Attitude & Perspective in Allegory

One ought, everyday at least, to hear a little song, 
read a good poem, see a fine picture 
and if it were possible,

to speak a few reasonable words.

~ Goethe

She said she thought it was her own secret weapon, revealed to her more than two decades ago. A smile danced across her face as she asked how in the world I, a stranger, knew her secret! She didn’t think anyone else knew about it.

I’m a checker in a local convenience store. As usual on a Tuesday afternoon, business slowed down to a trickle. There were no customers in the store, so when the woman walked in I looked up long enough to catch her eye—we nodded and smiled, then she went on her way, eventually walking down two of our three aisles.

She walked up to the register with four items in her arms—a gallon of milk, some kitchen cleanser, a package of cookies and a can of peaches.

The woman’s smile was broad and bright as we exchanged pleasantries. I asked her how her day was going and she replied “It's a good day!” I told her that’s just how I felt that day, and in fact, I said I begin each day by saying, “‘…this is a really good day.’ Not, it might be, not it will be, but it IS, in the here and now.”

The startled look on the woman’s face stopped me right then and there. She put the last item on the counter and as she looked up at me again I saw tears in her eyes.

I indicated the cashier’s stool near the end of my station and invited her to sit down.

She assured me the tears in her eyes were not from sadness—though I had the distinct impression life had dealt her some painful blows. She very lightly touched upon the fact that in her younger days she unwittingly developed the habit of putting energy and thought into what she saw as her life's problems—problems inside herself, and problems with others became magnified, grew out of control.  

Two decades ago one single instance completely changed her attitude; changed how she views life's vagaries.

On that particular day she awoke feeling surprisingly peaceful. Without even realizing it, the words, “this is a good day” ran through her mind. And, lo and behold! It was a good day, from beginning to end. Issues from the days or weeks before, which seemed to present insurmountable problems, simply smoothed themselves out.  

Those are the words which have helped her live the last 20 years of her life with abiding joy. Every morning, through all these years, she repeats five or six times what she calls her mantra, her meditation and her affirmation: “This IS a good day!”

Throughout the day she often dwells on how grateful she is for her mostly good health, the roof over her head and the people in her life who care about her. She assured me she is no Pollyanna; she knows the world is full of strife and pain. Her way is to find the good and focus on that; she tries to set a good example and not only believes in the ripple effect, she has seen it at work.

She chuckled a bit, saying she “experiments” once in a while and thinks to herself: “this sure is a lousy day,” although after an hour or two when everything imaginable seems to go awry, she reneges and replaces the negative thought with a positive one. 

I finished ringing up her purchases and put them in the cloth bag she brought with her.

We continued to talk for a few more minutes. I told her I had been using my secret phrase since the time eight years ago when I made the decision to turn my life around. 

She didn’t pry but continued to look at me with calm and patient understanding. She made it very easy for me to tell her, albeit briefly, about my recovery from drug and alcohol addiction, about my search for inner peace and my re-connection with my wife and children. It's not always easy for a guy to open up this way. I ended by telling her, “Today and all of my days since then, continue to be very good days! I guess it's true: thinking makes it so.”

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

~ Plato

The swinging door of the store opened just then and a man of about 45 walked through. There were grease stains on his khaki work uniform, his steel-toe boots were scuffed and dusty—the man appeared tired and worn down by life.

As he passed the cash register, obviously on his way to the beer cooler, he glanced at the woman on the stool. She nodded and smiled very slightly at the man and as she did, it seemed some burden lifted from his shoulders; his eyes brightened and a slight smile played on his whisker-stubbled, dirt-smudged face.

The woman turned back to me and with the same sweet smile lighting her eyes, she bade me good day.

Did I forget to say she was about 80 years of age and walked with an obviously painful gait? Oh, and did I tell you she timidly, almost apologetically, offered food stamps to pay for her purchases?

The woman in the tattered jacket and soiled old sneakers had the most serene, kind, open and honest face I’ve ever seen. She literally glowed with love, understanding and compassion. Pass it on and remember:

The richest person is not the one who has the most

but the one who needs the least.

~anon

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Perseverance

A recent  obituary in our local paper told of the life and death of one Happy Hieronimus who was born in 1930 and died of "terminal old age." Right away, the name "Happy Hieronimus" intrigued me, and as I read her obituary it became clear her name fit her personality. Quite a lady!

It was the phrase "terminal old age" that set my mind turning and churning. Of course, we're all "terminal." But, we don't think of our life that way, do we? 

David Eagleman, a neuroscientist and writer at Baylor College of Medicine, where he directs the Laboratory for Perception and Action and the Initiative on Neuroscience and Law, was quoted as follows:

“One of the seats of emotion and memory in the brain is the amygdala. When something threatens your life, this area seems to kick into overdrive, recording every last detail of the experience. 

The more detailed the memory, the longer the moment seems to last. This explains why we think that time speeds up when we grow older, why childhood summers seem to go on forever, while old age slips by while we’re dozing. 

The more familiar the world becomes, the less information your brain writes down, and the more quickly time seems to pass.”

On a conscious level I don't think of "something [threatening my] life," but I certainly know I am not going to live forever. 

This assessment of Eagleman's answered several questions my friends and I (all around the same age) have often asked ourselves and each other. Well, maybe not "several questions" answered--maybe it simply explains the one we wonder about constantly: where has the time gone?? 

Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.

Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance.

Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence.

Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance.

~ Yoko Ono

Read it Write Hear (redux)

Below are a few gems from my ongoing collection of oddly parsed or punctuated phrases.

How in the world do misleading headlines such as this, below, become approved for print???


Sen. Sherrod Brown is battling opioid abuse and fights for coal miner healthcare
The headline wrongly implies Sherrod Brown has an opioid abuse problem of his own.

Why do (some) people write/say, "Happy BELATED birthday"? The birthday didn't happen late, their greeting did!

More and more often I'm reading and hearing "that" when referring to humans. I know language shifts and changes with the times, but really, humans are "who," as in, "The man WHO rode the bicycle..."  

Merle Haggard dies on 79th Birthday of Pneumonia

Well, who knew "pneumonia" had a birthday? Well, why not? My bologna has a name!

[Designer] commented on the hideous bridesmaid's dress.

Really not nice to make a derogatory comment about the looks of the bridesmaid.

[She] took on the case of a young man who, due to neurological damage, spoke sentences backwards in order to test new technology.

Yes, I know what was meant. But the sentence implies the young man spoke the way he did so that the technology could be tested!

This is a shot of a humpback whale captured on the Columbia River. 

Seriously, the whale was captured on the Columbia River? Wow! Poor whale.

Some birds, like this wild American Whiskey Symbol, lay their eggs ... . 

I immediately checked my bird book for a bird named, "American Whiskey Symbol," or "Whiskey Symbol." Nope, no such. Hmmm. Oh, the speaker is referring to the wild turkey pictured on a brand of American whiskey. Ah-ha. 

He vandalized the car while he was driving with a knife.

Okay, he was driving with a knife. But, how did he vandalize the car?

The Smith's [insert any name] invite you to their ...

The Smith's what? Their dog, their cat, their grandma? Apostrophe overload again!

Authorities are investigating a man's death after a Nebraska farmer found his body in a barrel ...

That is a true "out of body" experience.

Oregon State Patrol officials said ... they responded to a report of illegal livestock being killed and butchered. 

Those darned "illegal livestock." Will they never learn?

...Latvian-manufactured drug popular for fighting heart disease in former Soviet countries.

Don't you wonder why it only fights "heart disease in former Soviet countries"?

Ranchers drove cows and pigs to the slaughterhouse on horseback.

Now that's a funny mental picture: cows and pigs on horseback! Awww, Smithsonian. 

He is married to his wife, ...

Well, I should hope so!

[more to come ... and yes, correct &/or question me any time! I love this stuff!]

Driving Ms. Crazy

Son, they say there isn’t any royalty in this country,

but do you want me to tell you how to be king of the United States? 

Just fall through the hole in a privy and come out smelling like a rose.

~Kurt Vonnegut

Our American political climate has deteriorated so thoroughly that global warnings from prominent, well-respected sources are daily occurrences. Of course, I have some ideas about why the flames of hatred have risen so high, about the reasons so many Americans fear unknown, unnamed others and, rather than seek comity, choose to overcome their sense of futility and ineptness by brandishing firearms and spewing hatred.

I found it easy to be engaged in the news surrounding the first few months of the three-ring circus leading up to the “choice” people from the two major parties.

Lately I feel as though I have to protect myself, my mind, my being, from becoming exactly what I’ve worked so hard for so many years to NOT become: cynical, suspicious and angry.

In order to deflect, I’m drawing more into myself—becoming more introspective—while also surrounding myself with what I love and whom I love. I can never be the “Pollyanna” person I always felt my mother personified, but I also can never be the gloom and doom character my father often presented to his family. 

Years ago, I convinced myself I could embody the better characteristics of both parents: it’s often helpful to look on the bright side of life and it’s definitely a bonus when one has the ability to temper that with a bit of skepticism.

I look outside and see semi-white clouds and rays of sunshine glinting off golden and russet autumn leaves. The beauty of fall—but there’s rain in the forecast.

So, as I “drive” along this particular highway filled with crazy political potholes, I know there's always the chance I'll be side-swiped or caught unaware. I'll likely stay a bit to the left, closer to the middle of the road.  

All of us who are concerned for peace 

and triumph of reason and justice

must be keenly aware how small an influence 

reason and honest good will exert 

upon events in the political field. 

~Albert Einstein

[graphic Wikimedia Commons]

         

         

       

Earthy Endeavors - Persistent Passion

Twenty-five years ago, my husband and I moved to a home situated on 1/4-acre of unkempt land. When I attempted to fashion some flowerbeds that first spring, I discovered the soil was mostly hard-packed clay. Clay soil has many nutrients but it's almost impossible to get plants to grow--at least the plants I wanted to grow. It becomes slippery when it's wet and packs hard as cement when it dries out.  I decided to begin "composting in place," which meant digging our kitchen garbage (including coffee grounds and filters) directly into the ground. About twice a week I would take a full one-gallon can to the would-be-garden areas, shovel and pick-ax down a foot or so, dump in the veggie scraps and coffee grounds and firmly tamp dirt over the soon-to-be-compost.  The next spring, having done this composting for almost a year, I discovered the two large areas that received the compost material now contained loamy, fertile planting soil! Oh the joy! Off to the plant nursery I went! And so it continued for the next 10 years. Composting in place over and over and over again (and yes, visiting the plant nurseries over and over again!). Trees, flowers, vegetable garden (and I) all thrived.  As the plants grew and I reconnected more and more with the earth, as I worked in the gardens I came to love so much, I began to dwell on life cycles and the ways in which we humans impact nature (most often to its detriment and, in turn, to ours).  It was during this time that I began to think long, deep thoughts about my own life cycle. I felt certain my demise was a few decades away, however, during the previous two decades three beloved family members had died and, according to their wishes, were cremated.  I hadn't done any research about the cremation process. At that time, it simply seemed a valid and sensible way to dispose of a lifeless body; and the idea that loved ones could scatter the ashes in meaningful places (as we did) seemed touching and comforting.  However, as the years rolled by and the plot of land that had once been so sterile and weed-choked, bloomed, blossomed and burgeoned, I decided that when I died I wanted to be buried on that land. I knew, from research, that that is legal but one has to receive the approval of the contiguous homeowners (yes, I understand why, but won't go into that detail here!).  The marriage didn't bloom and grow as profusely as the flowers and in 2001 I left that home and husband and all the beauty both once held for me. What did not leave me, as macabre as it may seem, was the thought of being "composted in place" when I die.  During the following 12 years of apartment living I always had at least a dozen pots on the deck, all overflowing with flowers (and even, in some cases, small trees!). However, I could not compost in place and, difficult as it was for me to do, I put kitchen scraps down the disposal.  Luckily, fortunately, blessedly, for the past three years I've lived in a home with a small front and back gardening area. This property, even though on a smaller scale, had exactly the same uncared-for grounds as the former home: patches of weeds and clay soil.  It's taken some sweat and toil on the part of this eight-decades-old person, some willing labor from my sons and daughters-in-law, many trips to the nursery and, yes, three years of composting in place, but the front and back yards are finally becoming the mini-showplaces I envisioned. Now, back to the idea of being interred in the soil and among the flowers of my home.  In a poem by Patty Tana, titled "Post Humus," she speaks of scattering her ashes in her beloved garden and of red, ripe tomatoes (my favorite!). I've loved the glee and lilt of Tana's piece of prose ever since I discovered it several years ago. I've taken the liberty of replacing her name with mine in the copy, below:  POST HUMUS Scatter my ashes in my garden so I can be near my loves. Say a few honest words, sing a gentle song, join hands in a circle of flesh. Please tell some stories about me making you laugh. I love to make you laugh. When I've had time to settle and green gathers into buds, remember I love blossoms bursting in spring. As the season ripens remember my persistent passion. And if you come in my garden on an August afternoon, pluck a bright red globe, let juice run down your chin and the seeds stick to your cheek. When I'm dead I want folks to smile and say, "That Marlene, she sure is some tomato!" James Lendal Basford wrote in Seven Seventy Seven Sensations (1897), "We all feed from Mother Nature's breast until weaned by Death." I like the idea of giving back to Mother Nature.  In a 2011 TED Talk, designers Jae Rhim and Mike Ma spoke of "The Infinity Burial Suit" that turns dead bodies into clean compost. These suits are now being sold and the more I read about it, the  more certain I am that I want to be on the A-list for one! I may not "land" in my own garden, but wherever it is, if I'm composting naturally, I'll be giving back to Mother Nature.  While I thought that I was learning how to live, I was learning how to die.  ~Leonardo DaVinci Note in the last paragraph "The Infinity Burial Suit" and information about clean compost are both linked for in depth reading.

A Suitcase of Pride

Maybe it's not "'pride" that makes me feel embarrassed and a bit sad when I see photos of myself ... my true self ... nowadays. There's the sagging jawline, the wrinkled face and no-longer-taut, trim arms. They are the photos I didn't know were being taken and so, I didn't "pose" for the shots. I'm not fooling anybody, I know that. I also know those who love and care for me likely don't notice all the flaws. 

I've always been hyper-critical of myself. Maybe what I often feel these days is a deep sadness for what was; for the young girl (and even the older woman) who received so many compliments on her looks and her carriage (and yet, never, ever believed them! When I see some of the old photos, I fall into the eyes looking back at me and wish, deeply wish, I could go back and honor that lovely, and most often lost, younger woman).

What brought on this latest bit of musing? A dear, sweet young woman took some snapshots of me and posted them on Facebook. It wasn't really me she intended to showcase, of course, but the year-and-a-half old child in my arms. My great-granddaughter. That one, she was the focus. In the thoughtful process of creating a memory, my granddaughter-in-law inadvertently slammed home to me just how much I have aged and there's no denying it. 

There's no haircut, makeup or clothing that will assuage or cover up the effects of aging. Go ahead, some who are reading this: tell me I'm being too harsh on myself; tell me you don't feel there's any reason to accept being "old." You know what? Why not? Why the hell not? 

Every woman who finally figured out her worth, has picked up her suitcases of pride and boarded a flight to freedom, which landed in the valley of change.

~Shannon L. Alder

There's freedom in this acceptance, in living in this "valley of change," but I doubt I will ever completely empty my suitcase of pride. I know my mind won't stop exploring and delighting in discovery and I will continue to honor my still vibrant intellectual abilities. My family and friends will always and ever be considered my highest, most-loved treasures. 

As Sophia Loren said, "There is a fountain of youth. It is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love. ... learn to tap into this source ... ."