A Peaceful Spirit

I sit here quietly tonight, listening to the comforting sound of falling rain -- a rain that is washing away the uncomfortable heat and humidity of the last few days.  A cool breeze gently blows the lace curtains, and I think back over my busy Sunday to the peaceful moments that rested my tired spirit.  As I dressed this morning, my mind filled with a "to-do list", I walked past my library nook and was drawn to the sight of the bright morning sunshine filtering through my soft linen blouse which hung over the back of the chair.  How lovely it looked -- I grabbed my camera and captured the loveliness.

 

It amazes me how the most simple moments can bring such a feeling of peace.  I finished dressing and went downstairs to prepare a salad for an afternoon barbecue.  While the macaroni cooked and the eggs boiled, I diced an onion, brought chives, parsley and dill in from the garden and snipped them, and chopped the cooked shrimp.  My IPod was playing the country music I love so much, as I mixed everything together in a large bowl with mayonnaise.  I prepared a marinade for the steak and placed that into the fridge.  With a sense of relief -- a job well done -- I headed out to the garden to water the vegetable plants, feed the birds, and enjoy the serenity of my shady yard. 

 

 

 

As I walked out the door, my eyes were drawn to my newly blooming rosebushes along the fence.  Roses are favorites of mine, and the sight of these pink buds and blossoms, with their deep rose scent seemed like a reward for enduring the oppressive heat and humidity of the past week.  June always brings roses and peonies -- is it any wonder June has been immortalized by poets?  The birds were gathered at the feeder, hungrily devouring the few remaining seeds, as I headed out with their food.  On the way back from the feeder I stopped at my little pond to see if any frogs have taken up residence this year.

 

 

 

This pond is a peaceful little oasis of trickling water and graceful ferns.  This year in particular, the ferns are lush and full, providing a perfect blend of water and shelter for the birds, chipmunks and squirrels that drink from it each day.  How I love to sit near it and listen to the peaceful water and watch the chipmunks scamper in and out of the ferns.

 

I finished my work outside -- watering plants and filling my bird baths with fresh water.  Then I went back inside for a short rest before barbecue time.  A sense of peace lingered in my heart -- there is so much beauty surrounding us each day of our lives.  Sometimes this beauty is so quiet it gets lost in our tumultuous world -- we must search it out and savor it, because these little moments of beauty can be summoned again and again to bring us a measure of peace on our busiest and most stressful days.  A peaceful spirit is truly a gift --





The Need to Write

 

"Writers live twice.  They go along with their regular life, are as fast as anyone in the grocery store, crossing the street, getting dressed for work in the morning.  But, there's another part of them that...lives everything a second time.  That sits down and sees their life again and goes over it.  Looks at the texture and the details." -- Natalie Goldberg

 

I have the rare gift today of a full day to myself -- no grandchildren to tend, no husband at home, no commitments -- and I find myself torn between the garden and my blog.  And, here I am, at the computer, writing away part of this lovely morning, but it is something I MUST do.  I am a writer at heart; from early childhood I have realized this need to ponder the world around me and my own life, and somehow put my thoughts into words. 

A degree of solitude for quiet introspection is necessary to a writer, so my writing was done in "fits and starts" through the years of child-rearing and part-time work.  I have notebooks filled with sporadic entries as I wove bits of quiet time into my hectic life -- trying somehow to capture the pivotal moments as well as the ordinary days.

In the autumn of 2001, as I dealt with the devastating emotions of the September 11 attack in NYC and the death of my mother earlier in the year, I finally decided to buy a real journal and begin to regularly chronicle my life.  Little did I know how I would come to look forward to these daily journal entries, in the gentle quiet of midnight, or the peaceful solitude of sunrise.  Now twelve years of journals fill an old trunk in my bedroom.  How I love the feel of my pen slipping across the pages of these beautiful journals.  I cherish these moments when I can sift through the events and emotions of my day and somehow order them into words. 

In 2007, on a whim, I decided to create this blog, Ponderings and More.  My life is complicated and busy, as I care for my grandchildren during the day, so my blog entries are sporadic and less frequent than those of most bloggers.  I do so love the moments when time, emotion, thoughts, and words come together and I have this lovely little blog in which to write the words down.  I have come to realize -- much as the quote above illustrates -- that a writer does indeed live life twice.  Often, even as I participate in life events, my mind is already sifting through my thoughts and forming the words to hold these moments forever in time.  

A writer NEEDS to write.  Sometimes the words are coming together so quickly in my head that I desperately want to write them down, but it is the wrong place and the wrong time.  Often at these moments, my grandson will look at me and say, "Grammy are you daydreaming again?"   And I look into his face, bringing my thoughts back to the moment at hand, and say, "Yes, I'm daydreaming."   And, that is what writers do.  

How I love reading through my old blog posts and journal entries.  As we hurry through the days of our lives, we forget so much -- the little details get lost and only half-memories are summoned by a song or a smell.  My journals contain the details -- those details that spoke to me at the time -- and I can relive the memories.  I particularly love a journal I kept in the year when both of my sons were being married.  The bridal showers, the flowers, the rehearsal dinners, the weddings -- all the lovely details are captured there for me to savor at will.  I keep a journal for each of my grandchildren, and enjoy remembering them as they were; they are growing so fast and changing so rapidly.  As I look back through the pages I have written, I realize that this need to write is a vital force that provides an emotional outlet to the writer.  How fortunate we are to be able to perceive the precious moments of life and record them for ourselves and eternity.






  



Of Lilacs, Mothers' Day & Old Stone Walks

This day before Mothers' Day has been cloudy and showery; in the morning I watched my little grandson play soccer, then came home with the intention of weeding my gardens.  Instead, I puttered in the house -- dusting, doing laundry, running the vacuum -- and headed outside to cut some lilacs.  Nothing can compare to the beauty and scent of lilacs.  I love the sensual feeling of gathering them in my arms, their lovely perfume filling my heart with springtime, and the profusion of blossoms overwhelming my soul.  Choosing a vase, filling it with slightly warm water, preparing the stems, and finally immersing my armful of beauty in the chosen vessel is a peaceful pursuit.  Lilac season is short, so this pleasure is one we must hold closely while it lasts.

Lilacs and Mothers' Day go hand-in-hand in upstate New York.  For years I set the table for Mothers' Day dinner with a centerpiece of lilacs or tulips from the garden.  As I gathered my lilacs today, I reminisced about this celebration of motherhood.  My first memory is of buying earrings for my mother and grandmother at some type of sale at my elementary school -- how proud I was to be able to really surprise them with these gifts.  As I went through my mother's jewelry box after her death, I found these earrings tucked away -- a gentle reminder of her love for me. 

My next vivid memory is of the Mothers' Day when my son was six months old.  I had experienced difficulties getting pregnant, and then my first baby daughter was stillborn in 1974; the birth of my son in 1975 was the happiest day of my life, and the first Mothers' Day when I finally had my precious child in my arms was a day I looked forward to with a full heart.  However, that morning I woke to no card, no flowers, no "Happy Mothers' Day."  Apparently my husband didn't realize how much this day meant to me.  Later, as I walked outside with my son in my arms, my neighbor called over, "Happy Mothers' Day;" he never knew what a gift his greeting was to this disappointed new mother.

There have been many sad Mothers' Days since then -- the year after my grandmother died, and after my mother's death, and the more recent death of my mother-in-law.  We live through these sad days and move on.  This day for me is a reminder of the deep joy I have received in the process of mothering these precious children of mine, and now the joy of being a grandmother.  As we grow older, the holiday becomes bittersweet for us, as we balance missing our own mothers against the pure love we experience ourselves as mothers and grandmothers. 

Life itself becomes bittersweet as we age.  We sift through our memories and sometimes realize that the sad ones outnumber the happy ones.  We find our bodies beginning to disappoint us -- did our baby boomer generation really believe we would stay forever young?  Our minds begin to fail us occasionally, our energy lessens, and our joints begin to stiffen and ache  -- how can this be??  This wasn't supposed to happen to us.  How naive we were.

Twenty or so years ago, a friend gave me some leftover stones from a greenhouse he was building.  I decided to use them for a little garden path.  My husband dug out the path, and I laid the stones myself -- placing and moving them to achieve the haphazard pattern I desired, and then tucking them gently into the soil.  What a lovely path it was, and how much I have enjoyed it all these years.  In the past couple of years, though, the roots from the shady maple nearby began to push up on several of the stones, leaving the path uneven and rough -- much too uneven for my stiff old legs.  Last year I took quite a tumble as I tripped on one of the stones. 

Finally, last week, I tripped again and almost fell; with heavy heart, I decided that my lovely stone walk needed to be replaced with something more even and secure.  The day they were removing the stones, I went out early in the morning to take some final photos of my path.  I'm sure the new path will be beautiful, and will be designed to fit in with my unstructured landscape.  I will be happy with it, and much more sure-footed as I walk out each morning to feed my birds.  But, I am glad I have the photos, and I will treasure the memories of my old stone walk.

Life moves on -- some things are constant in our lives, as are the lilacs and Mothers' Day in May.  Others are more transient, and once gone, they are gone forever.  It is our choice whether we spend our days mourning our losses or savoring our blessings.  It means the difference between bitterness and contentment, and I definitely prefer to be content.

The Legacy We Leave

 

 

"A society is defined not only by what it creates, but by what it

refuses to destroy." -- John Sawhill

 

 

A stately old church in a small city nearby was demolished over the past few weeks to make way for a large grocery store.  Its story was a sad one -- the church had stood as a landmark in the city for many years.  Local groups fought to keep it standing, but appeals to the developer to save the church, and legal maneuvers to prevent its demolition all failed.  Once again, greed trumped respect for history and beauty, and now the City of Watervliet will have a mega-grocery store in its midst to bring profits to the developer and the grocery chain, and a lovely piece of its architecture has been destroyed in the process.

A recent article in our local newspaper, the TIMES UNION, brought back painful memories of the building of the Empire State Plaza in Albany during the 1960's and 1970's.  Then-governor Nelson Rockefeller envisioned a large government center of modern office buildings in downtown Albany.  To bring his vision to fruition, almost 100 acres of homes, shops and churches were razed through eminent domain.  Entire neighborhoods were displaced with no thought to the lives affected by this demolition of homes and history. 

My own church, St. Paul's Episcopal Church, was a casualty of this heartless demolition.  I loved our old church, with its beautiful old stained glass windows; I was baptized in the church and confirmed in the midst of the controversy over its possible destruction.  I remember our minister, Rev. Nelson Parke, speaking to the congregation of a suggestion he had made to keep the church intact.  His vision was of a peaceful little sanctuary in the midst of this governmental plaza -- our lovely old church, surrounded by a small area of grass and trees, with benches for state workers to sit on and relax during their lunch hours.  I thought this was a beautiful idea, and was devastated when Rev. Parke's suggestion was ignored and we were forced to build a new church elsewhere in the city.  Rev. Parke died unexpectedly of a heart attack during this time, and in my young mind, I always blamed his death on the stress from fighting against the demolition of our beloved church.

The Empire State Plaza has stood boldly now since the late 1970's -- its cold marble and modern architecture a stark contrast to the city from which it rises.  There are those who see great beauty in its gleaming facade, but I am not one of them.  The TIMES UNION article states, "for those who remember the thriving neighborhood that vanished, the Plaza is far from the bold statement of progress that boosters over the years have made it out to be."  A former resident of the neighborhood comments, "We look at that, and we see a cold, sterile environment that's really a monument to arrogance.  I think it was arrogant for a political leader to displace so many people, to uproot their lives to change their culture in the space of a few years, to destroy all the relationships that had been built up over half a century."  I agree.

And I am reminded of the above quote by John Sawhill.  It seems our society will be judged as one that is quick to destroy our environment, our architecture, and our history for the sake of greed and power.  Our legacy is a sad one indeed.

 

 

 

Rebirth All Around Us

As I hurried out to the bird feeders with seed yesterday morning, I was greeted with the faces of my beautiful crocuses blooming in the midst of the old leaf mulch from last fall.  It has been too snowy and wet to rake out the mulch from my gardens yet, but these hardy little crocuses didn't care.  It was time for them to bloom and they pushed their way through the autumn debris to the sunlight beckoning them upward. 

This rebirth in springtime is especially meaningful this year, because the crocuses bloomed the day after Easter Sunday, the celebration of the rebirth of Jesus. Easter has always been one of my favorite holidays.  When my children were little, I cherished our time together making Easter egg trees and placing stuffed bunnies and baskets around the house.  I remember the pleasure of filling baskets the night before Easter and sitting in church with my little ones in their Easter finery. 

 

This year my Easter weekend was a busy one.  On Friday night I gathered my children and grandchildren around the table for an early celebration, as they were leaving on a vacation Easter morning.  On Easter day, we had a quiet celebration for six loved ones late in the day.  Easter is such a joyful day -- giving us the gift of faith that no matter how badly our lives go off track, there is always redemption for us.  We, too, will be reborn.

 

With my grandchildren on vacation, I find myself with a lovely vacation, also.  There are so many things I want to do on these days when I am free from responsibility.  The days will pass so quickly, and I have so many plans.  At the top of my to-do list, though, is to work outside in the garden -- to gently rake out the leaf mulch from around all the perennials.  This takes time, and if the weather forecast is correct, it will be chilly as I work, but the work is soulful -- as I carefully remove the old leaves, I am always astonished at the tiny little green plants sprouting there.  How can they possibly be so green when they are hidden away from the sunshine and rooted in cold ground?  What a treasure they are -- what a perfect example of rebirth. 

 

On this April morning, the maple tree outside my window carries whispy buds, the daffodils and tulips are peeking through the ground, and the birds are singing before dawn each morning, scouting out nesting spots and courting mates.  Already my two birdhouses on the porch have been claimed by sparrows. 

 

How lovely to carry the assurance in our hearts that after the depths of winter comes the rebirth of spring -- not only in nature, but in our own lives.  A blessing on us all -- 

 

 

The Emotion of Gun Control

This abandoned old house held a family when I passed it on my bus ride home each day in elementary school.  As I took this photo the other day, my mind drifted back to my childhood in this rural community.  Guns were very much a part of our lives back then.  My father had an old rifle to shoot at the rats which frequented the chicken coop next door to our house,  My best friend's father was an avid hunter.  Most of the boys in my class at school were taught to hunt and given guns of their own as soon as they were old enough to use them safely.  They were a fact of life -- a rite of passage -- and the only gun deaths were unfortunate hunting accidents.

Our schools were safe.  Some of the boys in our class may have been a little wild, and fist fights often settled arguments, but none of us EVER worried about being shot to death in school.

Our world is very different now, and my opinions on guns have run the gamut since those early years when they were just part of the background of my everyday life.  As guns developed into the more vicious assault rifles we see today, I supported the banning of assault rifles.  As I reeled emotionally from the increasingly common mass shootings in schools and public places, I believed that increased regulations on the sale of guns in the form of strict background checks was necessary.

And yet, part of me questioned if guns were the problem at all.  I still remembered all those boys from my childhood who had guns, and I wondered.

After the horrendous school shooting in Connecticut in December, suddenly everyone was talking about strict gun control laws; our NYS Legislature passed a gun law seemingly overnight.  And, suddenly, the questions being raised loudly and angrily were those of gun owners worried about the loss of their Second Amendment rights.  While I feel the NRA and many of the nation's gun owners have gone beyond reason in their vitriolic rhetoric, I do feel that we walk a slippery slope when we begin passing laws without proper debate and thoughtful consideration. 

Another question arises with more stringent background checks -- we talk of required reporting of anyone with psychological issues which point to violent behavior.  Once again, while this might be a particularly worthwhile tool in the prevention of these violent shootings, aren't we possibly violating the civil rights of our citizens.  What about the Iraq veterans with PTSD -- will some of them be placed on this list because of the anger they struggle to deal with?  What about the troubled teen who goes for counseling and is forever labelled as a possible threat?  What is the best way to protect our citizens?

The larger question in my mind, though, is the lingering memory of those boys throughout the 19th and 20th centuries who had guns, and yet, did not turn them on each other or on society in general.  What is the key difference in our world today that causes our young people to commit these horrendous acts of violence?  What flaw in our society or in our parenting creates an anger so intense that it explodes into a killing rampage?

In our rush to solve the problem of gun violence, we must not focus on the long-time gun owners, or trample on the rights of average citizens to purchase guns.  We must put more time and effort into determining the causes of the mental state which allows a killer to coldly plan and implement the killing of innocents.  We should look into the music, movies and TV shows to which our children are exposed -- there are very few with any redeeming moral lessons.  We should examine the video games our children are playing, and their computer usage. We should make sure our schools provide psychological services beginning in early elementary school to any students who seem to be struggling with anger, neglect, poor performance, etc.  As parents, we must make the time to provide a strong family environment of love, discipline, moral responsibility, and compassion.

There is no easy answer to this dilemna, but we MUST make it a priority to find the root causes of this violence, and work to correct the problems.  Every minute we spend fighting over gun control is wasting precious time in prevention of the mental problems that drive our young people over the precipice, and endanger our society as never before.

Best Laid Plans

I am currently reading a lovely book, The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap, by Wendy Welch -- the story of a couple who opens a used bookstore in a small southern town.  This book speaks to me and to the dreams I once held in my heart.

Looking back, I realize I have always had an entrepreneural spirit.  Although my chosen path as I came of age in the 1960's was to be a full-time Mom, there were always precious dreams of the options open to me when my children were older.

As my best friend and I sat together in our living rooms in the 1970's, surrounded by little children and toys, we talked of opening a little downtown lunch place someday, serving our homemade soups and breads to busy State workers.  We both loved to cook, and this seemed like a wonderful business that would work well for us.  But, this was not to be.  She ended up as one of those busy State workers, herself, and I spent my days doing the administrative work for our family electrical construction business.  I still think of that dream as I simmer soup on the stove and lovingly ladle its warmth and flavor out to family and friends.

In the 1990's and very early 2000's, my dream was to open a small antique, gift or used-book shop when my daughter finished high school.  It was a prosperous time of nostalgia for the Victorian era -- shops such as these were numerous and successful.  I treasured this dream of mine -- picturing a shop in an old building with lots of character -- warm wood, coffee, tea, mulled cider for sipping, comfy chairs here and there, fresh flowers -- and personal attention to the needs of my customers.  A lovely dream. 

But, reality has been much different -- struggles in the mid-2000's to keep our failing construction business afloat, and the birth of my precious grandchildren.  Once these little ones were born, my dreams of a quaint shop were replaced with the strong desire to care for them while their mothers worked.   Since the first day I began this new chapter of my life in 2007, I have never regretted my decision.  I provide them with safety, security and unconditional love, and I am rewarded with hugs, kisses, and innocent trust.  I believe I am doing the most important work I could do.

However, there are days when I do miss the dream -- the little shop, the flowers, books, antiques, and the aroma of coffee.   As I read this book about the used bookstore, I am enchanted by the life the owners lead and the people who frequent their shop.  The dream is still vivid in my heart, but my best laid plans have been replaced by a calling much more important -- a change in plans I will never regret.