Green jeans

The day after my great-grandfather died, my great-grandmother moved into her daughter’s home. That was long before I was born, but I spent many a summer day in that house as a young girl. It was a small 2 bedroom, 1 bath house with a clothes line in the back yard and a washing machine in the basement. My mother was a teen-aged girl, in high school. And just like that, she had a new room mate.

I remember the bedroom they had shared with its chenille coverlets on twin beds, pine floor, ruffled curtains and parchment window shades that had crocheted pulls to lower the shades when the sun became too intense. No air conditioning in those days. The thing I most remember was the containers of African violets my great-grandmother perched on the window sills, each resting in a saucer. Their soft, fuzzy leaves and delicate flowers in shades of purple and lavender.

All these years later, I find that I’m a window sill gardener too. Not of the African violet variety, but any plant that will live in a glass of water and hopefully develop roots. I find a generous amount of pleasure and satisfaction in taking a clipping from the landscape, trimming the lower foliage and lovingly placing it in a jar of water in the bright kitchen window near the back door. I check often for signs that roots may be developing and my pleasure is redoubled when that evidence becomes visible. Then I continue tending to the cutting until the roots appear to be hearty enough to sustain the plant in a new home of soil.

My mom used to tell me stories about her grandmother’s gardens, tended by her grandfather year-round. My great-grandmother loved the blossoms, kept cuttings in the house, and donated blooming seasonal arrangements to her church every week.

It must have been hard, heart-breaking, for my great-grandmother to turn her back on an independent life and leave everything behind. Bringing only a window sill garden of African violets. The social customs of the time that predicated that decision are now lost on my generation and those that have come after me.

But the simplistic beauty and joyful task of tending to plants on a small scale, on a window ledge, is a part of my daily life, a trait happily handed down through the generations in my family.

Passages

There was once a girl, the second of three children, who found herself growing up in a middle-class American family. Mom and Dad both worked to provide the opportunities they wanted to give their children and the parents did their best to nurture their three kids.

The second daughter was plagued with a variety of challenges that affected her judgment and behavior. By the time she was an adolescent girl, telling lies and acting out in a harsh, belligerent manner toward her parents started becoming more and more common. Her self esteem suffered due to chronic body weight issues that undoubtedly aggravated her behavioral difficulties. Her parents, not knowing how to respond in a caring, supportive way that demonstrated to their daughter the consequences for actions deviating from acceptable social norms, struggled not only with her, but with each other. It was a time of family crisis.

After high school, the daughter tried leaving home to attend school, but that path didn't suit her and she returned. Old behaviors resurrected. She tried finding employment, but a career choice seemed elusive and jobs were random. Lying was preferable to truth telling. Blaming was preferable to taking responsibility. Hostility was preferable to peaceful coexistence. Still, her parents tried to support their daughter in finding a pursuit where she might derive happiness.

After she turned 21 and renewed her attempt to make her way independently, her personal difficulties increased. Her debt escalated and attempts to hide the debt from plain view made the situation far worse. Her actions were criminal in nature. If she found herself unable to pay a bill, she invented an excuse, told another lie, slandered another’s reputation in the process.

Finally at the breaking point, her parents excused themselves from her life. Without wavering, they both asked her to leave their home permanently, attend to the problems looming in her life, and not return until she was capable of making amends. They were worried, almost sick. Months passed of no communication. The daughter felt betrayed and angry that her parents had turned their backs on her.

Then one day she drove over to her parent’s house and found them at home along with both her siblings. Tearfully, she took a step, and admitting she was ashamed of her cycle of bad behavior, asked for forgiveness. She wanted a chance to repair what she had damaged by demonstrating that she was trying to change the person that she was.

But there was more. She was also expecting a baby. And it was complicated. There was no upside to be found in the situation, save for the fact that she felt blessed and joyful at the prospect of being a mother.

She is going to make her own choices, guided by advice from her obstetrician, counselor, friends and family. Everyone has a particular point of view. But in the end, the only view that matters is hers.

I do not know what will happen. I hope for the best. I pray that she may find steadfast strength and the comprehension to acknowledge her life in the present tense and make choices based on where she stands in that life, humbly taking responsibility for herself and her yet unborn baby.

Summers of my memory

From Memorial Day to Labor Day, my brother and I seldom wore shoes. Hot pavement and thorny stickers were not a deterrent for our bare summertime feet. We rode our bikes everywhere and walked down the block to the community swimming pool every day. I played hopscotch on the driveway, taking great care to draw pretty course squares with colored chalk.

In the evenings, I would sit in the front yard and listen to the cicadas until past dark. Sometimes, on firefly nights, a thrilling game of hide-and-seek might occur.

Mommy made popsicles in metal ice cube trays and watermelon was plentiful along with beans, cucumbers and tomatoes from our garden behind the garage.

On the 4th of July, the annual parade consisted of a legion of kids riding spider bikes with red, white and blue streamers flying from the handlebars, followed by the fire engine from the community’s VFD and finally, a convertible coupe where the town mayor sat in the place of honor, waving to neighbors that lined the streets as the procession passed. The car was invariably adorned with a poster-sized sign on each door inscribed proudly with the phrase “Our Mayor” in boldly colored crayon.

Then, just before 9 o’clock, residents would walk a mile or so down the road to the community park and find a place to sit in the grass until the fireworks started. The volunteers manning the pyrotechnics lit the candles one by one, with a span of 10-15 seconds between each, giving the audience plenty of time to watch in amazement as the sparkles turn to ember and then to smoke.

And it was amazing. Pure magic for a young girl. I felt like skipping all the way home and probably did, swinging my mom’s hand the whole way.

Practical application of transitive equality

I was going to write this post for Tuesday (RTT), but it's way late. 3 days late. But whatever. Last time I checked, there were no rules on the internet.

Early last month Cristy had a birthday and I just am about the world's worst at finding the definitive gift. In most cases, I seem to find a little something that I absolutely adore and then think, "wouldn't so-and-so just LOVE this?" So then I purchase it and the gift recipient is left wondering what motivated me to buy this big chunky bracelet that I'm eagerly hoping to borrow when I should have known the recipient is unlikely to ever wear it.

I don't know why this happens. Projection. Lack of coffee. Who knows.

But maybe, just possibly, on this past birthday, I inched slightly closer to that divine place where I selected a gift meaningful to the recipient.

I ordered these two custom stepping stones from K-Dub Designs. They are adorable and made to order to resemble your own dog or cat. The artist behind K-Dub (Karen) is sweet and creative and so easy to work with.

Cristy LOVES mosaics. And she LOVES her two cute dogs. So, by applying the transitive property of equality in mathematical logic, it stands to reason that Cristy would LOVE the mosaic portraits of her two pups.

I think she might. I hope so, anyway.

Here they are.

A full collection will soon follow. After all, we have a house full of 4-legged companions along with the memories of those recently departed. More on that later.

Language of love

In ten days I will recite a vow and make a heart-felt promise to my beloved Cristy, witnessed by the members of our family and our closest friends. I will vow to travel the journey of my life with her, seeking that path and finding our way together. These words, our promises, will communicate the strong sense of love that we share and cherish.

Planning for this wedding has been an interesting project and as we get closer to the date, the activities we are involved with on a near-daily basis are steeped in minutae.

The wedding will be in our home, and we are transforming it from an already lovely residence into something even softer and sweeter. Swirling with pretty paper heart garlands and shining candle lanterns. Sprinkled with dozens of simple bouquets of flowers and greenery. In every way, the layers of detail that will form the backdrop for our wedding are an expression of who we are. These elements too, will communicate, more subtly, the gentle tenderness with which we move through our days and nights.

This combination of words and personal expression is indeed, the language of our love.

Bridging the generations with shopping

When I was younger, perhaps high school age, my mom and I took a shopping trip to the Country Club Plaza in Kansas City. Some of her favorite stores were still there and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Mommy loved the old fashioned stores that had lovely rugs, served tea while you shopped and had huge powder rooms with soft upholstered furniture. After that shopping trip with her, I fell in love with that style of retail shopping experience too.

I don’t keep up with economic indicators, vis-à-vis the impact of unemployment and recession to privately-owned retailers.

However, in 2008, I started noticing some changes.

One particular day, shortly after Thanksgiving, I was doing some Christmas shopping and visited a couple of well established clothing boutiques in Houston. At Kathryn Risley’s shop I noticed that the inventory appeared very sparse, particularly given the time of year. However, I was fortunate enough to find a lovely top for my mom, on a mark-down rack, so I made my purchase and counted my blessings. Earlier that day, at Etui, another favorite just down the street, I had overheard one of the staff members at the shop telling a customer that they hadn’t observed any change to their customer’s spending habits, despite all the reports of economic doom and gloom.

Etui is located in an upscale urban neighborhood, but their merchandise is very reasonably priced. Well, not priced like TJ Maxx, but you know, not like the privately owned boutiques on Chicago’s famed Oak Street either.

It sounded like their client base was loyal enough and financially secure enough to continue spending money on clothing and accessories.

I was relieved to hear this news. While I’m certainly far from an avid shopper, I love pretty clothing and accessories and love knowing that there are a few places where I am confident I can locate completely unique, quality garments in a comfortable, but stimulating atmosphere at a price point that works within my budget.

Elizabeth’s Boutique in The Woodlands falls in this category too. I had been fortunate enough to time my last couple of visits to this lovely store to take advantage of an after-season clearance. But new inventory was still plentiful. My optimism remained high. These boutiques gave me the same feeling of that shopping experience with my mom some 30 years ago.

Kathryn Risley sent an email in early spring 2009, saying that she had closed her store and was launching a new fashion venture in an online space.

Six or seven months later, I received an email from Etui indicating that they were announcing a new fashion partner that was going to share their retail space. Hmmm. It didn’t lure me in, but I was hopeful their resourcefulness would carry them through the apparent financial difficulties creeping into even these businesses with a “loyal” customer base.

About four weeks ago, I noticed a “Sale” banner at Elizabeth’s Boutique indicating they were going out of business.

Then today another email arrived from Etui. They are closing their doors after almost 30 years.

I have to admit, it bothers me. I don’t know if shopping at independent retailers has been largely replaced by shopping online. Perhaps Kathryn Risley knows. Perhaps permanent changes in human behavior have been established, driven by technology, fuel cost and basic economics.

But on the eve of Mother’s Day, this news has extinguished the possibility of participating in an experience that always made me feel like my mother’s daughter.

Lessons from a baby bird

Mosquitoes are plentiful in Texas and many Texas residents keep purple martin birdhouses in their yards in hopes of attracting these migrating birds who love to spend their summers in the hot Texas heat where they will find a plentiful supply of one of their favorite foods: mosquitoes.

We do not have a purple martin birdhouse, but 2 of our neighbors do.

My mom always told me that purple martins are just a little bit picky about selecting a summer vacation home – they like it to be very clean. No remnants from the previous occupants.

I don’t think that our neighbors ever received this advice. Sparrows are still living in the purple martin houses. But that is OK. We love the sweet little sparrows too. We’re just having to break out the citronella candles to ward off mosquitoes.

Yesterday evening, Cristy was watching the sparrow activity on the ground around the bird feeder and bird bath. There was one youngster sparrow that had not yet learned to eat by herself. She was able to fly, but still relied on mom to pick up the bird seed from the ground and give it to her. I suppose with birds, they have to learn to fly to the source of food before they can learn to eat it on their own. One hurdle at a time.

The mommy sparrow patiently fed her offspring who scurried behind her making a big fuss. Or, at least, that is what it looked like from where we sat.

It made me think about how long it sometimes takes me to grasp concepts that appear to be very obvious.

I remember, as a child, using scissors to cut a circle out of a piece of paper was very perplexing and frustrating. That day in kindergarten class I watched while all the other students cut out their circles, but I succeeded only in cutting an endless spiral. I didn’t get it. Later, my mom showed me another technique that made more sense to me. I was so relieved. I just needed more instruction.

I also remember in first grade at recess, I was having trouble running relay races as quickly as the other children and I asked my dad for help. He showed me exactly the things I needed to know to solve my problems. They were things that other children somehow learned merely by observing, but again, I needed more instruction.

Recalling these experiences makes me realize how crucially important my parents were for me. I felt safe taking a problem to them and asking them to help me solve it. And they did, in a nonjudgmental way. These two early episodes, like so many others, transformed my feelings of frustration into feelings of competence.

And more recently, Cristy showed me how to use one of the features of our television remote control. My technology phobia generally scares me away from that contraption, but Cristy showed me how simple it really was. And I can use it now. Maybe not for everything, but I’m OK with some simple navigation. I can feed myself.

And that baby bird will soon learn too.

3rd vein

It’s been another weekend of activity. Oil changes, pool cleaning, ceiling fan installation, window shade hanging. Mixed in with a little bird watching, sipping coffee in the sun and keeping company with the dogs. My oldest dog’s mobility has been declining of late and it has me worried. For the past 9 months or so, he has been taking some medication that has helped to sustain him, but last weekend that medicine was no longer sufficient.

Thankfully the veterinarian remembers him and understood that I was reluctant to subject him to the stress of a visit to that office, particularly in his current situation. Through a telephone consultation, she prescribed a new medicine. It is the medication of last resort for him and she had given me this warning 9 months ago when we embarked upon his prior course of treatment.

It is a steroid targeted to reduce inflammation around his spinal cord and restore his locomotion, dispensed in a declining dosage over a period of two weeks. Moving into the second week, it appears that this current dosage level does not seem to be as effective as the previous level because he is beginning to lose track of his back feet again. But he is still able to walk and remains alert with a good appetite.

The steroid has some side effects. I read about the medicine online. It is so difficult to tell whether the side effects I observe in my dog are merely annoying for him or whether they are making him truly uncomfortable. I’ve started giving him an extra dose of his “doggy tylenol” just in case.

In our society we want to act in a humane and caring manner toward the animals who are our companions in life. We want to prolong their lives as long as they are happy, alert and comfortable but we also want to inject human logic into balance. At what point has the animal’s discomfort dipped below the equilibrium of sustaining care?

I’m not presently equipped to be a participant in that determination. And in all honesty, I’d prefer not to be part of that process. I would prefer that my beloved dog travel the journey of his life to its complete end without my involvement, if at all possible.

This process makes me focus on my program more than ever. I have to let go. I have to let each day unfold through God’s grace. I realize my tears come from the sadness of a loss that has not yet occurred. And each tear keeps me away from the joy of my precious Jackie’s life. Living in the now.

Mischief

It was 6:45am Friday and I noticed several cars pulling into the parking lot of a largely abandoned shopping strip on my way to work. Then I realized they were cutting through the parking lot to zip over to the Shipley Donut shop. Thoughtful folks that they were, they were probably going to get a big box to take in for their coworkers. Or maybe not, who knows?

Regardless, it reminded me of a story that my mom likes to tell from time to time. About Shipley donuts. The best darned donuts around, if I do say so myself.

When my brother and I were young kids, my dad would buy a dozen Shipley donuts from time to time, as a Saturday morning treat. He wasn’t the type of man who would get up early on Saturday morning to drive over to the donut store to get fresh donuts. He’d buy them the night before and wrap the box in kitchen towels to try to keep them fresh. My brother and I were kids and didn’t know the difference. I guess my mom and dad just didn’t much care whether the donuts were fresh or not-so-fresh. In hindsight, this is weird, because my dad loved sweets.

Anyway, one particular Friday night, we had a box of Shipley donuts on our kitchen counter wrapped in dish towels.

The next morning, Dad awoke and made his way into the kitchen. He noticed my younger brother sitting on the floor watching cartoons. As he started making the coffee, he glanced over to the box of eagerly awaited Shipley donuts and to his surprise, only saw an empty counter. Naturally, he asked my brother where he put the donuts, thinking he had already snaked one or two from the box.

Hey, where’d you put the donuts?

What donuts?

Uh-oh.

A quick look around the house revealed an empty donut box and some kitchen towels casually tossed aside. And a family dog with an upset stomach casually sleeping it off in the laundry room. Apparently the kitty had acted as an accomplice and pushed the box to the floor for amusement.

No one else was very amused at the time, but all these years later, it is a continued source of amusement, at least for my mom, my brother and me.

Homemade

2nd vein.

I’m turning into my mom. Part of me, anyway. Not the casino-slot-machine-diva part. The homemade-buttons-and-bows part. I know I’ve written a couple of blog entries about my foray into homemade things and craft projects. It’s a far cry from the way I would have envisioned spending my time if you had asked me ten years ago. But now it just seems genuine and personal.

Cristy brought home a little pot of daisies from the store last night. It is a welcome gift from a group of colleagues for a coworker returning to work after completing a treatment protocol for breast cancer. Cristy wanted it to be sweet and special, so I offered to make a little bow for the plant and thankfully, she agreed. In five minutes I had made a little bow out of cotton fabric layered alongside a smaller bow of raffia and string with a couple of beads attached to the ends of the string. I tied the bows to a little plastic card holder and anchored it into the soil. It doesn’t look spectacular, but it does look personal. It looks like this woman’s coworkers cared enough about her to make a homemade bow for the pretty potted daisies.

I will probably turn into one of those women who troll the clearance table at JoAnn’s, picking up remnants of lace, ribbon and pretty patterned fabrics to adorn greeting cards, packages and gifts of all sorts. Just a little touch to make them personal. That’s what my mom always did.

On home decorating

My father was a veteran of the Korean War. A recent high school graduate, he served in the Air Force in the early 1950s. It was a time of his life about which I have almost no information. But I do have some mementos.

He apparently went to Tokyo once on R&R and that young American soldier took a shopping excursion. Completely out of character for the man I later knew as my dad: the one who preferred to avoid shopping and purchases of any kind.

I took possession of some of the fruits of that shopping trip almost 18 years ago after he died. One particular garment box that has been on the shelf of my closet all this time held two kimonos. One silk and one cotton. And a silk obi. I vaguely recalled the cotton kimono (actually, a yukata) because I remember him wearing it around the house on a couple of rare occasions as I was growing up.

In my ongoing quest to rid myself of possessions that are “stored” forever in boxes in the closet, I pulled out these kimonos last week. Besides the few times he wore them, they have probably not been out of the box since 1953.

As I opened the box, I immediately saw the cotton kimono’s cheerfully crisp navy blue and white ziggy-zaggy stripe pattern. Beneath was the silk kimono, a garment unfamiliar to me. I pulled it from the box to discover it was lined in white silk. The colors of the kimono were a somber olive and sandy brown. And the pattern was also somber: Japanese soldiers on foot, carrying caskets that held their deceased comrades.

I wondered why in the world my father had selected these two kimonos. More than likely, the shops that he visited were full of gorgeous silk kimonos in brilliant colors adorned with patterns of birds and blossoms. But then I remembered that he was purchasing the kimonos for himself, this young man of 20, not some hypothetical daughter who in sixty years' time would probably prefer flowers to coffins. So I honor it for what it is. And I decided to find a way to add this kimono to my daily life, something I could touch, see and enjoy in my home surroundings. I decided to make a pillow cover from this kimono fabric.

Because I did not want to immediately cut into the fabric of the main garment, I decided to detach one of the elongated sleeves, perfectly rectangular shaped, as the basis for the pillow. All I needed to do was pull apart the seam between the sleeve and armhole. My scissors cut the first thread in the lining and I nearly gasped in amazement – the garment was hand sewn. The stitches I cut were not made by machine. I continued snipping apart the stitches, imagining the needle in the hand of the person who sewed it, carefully crafted it into the lovely garment now before me on the kitchen table.

I sewed the sleeve back together as a pillow, using a hand needle and thread. I’d like to be able to say that I selected this process in reverence of the kimono’s original integrity. But the truth is, I don’t own a sewing machine. I only sew by hand. For about 3 hours on Sunday, I busied myself with this project. My pillow insert should arrive in a few days and I will place it among the collection of pillows that adds a touch of color, life and whimsy to our surroundings. This one will add more: a shade of toil, echoes of an ancient culture.

The more time I spend thinking about and pursuing the process of decorating our home, the more I am convinced that decorating is not about copying the elements from a picture of someone else’s house. At least not for me. It’s about arranging the things I possess with love and creativity. It’s about finding ways to maximize the use and beauty of everything.

Relationship road trip

Had lunch with a friend on Friday. She’s the mother of twins, has 3 siblings and as nutty a family as you can imagine. Fair to say she has an excellent perspective on life, her own priorities and a healthy set of values that she desires to pass on to her children.

We talked about navigating relationships through tolerance and honesty. I admitted that even though that is my intent, I have been known to get stuck in my head. When that happens, what I’m thinking on the inside doesn’t match what I’m doing or saying on the outside. That, of course leads to all sorts of self-imposed conflicts.

Years ago, I came up with an analogy for relationships that I think is still a fair representation. My hypothesis was that relationships are like road trips. You have a vehicle, maybe 2, maybe a caravan if you’re bringing along a lot of stuff. You have some tools, perhaps a map, a compass, a flashlight; hopefully they’re in working order. Then you go.

Hopefully you both go the same direction if you’re in different vehicles. You might take different roads because one of you wants to take the freeway fast lane and the other wants to meander through the small towns along the way. Sometimes there’s a thunderstorm and the driving conditions are perilous. Sometimes there’s a traffic jam and you’re simply stuck for a long time inching along but making no progress. It’s frustrating. Sometimes you’re hopelessly lost or out nearly of gas, praying for a service station as you round the next corner. You’re frightened. Sometimes you’re not even sure why you’re driving in the direction you’re headed.

And then sometimes it’s just glorious. The day is sunny and you’re driving along together in the same car without the caravan of stuff and the breeze smells so sweet and you’re holding hands. And if you’re like me, you have your Barbie sunglasses on. And you both feel peaceful about where you’re headed.

Maybe the exact route isn’t entirely mapped out. But the direction feels right and you have trust, gratitude, faith and love.

The rest will work itself out. You might have to fix a broken radiator or flat tire along the way, but you know what? Everyone has to make those accommodations.

I’m happy now. And I once heard someone giving a presentation say “this too shall pass” when referring to her own happiness. But that’s OK. I think I know how to find this road again if I happen to veer off as a result of my own internal craziness. I have trust, gratitude, faith and love.

On a mission

One of the few times I watched Jon & Kate + 8, a topic on that broadcast, discussed somewhat incidentally, was the fact that this family had created a mission statement.

[Note to self: please refrain from indulging in judgmental thoughts about the probable level of family collaboration involved in creating the aforementioned mission statement.]

I was impressed during the broadcast at the concept of actually taking the trouble to formulate and verbalize a family mission statement and I decided to do a little research with my best friend, google. What I learned was not surprising. A number of family therapists cited in the search results recommend that couples (my research was limited to couples since I’m not a mom) not only participate in the exercise of creating a mission statement, but also define the values that guide your lives, both as individuals and as a couple.

I love methodology and in one of my previous volunteer assignments, led a few organizations through strategy building workshops similar to this. The participants begin with some trepidation, but quickly gain confidence and make rapid progress. It always sounds more difficult than it really is.

Anyway, Cristy and I took the time last year to explore our values in life areas such as faith, social pursuits, daily home-life, financial management, holiday and family celebrations, professional-career pursuits, etc. I think we defined 10 or 12 general categories. The values we verbalized were those beliefs we held about who we were as individuals in the distinct life areas and how we each felt we needed to participate as a couple in order to feel whole, validated and cherished.

Not all of our opinions were aligned, but we tried to negotiate through some ideas about behavior that would meet some important needs for us both.

It was useful. Performing that exercise together made us feel as though we had established a broad set of basic agreements for the way that we would interact in these areas of our lives. Because we had made agreements, a large degree of ambiguity about who we were as a couple evaporated. It was as if we had completed a private rehearsal of sorts. While I cannot predict the future, I feel my chances of being blindsided by something unexpected that conflicts with one of my core living values, is greatly diminished.

Nothing is guaranteed. Disasters can happen, garbage disposals can erupt, as ours did this week. We only hope that the practice of finding common ground around the values that are the most important guiding principles of our lives will help us combine our strengths in times of stress, sorrow or sickness. The practice of negotiating behaviors in advance will help us feel empowered to ask for the supportive behavior that we need from the other to offer that extra support when we’re not quite feeling whole. The practice of exploring and envisioning will open our minds to the possibilities that exist for enriching our own lives as well as the lives of others with whom we interact.

All things considered, I’d have to say that Jon & Kate, or at least the producers of Jon & Kate, set a very good example for which I am truly grateful.

Finding a metaphor in the mundane

The correct tool for the job turned out to be steel wool. Worked like a charm. Scrubbing that burned-on residue from the bottom of the soup kettle was relatively quick work once I got the steel wool engaged.

Yesterday I made corn chowder and started by boiling pearled barley with some onion and celery. Barley gives the soup texture and makes it taste chowdery. But in my poorly managed multi-tasking frame of mind, I neglected to keep watch on the barley and consequently the water boiled out too quickly leaving the starchy grain to burn. And stick to the bottom of the kettle.

After discarding the contents, I tried an old remedy that has always proved successful for me in the past – boiling soapy water in the kettle. I think I read it years ago in a newspaper column. Probably Hints from Heloise.

But it didn’t work. Usually that technique makes the job of cleaning so much easier. No scrubbing even required. Not this time.

So this morning, as I was physically scrubbing the pan with my steel wool, I found my brain casting about searching for someone, something to accept the blame for the situation I was in. I landed on Heloise. Damn that tips column. Load of baloney!

Then the scrubbing was over and I almost had to laugh. So ridiculous that I would be trying to escape responsibility for something so insignificant, a minor inconvenience. But I was. Yeah, I’m human. Give my idiot card a punch.

Coincidentally, this is precisely the topic that one of my favorite bloggers recently presented in a very humorous way. Karal, at the orange chair. Check it out.

Bonds of love

I don’t remember the last time I spent an evening out on the two teen-aged boys. Probably because I’ve never done it before. Cristy’s nephews, and really, mine too. One 18 and one 17. We drove downtown, laughed, acted silly, took dozens of photographs, mingled with the other patrons, and surprisingly, as the evening was winding down, had a rather serious adult conversation. I didn’t see it coming.

I don’t know if it matters so much, the precise words spoken. The fact that they were spoken is merely a reminder that at this juncture of their lives, on the cusp of branching out into another direction, that their loving family is there to cheer them onward. And we will be there too, if the choices in the adult world seem overwhelming and they want to talk through their options. Or even just find a place of refuge for an hour or two.

I don’t know what will unfold for either of them in the next year and I am not clear whether they, themselves, have envisioned their own futures.

We will be here to witness their accomplishments and trials and to remind them that we love them through each step of their journey.

Integrating the past with the present

Before I moved last year the gigantic task of packing my belongings loomed vaguely in the path ahead. As I started tackling that activity, the task loomed even larger; it seemed to block out the sun. I found things I had forgotten from years before stashed away in little pockets of my tiny universe. I threw things away that should have been thrown away years before. I boxed and bagged and lifted and carried. Several times – it was a multi-stage process.

Along the way I decided that the things I took with me to my new residence should have a useful place in my home and in my life. I would prefer not to stow these things away again, unseen, for another 20 years; that just doesn’t make much sense.

So far, so good. The most obvious items of furniture found a home first, that was the first layer of things settled into the house. The second layer was the contents of closets, pantries and drawers – utility items that we would need to access on a regular basis. The third layer was largely visually decorative. Books, pottery, seashells, vases, photos, a collection of items that by themselves, are not necessarily beautiful, but together, form an appealing backdrop for our rooms.

But still, some straggling things remain. Two weeks ago I opened one of the bags that I had placed temporarily at the bottom of a closet and decided to filter through these things and bring them into my daily existence. They were things that belonged to my late father. His college degree, professional engineering certificate, numerous awards, interesting artifacts, memorabilia. Three of the items were already framed, so I hung them immediately and then purchased a few more inexpensive document frames for some of the other honorary certificates.

And today, the box arrived with the sturdy new frames and their crisp white mats. My father was an humble man and did not find much reason to rejoice in his accomplishments. He rejoiced in designing an innovative solution to address the problem at hand. But now, all that remains are the artifacts that point to these successes.

So a portion of these artifacts from his life are now living anew in my home. And I continue to make my way through the stragglers little by little, calling upon imagination, love and inspiration as a guide.

Living from scratch

I read a very inspired essay by Anne at life in pencil the other day all about the concept of living from scratch. In other words, starting anew, paving a new path in any part of our lives. And oddly, my father’s voice appears in my head when reflecting on this idea: the words inertia and trajectory. He was a scientist and his work dealt largely with mechanical physics. But these two familiar subjects of physics apply to our lives, perhaps in more ways than we care to admit.

Inertia tells us that an object will continue to move along its current path unless acted upon by an external force. A human-life example of inertia is the person who remains in an unloving relationship without taking proactive steps to make a change for the better. Or a person who has an unfulfilling job but makes no attempt to change the situation. A couple of less obvious examples might be the person who does make an attempt at change, but upon meeting the first obstacle, decides that change is impossible and accepts inertia as inevitable, or the person who selects a change strategy that turns out to be an unsuccessful approach at achieving the desired change, but continues to make the same unsuccessful attempt time after time.

How many of us have fallen under the spell of inertia?

The term trajectory refers to the direction of the new path of an object once a force has been applied to initiate movement. In mechanical physics, we have to compensate for the effect of gravity in order for our object to reach its targeted destination. In life, we have to compensate for other unquantifiable factors, if we hope to succeed in our quest to make progress along a new path. These factors are things like the seductive comforts of our old habits and the voices of fear and shame that play inside our heads.

Creating change in our lives requires some amount of fortitude, perseverance and vision. We need to be able to visualize that the difference we are seeking will prove beneficial and hopefully, increase our level of happiness.

How many of us have stumbled along a new path because we were ill prepared to expend the energy needed to compensate for the unforeseen roadblocks to our visualized success?

I am personally able to check both of these boxes. Time and again I can recall complaining about some circumstance in my life that caused me dissatisfaction, but I made excuses to myself to justify living with the inertia. Or opened the door to a new relationship without acknowledging the need to clean up my behavioral mistakes from the past.

Change is work. It is not as simple as deciding. In physics, there is a formula for computing work, a function of force and distance. In my own life, change has been successful through humility, gratitude, imagination, forgiveness and perseverance over a span of time. The force applied, in this case is not physical at all. A difficult lesson to grasp.

I don’t know if my dad ever thought about physics in these terms, but I am finding comfort in deriving abstract life lessons from the concrete principles he applied in his life’s work.

High school musical

It was a relatively quiet weekend. It began last Friday; the opening night of Cristy’s nephew’s high school performance of The Music Man.

In an unspoken sense, attendance is mandatory at most functions where an audience assembles in the school auditorium, unless we have a very good excuse. So this was not the first trip to the high school to witness the collective dramatic and musical talent of the student body.

During one of the previous performances, we were squirming in our seats, longing for the concluding selection. I remember hearing a baby start to whimper somewhere in the audience. Then the sound of that whimpering retreating as the parent carried his or her child out of the theater. It seemed like a golden opportunity, the answer to our quandry. I remember whispering to Cristy: if you just start crying, I could escort you out… She lowered her head in muffled laughter.

I think that audiences attend student performances in order to see their own children. We see them on stage and notice, from afar, their grown-up appearance, their poise and the results of many, many hours of rehearsal. We hear their strong singing voices and marvel at their dancing ability. But still, it is tedious. We are transported back to our own experiences with school musical productions. I wonder what it was like for my parents and all of the other audience members to suffer through those performances with smiles on their faces.

The final scene arrived, there was applause and cheering, then the students appeared and there were hugs and congratulations. Then it was over and the students were off to Denny’s to celebrate over pie and coffee. And we went home, reminding ourselves this will be our last year for attending school performances.

My personal struggle to cancel out white noise

One of the [many] good things about having a partner in life is that they see you for who you are and sometimes verbally share their observations with you. Much to my surprise and utter dismay, the way that I act is not always the way that I think I act. What a revelation.

Cristy has mentioned to me on more than one occasion that I have an annoying tendency to verbally disagree with certain nice things that she says about me, particularly regarding my appearance. I know that I am not trying to be disagreeable; I am simply repeating aloud the noise that is in my head. But that noise is so loud and those messages are in such sharp contrast to what she says that instead of thinking for myself and selecting the most appropriate response, I allow the chatter to hijack my own voice.

Hmmm, another revelation. Slightly alarming, this one.

The first unfortunate effect is that my disagreement sends a message to Cristy that I do not value what she says to me, and that is untrue. Nonetheless, that is what I am doing.

The second effect is that the noise in my head acts like white noise, canceling out all the other incoming sounds, such as the good loving messages she verbally sends. Those chattering negative thoughts intercept the message before my brain gets a chance to register and deposit the confirming, loving thought in my consciousness.

So here is the question that I pose to myself: how much of my reality do I cancel out without permitting it to even register in my consciousness because of my negative thoughts?

I look to my own family history for an example. An observation.

My mom has said for many, many years that she cannot remember her own father ever telling her that he loved her. This weighs heavily on her very being. Since I was not around during those days, I simply accept what she says as fact; I am unable to dispute it with my own observations. One day, however, she said that my own father did not ever tell her that he loved her. And this one I was able to strongly refute. I lived in that house and remember very well that he told her aloud, every single day that he loved her. I remember the sweet names that he called her and the loving, affectionate things that he said constantly.

I suspect that my mom had so much negative chatter in her head at the time that she could not hear these wonderful things. I imagine that the same might be true regarding her experience with her father.

Everyone talks about living in the present. Appreciating the here and now. I strive to do it but am clearly setting up an internal roadblock to achieving that sought after objective. In this regard, I am my own worst enemy, indeed, my only enemy. I hold the key to serenity but am hiding it away, beneath layers of old dusty noise. The incessant chatter.

I have a colleague who shared with me a technique he employed once to try to clear out the irritating negative self-talk in his head. The noise reverberated while he was running in solitude. He decided that every time a negative thought emerged, he would laugh out loud. His logic being that the act of laughing would both interrupt the thought process and diminish its significance in his consciousness. He said that during his 3 mile run he was laughing aloud almost the whole way, but felt so much better at the end (aside from the fact that the other runners around him kept glancing nervously over their shoulders…).

In my quest to shed personal defects and replace them with behaviors that will permit me to live in the real present, not an artificial version that I create, I will need to adopt a method to minimize these pesky voices, verbally acknowledge the good incoming messages and respond in kind. Perhaps in time, acting in a new way will quiet the noise and allow me to see, feel and live in the true present.

Trees and karma

Preparation for Arbor Day is under way. Let’s call it Arbor-Enrichment Day. Winter is short in Houston and tree pruning needs to occur during a narrow window between Christmas and Valentine’s Day while the trees are dormant. But today, the agenda calls for more than just tree pruning. A large crew of arbor professionals arrived at 7:45 this morning with trucks full of heavy equipment to remove trees in addition to standard pruning essential for promoting healthy tree growth, which, by the way, is long overdue in this particular landscape. As of this writing, they have removed 5 living trees and 3 dead/diseased trees.

I am generally not in favor of removing living trees, but had to make an exception in this case. Two of our ornamental trees are both planted within 12 inches of the house. While they’re still small now, in a few years their expanding roots will begin pushing against the foundation and I don’t think that will be a pretty sight, either from the vantage point of the house or our pocketbook. The other 3 trees are just a plain nuisance. They drip pine needles all over the roof and yard. I am relatively certain that we could plant trees in their stead that will offer shade to the yard without the unwanted debris.

We fully realize that our karma is in jeopardy at the moment. We’re taking out trees that offer habitat and food for birds, small mammals and insects. So in return, we have hung a squirrel feeder and will be hanging 2 bird houses this weekend. Then soon, we will be selecting a new tree to plant, to commemorate our first year together in this house. By continuing to keep the landscape healthy, we are hoping that our karma will start swinging back up.

Celebrate Arbor Day this year (April 30th) by planting a tree!