles. And everywhere I looked, I saw green.

Do you know how many greens there are in rural areas? Here's a sampling:

• soybean green - the plants are about knee high on me (remember, I'm not very tall), and so close together that they make a nice dense field look as if it's going on forever.
• corn green - corn is definitely much higher than my knee, probably closer to or even above my just-over-five-feet height. And still growing.
• grass green - every farmhouse has a nice lawn, even if it's only a patch in front of the house and runs alongside the road
• tree green - here's where things get tricky. Tree green is only a single color if you're painting trees with your kindergartner or, if you're like a lot of us, lump all trees in the landscape together. After all, that's a forest over there, isn't it? I can't tell what species each is from the road as I putter along at 50 mph (country roads also have speed limits).
• But if you happen to recognize a tree and can name its species, you'll find the maples are different from the oaks and different from willows and birches and pines and  . . . .
• weed green - this is a catch-all category for all the overgrown weeds that line country roads, usually along ditches where mowing is perilous and the consensus is that they can just be left alone.
• garden green - occasionally, from my vehicle, it's possible to see a cultivated garden
• a flower garden will have plants of various heights, often colorful because it's the season for blooming; the greens vary according to the variety--from deep green to dusty sage green, and everything in between.
• a kitchen garden - which provides vegetables and herbs for cooks, may have pole bean green, tomato plant green, parsley green, mint green, asparagus green, lettuce green, basil green, rosemary green, and many other hues, depending on the gardener's tastes and the availability of the plants or seeds. 

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If you'd like to know more about greens--the colors, not the kind you eat--do a search on the Crayola colors. The current Big Box has 120 crayons, and a healthy chunk of them are greens.

Blessings,

Thursday's Child

mostly green

 OASIS

noun

1. A fertile spot in a desert where water is found.

2. A pleasant or peaceful area or period in the midst of a difficult, troubled, or hectic place or situation.

"An oasis of calm in the center of the city"

     synonyms:     refuge, haven, retreat, sanctuary, sanctum, shelter, harbor, asylum

"The park is an oasis filled with half a million flowers and thousands of lights."

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I once received some good advice from a friend: paraphrased, it went something like this: “Do what you can to make your own little corner of the world a better place.”

At the time that advice was given, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. Probably 99.44% of the human race have at one time or another felt a little bit sorry for themselves. And there’s always somebody around willing to give you (1) good advice, (2) a hug, if needed, or (3) a kick in the pants. All three work.

I want to digress a little here—self-pity, though considered a negative state, isn’t all bad. It may be merely a transient state in which to examine oneself, one’s condition, one’s responses—a time of active self-care. Such a time can lead to healing.

You've no doubt heard this many times: “If we don’t take care of ourselves, we’ll have nothing to give others.” In recent years, this advice is given to caregivers who spend a large part of their time taking care of family or friends during a long, perhaps terminal, illness. Caregivers are urged to get out of the house; go to appointments on their own; take an hour or two for shopping at leisure, doing errands. Friends are always available to sit with the patient.

Think about it. An empty vessel holds no balm. We all need to replenish our inner resources.

There are many ways to fill the empty vessel—travel, study; creative endeavors; reading, music; movies. Escapist, you say? Well, maybe; sometimes; and that could be the best way to start filling the vessel of our lives again.

Escapism, like self-pity, is not a permanent address. It’s a place for stepping back; a breathing space. Some folks go on retreats—the kind where you aren’t expected to interact with a lot of other people. Some find solace and peace and healing in prayer or meditation.

None of this has to involve travel or money. Go to the local park and sit in the sun (or shade, if you prefer) and let breezes and bird song wash over you. Or go for a solitary walk, or take your dog with you; or walk with someone who also knows how to be silent. Whatever the season, there’s a place you can go to withdraw from noise. One of my favorite places is the public library. Amazing how other people’s voices disappear when I’m reading at the library.

Breathing space may be as near as your patio, or a quiet room in your house. Make your own oasis. You’ll return to it again and again. It’s a place to just be.

Blessings,

Thursday's Child