Om Delivery

A five-year-old girl, living with her family at a homeless shelter, was approached by a well-meaning adult who leaned down and lovingly commented to her, “I’m so sorry you don’t have a home.” The little girl said, “Oh we have a home, we just don’t have a house to put it in.”  

Somewhere along the line, in her short five years on earth, that little girl learned how to acknowledge the good in her life while also accepting that things weren’t exactly perfect.

PBS recently began a rebroadcast of the 3-part documentary, “This Emotional Life.” The segments are thought-provoking with quite a few insightful comments and observations regarding ways one can search for and discover inner happiness.

Whether reading self-help books, going on retreats or to seminars, or doing some contemplative navel-gazing (to use one of my favorite words: a bit of omphaloskepis), as it seems Elizabeth Gilbert did in her book, Eat, Pray, Love, it’s important to keep searching for our own answers to personal happiness. It surely doesn’t come from “things” and we can’t expect others to supply it for us.  

In previous blog postings I’ve written of epiphanies regarding the ways in which my choices negatively impacted my younger life as well as some of the literally time-tested remedies I’ve been using for the past several decades—remedies which are, for me,  so simple yet so effective.

Okay, that’s the “mental” part, the part that’s not too difficult to employ once we use the tools we’ve learned in the search. Not too difficult until, for example, physical problems come to the fore.

When physical challenges present themselves—when days and weeks seem bloated with doctor appointments; when we tire from a schedule filled with dates for probings and x-rays; when this remedy or that prescription fails to alleviate the problem—it’s really tough to see a sunny side of life.

The meme in this regard seems to be along the lines of “buck up,” “look on the bright side,” “think and talk positive,” etc., etc.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s 100% okay to spend some time kvetching, griping and complaining. Not all the time, of course. That would strain the bonds and pollute the wells of love and compassion friends and family feel for us. Just enough so that those who care about us know we're experiencing some tough times.

Fortunately, I’m not dealing with any untoward health issues at the moment. However, in the past few months one or two dear friends have been in the throes of ongoing, undiagnosed physical pain.

The other day one of these friends said she was really very tired of having to put on a happy face and use the “proper” words when others ask her how she’s doing.

For what it’s worth, I gave her my firm approval to engage in a bit of “gripe and wallow” now and then. She’ll continue with her yoga and meditation exercises, she’ll continue the round after round of doctor visits and yes, she’ll continue to acknowledge all the gifts in her life. It’s just that she will give up the struggle it has been to keep that “stiff upper lip.” Let the healing begin!

Even though I firmly believe attitude has a great effect on the quality of an individual's life, I also think it's okay to allow ourselves, now and then, to muck about in a bit of “why me?” 

  

Books Can Do Things

Anyone who says they have only one life to live

must not know how to read a book.

~anon

Author Jonathan Franzen says, “…books can do things, socially useful things, that other media can’t … We are so distracted by and engulfed by the technologies we’ve created, and by the constant barrage of so-called information that comes our way that…more than ever to immerse yourself in an involving book seem socially useful… [there’s a] place of stillness that you have to go to in order to read.” 

Two months ago I decided to reread John Simon’s slender volume, Paradigms Lost: Reflections on Literacy and Lewis Thomas’ Et Cetera, Et Cetera: Notes of a Word-Watcher. Reference books about writing, word usage, grammar and punctuation take up a good deal of space on my bookshelves. Each time I open one of these books I learn a bit more about the craft of writing (a work in progress if there ever was one!).  

Next in line on the bookshelves are volumes about PNW history, biographies, creative non-fiction and books of poetry.

For the past month I’ve been wading through David McCullough’s 1983 tome, The Great Bridge—the story of the planning and building of the Brooklyn Bridge.

I’m fascinated by all kinds and types of bridges, admire McCullough’s writing and in awe of his thorough research.  The book is a true tour de force for him. However, because it is so filled with engineering and architectural data and so dense with social, familial and political back story, after only 10 to 15 pages I need to put the book aside and attempt to digest what I’ve read.  At this rate, I’ll finish the 562-page book in another month.

Much as I am enjoying the story, I know the majority of the details won’t be remembered. This isn’t a recent revelation and I wish it weren’t so true.  

Some of my friends (most of whom are voracious readers) are able to recall all manner of detail from books they have read. I have intense admiration for this type of mind.

I inhale books, absorb words like water through every pore of my body and revel in the mental pictures conjured up. I’m fully involved as I’m reading. However, when I’ve reached “The End,” only wisps of the story stay in my mind—until, that is, I am talking with someone else who has read the book (or knows something of the subject).

Comments on the plot, character or setting will often elicit small recollections and, as my mind releases fragments of book-memory, I feel comfortable adding something to the conversation. I just wish I remembered more!

Books can be a comfort, an escape, a tool, a resource, a delight—books can do things! So, I’ll finish my march across The Great Bridge, pick up another book at the end and I’ll begin to read once more—one book after another—because the bookshelves are vast and deep and I have pages to go before I sleep!*

*apologies to Robert Frost

 

Tarnished or Burnished?

Two months ago I had a fairly unpleasant incident with a friend of 35 years. I’m thankful we care enough about each other to have talked through our misunderstanding and come to a resolution—albeit a tearful one. We vowed to never let that sort of thing happen again.

However, I’ve wondered since then if our friendship has been tarnished.

Do we bob, weave and tiptoe around each other, wary of instigating another misunderstanding and therefore are not as open and honest as before? I hope this isn’t the case. However, I’m conscious of the fact I weigh my words much more than before. I am fearful of causing another kerfuffle yet I don’t want either of us to gloss over things that should be talked about.

Of course, it could be we simply burnished our long-lasting friendship. Possibly the melting of defenses after the exchange of angry words served to polish some rough edges we hadn’t realized were there.

Maybe there’s some new understanding between us now which casts a softer and more mellow light on the lovely friendship we’ve forged through these years. That’s my hope and I plan to talk this over with my friend as soon as possible. It’s important that our friendship not lose its luster.

Beautiful and rich is an old friendship,

Grateful to the touch as ancient ivory,

Smooth as aged wine, or sheen of tapestry

Where light has lingered, intimate and long.

Full of tears and warm is an old friendship

That asks no longer deeds of gallantry,

Or any deed at all—save that the friend shall be

Alive and breathing somewhere, like a song.

~ Eunice Tietjens 1889-1944

Animals: Veritable & Virtual

Horse sense is the thing a horse has 
which keeps it from betting on people.

~ W. C. Fields

I can’t honestly say I like horses very much. Oh, I enjoy looking at them and I appreciate their beauty and sleekness. However, I never want to care for one (or two) again. The two we owned were purchased for the kids. They enjoyed riding the horses but the day to day care was often haphazard. After three years, the boys sold the horses.

When counting, try not to mix chickens with blessings.

~Unknown

When our children were growing up, we had fresh eggs from eight cage-free laying hens. We also raised fryers. My mom and dad, living next door, took care of butchering the fryers. Our freezers were filled with all we could eat of that prime meat.

If I had the space, I would raise free-range chickens for their eggs. On a small piece of urban land there would be no rooster. However, on two or three acres there’d be a strutting head-of-the-hen-house rooster so I could always have farm fresh as well as fertilized eggs (go figure!).

If you’re short of trouble, take a goat.

~Finnish saying

The less-than-acre of land my brother and I grew up on was in a riverine part of the exurbs. Fertile, loamy alluvial soil produced bountiful crops of fruit and vegetables. Our parents raised chickens and owned four goats, April, May, June and Chloë. As soon as mom quit nursing us, my brother and I drank goat’s milk, not cow’s milk.

When my sons were young, we owned two goats. The first one, Rowan, was a just-weaned male given to me as a housewarming gift when we moved to a mini-farm. I guess he was too high class to eat the blackberries and weeds on the three acres— he sure had no problem at all munching on the flowers in my perennial gardens. After a year or so, we gave him to a local woman who said her pregnant goat needed the companionship of a neutered male (don’t we all?).

A year later, we adopted sweet, fully-grown Ms. Sylvia Goat. She loved to run, jump and play with my youngest son. She would even walk along with him on the roadway as he went to visit neighbors. Sylvia did have an issue with being “non-human” however. She really wanted to be with the family all the time.

One icy, bitter cold winter afternoon I heard what sounded like “Maaaa-maaaa, maaaa-maaa” coming from the back yard. I ran outside and just as I turned the corner of the house, I saw Sylvia paddling around in our above ground pool. Somehow she’d freed herself from her pen, climbed up on the wooden deck, slipped and fell through the cover over the 5’ deep pool.

Her cloven hooves were no help as she desperately tried to climb out. In the process of trying, she ripped much of the liner to shreds.

Fortunately my parents lived next door. Dad ran over to help me pull that wet, cold, frightened goat out of the water. Sylvia was none the worse for her escapades; however, we realized she needed more room to roam and more freedom than her daily romps with my son provided. A local family with other goats adopted Sylvia.

I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. 
Pigs treat us as equals.

~Winston Churchill

Over the years we raised three sets of pigs, two each time. Sonny and Cher were the first residents of the lean-to pied-à-terre built on the back side (downwind side) of our barn.

We’d heard all the stories about pigs favoring mud and wallowing in filth, about how noisy they could be. None of that dissuaded us. We loved the “end products” and my father offered to take care of their feedings when we were at work.

As much as one could read the mind of pigs, we figured out they really did appreciate clean bedding and good food. At least, we humans preferred to keep the pen clean and the food healthful, and the pigs didn’t seem to mind.

Those two pigs grew fat and healthy and the ham, bacon and pork chops from them proved to be worth our investment in time and money.

The next two were males: Barney and Fred. My dad did all of the feeding of these two and much of the “housekeeping” as both my husband and I were working full time. Dad, ever the frugal one, wasn’t feeding them as much as I felt necessary.

As with the first pair of pigs, when grocery shopping I stopped by the fresh food section to collect any fruit or vegetables heading to the discard bins. However, I went further with this second set:

My husband and I attended formal company banquets five or six times a year. In those days the banquet fare was usually steak, baked potato, a limp, gray-green vegetable and some nondescript dessert. At least half of the attendees left huge amounts of food on their plates. What a waste! My pigs would love this stuff!

One particular evening, dinner having been served and the speeches just beginning, I watched as the waitress moved up behind me, pushing her cart full of dirty dishes and assorted clumps of leftover food. As she leaned down to query me: “Are you finished, Ma’am?” I asked her, sotto voce, if there was any way I could collect all that discarded food for my pigs. “No problem, not at all. Sure, drive around the back when you leave and I’ll have it in garbage bags for you.”

Oh, I felt so very proud of myself! My partner grinned knowingly when I told him about my coup. And, in an hour or so, there we were, he in tux and I in cocktail dress, hoisting four 30-gallon garbage bags full of table scraps into the trunk of our car.

The next day before wheel-barrowing the bags down to the barn, I looked into one of them. To my dismay, almost every half-eaten potato or steak had a cigarette butt mashed into it (oh yes, did I forget to say? Those were the days when smoking was allowed—every place!).

Well, MY pigs were not going to be fed cigarettes! Dishpan in hand, hour upon hour, I took every single bit of those leftovers into the kitchen sink, sorted through the garbage, found and discarded all the butts. Fred and Barney were forever grateful, of course.

By the time my family and I were raising the third and last set of pigs (two males again, Andy and Bax), we felt we knew what we were getting into. The boys and their dad picked up the two little weaners as soon as they could be taken from their momma and all went as planned with the care and feeding.

The time came for Andy and Bax, full-grown, healthy and quite active, to be taken to the abattoir. By this time, my father had sold his slat-sided trailer. However, we now owned an old car with a hatchback and no back seat. This rig had served us well for hauling hay, straw and animal feed. We saw no reason it couldn’t be just as good as the trailer for taking these piggies to market.

Nyx at Nite

Over the years, I've known a number of people who enjoy studying theogony. Although I have a very limited knowledge of gods and goddesses, once in a while there’s a Greek (or Roman) goddess whose name just seems to fit as a poem title or, as in this case, a blog post.

Nyx is the Greek goddess who personifies night; she’s the daughter of Chaos. These two sure try to cause me a lot of grief! To clarify a bit: I’ve never been a sound sleeper or one who can sleep more than three or four hours a night.

For most people, when nighttime comes around, if their body’s circadian rhythm is working well, sleep follows. Not in my case. Nyx or not, Ms. Chaos seems to knock about in my cranium, keeping me awake.  

My mind is a jumble of thoughts and ideas, memories and questions, projects and possibilities. Most of the time, worry or anxiety is not an issue. Pain or physical discomfort of any kind is not an issue. I don’t fret and sigh while tossing and turning.

I’ve tried all the OTC remedies and herbal remedies. I've tried just about every time-honored bit of advice on how to get a good, long, solid night’s sleep.

I would never become a patient at a sleep clinic because there’s no way I could turn my brain away from acknowledgement of the attached wires and machines that are hooked up to monitor the subject.

I don’t fall asleep at my desk, nor do I feel groggy during the day. I do sometimes daydream of how wonderful it might feel to have slept solidly and soundly for more than a few hours at a time.

There was a time I chose to be concerned about my “lack” of long, deep sleep because studies seemed to show humans needed a certain amount in order to repair the body from the day’s mental and physical assaults and travails. Over the years I’ve concluded I do NOT need the sleep-science requisite 7 ½ to 8 hours of sleep a night.  

After reading a recent National Geographic article on sleep, it’s possible I finally have a bit of an answer for what I consider my poor memory for many details of past events, as well as the reason I find such enjoyment in discovering new words and derive so much satisfaction from reading and writing.

The studies posit the idea that people who receive mostly REM sleep do better at "pattern recognition" tasks, such as grammar and those who experience deep sleep are better at memorization.

So, I’ll grab at any sleep research straws that help me accept my sleeplessness as normal ... for me; seems much easier than grabbing a bunch of Zs!

Worth & Value

For What It's Worth #1

Even though we seldom realize it before adulthood, many of our parents’ more benign ways of moving through the world leave an impact on us.

Until this most recent musing, I would have said my mother’s daily routines and beliefs influenced me much more than those of my father.

It’s certain I inherited (or absorbed) my mom’s good housekeeping practices (although not the strict regimen),  her skill at organizing, her tenaciousness when there’s a job to be done and her usually sunny outlook.

While writing the 2009 memoir for my sons, I delved deep into my father’s psyche, outlook and mannerisms. In doing so I came across many more ways than I previously realized in which I mirror my father (in addition to the love of spirited debate and arcane knowledge).

My father was not a businessman … in career or in thought processes. He worked with engines, electricity and cables. He understood machinery, knew how to rewind and rebuild motors, manage recalcitrant and balky drive trains and coax old, worn-out elevators back to life.

Dad was the epitome of “honest to a fault.” For instance, when he was on call for customers’ after-hours machinery breakdowns he chose to charge his hours beginning with the time he arrived at the client’s business and he did not charge mileage. He could have—all the other repairmen did. He felt that practice simply wasn't right or fair to the customer.

The creases in his palms were permanently darkened from the oily grime he encountered every day as he worked to provide for our family of four.

When Dad arrived home in the evening he immediately went through the back door and down to the basement. He took a cleansing shower and changed into clean clothes. Up from the make-shift basement shower, refreshed and ready for the evening, he met Mom at the kitchen doorway, where they always exchanged a welcome home hug and kiss.

In some of his free time, Dad enjoyed checking out thrift stores and garage sales (although “garage sales,” per se, weren’t as common as now). He enjoyed finding small pieces of broken, non-working equipment which he tried to bring back to life or repurpose.

Once in a while he’d cart home some piece of furniture, dish or appliance for Mother’s approval. She seldom thought his finds were all that great. I remember Dad telling her the seller “… only wanted [this or that price], but I said that was way too low," which caused my mother further chagrin.

I recall more than a few times when my dad sold an item he no longer needed or things he owned more than enough of -- maybe a set of tires, or some firewood he’d cut from one of the many trees on our property, or that “too good to pass up” second-hand whatsis he bought for Mom. It never failed, when the prospective buyer came around, my father downplayed the value, and invariably reduced his already low asking price.

---

For What It’s Worth #2

When I see something I would truly enjoy having, something I maybe looked a long time to find, I’m often surprised to see the item isn’t as expensive as I would have thought. No, I don’t request that Target, Cost Plus or the local consignment store mark the price UP for me (with an income lower than “middle,” I usually don’t buy the item anyway). However, I have been known to offer a non-profit thrift store more money than asked for an item.

When selling (a piece of furniture, for instance), I often minimize the value and end up practically giving the item away—while profusely thanking the buyer.

I also tend to dismiss the intrinsic worth of my artistic talents in, for example, poetry, essay, or decorating. Over the years I’ve been hired to give advice on decor and gardening and I’ve been hired to help edit essays for submission and books of poetry for publication. In every instance, I demur when it comes to my fee. I essentially undersell myself.

I began working at 16-1/2 and have continued to work through the years. I’ve been employed by good companies and in friendly environments and always felt grateful for the jobs.

Never once in all this time have I asked any of my managers for a raise in salary. I’ve received bonuses, as well as salary increases, but not because I’ve verbally promoted myself. I simply do not know how to do that. I await the largess of my employer, hoping my performance warrants an increase.

Oh, yes: thanks to both my parents, I know how to clean up pretty darn good. 

There is no such thing as absolute value in this world.

You can only estimate what a thing is worth to you.

Charles Dudley Warner 1829-1900, American writer

Weaving Words

Words and their nuances have always intrigued me. An early interest in words and phrases is obvious in the following examples.

The arrival of my brother 2 ½ years after my birth gave me “big sister” status. My parents told me they named the baby “Warren.” When I heard that word, my mother said I vehemently commented “He not WORN, he NEW!” Mom and Dad helped me pronounce his name correctly and showed me the differing letters.

Several years later, at about eight years old, I discovered the word “warren” in the dictionary. Of course, I teased my little brother mercilessly about being a “rabbit hutch.”

The landscapes in the small rural community of my childhood were not yet scarred with innumerable billboards. For this reason when a billboard—actually an extra large, sturdy sign—was installed, it garnered more than passing attention. One of these signs advertised a local furniture store. It depicted a pelican balancing a cotton ball on its beak and the statement “A Little Down on a Big Bill.” I didn’t yet know the term “double entendre” but I did know I loved the dual meaning.

This passion for the taste of words and flavor of ideas has not abated throughout all the facets of my life; through marriages, births, raising children, work outside the home and all the mental and physical energies expended in those areas.

Love of words, their spelling and usage has been a lifelong passion of mine. This is not to imply that I know the etymologies of words or that I am always accurate in my usage. The simple fact is I am fascinated by words—their sounds, meanings, spelling, and quirks. The four dictionaries I have in various spots throughout my small home are testament to my interest. Of course, now that we have access to the various dictionary sites on the Internet, word-checking is a breeze.

A few years ago a person who definitely knows me well, gifted me with The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester. This is a book about the making of the Oxford English Dictionary. However, don’t for a moment discount the book as dry and boring reading.

The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson is also on my bookshelf and it, too, was a gift from a dear friend and a seeker of knowledge; another person who not only knows my unflagging enthusiasm for words and their etymology but also knows I have a quirky sense of humor. This Bryson book is a fun read.