FRIENDSHIP

I should wait a week to write about friendship—August 7 is friendship day.

But the subject 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.

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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?

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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.

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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.”

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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 not be virtual friends you’ve never seen. True friends are the ones who know you, warts and all . . . .

     20 THINGS I’M THANKFUL FOR

1-6.              Sometimes I’m thankful that I’m domestic—I can cook, sew, clean, shop, fix things around the house, decorate my environment. I don’t claim to be great at any of these, but I can do them.

These abilities allow me to live independently, if I want to. And if I need help with any of them, I know people who can step in and do what I can't.

7-12.             I’m thankful I have “outside” interests. I exercise five times a week; I knit with a former co-worker two noon-hours a week; I sew/knit/teach at Heart & Hands for the purpose of keeping babies and children warm; I play piano and organ for my church when there’s a need for a sub; I lunch with friends; I sew with a friend every Monday and sometimes we go on road trips to buy more fabric.

Having outside interests means I don't spend all day, every day, in my own little cocoon. And when the activities are enjoyable, my attendance is guaranteed. My heart, mind, and body are healthier for these times with others.

13-18.            And I’m thankful I have dreams and plans. One day I’ll take watercolor classes and learn to paint with pastels. I’ll write the other four novels on my list. And make more quilts and wall hangings—perhaps sell them. Perhaps I’ll travel—not far, just around Lake Michigan or near lakes in Midwestern states. If the opportunity occurs, perhaps I’ll again play church services in a liturgical church. And I’ll write memoirs of my younger life—B.I.T. (Before Information Technology).

When my father died just before his 79th birthday, he had drawn up plans for remodeling the Florida room on his mobile home. No withering away for him--he went out with the next project firmly in mind. That's the way I want to be at the end of my life.

19-20.            Most of all, I’m grateful and thankful for family and friends. We may not see each other often, but we’re in each other’s hearts and thoughts. We keep in touch with that wonderful Information Technology.

You don't need a googol of friends nor a large family to give you the gift of identity. Because of my family and friends, I have a better picture of who I was, who I am now, where I came from, even, perhaps, where I'm going. 

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Any time I need a mood elevator, I’ll reread the above lists. They’re filled with blessings.

May you find your own blessings this week.

A WEEK IN THE LIFE OF A BLOGGER

Have I ever told you how I wrote essays in high school for senior English? (No?!? Well, today's the day.)

They were called "themes" in those far-off days. The title alone was supposed to inspire us to keep to a subject or theme for the writing.

English class met at 1:00 PM. I'd finish a cafeteria lunch and by 12:30 I'd be in the school office, tapping away on a spare typewriter. This machine sat alone, away from the work area, on a small table by a wall. Other people milled around--secretaries at their desks, talking on the phone; students slouching up to the counter with "notes from home"; teachers striding through a side door to check their mailboxes, pick up mimeographed hand-outs or (egads!) quizzes.

I sat at the lone typewriter and typed (using all 8 fingers and one thumb) my words of wisdom, my flights of fancy, my requisite 300 (or whatever) words. People and noise and turmoil surrounded me. I heard nothing. I was a small-town Lois Lane, award-winning journalist for The Daily Planet.

At 12:55 I ripped the paper from the platen, folded it in half lengthwise, wrote my name on the outside (inside I'd typed it at the top of the essay), and sailed off to class.

Well, that was then.

This is now:

Thursday morning, around 9 AM, I feel my shoulders drop, my breath evens out, and I look around and see the world has, indeed, been there all along.



Before that 9 AM epiphany, I've been typing, and retyping, reading and rereading, the blog post I've developed over the past six days.

As soon as I hit the Publish button on the blogger dashboard, I'm liberated from that piece. I'll read the comments, make replies, and then the whole thing is history. The search for a new topic is on.

If I'm lucky, and my stars are in the proper configuration, I'll get a hint of an inkling early in my week--that is to say, on Thursday afternoon, Friday, or Saturday. Sometimes there's nothing until I go to an appointment during the following week--I hear a phrase or catch part of a conversation or read an article in the waiting room magazines, and there's a spark in my creativity center. Whether that spark lives long enough to fan into flames is another matter entirely.

A recent example: my doctor and I range far and wide in our conversations. (I believe she's secretly assessing my mental health, but haven't had the nerve to ask.) Last time we talked about the ideal office staff--any office--which she'd read should include people from all the "generations"--Baby Boomers, Gen X-ers, Millenials. This led to a discussion of our experiences in various groups (not just office staffs). When I left, I had an Aha! moment--this would make a good blog post.

Five minutes of research on the Internet killed that idea. I discovered much disagreement among sociologists and other -ologists about beginning and ending birth dates for each group; that former tags, like "latch-key kids," are a part of the Gen X group; that where and into what socioeconomic level one is born determines many characteristics of individuals, not just the when. And on and on.

When one idea withers away, there has to be another one to plant and nurture. Thus, today's post about the process behind what you read each Thursday.

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Over the years my levels of creativity have changed--yes, creative possibilities abound, new directions beckon--but the act of creating isn't as effortless as it was when I was 17 writing drivel (I mean, essays) for senior English. In the intervening years I've been dealt responsibilities and duties to handle to the best of my ability. So  have we all. 

But that doesn't mean creativity--creative thinking--stops. Creativity informs all, so it's always there, undergirding, always available, when we're confronted with something to solve. We learn to adapt--we find answers when we can--we seek out advice and wisdom from people who might be able to help us.

I never got to be Lois Lane, and I no longer lament that fact. Instead, I got to be a wife and mom and a teacher and a church musician and a blogger . . . . And it's all good.

Have a creative week!

A PINCH OF THIS, A DAB OF THAT . . .

And, voila, you have a creation fit for a king.

Well, maybe.

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I like to cook. I was recently asked why, and I had to think about that for quite a while before I could write about it.

Most of us take food for granted. It shows up on the table when we're little kids and we’re supposed to eat it to nourish our bodies. Also to keep our moms from yelling at us.

When I was in my mid-teens, around age 15, I began to buy Woman’s Day and Family Circle magazines. They were all about food—well, and other stuff, but a lot about food. They had food plans for the whole month. They had articles that focused on one type of dish: meatloaf in many guises; soups for cold days; soups for hot days; salads, beverages, desserts . . . reading the magazines was almost a gastronomic delight.

I also began to collect recipes, an activity became a mania—recipes in magazines, in newspapers, in books I borrowed from the library. Recipes filled hundreds (yes, hundreds) of 3x5 index cards that I stored in boxes that said “Recipes” on the outside.

You’ll notice that so far I’ve not cooked a thing. But I was getting in the mood, reading articles, collecting recipes.

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During my mom’s last year with us, I noticed what she made, asked questions, made mental notes on menus. We had Ham and Beans with homemade cornbread. Before the hambone was added to the beans, it had graced our table inside a baked ham served with scalloped potatoes. We ate, on rare occasions, spaghetti with meatballs (it was never called pasta, just spaghetti; the meatballs took quite a while to make, so that’s why this was a rare addition to the menu). 

Macaroni & Cheese was a good winter dish—because it was baked in the oven. No box of mix—just add butter, milk, and the little packet of cheese sauce. Nossir, we had the real thing.

From my mom I learned how to make two kinds of quick meals—one was hamburger patties with boiled potatoes and canned peas. The other was something-or-other mixed together and baked; this had the advantage of freeing the cook to fold laundry, press shirts, dust the living room, or sit down with a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and put her feet up.

Though I was always good at helping out—in high parlance, I was the sous chef—I never prepared a complete meal until after I married. But I did experiment with a few small non-cooked items: cream cheese balls inside dried apricots, topped with pecan halves (my mouth waters as I type this); tomatoes sliced and seasoned with herbs.

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Once I married, the heat was on, so to speak. Meals appeared three times a day—and not by magic or out of a box. Not many women in those days believed a decent meal could be prepared and boxed up for us to rejuvenate later.

Thus, I learned to cook from scratch. (Nowadays that’s a conscious choice, like eating organic foods or growing your own veggies. Back in the day, it was what we did.)

I created some lovely disasters—one was liver, which came out of the skillet resembling, tasting like, and smelling like a sautéed old boot. My mother-in-law taught me how to make palatable liver. Another big mess was boiled eggs, left on the stove to cook while I went upstairs to investigate what the kids were doing, or get laundry down the chute to the basement, or maybe even read a book. Hard to remember the fine details. The eggs, left to their own devices, ended up boiling dry, the shells cracked, and the insides exploded, managing to decorate the 10-foot kitchen ceiling with little effort.

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If you’ve read this far, you must be wondering why I like to cook.

I’m still not sure, but I think I can give you some possibilities.

Like many things in life, cooking started out to be a chore, a task performed every day to keep a family fed. If a woman didn’t work outside the home, she could expect to provide meals for her folks.

Let it be said here—I was never wealthy enough to have a cook who either lived in or came each day to fix meals. I was a stay-at-home mom long before such a thing was a choice; it was simply what I did—cooked, cleaned, did laundry, reared the children, sewed, read, played the piano to help the kids go to sleep, and let the dog out and in, cats ditto, and dreamed of writing books.

So the first reason I cooked is that it became a habit. It was what I did for my family. And I discovered I liked doing it.

Another reason is that I learned to be a pretty good cook—nothing fancy, but I was willing to try new things (though the family weren’t keen). Those magazines and boxes of recipe cards came in handy. Eventually, joy comes from doing something well.

Mostly, I think, I enjoyed—and still enjoy—cooking because it can be a creative endeavor. It takes a pretty creative bent of mind to look into a nearly empty fridge and conjure up a meal for six with a pound of hamburger, part of a head of lettuce, and catsup/mustard/
mayonnaise/relish. There’s always the cupboard where macaroni and canned beans and soups live. So with one eye on the clock, and the other on the stove (I learned after one experience with ceiling eggs to keep one eye on the stove), I whomped up something edible—sometimes it was even good—and never looked back.

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Today’s cooking is different in many ways. As a retiree, I cook for one. Sometimes for two, if one of my kids comes to visit, or a friend calls and we decide to have a meal.

I no longer have the big holiday dinners at my house. Our family has expanded to nearly 20 people and my house didn't expand with the population growth. Nowadays we usually meet at my Ohio daughter’s home—it’s in the country and allows running room outside for little folks with bundles of energy.

Besides cooking for one, I still like to experiment. Salads are never the same thing twice—herbs and infused olive oils and vinegars make any salad a new experience. I don’t do the infusing myself; there’s a wonderful shop in my town that provides more than I could ever hope to taste in my lifetime.

Another factor is eating gluten free. A few years ago that meant making everything in the bread/cracker/pastry/dessert line from scratch. Today, I can shop at virtually any store—grocery or discount—and find GF foods at affordable prices. I still like to concoct desserts with gluten-free ingredients, but it’s now a hobby.

Also, my menu now includes more fresh foods--fruits and vegetables--and lighter cooking techniques. I remember with longing the beef and noodles, fried chicken, and mom's apple pies of childhood--but I prefer to be healthier and have more energy now that I'm in an advanced decade.

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I suppose the bottom line with cooking, for me, is that I’m following in the footsteps of many women in my family. Formerly, almost no men cooked. For one thing, they didn’t have time because they worked outside or at a job all day. For another—yes, I hate to say it—cooking was women’s work.

Nobody seemed to catch on that all the famous chefs in the old days were men. Today, you’ll find women chefs, plus lots of folks on the Internet and TV cooking up a storm.

My time in the kitchen brings up memories of working with my mother to prepare a meal; eating meals at my grandma’s house—everything homemade by my grandma and probably one or two of the aunts, plus my mom; teaching my kids how to cook (they never let the eggs explode, thanks be).

Eating together is an important part of life—whether you’re alone, part of a family, or a member of a group. Eating together gathers and connects people in ways that other activities don't. For one thing, eating isn't competitive. (Never mind the hot dog eating contests.) 

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I wish you good eating, good meals with good friends, and joy in the preparation of food. Bon appetit!

SORTING, ETC.

About a year ago, the bishop of our diocese came to visit our congregation. He had one more year till retirement, so his thoughts had turned to downsizing. When he said that word, downsizing, a wave of reaction rolled through the congregation. Many of us were either in the process, contemplating the process, or had—thanks be—gone through it and lived to tell the tale. Our emotional responses ranged far and wide: humor—dismay—refusal to deal with it.

The bishop’s anecdote to illustrate his problem with downsizing went like this. He had begun with a simple task—going through a drawer where all his tee-shirts were stored. These were tees from church camps, walk/run/limp events, and other commemorative times. There were so many, he had to count them. He discovered 28 of these tee-shirts. In one drawer.

He had us in the palm of his hand. Who among us has not opened a drawer/closet/box and discovered enough (whatevers) to clothe a large third world village?

My first reaction on such a discovery is along the lines of “Holy moley, where did all these (whatevers) come from?”

(Obviously, I am immediately disavowing any knowledge, let alone ownership, of the proliferation of whatevers.)

My next reaction—guess I better do something about that. (Still putting it off.)

Next—okay, how many whatevers do I keep this time around? (Yes, sad to say, I’ve been through this scenario so many times I know just what to do.)

Finally, I confront the crux of the matter—do I really really really need any whatevers at all?

(You might consider standing in front of a mirror and looking yourself in the eye.)

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As the title of today’s post suggests, Sorting may not be the issue. It’s all the Etc. that goes with it.

My current need—never mind the whatevers—is cleaning carpets. Sounds simple—move furniture, rev up the old carpet cleaner, and have at it.

But in my case, 31 years of living at the same address equals a lot of accumulation. To name a few categories: clothes, of course; books; CDs and DVDs; video tapes (back in my early dinosaur days); dishes and furniture; to say nothing of fabric and yarn.

Before you start visualizing one of those houses you read about in the tabloids—you know the ones, head-high stacks of Stuff with narrow paths for navigation from room to room—before your imagination runs amok, please let it be known that I do donate clothing, books, and the good old etc. to various places in my community. We now have a used-book store (they come and go, but this one seems securely with us), whose proceeds go to the local animal shelter. Our library has a monthly book sale, so anything I donate that the selection committee doesn’t want to put in circulation goes into the sale. Our Goodwill collection center and store welcome donations of all kinds (this is a great place for the good old etc.)

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To make my energy go a long way, I took some time to analyze the situation. (This is also a delaying tactic, but a worthwhile one.)

I’ve narrowed the situation down to three ways to assess it, depending on your temperament and circumstances:

--Project

--Task

--Time

I’ve already made some discoveries about my own inclinations.

First, if I view it as a Project, it’s height, depth, breadth, and overall weight makes me feel weak. I am dwarfed in its shadow. My only recourse is to run like the devil’s at my heels.

Second, if I break the project down into Tasks, I’m likely to get something done. Today’s example was finding a place for two boxes that have been living in the bedroom for weeks (or maybe months). This involved some shifting of other items in two closets, but the whole task was done in less than an hour.

Third, I am often Time-oriented. If I have a whole morning, what I do, no matter how small a task, may take the whole morning. But if I have only an hour, I can get my head around that amount of time. My downfall here is not utilizing the 10-20-30-minute segments that come my way. (Well, I do utilize them, but mostly to brew and drink a mug of coffee and read another chapter of my current book.)

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If you’ve been accumulating Stuff for a number of years/decades, you may already have your coping strategies mapped out. Garage sales work for lots of folks. Church and charity rummage sales appeal. My city has a spring clean-up week--we're encouraged to put out practically anything we don't want (there are a few no-nos); much of this abundance is scavenged and never ends up in the landfill. A two-point event.

One strategy I sometimes use is hiring someone to help me move Stuff. I have to do the sorting and discarding, but I'm willing to pay for the heavy lifting. This is especially practical for working in the garage, where the dust of the ages has invaded boxes stored there. (And I suspect the boxes have multiplied on their own--not sure how that happens, but maybe it's none of my business.)

Lately I’ve  considered just moving away, leaving all those whatevers intact. This may yet be the way to go.

I’ll let you know.

APOSTROPHES – More Ways to Use (and Misuse) the Apostrophe

Back in September 2014—remember that day?—I promised you another post on the use of the apostrophe. Or as my esteemed Topic Generator calls it, “the misuse of the poor, misunderstood apostrophe.”

So here 'tis. (Hey, you’ve had about 18 months to recover from that lesson.)

Are you ready? Pencil sharpened? Notebook open to a clean page? Ear wax cleaned out? Eyes open and focused? Feet off the desk?

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Two more uses of the apostrophe: (1) as a contraction, to show letters left out (on purpose); and (2) to show plurals in certain cases. (As a bonus, I’ve thrown in a couple of Misuses that you might be unaware of.)

If you never put pencil to paper again in this life, you’ll use contractions—mainly in speech, if you’re still speaking to people.

     (A) Some contractions are more easily understood in speech, for example:

     “If you’d’ve let me know, I’d’ve been there to help you.”

     “She shouldn’t’ve tried to do that by herself.”

Set out in non-contraction form, they read as follows:

     “If you would have let me know, I would have been there to help you.”

     “She should not have tried to do that by herself.”

Both sound more formal, even distant, without the contractions. In speech, we can contract quite a bit and get away with it.

          (B) Then there’s the more easily recognized contraction that comes along, even in somewhat formal writing: can’t, won’t, don’t, didn’t, and so on.

I’ve noticed a growing (alarmingly growing, I might say) tendency to ignore the apostrophe in emails and on Facebook. My first comment is this: If your life is so busy that you can’t add one more little key stroke (‘) to a word that needs it, then you might want to consider taking some time off from social media.

My second comment is this: Some words have different meanings when the apostrophe is lost: cant and wont are two examples.

     Cant – affected singsong or whining speech; the private language of the underworld; insincere use of pious words.

     Wont – accustomed, inclined, apt

Why does this bug me? Because I don’t know—for certain—what the writer means. Because the communication that I assumed would take place in the written material has broken down. And because I hate having to do a double-think to puzzle out your meaning if this isn’t for a course that leads to a higher degree.

      (C)   There’s another use of the apostrophe to show something is missing: to mark the omission of the first two digits of a year (Class of ’58) or a period of years (the ‘70s generation).

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Okay. That was (1), (A), (B), and (C).

Here’s part (2) – plurals of numbers, letters, and abbreviations.

According to my Diana Hacker resource (I call it the Grammar bible), using an apostrophe to show plurals of numbers (8s), letters (Js), and abbreviations (TVs) is not necessary.

Clear?

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There are two more things to say about apostrophes: Misuses. (NOTE: Do not accept Misuses as a challenge. We have ways of finding out about such things.)

Do not use apostrophes to show plurals of nouns that are not possessive.

     Some student’s are given special parking permits. (Use students, no apostrophe.)

Do not use apostrophes to show possession in pronouns that are already possessive: its, whose, his, hers, ours, yours, and theirs.

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Now you have it—the entire enchilada on the apostrophe. Or as much of the enchilada as you’re likely to need in the future.

If you crave further tuition vis-à-vis apostrophes (or anything else grammerish), look up Diana Hacker’s website:

     http://www.Dianahacker.com/writersref

     Grammar exercises>punctuation

She even has exercises you can do.

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Hope you come back next week. We’ll have some fun. 

In the meantime, watch those apostrophes!

THERAPIES

1. the treatment of disease or disorders, as by some remedial, rehabilitative, or curative process: speech therapy.

2. psychotherapy.

3. a curative power or quality.

4. any act, task, program, etc., that relieves tension.

Before we go further, this is not a medical advice article. If you need professional help, you should search for it. My intention today is to offer some thoughts on #4 above--relieving tension, bringing back a feeling of well-being. 

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If you’ve lived this long beyond the beginning of the 21^st Century, you’ve seen a proliferation of therapies available.

If you have had surgery or are waiting for surgery to replace/repair some body part, you may have had Physical Therapy both before and after.

If you’ve been inactive for a time, you may need Occupational Therapy to help you become independent again.

Most of us have had antibiotic therapy at one time.

And if your needs are emotional or spiritual, there are therapies to help you rebound: music, art, crafts; outdoor activities; writing, especially journaling; working with youth, or the aged, or the handicapped, or the illiterate.

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Many years ago one of the most active elder women in my church shared her secret to continued good health and commitment. When her husband died, her family doctor said, “Get involved in something.” He wasn’t telling her not to grieve—he was telling her to work through her grief in a positive activity. She had been an elementary school teacher before retirement, so she began to work in areas of the church that involved teaching. The last position she held before she went to live with her daughters was working with adults who were training to be lay ministers who assisted with all manner of needs in the congregation.

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A friend of mine is going through a time of grief for a recently deceased family member. Her usual beloved activities are sewing and writing; she now feels as if she’s “going through the motions.” But she’s still doing them.

A family member has a degenerative illness that could have resulted in “retirement from life” but she’s chosen to continue with her normal activities as long and as well as possible.

My own experience with those times I want to crawl into my cave and pull the hole in after me have made me look for what I love about my life and focus on that for a time.

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Here are some thoughts on therapies we may have hanging around the house:

Music – If you play an instrument, do that. Who cares if you can’t hit the right notes? It’s for yourself you’re playing. Or, sing—talk about not hitting the notes! That’s one I struggle with but I do continue to find joy in making a joyful noise.

Don’t sing or play? Put on a CD or turn on a radio or TV show or find tunes in your phone resources or check out YouTube on your computer. Music is literally everywhere. Let it wash over you. Feel it. Dance, if your feet tell you to. (It’s okay to listen to your feet from time to time.)

Art – Art isn’t just the visual arts—Art comprises painting, sculpture, writing (also music, but that’s a separate category today). My painting looks pretty bad—though if I were 6 years old it might be pretty good. Clay isn’t my medium. Writing is my thing. . . I write in my journal every day. I write emails. I write letters (the old-fashioned kind on paper that go in envelopes and have to have stamps and addresses and get dropped into boxes outside the post office). I’ve been known to write poetry. And if all my handwritten lists had been preserved through the decades, I’d have a tremendous body of work—not publishable, but definitely voluminous. 

Remember, we’re not looking for a letter grade here—we’re achieving something outside any grading system.

I can’t claim all my writing is art, but it functions in the same way—it allows me to explore things I’ve experienced, what I’ve felt, any meaning I can glean from it; and it rids my physical body of the effects of negative feelings simply by writing those things down on paper. (This is why many therapists—the professional kind with framed certificates on their walls—include journaling in their advice to people going through rough times.) You don't need to take a class to write a journal; just get some paper or a notebook, your favorite writing stick, and...well, start.

I am ready to try a new thing: coloring! If you haven’t seen the wide variety of coloring books/journals/calendars, you’ve been shopping in the wrong department, because these are all over the store: with the books, in office supplies, and on end caps near nothing related. These art coloring books feature intricate designs. All you need is the book (or whatever) and some colored pencils. Some include pencils so you buy a ready-made kit. Adult coloring has been popular for a few years. (I’m always slow to get into the act.) I’m told it’s a great stress-buster. Sounds good to me.

Crafts – You don’t have to be a basket weaver to experience the joys and satisfactions that come from making something with your own hands. My dad was a carpenter; he built houses, but he loved best the finish work that made the house look complete. His satisfaction came from the precision needed to make a house with good proportions (he designed from scratch on the backs of old envelopes), walls that were plumb, windows and doors of the right size for the house and placed in the proper places for the space they occupied.

My son also likes to build and has made a number of items, large and small (a quilting frame for me and miniature furniture for Christmas tree ornaments, to name a couple); he can sew a dress for his granddaughter or a pirate costume for his grandson; and he’s a creative cook. Plus he has a day job.

Sewing and other fiber arts seem to run in our family—I make quilts and knit; all my children can knit, though a couple of them have given it up in favor of other pursuits; two of them make quilts; one loves to decorate; one crochets. We get a sense of accomplishment from our work, yes; but there’s more to it than that. While we work on our project, we focus outside ourselves, and our thoughts and good wishes run to the person who will receive the gift we are making. Getting outside ourselves is probably the best gift we can give anyone, including ourselves.

Origami frogs

Cooking—and creating a new recipe—can be a drudge, or it can be exciting. Take your favorite old recipe and give it a new twist. If you’re bored with your current recipe box, look online for something different to make. There are more cooking blogs than you can shake a wooden spoon at.

If your ideas run in different paths, take up stained glass or origami. Then teach it to someone else.

Outdoor Life – I’m not a gardener, and my birdwatching is limited to whoever comes to my feeders. But I do walk. Formerly I walked outdoors, early in the morning, in residential neighborhoods—my day was brightened by the changing seasons and the beautiful flowers, shrubs, and trees I saw. My spirits were lifted by the knowledge that people cared enough to take good care of their little patch of Planet Earth. Best of all, I had all the joy and none of the scratches, mosquito bites, or aching back pains.

I’m told, though, that gardening is one of the greatest activities for losing yourself. Kneeling on the ground to weed a bed of annuals can make time seem to stop. There’s nothing but the flower bed, the trowel, and you.

Helping Out – So many opportunities abound that there’s no excuse for not helping someone, somewhere. Schools in my neck of the woods welcome volunteers (many are retirees) to read to the children—or, perhaps, have the children read to the volunteer. If you’re not up for that, you can help out wherever you’re needed—make copies for the teachers, move stuff that needs moving, sort books and magazines, ask the librarian what you can do for him/her.

One of the local churches used to have a literacy program to help adults who can’t read. Reading is not only a skill, it’s a confidence builder. If a person can read the job applications they fill out, they feel more able to fill the position.

Another type of literacy program uses readers to record books on tape (nowadays they’re books on CD, but the old name sticks).

The hospital needs volunteer docents to show people where the various departments are (yes, there are signs, but if you’re in bad shape or grieving, you may not even notice there’s a sign; tunnel vision applies here). Other docents take folks from one place to another in wheelchairs. Or they serve at volunteer desks to sign patients in and point them to the next available clerk to register the patient.

My own helping out is done in my home—and sometimes at my fabric-and-craft store (buying trips)—when I cut out kits for blankets and pillow cases, or sew them myself. I prefer to work alone; it’s my time for meditation and for giving thanks. Once a week I work with my sewing/knitting group at church and my focus expands to each of the members and her life. I will not miss my Friday morning time with the sewing ladies. It’s a life-enhancing group. What better way to get out of my own way and celebrate the good things of life?

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The above is not a comprehensive list of possible ways to help yourself out of a blue funk or lessen the toll grief takes on you. You will have your own ways to deal with life as you live it. Just keep celebrating the good things.