What's your word?

My drive to church is usually meditative- my radio doesn't work well in these boonies with their undulating roads. The stretches of prairie break up the evergreens and the there's almost always sunshine. It's a good time to think.

This day I was thinking about my word for 2016- a word or a concept to chew over all year long. I've tried to do this for many years now. Sometimes I slack off or just forget and I'm sure I miss the lessons and growth intended for me.  But I usually return over and over to that word.

I don't know how the choice happens but there must be divine Love involved. If my word is worship, I'd find a new artist that blessed my socks off.  If it's discipline, I heard messages, found books- all year I'm challenged.  If I'm paying attention, I see new truths or beauty.



This year my word is Faithful.

Well, what does Faithful look like for me?  First, I need to Focus- prioritize my time, recognize distractions.  

And I need to be Fit- I can't be focused and faithful if I'm distracted by my health.  I'm keenly aware that both my brother and my father had heart attacks in their early sixties and my physiology is more like my dad than my mother.  Well, of course I can be faithful in any health circumstances, but if it's up to me, I'd rather focus on preventative health.  So this year it's not one, but three words.

No rules here,  just intention.  And sharing that intention with others, keeping myself accountable.

In 2016, I'm challenging myself to blog at least once a week

 on Faithful, Focused and Fit. 

As I was thinking about my word, I caught a glimpse of this view in my rear view mirror. 

The scene was completely different, a new angle of light on the hills.  

Sometimes our word for the year is cause to look back or look around- 

to be open to the unexpected. 

How about you?  Is it helpful to focus on a specific word for an extended period of time? Have you considered this discipline?

What word comes to mind?  What's your reaction? Joy or sorrow, anticipation or dread?


Words have power to create life- as in Genesis.  And our words can create life within us and life for our neighbor.  So chose a word that brings you life, stirs up anticipation, creates joy.


Then share it with someone.  I'd love to hear your word.  Tell your sister or spouse. Ask someone to pick a word is so you can share this journey with them in a more intentional way.

No nagging, just loving.  Focusing on moving forward, becoming more faithful.

My Christmas without Expectations

This was a dark fall. The sun would set at 430.  I’d eat something.  And then for two hours, if I didn’t read with an throbbing eye, I’d stare at the walls or into the flickering fire. I was isolated, cold and slipping fast.   I started a new and nasty medication.  So for a few weeks, I added constant yawning followed by waves of nausea to my irrational thoughts and bouts of crying.  Thanksgiving was a reprieve thanks to a sisterly rescue. And afterward I visited one of the adorables for a refreshing week.

But I was still nervous going into Christmas.  Would I cry in front of my children? Would I want to retreat and escape the chaos of the three adorables and four other beloved children? What if Christmas wasn’t perfect?  For the first time in my four years at the cabin, my family would be together for the holiday.

If it wasn’t perfect, if I wasn’t perfect.... they might not want to come back.  They might reject my quiet life. They might reject me.

This is my mind without sunshine.  Even on medication.  Even with the assurances of my children that they will decorate, they will cook, they will.... help.

I hate needing help.

I did a modicum of my usual frantic preparation. I thought about meals; I didn’t make a food flow chart.  Or shop for food. Thank heavens for Amazon or there wouldn't have been many gifts either.   I hauled up a few boxes I haven’t looked at since I left our family home on the East Coast.  My blessed sister brought me three small trees and a cool piece of greenery to stick on the mantel. I added a few Fontanini pieces. Had to have the Holy Family. 

 I added a few more.   

And hid the Baby Jesus. All of them. 

 I stuck some cheesy Christmas clings onto the front door window.  And hung art from son #2, created in 1987

It began to feel more like Christmas, in all the good ways.

My daughter came first, with two of the adorables. And they were.  They ran to me yelling, “Bebe!” Their hugs were sweet and laughter contagious. My daughter looked around at the dirty house and said, “Wow, I thought you weren’t going to decorate. It looks great.” 

Oh, uhh, thanks. 

We did pull out the big Christmas tree and stuck it on the porch outside the great room window (as there was no room in the inn), piled logs on its base to keep it from blowing away in a strong wind and plugged it in. The adorables jumped on the couch and squealed with delight.  

Oh, that’s all it takes?

A son showed up and we shopped for food. Another son came and everyone cooked and played games and it snowed. The three adorables flew down my barely sloped yard on cardboard boxes and plastic sleds and shrieked with laughter.  

Hmm, that was simple.

 

We even moved into a bigger house when the third family arrived.  More chaos as the adorables met four new kids and established pecking order.  More games, more sledding, more fun drinks and lots of wonderful food.  The mother of four new adorables commented on what great traditions we had.  

“We do?”

 “Sure, you play games- obviously a lot of games and you don’t just cook, you present wonderful meals and make special drinks.”  

Why yes, we do. We are a family and we do enjoy being together.

 

My children and friends didn’t resent caring for me. They didn’t miss the all the decorations or preplanned meals.  They commented how they appreciate our low-key gift exchange.  They told me without words how their father's and my parenting was successful as they lovingly parented their own children, even if their ways are different.

We laughed, we took photos, we shared meals, we napped and bundled up the adorables for yet another foray into the snow. The men hiked the hills and the women walked and talked through crunchy snow on a local trail.  People tried on borrowed cross-country skis and snowshoes.  

It was Christmas at its finest.

And I hadn’t expected it.

At some point in my haze and sadness leading up to that magic time,

I had laid down my expectations.

 Mostly my expectations of myself.  That I would be energetic all the time. I would want to play complicated strategic games when I could hardly remember the day of the week.  I would be totally prepared for any contingency- fresh nutmeg (found today as I cleaned out a kitchen cabinet) or head cold remedies. 

Part of my angst is knowing I live ten miles from a limited grocery store, but part is just my desire to have life so perfect here, they’ll return for another Christmas. Perhaps my need for validation of my choice to live here. 

But returning to the cabin is their choice.  My choice is to be kind and gentle and compassionate to them when they are here but also, possibly more importantly, to be kind and gentle and compassionate to myself.  To listen to the adults and the adorables, and to listen, as well, to my own need to retreat or to call for help, to be ok when I have to rely on others.  It’s easier to extend my family to include another; I must also extend and expose myself- and risk rejection in both attempts.

Christmas is the ultimate picture of community; the choice to be vulnerable and include others in your pain, in your joy, in your family- and yes, to risk rejection. 

The Babe in the manger didn’t come to live a perfect life alone in a cave.  He didn’t come to revel in His own divine family. He didn’t come to avoid pain.  It doesn’t appear He had paralyzing expectations of other people or Himself.  And He certainly didn’t avoid rejection. 

Instead He came to create meaning from our pain because He trusted His own would be redeemed.   He came to invite us into His Love family and to enlarge own understanding of what family means. He calls us to risk the relationships and possibly rejection involved in community.  

And He gently called me to lay down my expectations of what a perfect Christmas looked like.  In return, He gave me joy and peace, laughter and sweet kisses, gifts received with appreciation and given in love, help offered with understanding and compassion. 

 He gave me more than I could have expected.

Dancing in the Airport

Thanksgiving is a terrible time to travel, especially by plane. But we do what we must to enjoy family so never say never. My sister, niece and I flew to Austin to be with the here niece. My return flight was two hours after theirs  so we all got to the airport about 4pm. Then "maintainence issues" and weather took over. 

Turns out, if you must be stranded in an airport, Austin-Bergstrom is an excellent choice. People are friendly- I lost count of the announcement for items people left behind at security or even on the plane they just arrived on. The foods not bad- kinda pricey but decent choices. The TVs had a terrific Bronco's football game on. 

But the best was the music. Austin has a huge music industry.  So what better place to introduce the world to the Austin music scene than to rock out the airport?  Great music. And as my United light was delayed later and later, the place emptied. So I just danced up and down the QUIET, empty spaces. Gotta do something between touchdowns. 

I have no clue who this is. Any ideas?

So thanks, United, I guess.  Flight finally departed at 11pm. Delayed landing at Denver -

 "Heck why not bump back that flight, they're already late." So landed at 1am, 

my knightress in shining armor picked me up and we got home to my niece's about 2am. 

Just out dancing all night. 

Pinpoints of light in the dark

       I've battled/ experienced/ suffered/ overcome...whatever we call it, had depression.  For years. As a friend said, "Depression becomes a dance partner that never wants to stop."  It's exhausting. 

     I take drugs. Antidepressants, to be specific.  It took me a long time to accept that I need drugs. And the decision, forced by doctors wiser than I was, probably saved my life.  

Depression for me was a long, slow slide starting with mild childhood winter moods. Then a postpartum  depression which didn't quite go away before some seasonal blues added to the chemical rut in my brain.  A rut that with each season or trauma, or the next postpartum episode added to the years in a location with overcast winters- each small depression added to that rut, that grove that got deeper and deeper in my brain.  The normal brain chemicals weren't able to fill in that gap and eventually my brain ceased working well enough to keep my emotional equalibrium.  I wasn't admitted to the psych unit because I lied on my initial evaluation. I said I didn't have a suicide plan. I did. 

     I'm so grateful for the intervention and the following years of medication adjustments and counseling. Vitamins and supplements aided in improving my sleep and helped my physical health.  When my husband died, the lessons from depression  gave me tools to grieve in a healthy way. I learned to sit quietly and be content with my God.  Writing opened my heart to my thoughts and emotions and gave me a new community.  

So I thought I had most of the lessons behind me. Until this fall. This month. Suddenly all my self-knowledge and intellectual understanding failed me. Again.  The details of the last few weeks still embarrass me.  I've added a new drug, I cancelled Thanksgiving at my house- who knew that was possible. And I'm going south for some sunshine and fun with my sister and her daughters.  And I wouldn't have done any of that if she hadn't stepped in and insisted I stop the crazies and do what I needed to do. For me. 

     That's tough. For many of us. We are caretakers, pillars of the church,  civic volunteers, mothers and daughters.  We don't bail on major holidays, not cook the turkey. Fortunately no one is flying in or I suspect I would be cooking. But my family has been supportive- perhaps, not totally understanding but I don't understand this ambush from my brain either.  

So the irony of my recent blogs with lofty words of seeing beauty and finding jpy in the small things  has not been lost on me.  Right now I see through a fog of numb and fatigue.  But I stand by my own advice and will continue to look, even when that looking is through duller eyes. 

      And here are a few of my small, beautiful things this week.

The window to my world


Followed by favorite things on the window sill.

 Or on the counter, catching the sun's rays.

I love these winter pillows- I just love textiles in general. Beauty you can touch.  Months ago I wandered into a fiber show- I don't knit or crochet but these soft balls inspire my creativity just by being in my space.

Then a glimpse into a bath.  This warm room gave me a needed jolt of homey beauty this week. "I love that space," I told myself.  Good self talk.

So my blessings on your week of preparation for our national holy day of gratitude. Feel free to buy a cooked turkey at your local grocery.  Run away, if only for a walk in sunshine before the pie.  Be kind to yourself.  Turns out the world doesn't end if you do. 

And watch for the surprises of small beauty. 

First snow, gentle reminder

Last week I woke to sunlight sparkling on hoar frost.  I love hoar frost. When I was a little girl in Alaska we rode the bus to school. There was a magic season- it must have been January or February, when the sun was out and the snow was fresh.  Any earlier in the winer we roadto school in pitch dark, morning and afternoon.  Great beginnings for me,  a woman with seasonal affect disorder.

But on those magical mornings when the sun shone and the moisture content was just right and the planets all lined up, the hoar frost would outline each branch, each fence post, each wire.  Delicate white crystals poised for a moment in perfect rest.  I would press my nose against the cold bus window and inhale the beauty of the wonder before my eyes.  Early morning sunbeams sparkled, soon their heat would melt the fairyland but for now, the bitter cold kept all in pure suspension.

For this small girl who struggled with the weight of winter, hoar frost outside the bus window was a gift— lifting me and bearing me through the long, dark season.

Now I'm a grown-up. Today I hurried to collect books for our prayer time and library videos for return and mail to be deposited and the computer for some time with high speed access.... as I hurried into yet another full day, I stopped for a moment. I paused as water pauses in that brief solid state of frost.

Like the lovely crystals that sparkled across my yard, I won't last forever. I will someday feel the sun's rays one last time and be changed.  Hoar frost melts into the earth- earth to earth, dust to dust.  But there is also the changing from glory to glory, "But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit."

Someday I'll be fully human and fully glorious but for now I am merely in the process. But while I'm here, I want to behold with an open face...the glory of the Lord.  The glory of the hoar frost on the golden grass, the first dusting of snow on a porch rail cap.  An old ore cart, from a mine where men descended into dark to dig gold ore from the heart of the earth, transformed into beauty with the glory of the first snow laid gently on its weather beaten surface.



Some days I feel life-beaten, rushed and too busy even in my quiet retirement life. It's my nature to rush from one good thing to another.  On this golden morning, my spirit paused, poised for those moments of wonder.  I pressed my nose against the window of my memories and once again, reveled in beauty.



Pause with me. Notice the light. Look for the beauty.  Breathe deep.

Neither the hoar frost nor the life on this sphere,
last forever.

Beauty in the small beans of life

I'm writing a book. There I said it.  Not sure why some days but whenever I give my 30 second elevator speech (which changes every time I say it), the woman stops and stares at me, "Write that book. I'll read that."

But it's not a fun book. I should write romance novels or humor- I loved Erma Bombeck. That was a woman who could put a humorous spin on every day life or make you weep with her spot-on wisdom.  I'm not Erma.  I'm writing about childhood trauma and fear. I'm writing poetry that sucks life out of me. I'm digging into my own lifelong fears.  This is fun, folks.

And I'm sharing all this with a wonderful group of supportive writers who meet in Sundance, Wyoming.  We actually figured out this week that none of us actually live IN Sundance but one has a Sundance address since it's the closest town to her ranch.  I drive over an hour if the winter hasn't closed the back gravel road, otherwise it's over two.  I'm the one who brings the gut wrenching stories and shares the panic attacks.  Like I said, fun fluffy stuff.

But it needs to be written, if only for me.  So I write on.  But I also need to balance this dark writing with some lighter pieces.  I want to notice beauty on a regular basis, not just when I run off to a fun city like Seattle.  Today it was beans.

Red kidney, speckled pinto, white navy beans for contrast.  A tumble of earthen goodness.




My clever sister-in-law introduced me to hot bean therapy.  I dumped three bags of different size beans in a big bowl and microwaved the whole thing.
Then I sat on my porch in the sunshine and dug my hands into the hot beans.   

Once again, I'm  making wreaths for a local fundraiser and my hands ache.  I have a helper who clips all the greens, I just design and clamp the sections onto a wire base.  The clamp is foot operated- this is a classy act and the wreaths are beautiful.  But last year I did my own clipping and  made five in one day.... and my thumb joint has never been the same. Physical and occupational therapy has helped, as does a thumb joint brace but so do hot beans.



Plus I have to just sit, in the sunshine. Quiet and still. Messing with beans.  It was lovely. So were the beans.

 They roll and slip in my fingers. Bumpy but smooth at the same time, I dig deep and wiggle my hands under their warmth.  I rub my hands and hot beans slide between my fingers.  I feel their different sizes and shapes- longer and short, thin and plump. I hold my hands still and search with fingertips for the pockets of heat.  I'm a child playing in pebbles by the beach.

I close my eyes and feel the sun on my eyelids, the light bright through the skin. The rumor is for snow tonight but this morning the sun is bright in a brilliant blue sky. I sit in a light sweater, a small breeze plays with my hair. I hear its murmur in the pines. My hands are warmed, the stiff joints soothed.

Beans are today's small beautiful thing.

Seeing in Seattle

Sunday I walked in the Wedgewood neighborhood of Seattle. Soft gray mist hung low and last night's rain had color- saturated the fall leaves, highlighted a hundred textures and freshly spritzed the season's flowers. It smelled of moss and lavender. 

What a crazy beautiful city. Love the architecture, love the greens.  I reveled in the beauty I saw. 

The beauty I see.

Yes, I SEE.

I came to Seattle to consult with an eye specialist, to find out if there was anything else to be done to improve my vision. He gave some valuable information but also confirmed my previous diagnosis. My retina was badly torn and the extensive scar tissue was likely unavoidable. It's within my visual field. The macula was torn off, without oxygen too long and may or may not heal any further. So my visual acuity may be what it is.  

But today, I realized — I see...

I see dew drenched flowers. 

And leaf strewn walks. 

I see the texture of plump succulents and the promise of next years strawberries. 

 

I have vision for the big picture, the distant vista. It's the close-up that throws me off. 

I take a photo and assume something is in focus, load it on my computer and enlarge it to choose which  image matches what I saw.  I read of a man with such limited vision, he does this and much more just to see his children's faces.                          Perspective, it's all your perspective. 

Mine's a clunky process but it works. And I delete a lot of photos, keeping life simpler...

Sometimes I get too close, too myopic and even my own finger gets in my way.  

Nothing's in focus.

I can get too close, too introspective in my mind as well.  I'll worry a thought like an old dog worries a bone. Pick at a perceived flaw and unravel myself. Fail to step back and see the bigger picture. 

I came here in a search for visual acuity.  

                   Instead I've been reminded of vision. 

                                  And I wouldn't trade one for the other.  

Thanks, Seattle.