We're Fancy Now...

Boxes. I resist them. Why do humans like to categorize and pigeonhole themselves into comfortable packages? I'm an Artist. I'm a Realtor. I'm a Mom. I'm a whole pile of things, but I prefer the banner, "I'm a Woman of Great Contrasts." My Daddy always told us to be a tiger on the basketball court, but wear dresses on game day. Dig a ditch but play classical music on the piano. Help the dog birth her puppies but write a song. We're all a mix of beautiful, awful things and we should embrace all of it. On the other hand, maybe not.....

Like today. It is a challenge to have more than one official vocation. I truly am a working artist and a working Realtor, never the twain shall meet. I started out the day with a plan to have two closings, hurrah and hallelujah. Early on, one of them began to crumble and become delayed because of a mortgage issue. So I made another plan: work on my "quilt" (a painted quilt project we're doing for downtown Villa Rica) and caulk my new shower. Then I'd quit at a decent time for the next closing. So I threw off my fancy realtor duds, tossed on a paint shirt and shoes and started on my adventures. When it got to the shower part, I opened the caulk only to find out someone had opened it before me and used half of it. It came from the store that way. Elated. So Zoe the dog and I hoofed it on up to Home Depot (I love it because they let me take her inside!) I was in a hurry and sweating bullets from my first assignment, trying to get done before I had to get gussied up again for the next closing. As I grabbed a cart and headed into the building, I happened to look down at my poor, not-quite-Naired-legs. I realized a serious problem had occurred in my attire. First, I have to interrupt with this: I hate, I mean hate, Spanx. Whoever decided those things were wonderful needs to have their head examined. The only women who can wear those torture devices are women who don't actually need them. Because if you are a fluffy gal with acreage, you might just give yourself a hernia putting them on. This is too much information for, well, anybody, but whatever. I'm too far gone to care. Instead of Spanx I have been buying these awesome, sweat-wicking underwear at Walmart. They have nice long legs to them, they help with chafing and heat. They're kinda silky and work perfectly under dresses. Unfortunately, they only come in gun metal gray and camouflage. There's a reason for that. One evening, I took one of my precocious granddaughters to a public restroom and had to discreetly (I thought) go as well, while we were in there. She hollers out: "Yaya! You have on Papa's underwear!!!" It's really not Papa's underwear. I promise it's mine, even though I definitely did not buy it at Victoria's Secret. So today, yes today, when I looked down and found myself in Home Depot wearing a paint shirt and Papa's underwear masquerading as shorts, I was fairly thankful that I brought the dog. Although she might have drawn extra, unwanted attention to my predicament, here's hoping that people were looking at the dog, not her fascinating owner. 

Blame It On The Moon

The first time I heard the expression "Harvest Moon," I was in college. Some friends and I had driven out to a romantic cliff, where it appeared Noah's flood had carved out a canyon that meandered across the countryside. The blood-tinged, full moon rose out of the woods, coloring everything with a mysterious orange glow. It was so huge, I felt I could touch it. Someone who was with us mentioned that it was a harvest moon. I had seen such orbs before in my life, but didn't know there was a name for it. We gaped at the magnificence of it, until it waned orange, then saffron, then butter, to cream. No one wanted to move under its spell. So we didn't, until the night got nippy and we remembered that tomorrow was still going to happen.

I saw such a moon this weekend. We planned a trip up to see our new grandbaby, because although I had seen him twice, Papa had not been able to get up there yet. I worked too hard this week, starting by Wednesday to feel oddly fatigued and hot. I didn't pay attention until we were almost to Helen on Friday evening. My face was flushed, I had no energy and all my joints were aching. But that moon. We pulled up to our son's home and there it hung, not as much orange as rich yellow. The grands came out with us and stared at it. How come it's so big, Yaya? I don't know, and in a little while it went back to normal size. Magical moon, built for little kids and people who are looking for hope. Steady moon, decades and millennia of circling, soothing beams. 

Speaking of harvest, the next day we went to a small-town parade. It consisted of about 50 tractors of every conceivable size and make, as many horses, mule-driven carriages and wagons, four-wheelers, golf carts, proud cowboys and lots of thrown candy. Not a Corvette in sight. They circled up and back several times to the childrens' delight. The boots and jeans testified of the reality of their work. It was refreshing to see a glimpse of where we came from, still being proudly displayed. There was enough barbecue and sweet tea to feed a small nation. Welcome to Georgia.

Our trip was cut short. I was in a bad way come mid-day and all I wanted to do was curl up in a fetal position and die. We made our way home. I cried when it hit me that I was missing those babies and that our hours and hours of driving, renting a hotel, and sweating it out at the parade had yielded precious little time with our loved ones. I was inconsolable until our son called me and blessed me with his words. 

Tonight I am starting to mend. I went out to walk the dog and looked for the moon, the harvest moon. But it was hidden behind thick clouds. There's been an oil spill, so getting gasoline for our vehicles this week may be a challenge. That led me to a mixture of thoughts as I waited to see if the clouds would part. That sky has been there, well, forever. We've had gasoline-fueled cars for only the last minute of mankind's reign on the earth. Somehow people have made it without all of our modern inventions and conveniences. Even now, many people on this planet don't rely on electricity or gasoline and the moon keeps showing up for them, too. Maybe this week, I'll just lay low, clean my house, actually cook supper and look at the moon every single night. Maybe my body will heal too. I'll blame it on the gasoline.

A Perfect Moment in Time

In this fallen world we live in, there are only a few perfect, fleeting moments that happen. In actuality, there is no perfection in this life and it is quite stupid to make perfection your life's goal. I have seen way too many people that are frozen in their work, creativity, or momentum -- they can't move forward because everything is not perfect. They are afraid to jump in the fray, because something might go wrong. Something always goes wrong! And if you don't jump in, all you get is a sideline picture of life. I would much rather be sopping wet, nasty with bacteria, and yes, even drowning, than to stand pristine on the sideline with everything still intact in its frozen state. Better to be in the muck than to have watched from the balcony. Because of this attitude, I often and usually feel like I am hurtling 120 mph in a rattling, shuddering, ramshackle tube down the highway....always on the cusp of some irrevocable disaster. There are brief moments of serenity between trips, but generally things are pushed right to the edges. Ah, for a simple life.... 

Daniel and Jessica's wedding this weekend was such an endeavor. Up until the hour of the actual ceremony, we were patching together everything we could to make it happen. Too many details to mention, but suffice it to say that there (finally) came the moment when the music started and we all started our procession. Ken walked me down to the front row and we sat down. At that juncture, it seemed to me that the world stood still. The sun was shining warmly, the wind stopped, the trees beamed their golden hues at us from across the lake. In front of us was assembled all the beautiful young people that mean the most to us, dressed in their finest. The lace, the wood, the silk, the gently blown hair, the handsome assembly of muscles, the shined-up shoes and perfect makeup, the smiles, the scents of nature and clean people mixing in a sweet perfume. The music beckoned us to relax and to hear, to relax and enjoy the moment. I was fixed on Daniel's face. He was immensely tall and handsome. He was all muscle and manhood,  broad shouldered and strong. He turned his back to the aisle so that Jessica could make her way across the meadow with her father without him seeing her. He was turned to the minister, who happened to be my brother Jerry. Daniel looked at Jerry's face, his uncle and friend. Jerry, with tears, said, "I love you." All the emotions of the moment poured out as Daniel turned to see his bride for the first time that day. There was Jessica, a perfect vision, her dress a feathered cloud and her eyes huge warm pools. I could not turn away from looking at Daniel's face, there was so much emotion there. It was full of love, happiness, surrender and gratefulness. His tears caused all of us to cry as well. The moment was perfect, one of those rare glimpses of heaven that make us remember that we have so much to be grateful for and so much to look forward to.

Circles of Life and Death

I experienced two parallel universes this last weekend. Death and life. Endings and beginnings. It was surreal, seeing the swirl of the circle of life up close. Bittersweet.

On one side of town, my dear friend's mother, Zora, began to go downhill. She quit eating and drinking and fell into a stupor. On the other side, my pregnant daughter-in-law's (Bailey) blood pressure started going up. She was more than 3 weeks away from her due date. Troubles. Zora slipped further away, each draw of oxygen becoming a trial. Bailey felt the weight of the baby and the struggle of uncertainty looming. Each side was waiting, waiting. The unknown, the crossing-overs, were painfully borne. The breath of life was cherished on each end, one leaving the body, one receiving into the body. Labors began. Gasping, lungs of air. Time, never seeming to go forward. The advent of a baby. The advent of the unknown. As Bailey wrestled with the pain, Zora did too. There were medications for each, one precisely tailored not to hurt a child, the other engineered to ease life away, not so considerate of whether the toxins might hasten death. The toil seemed to never end. Finally, as the waves crested and the daughter cradled the mother, her soul left like a bird in flight. The shell was left, like a thin and fragile egg. Across town, the other mother bore down mightily and as that tide broke, a man-child entered the world, beautiful and creamy. A pitiful, sweet wail lifted over the room. The breath of life, leaving one, entering another. Both are now home, one we can't see, one we can. 

Tears. Relief. Sorrow. Happiness. All mixed together. All the arrangements. Funeral, food, flowers, gifts, homegoing. People everywhere, obligations, love, hugs. Both sides so similar, yet polar opposite. Life and death circling close. Talk of what is new, what is old, what has been, what will be. I am struck with the wonder of it and how dear both the sadness and the joy come to one another, join together, infusing and layering themselves into our souls. 

This is life. I don't want to live in the dread of death and I don't want to miss all the life here either. I am grateful for the beautiful death of a saint who flies home, and joyful for the new grandbaby who brings his own bucket of love with him. How good is this life and how wonderful the promise of the next...