Contemplating Divine Appointments

At Summer's last Gasp, Ken had to work the weekend so I decided to do my own mini-retreat. I've done this in our past on occasion, when I needed solitude to assemble homeschool study plans or to bring focus to a difficult season. It's not my favorite thing to do, in actuality. I don't really like to be alone, certain that I'm missing out on something. But life these last few months has my brains feeling like scrambled eggs, so I thought a tiny respite might do us all some good.  

I needed the sound of moving water, and immediately thought of Cave Spring, Georgia. It's less than an hour away, a delightful park with a fresh, bubbling spring right in the middle of it. You can bring your own bottles and fill them up with delicious water to take home. There are park benches and swings. It feels like you have gone back in time when you are there.

I wheeled into the little grocery store in town and stocked up on fruit and snacks. It sadly seemed like it had gone downhill since the last time we were there. The shelves were sparse, it was dirty and unkempt and the cashier seemed world-weary. I wish for every small town to flourish, which seems to be a difficult thing these days. Unbeknownst to me, this was the weekend for the annual Pickle Festival in Cave Spring. I wasn't prepared for any significant amount of walking, as I still have a big, honkin' boot on my left leg because of a pesky Achilles tendon that refuses to heal. My masseuse friend reamed the thing out last week, and it's starting to feel better, but I didn't have a Granny Mobile to spend long hours perusing booths and merchandise. It's probably for the best, as I spent enough money in the little local stores. The prices are amazing and the eclectic antiques store is my favorite. Since we live in a true Victorian house with a massive yard, it is only right that I should fill it up with statuary, and they have it in spades. I found the perfect concrete coach boy there last time, and he's now painted and standing guard over our front gate. I've always admired the statue that is on the front of the book "Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil" (have never read it, though)...the little girl holding two containers (presumably weighing light and darkness?) that stands in Savannah. As I wandered the antique store, they had replicas of her, already stained and aged. She came home with me, to Ken's chagrin. He always marvels at the weight of these things but somehow manages to drag them around until I've found the perfect spot. Now, what to place in each hand? Glass orbs seem just the right thing. Maybe I'll get some with fairy lights in them. 

The weekend was sweet, silent, contemplative. I prayed, read, watched nature and the squirrels around me at the house where I stayed. Nighttime was strange and scary, but I slept like a baby with my gun beside me. I don't know what will happen if Ken goes before me (that ain't happening, unless he messes up with his NASCAR-qualifying-driving. His DNA definitely trumps mine). I'll have a Granny-pod built and will strive to torture my kids, rotating locations every six months. 

By Saturday afternoon, I was feeling the need to see people. I trundled to the park with my Bible and journal, and took up residence on a bench. It's hard to write and read with such interesting characters coming and going. Rolater Park is very special to me. There's an ancient church house there and an old schoolhouse. We were supposed to have our daughter Elizabeth's wedding there, until Covid shut it down three weeks before the event in 2020. We had all the flowers and decor ready, but instead celebrated right in our backyard, with the heady scent of the magnolias blooming around us. It was magical. When our dear niece was looking for a venue a couple of years ago, we all piled in and did her wedding at Rolater. Four days of sweat and hard labor, but it was gorgeous. 

As I was musing over all these things on Saturday, I got warm and had the urge to get my feet wet in the spring. There were two older couples at the little bridge who had already pulled off their shoes and were chatting in other languages. I settled in right next to them, and within minutes, a precious woman named Tara and I recognized that we were kindred sisters. We spoke of our families, our lives, our Lord. Wisdom spilled from her heart and I ended up in tears. Maybe she was some kind of angel, as the things she spoke about were the very things I had prayed about over the weekend. As the dark descended, her family sang a beautiful hymn that spilled out over the lawn. 

We embraced as we said our goodbyes, a new friend I may never see again in this life. Beauty and goodness in unexpected places.    

The Great Pumpkin Chase

The train wails its insistent call. I don't think about it very often, though several of them pass close to our home every day (and night). It sounds like Mayberry to me, probably because my MawMaw's house was next to the tracks in Smyrna. Even though there were no toys, no frills, no fancy food where she lived, those times were full of cousin adventures, plenty of mud, grass stains and railroad track events. We would scavenge for empty Coke bottles along the tracks and behind the strip mall on the other side. The grocery store would give us a nickel for each bottle we turned in. Then we'd traipse, barefooted and filthy, to G.B.'s diner and buy ice cream cones. The purveyor would give us massive scoops, probably sympathizing for what appeared to be poor street urchins. When we arrived home at night, sticky and tired, Mama would send us to the bathroom and instruct us not to come out until we were double-scrubbed. The older I've gotten, the more I have grown to appreciate her clean, well-lit house and all the order that was there. My own nature is undisciplined, messy, haphazard with anything that requires consistency. I have worked very hard most of my life, but creative and social meandering is hard-wired into my DNA. The cobwebs are just about to make me insane right now, so maybe I'll muster up some focus soon. We don't celebrate Halloween but maybe I should leave them up for decor. 

Speaking of focus, last night was our twin grandchildrens' birthday (and 10-year old Titus is in a few days too)...so we pot-lucked with yummy soups and home-baked bread slathered with Irish butter. There was pumpkin carving, a fun and terribly messy affair. Everyone was sawing away at their projects, producing some amazing results. Eventually, either because of finishing or simple boredom, the kids began to drift away and the adults stood around talking. The cheap little tools started to break, but our eldest son Jon and I were still hunkered down over our pumpkins. The light was fading, so flashlights were turned on in our determination to finish. He and I both have the ability to forget the rest of the world when we're neck deep in something we are interested in. They had to drag us inside to eat. There was soup, terrible singing (a Norton tradition), cake and presents. Grateful grandkids, a precious commodity in this day and time. 

Ken had to work, so I drove home alone, full of joy and contentment in the cool night air. Life is good. But I do believe I'm going to invest in some real wood-carving tools for next year. Can't stop thinking about those pumpkins...  

Angels Unaware

Sadie came to us late in life. She'd had a whole other existence as a champion show dog and then an illustrious breeding career, making beautiful babies with other champions. Australian Shepherds, to me, are the smartest and most sensitive dogs I've ever experienced. The line that Sadie came from is calmer and brainier than even the others I've known. She was living with my sister's family for years, running with her doggie pals on a few acres. She had never lived solely inside. We got her in her dotage, with a different name. Everyone said I couldn't change her name, but I did. She became my constant companion, and immediately knew that the toilet was outside, not in the house. She has lived the life of Riley these last few years, with grooming and treats and serene, simple purpose as my personal assistant. There's nothing quite like a devoted dog waiting at the door for you at the end of the day. They are at our mercy, with our contrived, domesticated lives, and live out their days serving us with their doe eyes and happy allegiance. 

The last few months, she had become more and more incontinent. There were also small seizures, little slips of consciousness. I didn't want to face the spectre of the end of her life. I didn't want to be responsible for doing the deed, and was hoping she would just go gently into the night without my intervention. I've had to put down several animals and the grief of it never leaves you. Sometimes the veterinarians do a good job, sometimes not. The "nots" are most grievous. One time, I took a friend's dog; she was in a financial drought and so were we at the time. One of my sons did it the old-fashioned, farm way...I fed the dog chunks of chicken laced with Benadryl, then took her into the woods where she was happy as birdsong, full of treats. She didn't have to experience the fear of a needle or the sterile smells of a medical facility. It was the quickest and most compassionate of deaths. But I was not courageous enough to do this to my own dog.

My niece had offered to take her, put her on a raw diet, and keep her with her other dogs, where she would have more outside toilet "options." I was so grateful for this, but over the next few days I began to wrestle with it. How could I abandon my dog, who was so attached to me? I was privately resolved to find a way to keep her here, even though my house was beginning to smell like a potty.  I was losing sleep, waking in the night and agonizing with guilt about what to do. I asked God to make it plain. She still looked healthy, was eating and bright-eyed, though she had taken to walking all over the house at night. I was getting up multiple times to take her outside. Sleep and toilets. The scourge of old age. 

Last Friday night, I woke at 3:00 a.m. to the sound of scrambling dog feet. I quickly walked her to the yard, but her gait was confused. She fell several times and was not only blinded, but severely impaired. I cradled her and wept, not only for the impending loss, but in gratefulness to God for giving me a clear sign. A kind veterinarian was able to get us in quickly. They rolled in a little cart with all the treats that had been forbidden her. She gladly lapped up cookies and chocolate kisses as she relaxed into the first injection of sedative. I will always be grateful for the tenderness they showed her and us as we let her go gently into that night. 

I spent the best part of the day letting the tears roll. God arranged so much sweetness as we grieved her. My niece, who lives an hour and a half away, just happened to be picking up furniture in Villa Rica. She dropped flowers at our doorstep. All of our children and grandchildren, who just happened to be coming over that evening, helped us bury her in the yard with a proper tiny funeral. I was surrounded by little arms who also loved our Sadie. The scriptures say, "Not even a sparrow falls without His notice...how much more does He care for you." The heavens and the earth declare His glory. And so do our little dogs.  

Fall, Fake Fall, and I Better Not Trip and Fall

After False Fall in Georgia, which (obviously) was only brought on by a hurricane, we've had blistering summer again. There's nothing so discouraging as having a whiff of a cool breeze, only to be followed by the sun laughing in our faces, the sweat rolling down our backs, dogs lolling about on porches like they're in a coma. There ain't no way I'm buying pumpkins for my front stoop right now, even if they do look adorable out there. But I did check the weather a minute ago and another hurricane is headed to the gulf. Pity that people have to suffer for us to get some cooler temperatures. It's late September. My California neighbors came driving in last night. They live here part-time, and I'm sure by now they think we've all lost our sanity with all the fluctuations. But they also say that they love the Southern kindness and connection that they have found here. I need to work harder at being Southern...

Our musical Italy trip in June left me reeling with so many thoughts and ideas, but it also left me with a messed-up Achilles tendon. You'd think with as much time to prepare for that trip, I'd have been walking on the daily. But no...I had better things to do -- chatting, doing puzzles, eating bon-bons.  So now, after various attempts at healing it, I've been in a boot for many weeks. At the beach, I thought it prudent to leave it off, with so much sand and trips to the pool. Who wants to strap on that monstrosity, when you're just going to take it back off? Upon arriving home, my doctor gave me the stink-eye as he asked me where my boot was (I forgot to put it on and keep up hypocritical appearances). I blithely told him I was feeling pretty good and that I'd been at the beach all week. He reached down and gently squeezed my Achilles, which resulted in wailing and gnashing of teeth. More of the eye-thing, and he said, "You're going backwards. Get that boot back on, go back to physical therapy and come back in three weeks." So again, I'm dragging it around like an appendage, thinking "What hump, Master?" I know this travail is very small potatoes, compared to other peoples' pain and trials...I see people in stores with contraptions where their knee is bent into a 90 degree angle and they are hobbling around with some sort of trolley. Then there's the guy at the gym (not that I've been lately) who only has one leg and looks like Adonis. My apologies to him and the others, but apparently I'm milking it for all it's worth.  I've got stuff to do but God keeps slowing me down. 

So here's to cooler weather, prayers for folks in hurricane paths (including us) and a dream for pumpkins on the porch. I'm not even gonna get started on the fact that I put all four of my decrepit Christmas trees at the curb last spring (yes, all of them). I just might be on a waiting list for just the right tree at Home Depot, jus' sayin'...  

Practice Makes Perfect

I hit the floor running this morning, well...it was more like hit the computer keys running. I've had lots of vacating, so it was time to try and catch up with work and communications. I sat here, a hunched-over nerd all day, took a break for a very late lunch and then wore out a few fingertips this evening. It's 9:16 and I haven't even played my scales today, but I'll stop and do that now... 

There. That feels better.

Our Maestro says that if you miss one day of scales, you know it. Two days, he knows it. Three days, everyone knows it. Or something like that. I can't always manage to practice, but that mantra presses me to keep on keeping on.  I never did all that in high school. I was too busy playing basketball, running from activity to activity, chatting with friends and doing my homework on the bus. Scales, meh, who needs them? I've grown to appreciate the merits of practice and the muscle memory that helps my brain to connect the musical dots. And my fingers get real stodgy if I don't keep 'em moving. Didn't have to worry about that when all the oils were flowing freely and everything was still glossy. 

As usual, Fall is going to be full of musical endeavors. The Carrollton Wind Ensemble has a packed calendar, starting with a fundraiser September 26th (Rapha) and then our fall concert on October 18th at the Carrollton Arts Center (get your tickets -- they sell out!). October 29th finds us in Villa Rica for our annual "Creepy Concert" at the amphitheatre...a fun mix of music that always delights the audience. And all that is just for starters...there's Christmas music coming and caroling around town and pop-up candlelight concerts with a new woodwind quintet I'm playing with. 

Music is so many things. It is easy to take it for granted, in our digital age where it's so easily available. This last week at the beach, when it was my turn to cook and I had a kitchen full of adorable girls helping me, I turned on a playlist of movie soundtracks. It upped the mood instantly. There was laughing, dancing, moving into the strains of the music. Last evening, at home alone and vacation already a dim memory, I was feeling melancholy so I turned on some soothing tunes. Instant magic. A cool breeze wafted through the house and suddenly life was a mysterious song. My work became lighter, tolerable. Hope and possibilities sprang forth. Then there was my practice session with my flute, which started with obligations and ended with noodly, French pieces that floated out the window. 

Do your scales.  

Greater Purposes

They are piled around us like a litter of puppies. We have ten grandchildren with us this week (along with their parents) -- missing two of the grands who are with their folks at home. They are all aged 11 and below, full of energy and spice and nerve. The cousin love is palpable, with plenty of laughter and healthy competition. There's nothing like cousins...they're related, so they're permanently connected. 

People have always raved about the awesomeness of grandchildren. But until I experienced them for myself, I didn't understand the joy of them. I remember my own grandmothers. They were as opposite as two people could be, but both of them had this unconditional love for me that translated to my heart, even when I didn't see them often. That is what any grandparent can give to their progeny. We're not having to raise any of ours...I cannot imagine how difficult that must be. My get-up-and-go has done gone-up-and-went and we were lucky to have had our children young.

For decades, the message to young people has been to get educated, get your career in place and then play the field until you find just the right person. Take a few years to make money and travel and enjoy yourselves. Then think about having a baby, and never more than one or two. Overpopulation and all, you see? This was the preaching I got from society when I was young, but not from my parents. They had three and then regretted not having more (when it was too late to do so). We had happy, healthy childhoods, with very little money. One income, plenty of outside play, robust work and talk. When people say that it's impossible to live on one income, they might be talking about the importance of the magic of going to Disney as a child. Our magic was our Dad throwing us the softball, taking us fishing down the road at a local creek; Mama making simple but nourishing meals, Mama being home when the bus let us out; Daddy teaching us to help him mow, till a garden. Our vacations consisted of driving to Illinois to visit Grandma and the Yankee relatives, eating bagged lunches on the way there. Summers were long, hot, glorious.  The library was free, but supplied us with all the imaginative worlds we needed. 

Yes, I rhapsodize about the good old days, but realize that these are the good old days too. Trying to not miss a minute of the glory (and agony) of all that is in front of me. Everything takes longer, hurts more and feels more like mountain climbing than it should. I am convinced that half our problem is that we quit using our "parts" and they rust on up. Some people, wonderful ones that I can't relate to, stay the course and never quit all the moving, so they seem younger, longer. As for me, I have a terrible problem of being all-or-nothing, as well as easily distracted. So the rust builds up and I'm again "mountain climbing" when it's really just a stroll down the lane. I alternate between all-in and all-out. This is not a good plan, but it is my reality. 

Meanwhile, the grandchildren. How I love them, with their clear, sweet eyes and easy laughter. I see the miracle of DNA, how they reflect parts of both their parents, beautiful people that I also love. All from two sections of the helixed amalgam of one egg and one sperm that God picked out special to make that single person, that single month, that particular day. I worry about them, all twelve and also the one that is still in her Mama's womb. I pray for them, their particular bents, their particular gifts and flaws. The world is a scary place and getting scarier by the year. I could be overwhelmed by the thought of their futures and what they might have to face. But then God comforts me with the knowledge that not a sparrow escapes His notice, and that they were born "for such a time as this." No fear... 

What Matters

Close to five years ago, our world got turned upside down. An unknown, unseen critter spread like wildfire across the continents, arresting our brains, bodies and mental health. I remember being horribly scared, reading and researching to discover how to be prepared for the worst. I had a plan to sequester the sick, even down to duct-taping doors shut against the sickroom. Ken was out in the middle of it with his job at a building-supply place...thousands of people breathing by every hour. He would stop on his way home and get our groceries. Each day when he got home, I begged him to strip down and throw his "contaminated" clothes in the washing machine. I washed, yes, washed the groceries. I slathered myself with sanitizer (which cost a fortune) and stocked up on N95 masks. We had virtual church for awhile, and sometimes just sat on the front porch and listened to the neighboring pastor yell angrily from his perch across the street. I'm not sure he's read his Bible in context, because God has more than one side. He is both love and truth, and much, much more. 

We were scared. Well, not Ken. He refused to be afraid, put his boots on every morning and went to work, mask hanging off his ear. He wasn't stupid, but didn't let anxiety draw him up into a twist like I did. I am still grateful for that leadership, and I slowly began to relax and realize that I couldn't put life on hold. Better to live or die, than to shrink up into a corner. 

Here we are, these years later, but still affected by what happened. Our social lives changed, our trust changed, we became more cynical and way more attached to our devices. We learned that we could drill into this little 3x6 inch screen and have all the entertainment, information and music we ever wanted. We all contracted ADHD in short order, unable to focus for longer than a few minutes. In places where we were required to wait -- doctor's offices, the queue at the DMV, the fast-food line in our cars -- we pulled up our phones and lightning-scrolled through reams of information and sound bytes. No need for eye contact or interaction with other humans. They were busy doing the same thing. News, weather and "truth" were all obtained and possibly manipulated by various entities. We gathered like moths to an enticing, warm flame, unaware that we might be burned. 

I'm trying to quit all that, but it is nigh impossible. My business, contacts, emails, calendar, maps and news all feed through that little monster. It's marvelously convenient and helpful, but like all good things, too much is counterproductive. I'll do better one day, only to spend most of the next day in the ozone of social media and not get my kitchen cleaned up or the laundry done, much less talk meaningfully to anyone. I'm usually busy, but when I'm filling in the spaces with basically meaningless drivel, what have I done with my life? It takes over when we least suspect it. So enticing, the quick fix of all these bites of information. 

Over the course of a trip with a good friend, my phone refused to work. A few stray texts drifted in, social media was nonexistent, and there seemed to be a fence between me and any incoming or outgoing calls (even though I paid the extra for access). I lost three client deals because I was just not there to do them and couldn't communicate. When the boat landed and I assessed the damage (which was considerable), I agonized, chewed, fretted and summarized what happened, including my faults in this scenario. Then a pleasant, settled and happy balm spread through my heart. I had a week without interruption, time with an old friend, laughter and contemplation and good, old-fashioned human interaction with her and also the many kind people on the trip that we encountered.  We lived to fly another day, clients got what they needed, and the world didn't stop turning. Joie de vivre.