Patience

Today I spent all day cooking, which I do not enjoy. I made bread and granola and soup and chicken and applesauce. It involved making several messes and took hours to get it all done and cleaned up. Normally I wouldn't have done all that. Normally I'd say, "I hate cooking and I'm not going to do it." 

However, today is January 3, and I'm still trying to live by my New Year's resolution, which is basically to try to be a better person. That involves doing things instead of just thinking about doing them. 

For instance, in order to try to help the whole family to be healthier, I bought so many vegetables last week. (A lot of them were marked down.) But then Ron & I decided to leave town for a few days and I left all that healthy produce behind, expecting it to be throw-away-able when we got back. 

No such luck. It was mostly salvageable by making a big pot of soup. The soup required a lot of prepping and seasoning, mainly because of so many bean sprouts! Then there were the dreaded "boneless skinless tasteless" chicken breasts, as my dad used to call them. Fortunately, Ron was frying sausage (doing his part for the health-kick) and I was able to pan fry them in the grease. 

I had to make oat-based bread and granola because I am such a genius at buying oats in bulk. Anyway, you get the picture. It was a productive day, even though I wasn't loving it.

Sometimes I have trouble praying, so this morning I was reading a prayer out of a book written to help people pray. The prayer was going along fine--I was in agreement with everything--until, the prayer asked for patience. A lot of people say, "Whatever you do, don't pray for patience!" 

So, I kind of cringed, even though I know it's kind of superstitious. But I continued praying, thinking, "Well, God's not really out to get me, and, it certainly makes sense that I could definitely benefit from having more patience... 

So, guess who had to keep reminding herself all day that I should be thankful that I'm well enough to cook, that we have food to eat, that I have a family to feed, that we have a warm house, that I have a dog to help me vacuum the floors, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera?

Day Two

 Once upon a time there was a little girl named Margaret.  Margaret was pretty much a normal kid, but she didn't know it. That was because she almost never told anybody what she was thinking, and she almost never asked them what they were thinking either.

She tried to navigate her way in the world by watching other people, and by listening all the time. She especially tried to listen when it was hard to understand what was being said. She thought she knew how to read between the lines, but in reality, she wasn't very good at it.

Sometimes when there was a group of people together, like at a party, or at a picnic, or at school, she felt like  she was just an observer. That she didn't really belong there, and wasn't entitled to join in the fun. She didn't know what to do in those situations, but she liked having people around just the same. She watched them all. She remembered their names and their faces and the feelings she had attached to each one.

Margaret didn't know that many people are shy--even some of her favorite people. She thought they were happy and carefree. She didn't know that they felt awkward too. She didn't know because she didn't ask. She didn't ask because it never occurred to her.

Happy Anniversary

 

Ron and I have been married 40 years now. At 30 years I wrote a blog entitled "10 Ways to Help a Marriage," so I just re-read, well, most of it. Disclaimer: Don't bother reading it.

I've heard people say that you should journal so later you can look back and see how far you've come. I rarely journal, but occasionally, usually at the end of my rope, I will. I've run across these old entries, from maybe 5 or 10 years previous, and the vast majority of the time it has been pretty excruciating. 

Because. Usually. I. Am. Still. Struggling. With. The. Very. Same. Stupid. Issues.

Primarily I have made little or absolutely no progress with whatever the thing is. Like stuffing my feelings with food, being a bossy and controlling shrew, being hyper- and/or hypocritical, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

And it's not because I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I know exactly how to avoid these pitfalls. But I don't. Basically because, deep down, I'm kind of a jerk. This may come as a shock to some, but I assure you it's accurate. I mean, I don't want to be a jerk, but then again, sometimes I do.

Don't worry, I'm getting to my point.

The surprising thing that happened to me fairly recently was that I ran across one of those old journal entries--"blah, blah, blah, I'm struggling with blah, blah, blah..." which I still struggle with. And this is what was different: 

I had compassion for my younger self.

I was like, "Yeah, it's okay, you're probably going to fight that one til you die. Don't beat yourself up too much. It's actually pretty common."

WHAT?? I was NICE to me!

So, I guess there could be, occasionally, a burst of progress, a glimmer of hope, or maybe we just get old and tired, I mean wiser. 

Anyway, I no longer have any advice about marriage. Other than, I thank God for my husband and the survival of our marriage against all odds.

Thumbs up

 I had a dream a little while ago that I accidentally cut off my right thumb.  It didn't hurt. It wasn't gross. I don't remember how I did it. But I was carrying around my cut off thumb, not too concerned about it. (You know how dreams are.) 

Eventually, however, I started thinking about it. How would I play piano? Hey, wait a minute--how would I do a lot of things?? I began to wonder where the nearest hospital was. Then I woke up. And I was upset. And thankful. I felt my thumb. Both of my thumbs, and my hands, and I was so happy they were there. And I was very grateful. But also scared. 

A person could accidentally cut off their thumb or do anything stupid or careless at any time. I began to worry about my son working at Subway. What if he wasn't careful? And this spiraled into various catastrophic scenarios. (You know how it is when you wake up at 4 a.m.)

But then I remembered. The Lord is my Shepherd, and I am His child. He watches over me, and my son, and everyone I love. And I was thankful, and I went back to sleep. And I am thankful. So very thankful. 

I used to look at my hands and say they're old and ugly. Not anymore. I love my hands! I am fearfully and wonderfully made! (Psalm 139:14)

Collage

I like collages.  No, I love them.  I can't help it, but every time when about to throw something away, I think it might be useful for something else—like a collage. I might like the pattern on a kleenex box, design on a cracker package, color of a tea bag wrapper, or the texture of orange bag netting. I hate throwing that stuff in the garbage. It actually hurts to do so.

I teach art to kids, which offers a reasonable excuse to save these things. I keep them for the culmination of the school year in my art class--the collage project. Some kids love it, some hate it, but it is my pièce de résistance as an art teacher. My heart and soul burn with passion for collage day.

Long before the date arrives, I am cultivating my collection of treasured bits of ribbon, foil, puzzle pieces, bottle caps, cardboard cartons, magazine pictures, scraps of colored paper, and whatever else emerges along the way. Precious items have been saved that had no other use--multiple extra copies of my Uncle Chris' hand-written music, greeting cards from loved ones...things I could not possibly throw in the trash. All this stuff is stored in a couple of huge plastic bins, the contents awaiting the glorious day like cast-offs on the Island of Misfit Toys.

When I got the job as art teacher, I inherited whatever stuff was in the art room. This included an old-fashioned recycling bin full of paper shopping bags. This seemingly endless supply of sturdy brown paper has become the classic backing for the kids' collages. Each bag is carefully cut, saving the bottoms and a couple inches on the sides, in order to use them as baskets to hold the collage bits for each student.

It is a continual process all year, cutting up and sorting the parts. On certain days I go into the school when nobody's there and make piles of all the different collage bits on the tables. I then take each basket around, filling it like a party favor bag. Everyone gets certain special things, but they're all different. Each student will receive their own surprise package of pieces for their collage. It's exciting.

But what's really exciting is the results. I absolutely love to see what the kids will come up with. My favorites are often funny. Sometimes they are profound. The best ones are usually courageous leaps of uninhibitedness, whether representational or completely random. However, some kids are just flabbergasted with the idea of so much freedom and don't know what to do. These are the kids I hope to reach next year.

Sandy

 

Sandy

 

If I could just see my baby girl 

trotting across the lawn,

tennis ball in her mouth,

brass tags jingling--

Pretty little white paws,

sad eyes so happy,

so glad to see me...

If I could just say to her again,

"You're the best baby

in the whole wide world--

and everybody knows it.

Everybody knows that

you're the sweetest little baby

in the whole wide world..."

If I could just smell her

(after a bath, of course,)

touch her little black toenails,

feel her soft warm ears--

fluff up her bed,

kiss her furry cheek,

and give her a cookie...

If I could just fly away

to wherever she is and 

stop feeling this way,

or at least tell her

I'm feeling this way--

She would put her paw on me,

and try to lick me.

Even though I know lots of

people who have it way worse, 

way way harder than this--

I'm still going to cry, because

she was the sweetest,

cutest, best baby 

in the whole wide world.

Linda

 

 

Whirling, whirling about in a multicolored paisley abyss,

Once again I have lost my bearings.  I need more time.

It is the seventies.  I am twelve.

Her sunlit face, long blonde hair sparkling in her happiness.

That must have been a good day, the day he took that picture.

Quite photogenic.  I didn't appreciate her beauty until now.

I just woke up.  It is 2023.

Why didn't I...?  But I found the letters.  I did try.  

It wasn't easy for either one of us. 

We both loved my dad.  We had that in common.

What invisible concrete block wall kept our hearts apart?

We weren't close.  I regret that very much, however,

Nothing can change that, not even the weird fantastic hopes and dreams

That never emerged from some unknown depths within me until now.