All things family-related. My husband and me, the children we made, the grandbebes that thrill us now. Our whole great big, loud, messy family. Love! *sigh…
I just wanted to share this beautiful “live” drawing as a reminder to see past what we think we know about the women around us.
My sister-in-law, Dawn, recently shared these words from a Twila Paris song, “Same Girl,” in the comments at this blog, a post about my mom, who is dealing with Alzheimer’s Disease.
“Picture with me if you can, a little girl in a younger land, running, playing, laughing, growing stronger. But now her aged limbs have failed and her rosy cheeks have paled. Look beyond the lines ’til you remember. She’s still the same girl running down the hill, she’s still the same girl, memories vivid still. Listen to her story and her eyes will glow. She’s still the same girl, and we need her so…”
My mom on the right. 1942?
“Listen to her story and her eyes will glow…” This is true of every woman, from the little girl so small she can barely express in words, to a young woman falling n love for the first time, to a harried wife and mother who is living to serve and run. It is true as the children leave the nest and the gray hair emerges. It is truer than true as age and aches and pains become the norm, And it is true for even the woman who is struggling to maintain some sense of who she is while suffering dementia.
{{Listen to her story: from my youngest granddaughter and the bigger ones, too, to my lovely daughters, to my sister and the sweetest sister-in-laws I have been blessed with to my cherished mamala, and all the dearest of friends and godly women who have invested in me and younger women who so kindly allow me access to their hearts...}}
My mom on the right. 1940?
If some one, anyone, will just listen, we have a story to tell. We know some things, in spite of anything we’ve forgotten or how old-fashioned and outdated we may seem to have become. Because where you are, we once were, too.
My mom on the left. School days. She might be 8 or 9 in this photo.
And to tell you, too, that even as Alzheimer’s robs my mom of more and more of her abilities, her confidence and cognitive skills, what we are seeing is, miracle of miracles, Norma Jean :: the little girl who loves all the pretty things and all the people and has the simplest faith – she re-emerges, she is herself, true and pure. “She’s still the same girl, and we need her so!”
Me, my mom, and my little sister :: out on the town, Avon, IN. Oct. 2015
“Everyone with a brain is at risk for Alzheimer’s.” – www.alz.org
See more things I have written about this Alzheimer’s journey here
We had our family October-birthday celebration a couple of days ago (three of us were celebrated, our years totaling 96…do not ask how many of those years I hogged up). We may or may not have had two big pans of homemade brownies, 2 types of ice cream, chocolate cake (icing on the side) a giant pumpkin pie and whipped cream, sang the birthday song three times with appropriate claps {happy birthday to you *clap-clap*}, passed out dozens of presents to oohs and aahs and had a major paper-fight with wadded up gift wrap.
We also did the birthday-question-hot-seat where we ask the birthday celebrants questions about anything at all, important and not so much.
Jovan, Hunter and moi.
One of my kiddos asked who I’d like to see in concert. I couldn’t even think, there were so many names in my brain. I totally forgot I started this list last February. So, here it is, even though I know I have more to add (who are they???)! :)
Kenny Rogers
Dolly Parton
Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton together, I’d get front-row seats.
James Taylor
Carole King. Her story. Her songs. Her piano-pounding.
James Taylor and Carole King together would make me pass out with delirious happiness, possibly never able to recover.
Neil Diamond. Because. I love singing along with the Neil.
Elvis Costello
Willie Nelson and Alison Krauss. I’d see Alison alone and I love Willie, but I want them together!
David Cassidy. No question. Please come to Denver, David Cassidy (“we’ll go up into the mountains so far that we can’t be found…” But my husband Dave will be there, too, of course. I am simply after some singing.) :)
Paul McCartney. I should not have to explain this.
Leonard Cohen. I say this. I said it once before on this blog and he was IN TOWN without me knowing it. That is not right.
Sigur Ros. Because my kids tell me their shows are amazing and they have such great taste, those talented children of mine.
Brad Paisley. Musical genius and such a great lyricist!
Elton John, again. Last time was with Billy Joel, which was very cool, but I want more Elton, lots more Elton. The man can write the anthemic like nobody’s business. His melodies and his fingers on those keys UN.be.liev.able!
The Eagles, again. Because they are The Eagles. Also, I really like Glenn Frey.
Boz Scaggs. He has just gotten better with age, I think. I would volunteer to be one of his back-up singers. :)
Bobbie Gentry. But she doesn’t tour anymore. Boo-hooooo.
Diana Ross. In Vegas – I want the whole over-the-top, coat-dragging show!
Matt Redman. In Denver TONIGHT! (Dave & Tara are taking me as part of a belated birthday gift, yaaaaay!)
Speaking of which, Dave and Tara Powers, at the Armory Performing Arts Center in Brighton, Colorado. Check this out! :)
Oh, I am going to be at THIS concert for sure and getting my picture taken with Santa! ABSOLUTELY!
My mom asked me a few months ago, having watched a documentary about the late John Denver on PBS, if I would maybe “go in” with my siblings and buy her a John Denver CD for Christmas. She didn’t want to tax me too heavily, lovely woman that she is. <3
So, Dave made a CD of John Denver songs from his iTunes and I took it to her when I went to visit 2 weeks ago. She was so surprised. She barely remembered the documentary, if at all, and certainly didn’t recall asking for a CD, but she was happy to have it.
My visit this time has a musical soundtrack. And it is the sound of John Denver music drifting from her corner room, from a little CD player she can no longer remember how to work on her own, even though my sister painted “play” in large white letters.
My sweetest mamala is suffering dementia, being treated for Alzheimer’s Disease. And the changes are so gradual if you’re in the room with her, that they’re much less perceptible. But I am not there, so when I visit, changes are glaring, and I lose my breath for a moment when I see another part of her gone. My dad always asks me what I see as different because he is “in the room,” day and night, night and day.
When I visited 2 months ago in August, during our family reunion, she kept asking me what words were on a stitched pillow her best friend had sent to her. “Friendship,” I’d tell her. She’d look intently at it and then say, “Oh right, there is the ‘i.’ Oh, and that’s ‘f’.” Then she’d say, “Friendship.”
15 minutes later, she’d pick the pillow up and ask me again. Everyday I was there, several times.
I asked my dad, “When did she begin to lose reading?” He was so surprised, he had been wondering why she wasn’t reading her Bible each morning like she always has. Reading is not totally lost to her yet. But it mostly is. She still keeps her Bible and her beloved dictionary close by at all times, but they are rarely opened. Sometimes she has to really focus her gaze for a long time to make out what the newspaper article is about. And if the article is continued in another column, or heaven forbid, on another page, she thinks they somehow just quit writing and finds it foolish for them to have done that.
This time, my most recent visit, she couldn’t sing Mairzy Doats, a beloved song from her childhood, with me anymore. Wherever it is she is going, down whatever hall dementia is taking her, that song doesn’t make sense and those aren’t real words so she cannot remember them at all. And she has no desire to recall them. My mom sang that to me my whole life. Then she sang it to my children. She and I sang it to some of my grandchildren. She always thought it was so funny and delightful, singing those tricky words that were really other words. But now it’s just “nonsense” to her, which it really always was, I guess. But still.
My main goal, when we are together now, is to laugh with her. Laughter is so good for the bones.
So she wanted to listen to John Denver’s soothing beautiful music. She particularly loves Rocky Mountain High and Sunshine on My Shoulders. And the song all our family legends are made of was on repeat one day, Back Home Again. She had to call to play it and sing it for her best friend in Tennessee. She mostly hummed, unable to recall words she has always loved. And she’d comment to her friend when a line of the song said something sweet, like, “…the light in your eyes that makes me warm,” She’d say, “That reminds me of you, Ronnie!” It was sweetness.
But all week, Whenever the song, “Leaving on a Jet Plane” began, she’d come and hug me and say, “Oh, I don’t want you to go…how many more days do I have?” And I’d usual just say, “I’m here for a whole week,” even as the week was moving along. Because it would put her at ease and she’d say, “Oh, good.”
Then we’d giggle and sing along with John Denver, mom mostly humming and inserting comments.
All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go. I’m standing here outside your door*
“Oh no, Jeanie. Here let me help you un-pack your bags!”
I hate to wake you up to say good-bye.*
“Don’t wake me up for that!”
‘Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again*
“You better get back here again quick!”
That is so true, mamala. I know you won’t see this blog (computer navigation was one of the first things to go), but we’ll laugh about this in heaven…
A couple of days before I had to leave, three of us were sitting on the love seat singing together, my mom, my little sister, and me. It was hard finding songs my mom could recall the words and following lyrics on the computer was’t working either. I went to a karaoke site and pulled up “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” We started singing away, getting that tight 3-part harmony from heaven found among family members alone.
But as we came to the words, “So kiss me and smile for me, tell me that you’ll wait for me,” I had to look away and I couldn’t sing. A catch in my throat and the tears began, because I heard her singing the words, but I knew, she won’t be waiting for me. She is going to keep walking this path and each time I see her, there’ll be a little less of her there.
I have heard Alzheimer’s called The Long Goodbye. And so it seems it must be. My sorrow at watching her have to endure not just the memory loss, but the confusion, the frustration, and the growing inabilities to do what she loves is compounded by living over a thousand miles away. Knowing my time with her will be so limited by the miles between us, I will take every possible second of this long goodbye to hold in my heart.
Every chance I get, I will go to her and bless her and praise her for the woman she is and hug her tiny self as long as she wants (and she loves long hugs). I’ll massage her shoulders and brush her hair and stroke her face and let her curl up on my lap like she is my little girl. There is so little I can do, but I’ll hold on as long as she needs me to….
Hold me like you’ll never let me go*
“Give her everything she deserves! Festoon her life with praises!” Proverbs 31.31 The Message
Learn more from The Alzheimer’s AssociationAlzheimer’s is the 6th leading cause of death and is not just about having a diminishing memory. As the disease progresses, a person with Alzheimer’s loses their ability to walk, to sit and eventually to swallow. Please pray for my sweet mamala, if you will. *Norma Jean*
Oh, it’s a long long while
From May to December
But the days grow short
When you reach September
I refused to loosen my grasp on summer, as if it would cause it to remain. And we have had an unusually warm and dry Autumn, temperatures soaring daily in bright sunshiny days regularly, so it has been easy to pretend.
Hunter catches and runs in the touchdown!
But the colorful-Colorado drive to the mountains a couple of weeks ago, yellow and orang-ish Aspen leaves tumbling and floating down the higher in elevation we got, the season changed for me. *snap* Just like that. I guess it really is fall.
When the autumn weather
Turns leaves to flame
One hasn’t got time
For the waiting game
On our way to the top. Near Allenspark.
Oh, the days dwindle down
To a precious few…
Our niece Lori”s place in Estes Park. She always has a room for us.
This Season
The days are shorter, the evenings are cooler. The grass is greener, enjoying the break from relentless summer heat. The garden has gone wild, producing madly, somehow knowing the end is in sight. Cool-season crops, planted in August’s warmth, are deliriously happy this year. Radishes, lettuce, kale and arugula can be seen dancing in the moonlight. With a little love and occasional cover, who knows? Maybe we’ll harvest for the Thanksgiving table? It doesn’t have to be the end {yet} of the gardening year. But it’s close.
I brought in a shopping bag full of tomatoes, zucchini and peppers three days ago…
September…November…
Guess what?
If I were a garden vegetable, I would be a tomato plant. Of course I would. Search this blog for the word, “tomato” and you’ll see why. The homegrown tomato is my all-time favorite, for no flavor like them can be purchased anywhere. They arrive all spring green and exciting on bushy-leafed plants and then become blood-red and juicier over time. Like we do.
Aging actually defines and colors who we are, what we bring to the proverbial table.
But the September and October tomato isn’t as flashy as the summer tomato. The fruit is smaller, even as the numbers increase. Nearing the end, the tomato creates a veritable flurry of flowers-to-fruit, propagating itself for posterity. It’s like it is saying, “I won’t be around forever, these days are getting awfully short and I’m losing sunlight, but I’ll make sure to leave you with plenty to enjoy and seed for the future.”
It isn’t about being maudlin or morose, but I know things now I didn’t know 20 years ago. I know “the days dwindle down.” I recall my irrepressible youth. I couldn’t see the end of the blue-sky, sunny-summer days ahead and even though we always heard “We’re never promised tomorrow,” being young also makes you certain tomorrow will always be there.
Like my annual tomato plants, we have a certain number of days, the seasons set and measurable with some variations. We have a limited supply of sunshine and rain. And then our days are gone. And we hope we will have produced life-giving, good fruit and plenty of it and have left extraordinary children and grandchildren to make the world better for the future.
I’m somewhere past the middle
Where am I now, September? October? I’m somewhere in the middle, over half my days are gone. I need to kick it into high gear, for goodness’ sake! :)
It has taken me the wisdom of the years I have lived to understand so many things and, wow, I have much left to learn. But so many seasons have come and gone and the people planted in my life’s garden to begin with are the ones still to tend, you know? Many wonderful friends and acquaintances pass by and we enjoy the love, the meals, but my people remain for me. Along the way, every possible distraction, possible (probable) offenses and seductive “once-in-a-lifetime” opportunities beckon. New things and flashy adventure present and they are wonderful, but the home garden is where the best nourishment remains even as, and especially as, the days grow shorter.
Over half my days are gone, but the ones that remain are bushel-baskets full of sage advice, wisdom, love (oh the love), nurture, insight into the future (I’m further along – I can see things ahead you may not yet have seen, my sweets); there’s discernment I can share and prophetic words I am anointed to speak and though the fruit on my vines is not the flashy, all-knowing fruit of my youth, I bear prolifically now, enough for my household and those who need refuge. Come one, come all…
So spend your days wisely, the endless supply you seem to have now. And feast on the days your most important people have to spend on you, receiving the grace of years humbly and gratefully.
And these few precious days
I’ll spend with you
These precious days
I’ll spend with you
“I don’t know why I have all these things,” she said. “I guess I just like to collect pretty things, anything at all that is pretty. I just like them.”
Mom is aging. Mom is losing memories to that dreaded disease {we can barely whisper it, dementia}, like the autumn tree loses leaves, softly, quietly ~ leaf begins its’ descent, down-down, a swirl and a sudden swoop upward, then, swept away in the wind, settling in a crevice on the earth’s floor.
And she has a drawer, or two…maybe 4 in which she has stored photographs and newspaper articles and pictures of puppies and magazine tear-outs of scroll-y art which she plans to glue to an envelope or piece of paper for writing lovely, loving letters to some one she cares about.
“I just wanna take pictures of the whole world.” -Norma Jean, my mamala. November 2013
Some of us wish to “help her clean” those drawers, to lighten her load by getting rid of things and scraps we are certain she doesn’t really need. I start to offer my help, I resist this urge. Because despite the diminishing certainty in her brain, and that facts and details are being swept out to a sea of forgetfulness (how very God-like, really, isn’t it?), these notes and papers and pictures and print-outs are all important to her, her tangible hold and her physical memory. She wants them, needs them, she desperately clings to the information they hold for her.
I resist my urge to purge on her behalf. Instead, I let her pull them out again to recount the story of why she loves each one and her plans for what she’ll do with them. “I’m going to make a book of cars for Hunter to read to Kai. And this is a cartoon I thought Ronnie May would find so funny. Oh – look, here is my pattern for those Christmas-card trees I’ve been wanting to make…”
I note something very new on this visit: I have a terrible time getting her to go for walks – this woman who has always loved outdoor activity and horseshoes and playing baseball and lassoing imaginary cattle. Fear is the cruelest part. She fears the walks on uneven surfaces because of the falls of the past year. But when finally I get her there, her most vibrant, youthful, excited self shows up to investigate the woods and explore the paths with utter abandon and childlike enthusiasm. She out corn-holed both dad and me, twice! And she’d have kept throwing those corn-filled bags if night hadn’t fallen fully.
For my mamala is losing pieces and snippets
{a few leaves flutter to the ground around us on our walk}.
She is missing moments and words are escaping her
{a breeze – then swirls of yellow leaves swish and swoop finally making their way to the ground}. There they go–
{the larger Elm and scarlet Maple leaves whisper as they pass us falling to the earth}
and simple tasks and skills slowly, slowly falling down. Leaves flutter toward our feet {gravity is winning} catching the late day sun and something
~{a memory, a knowing} ~
once so sure, falls with them.
Then in a sudden flash of exuberance, “Oh look at that leaf, will you?” she’ll ask, and she picks it up from the ground and with it comes a vibrant, razor-sharp recollection. And I’ll hear a story with detail-complete clarity and accuracy, but one I may never hear again – because she’ll remember it no more.
She sometimes knows with utter and complete understanding, and seconds later is completely unaware that it is so. And I have no desire to rush this process. For whatever she loves, I will love. Whatever brings joy to her heart, I will find joy in, through her eyes, Please help me with that, Lord. Help me not to rush these days and these “silly things” she collects with child-like delight. Oh God, help me hold her most valuable treasures for her, as she loses the strength to do so…
She makes me laugh, her sweetness.
An assortment of colorful leaves falls from her handbag as I help her search for her wallet. Because. They are pretty.
“That’s just me, I reckon. I collect pretty things.”
This morning, rising early, I saw her on her back deck which faces the eastern-sky, just as the sun was rising and flickering through the tree branches which have formed a black lace as they have started to bare. Beyond the expanse of grass, a wooded area where she daily enjoys the deer family as they graze, the sun began to emerge, finally exploding into bright light just above the trees. It is where she goes to watch and wait for the return of Christ each morning. I stood in the shadows, on this morning, and watched her worship, watched her raise her arms to welcome the day, to tell the Lord she looks for His return. Every part of her open, loving heart belongs to the One she longs for…
“The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come!’ And let the one who hears say, ‘Come!’ Let the one who is thirsty come; and let the one who wishes take the free gift of the water of life.” Revelation 22.17
True story: {she is this very second showing me her biggest, prettiest Maple leaf, making sure I know all the reasons it is as beautiful and special as she thinks it is}…and I look at gentle and animated, piercing-blue eyes with a halo of ever-whitening hair, and I say yes, so beautiful, mamala – deeply beautiful, for so she is.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus…my mama is looking for You. And that, she does not forget.
—————————————
NOTE 10.28.15::I just wrote about my recent trip to visit my mom and mentioned the dreaded “A” word for the first time (Alzheimer’s Disease) on this blog. You may read about it HERE
One of my most stunningly incredible life’s successes is that I had 5 babies. I brag on myself that I did pregnancy and delivery so well. I have proof: 5 gorgeous adults, ages 29-36 walking around the earth. :)
Maybe I wasn’t as good at it as I remember, but the end result turned out, anyway.
Labor is hard work!
My sweet niece is in labor today, a baby girl to arrive soon. She texted to let me know because I predicted today to be the day (I LOVE being right) and I texted her back: you were born for this…baby girl is coming today...adding pink bows and hearts and happy emoticons, like aunties do.
Then, I had to give a little advice, because I love to give advice. All women who have ever had a baby in the history of humankind like to give birthing advice, but I know mine is good because of previous evidence presented here! :)
I told her what I tell every mama who is heading into labor. Because labor is work. It is hard work! And as exciting as it starts out to be, somewhere in the middle, your uterine muscles contracting with strength that could knock you flat, when you’re tired and the centimeters are not reflecting what your body is doing to you – somewhere before the baby comes, almost every woman starts to doubt she can do this, she begins to wonder if she can’t just quit for today.
So, we breathe deep and slow. We moan so those vocal vibrations reverberate deep into our own bodies to relax them. And I tell all the mommies, all the young beauties about to give birth: you were born for this. You are the chosen one. Baby is almost here. Now – see the ocean. You’re on shore wading towards it, you have the strength to meet that wave that’s coming. Don’t wait – go meet it…
The waves grow larger and stronger.
The way I see it, there are three ways to deal the power of the sea heading your way while you’re in labor:
Run back toward land as fast as you can, screaming in fear.
Clench your teeth and fists and close your eyes and plant your feet firmly and let it hit you while you attempt to resist.
Or, and this is the best way, take a deep breath and meet that wave – go to it, go deep. Let the waters rise and cover you, but keep those hands and your heart wide open and tell the sea, I am here for my baby! And you’ll find the the wave has taken you out further towards your destination when it subsides. It’s true!
I have gotten to be in the room with a few mommies now as a doula (“a woman who serves”), experiencing the moment of birth, getting to pray laboring women through, encourage and cheer them on. And that is how we do it.
And it takes incredible bravery and so much strength, in spirit, soul and body. But a contraction starts to rise, and mommy breathes slow and deep (in through the nose, slowly-slowly out through the mouth) and into the ocean she goes. Those of us near a laboring woman can cheer her on, we can breathe along, and we can pour our courage in to her, but she faces this daunting task with a power she did not know she had, just mommy-to-be and the wild, holy waves of labor.
I often think of the birth experience and how it relates to the rest of life, for God had this amazing way of placing repetitions in creation, things that became signposts and touchstones for us.
And today, as I was thinking of sweet niece and this amazing day of adventure, one that will change her forever, a day she will never forget, I was thinking about the waves. Right now, they’re easier and she can handle them and still text her aunt. But soon, they’ll begin to almost overtake her and there will not be time for idle chatter. She’ll have to wade out and show her strength.
Life is hard, too, sometimes.
And I was thinking about things we face in life, less noticed – the things no one will throw you a fancy shower to celebrate (though you deserve it now, if ever!). But they are life-changing nonetheless. They are things that will change you at the core, and you’ll never be the same. Things happen. And they aren’t always what you would have chosen. And I have said, in the not too distant past, “I didn’t think I’d be here at this age. I don’t think I can do this…”
And quite honestly, I have run screaming the opposite direction, and stood bracing myself, fists clenched, eyes shut tight – trying to ignore and wait for certain things to pass. There are just things I absolutely do not feel like I can handle and I don’t want to handle and I am so afraid of the unknown sometimes. Am I up to the challenge? Pretty sure I’d like to wait awhile, thank-you very much.
Deep calls to deep at the [thundering] sound of Your waterfalls; All Your breakers and Your waves have rolled over me. Psalm 42.7 Amp.
But I was minding my own business thinking about the niece, when it hit me (is that You, Lord?) we can face whatever happens this same way. Birthing babies is proof. I can resist all day long or I can believe I was born to conquer this thing, whatever “this thing” is. I can, after all, do all things through Christ who strengthens me! See Philippians 4.13.
Let’s open our arms wide, throw our heads back in courage, take a deep breath and go meet those waves. We were born for this! We’ve got it, baby! All the new things are out there waiting for us to come and get them! And if we get knocked down a few times along the way, if the waves overcome us now and again, the One who promised never to leave us nor forsake us is right there, cheering us on, pouring His courage into us. Let’s birth some promise here!
Christiana-girl: your birth signaled the entrance of spring and new life to me so many years ago at a time of “beginning again” (Spring, your middle name). I am cheering you on from Denver today! xoxoxo
We walked the meadow behind the house. We walked it again and again, my mamala and I, this past week when I went to visit. The trees were barely turning and the assortment of wildflowers and weeds were thriving in the mild midwest autumn. Butterflies and moths darted flower to flower, a cow moo-ed just beyond the treeline.
“I think that cow is hungry,” my mom told me following each moo. She wants to feed all the hungry, like always.
Camera ever in hand, she took pictures of every possible thing out there, because, as she told me repeatedly, “Everything is just so beautiful! Do you see this? I’m telling you, it is just so beautiful!”
And I thought the neighbors might wonder why on earth she was snapping pictures of a weed gone to seed, or a whirligig on her back fence, or the clouds in the sky or a tree, then another and yet another, and sometimes a single leaf? A pretty rock? *snap* The neighbor’s barn? *snap* These purple flowers? *snap*snap* Oh, but wait…those purple flowers, too *snap!*
As if she heard my thought, she responded, “I know people might wonder why I am taking these pictures, but I just love life! I do! I love everything about it and God made everything beautiful! Everything is just so beautiful, I’m telling you!”
And in the time we’d walk and talk and sing and snap pictures, she’d tell me the same thing over and over. Everything is just so beautiful! Every-thing!
Because she really didn’t remember she had just told me…3 minutes before. And she wanted to make sure I would know.
My mom has dementia (most likely caused by Alzheimer’s Disease). I have wanted to write about it, but couldn’t because on occasion, though her computer skills were among the first of the losses, she might still have occasionally found her way to my blog. But no more. And each time I see her, I see less of her. So I am keen to hold on to what remains: her wisdom, her laughter, her zeal for nature and taking pictures. She still hugs me like there is no tomorrow (does she know?) and tells me I’m wonderful, my biggest cheerleader. She is losing dates and names and physical strength, but her creativity and love for beauty and her love for family remain intact. So far.
So each trip to see her, I look for the message she is still intent on writing on my heart (ever my mommy). This time it is this: No matter where you are and how unsatisfactory the circumstances might seem, look around, Jeanie. Open your eyes. See all God has done. Everything is just SO beautiful – you are surrounded by beauty.
I hope I get my mom’s loving, appreciative, grateful, beauty-seeing, clear-visioned eyes. I think she is trying to impart them to me.
This is Kai. Age two. We walked around the park and he blew dandelion dead-heads and a great future for the yellow flowers into the air, again and again.
We shall not discuss the merits (some might call them a bane) of the dandelion’s existence. I doubt one could argue the beauty of the yellowest yellow against green grass, nor dispute its’ place as the #1 child-to-mommy bouquet annually.
We just know that in its’ short life, it blooms pure yellow-happiness. Then dies. But the story isn’t over for the dandelion, oh no. The slightest breeze, a person shuffling by or an exuberant, puffing 2-year old can give the dried up ‘old dandee’ another chance. A lot of other chances, actually. The life is in the seed.
So don’t give up your day dream, as they say, even if it’s looking dead. Every possible chance for it to live again is in the shriveled, dried up grain of a plan, a hope, a heart’s wish. You never know who might come along and give you another chance, or even more. The life is in the seed. *poof!
Hot coffee and ice-cold watermelon. It’s what’s for breakfast. Although, this morning, it was actually a luscious peach from Colorado’s western slope. Oh. my. word! Mmmmm!
2.
Memory: The best summer meals I ever ate were as a kid at my Aunt Rosie’s house: grilled burgers, garden fresh tomatoes and corn on the cob, straight from her backyard. Watermelon for dessert. The tomatoes and the corn were all I really needed, though. Still.
3.
Garden Talks:: I approached the chorus of 6-foot sunflowers near the back line this morning, after a 2-week absence. I am quite sure they hadn’t heard I was home, as they had their gazes firmly fixed eastward, probably wondering where on earth I had gone. “I’m back,” I announced, “you may now heliotrope to your heart’s content.” Hopefully they won’t be all stand-offish and soon I’ll see their gaze coming my way. West, my sweets, west.
The pumpkins required a stern talking to, spreading out and covering the sage and butterfly plants as they were. They do require a great lot of space, to be sure, but they mustn’t just override their garden companions with no thought for the ‘morrow. They are safely tucked about now, room to spread and grandly producing round spheres for autumn pies.
Some tiny varmint is eating the white petunia petals and I don’t wonder why, scrumptious as they are, all frilly and pretty in the late summer sun. But still, this may require a squirt of cayenne pepper sauce to dissuade their voracious appetites.
Left to her own accord, the basil is attempting a one-woman show in glorious floral bloom. “Not yet,” I must insist. For once the flowers burst forth, the plant’s usefulness is limited. There is more pesto to be enjoyed, more hand-crafted pizzas to be flavored. She’ll get her stage soon enough.
Naturally, while I was gone, the thistles and goat-heads thought they could safely become one of my garden family, just tucking themselves in here and there. Not a chance, little outlaws. I am coming for you!
All the potted flowers and veggies are moaning a bit under the distress of timed waterings instead of being coddled and cooed over daily. The tomatoes, my garden’s royalty, are fruit-full, yet sort of droopy and whining laments. A little extra attention twice daily should have them perked up soon enough.
4.
Family reunion. 38 of us gathered in mid-America, or was it 39? The mamala and papasan, their children (we original 5 + spouses), most of our children’s children and some of theirs (the greats).
Come and gather around at the table
In the spirit of family and friends
And we’ll all join hands and remember this moment
‘Til the season comes ’round again
My great-niece-dog, Sadie
Family is so important to me. My family-of-origin is scattered across the nation. We’ve never all been living close together, not since the late 70s, before families of our own, careers and ministries…but the testament of our connection shows up semi-regularly.
Our very first Ross & Norma reunion was in 1995. My parents were celebrating their 38th anniversary that year (Dave and I, our 14th). In a few days, my parents will mark their 58th anniversary and my daughter Stephanie and her husband, Tristan, will be celebrating their 14th anniversary. Wha…?
Did that really just happen? Life, it speeds. No bumps can slow it down. You may quote me on that.
Let’s all try to smile for the picture
And we’ll hold it as long as we can
May it carry us through
Should we ever get lonely
‘Til the season comes ’round again
Indiana was filled with lightning bugs. And the cicada’s song, rock stars all, I tell you. And swooping bats (perhaps driven crazy by the loud singing?).
6.
The weather report:: The daily sun is hot in the bluest skies, but fading to gentle evenings, perfect temps and fire-y skies. Brilliant sunsets dazzle me. And remind me how quickly the days pass, making me a bit melancholy, too.
My mamala
But sunrises fill me with hope, every morning. There is an undeniable mercy in the gift of a new day. The early mornings have become downright cool now, requiring sleeves. The relentless sizzle of mid-summer when I left in late July is transitioning to something new, a season shift. It’s good, but it came so quickly. I am always tentative about change and concerning summer? I “never can say goodbye.”
7.
Summer songs. There is something about songs that remind you of summer, the ones you sang in younger days with the windows down after a DQ ice cream cone or a Dr. Pepper and McDonald’s fries.
“Summer Breeze,” Margaritaville” (a Moslander-reunion fav even though the bunch of us are tee-totalers); “Summer Loving” from “Grease,” “Indian Reservation” and “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” “Close to You” by the Carpenters! “Annie’s Song,” by the incredible Mr. John Denver and “Kung Foo Fighting,” because I had brothers. A weird mix, to be sure, but some of these just showed up during the summers of our youth and never leave our hearts. It is always about the song to me. Always.
Hope your summer is sweet.
As the blog header says, “Summer should get a speeding ticket.” It’s like getting bangs. You can work for-ever trying to grow long hair, but the minute you get bangs, they just grow right on out in like, a week!
Summer is like the bangs of a hairdo. We wait for a looooong time for it to arrive and then, BAM! Over.
I am quite aware of the sounds that find their way in to my house through my open doors and windows. In fact, truth be told, I can get a little annoyed that I am not living on a remote piece of land, unbothered by auditory clutter. But I just sometimes forget that some of me drifts out, too, to passersby.
“If your neighbor has wind chimes, you have wind chimes.” On my cousin’s FB timeline
These perfect, wide-open-window days and nights I hear things like:
The whistler. He lives across and down, a retired man, a gardener. His yard might be considered over-planted and a little too fussy with its’ stone deer and owls and whirligigs, but he provides us all with a dazzlingly array of flowers in shocking oranges and hot pinks only broken up by the perfectly coiffed green grass. His yard is tiny compared to ours, but he walks it, he tends it, he improves it and enjoys it. And he whistles, non-stop. He whistles from sun up to sun down. You are never unaware of his time outdoors, because. Whistling.
The doggies. I guess because I don’t have one now, I am more aware of the neighbor’s dogs. One comes outside and announces his presence. Down a few houses, another answers that he, too, is outside. Across the way a couple of pups excitedly get in on the conversation. Soon, from many directions, the dogs, in almost a chorus, yelp and bark and woof away for just a little while, catching up on the events of the day. Then, just as quickly as it started, it dies down. But they’ll gab over fences again soon, several times a day, without fail.
The birds are just delightful. I have a yard the birds love. At first light this morning, I pulled the curtains open to watch some blackbirds and robins searching for seeds in the cool morning grass. Some walk, some hop (**boing-boing-boing**).
A couple of stealthy squirrels were ambling down the neighbor’s roof-line, trying to wage a secret attack and eat whatever the birds had found first, but when they tried to shimmy down branches on a very young, supple tree, they fell 3 feet to the ground, ker-plunk! They were found out. The birds chirped some “I-don’t-think-so’s” their direction and went back to their search. Said squirrels scampered away.
I see the bunny, “Peter-Cottontale,” I call him. He first appeared the evening Sandy died, mourning with us. He munches on grass and co-exists with us. Every evening, as the sun is setting, I know he’ll be right there, just outside my window saying, “Yes, I miss Sandy, too.”
Through the open window, I hear the early birdsong and the all-day bird chatter. I hear a fly try to get through the screen, buzzzz-smack. Foiled. I hear the car horns toot, girls driving by a popular boy’s house across the street. Sirens in the offing. Conversations between neighbors are carried on the breeze. Children are playing on the sidewalks, lots of laughter, an occasional crying bout. Every morning a young dad and his two girls bicycle past, always talking excitedly, having genuine conversations. Then they come back on their way home, planning their day, enjoying each other. The mailman, heavy-footed stomping up, then down the stairs, talks loudly on his cellphone on my front porch. And passing cars with their windows rolled down “share” their music.
And what drifts out? I hope goodwill. I hope they aren’t annoyed that I sing all. the. time. I hope if they hear the song, they start singing, too. And I hope they don’t think badly of me for setting off the fire alarm several days in a row. I do hope they enjoy the wonderful smells coming from my kitchen. An open window is a two-way relationship. It’s good to remember this.
Is it sacrilegious to question this?
You know how everyone always says, “When God closes a door He opens a window?” It’s usually to try to placate us when something hasn’t worked out like we thought it would or when times are hard. But I’m not a fan of it. I think God knows I have a bad knee and climbing through a window would be risky. Plus, He doesn’t seem to be the type running around closing doors and locking them on people. He said Come, knock, the door will be opened to you. Not Ha-gotcha! Go find a little window to jump through! I mean, I might do that. But not God. Pretty sure.
I’ll just try the back door, thank-you very much. Or maybe just remember to knock and wait for Him to open it.
I did climb through a window once, though.
I did. I climbed out a window to go see a boy. I was 16 and *gloriously stupid.* I told my sister to leave the window cracked. I’d know my parents had discovered my absence if it was closed when I returned and I’d have to come in the front door and it wouldn’t be pretty. So, I went. I saw him and it was uneventful and certainly not worth the risk.
I came back and the window was closed tight. Closed! Dread, panic, doom, gloom…I felt nauseated, a rush of blood to my head, the tingle of hyperventilating stinging my face in chaotic patterns (having just run a mile home in the dark; see “*gloriously stupid*” above), scared-stiff! I pondered my options. Heart pounding, I tapped very lightly on the window, once, then twice, again…finally, my little sister got up, groggily, and opened the window. “Do mom and dad know I left?” I asked anxiously.
“No,” she whispered, “I just got cold.”
O-m-gee!!! I couldn’t be mad because she was keeping my secret, but geez! Even now, at fifty-something, I hope my dad doesn’t see this blog post!
A scripture about an open window, but not the one you’re thinking:
“We met on Sunday to worship and celebrate the Master’s Supper. Paul addressed the congregation. Our plan was to leave first thing in the morning, but Paul talked on, way past midnight. We were meeting in a well-lighted upper room. A young man named Eutychus was sitting in an open window. As Paul went on and on, Eutychus fell sound asleep and toppled out the third-story window. When they picked him up, he was dead.” – Acts 20.7-9
I know you were expecting the tithing scripture from Malachi 3 about not robbing God and then He will open the windows of heaven. But I thought this story from Acts was fun and different. Ends well, btw. Go. Read!
Open your windows! I suggest:
Let in the sweet spring air and the bright, lingering light. Hear the neighbor’s mowers and dogs and children. Speak a blessing out those same windows, let what drifts through your windows out to the world be good and godly, life-giving and love-filled. Think of the possibilities!
