The Orbiting Seasons of Life

 A lady from my past reached across Facebook Messenger tonight. We used to play duets at church, gossamer pieces of music. I was the flute, she the pianist. I was not worthy of her gifts. She is one who has that uncanny ability to embellish anything on the score. She puts the liquid in between the pieces, so it all flows and fills the room with joy. I asked her how she came to be so fluent. She said it was sheer necessity, in a small church where they needed a pianist. With no real experience, she was thrown into a situation where it was sink or swim. So swimming was the order of the day. Over time, and with more and more confidence, she learned how to innovate and add chords to the simple hymns. There are people who technically know how to play the piano, who thrill with their immense skill. Then there are those who have it deep in their soul, going way beyond skill or training. Alice was, is, such a player. Any of us whose ears were graced with her gift will never forget her.

In this day of social media overkill, there are some good parts...where we get to cross paths with old friends. To consider the days, the folks that have meant much to us. 

But the bad part: I think our brains are filling up with too much easily-gained information, so we're forgetting how to actually think. Our wires and synapses are getting shortened artificially because we don't take the time to process, to wander into a library, smell the old books, sit down and read something that isn't on a glowing piece of glass. It has been said that we have a capacity for just-so-many B-B's in our brains, and that when the bowl gets full they start falling out...and that there's no accounting for which ones escape the hatch. We laugh, but I'm afraid it's true. And now we're putting a whole lot of really tiny B-B's in there and they're starting an avalanche.

I recall days, not so very long ago, when I wasn't compelled to check my phone 200 times, when I wasn't worried about missing a call (and therefore missing a client). Survival was simpler, though maybe harsher. We had less, but that was okay. We didn't really know we had less and it didn't matter. Afternoons with a friend, with a dozen kids climbing all over, coffee and Kool-Aid, sticky walls and puppy hair everywhere. We thought it'd never end, and some days you looked blissfully to the day that it would, thinking it would be so much easier then. It never is, and there's always a trade-off. 

Downy heads and tired, sleepy eyes...how did God know how much we'd need grandchildren? They're ours, body and soul; we read, sing, play, feed them, then they go back home, just in time. The moon rises and I remember it again... 

Get 'Er Done

Somewhere along the way, someone told me about a theory called The Second Law of Thermodynamics. On further thought, it's not a theory, it's a law. As in, naw, there's no guessing about it....it's just the truth. And in this humble, uneducated and simplistic brain, this is what it means: if you don't do something about stuff, it crusts up, gets dirty, breaks down. Any house that contains children, heck, not even children, just people, will tell you that if you don't constantly pick it up, polish it, clean it, buff it, wipe it down -- it will degrade into chaos. Like my house right this minute. I've had two grandchildren under the age of 8 for two days. We've gone to church, had numerous meals together, ran an errand for a neighbor, answered phone calls and emails for real estate deals threatening to unravel, had naps, cleanups and scraped dog poop off of shoes. The house looks literally like a bomb went off in here. And it's just Monday. The Villa Rica Christmas Tour of Homes is in 3-1/2 weeks and there's not a Christmas ornament to be seen. Everything's still packed up tight as a clam in the barn. I promised myself I'd decorate the week after Halloween (whatever) and that I'd turn down everything humanly possible. Meanwhile, Thanksgiving's looming like a bad vulture and they're saying we're not having Christmas this year anyway (whoever said that doesn't understand the meaning of Christmas). 

The grandkids asked if they could jump in one of Papa's piles of leaves and I said why not. I've continued to insist on them not watching any TV or shows while they're here. And even though I caved on them having any snacks and did a U-turn on 278 to get them a chocolate-on-chocolate doughnut (and I got a giant iced coffee that really helped me out, a lot), I've stuck to the no-TV thing and they've had a lot of old-fashioned fun getting filthy dirty, even if it did mean dealing with dog offal and scratchy skin. While they jumped, I stopped long enough to actually look at the sky today. It's that periwinkle-kind-of-blue that lays pretty on the fall leaves. It smells like smoke and dusky leaves out here, and even a few minutes of it restored my faith in the wonder of childhood. 

They'll be going home in the morning. Somehow I'll get this mess cleaned up and somehow I'll once again pull a rabbit out of a hat for the Tour of Homes (it's December 3, if you're asking. Tickets can be found on Facebook on the Villa Rica Christmas Tour of Homes 2021 page). I've often said that (unfortunately) I'm kind of like a old geyser -- it has to back up real bad and then I explode and get busy. Here's hoping I don't hurt anybody on the way out...  

Pilgrimage

I see a house, where love dried up. It was never a passionate love, but I witnessed it there, I thought. The leaves are falling on it now; it looks forlorn and unkempt. It will soon just as well be burned to the ground. What will come, after the tornado washes through? Ruined lives, with nowhere to go. Silly dreams, not based on truth, will scatter like powder. Grasping, grasping, ever grasping, we people are. Listening to a god who isn't real, though he sounds like one. Acts like one, gleams light like one. Until he doesn't. Then it's too late and you're wrecked.

I see another house, where love dried up. It was on the verge of death, when somehow the light of God shone through the murky morning. Where there were once stark walls, color grew and bloomed. Where there had been angry noise, came a soft answer, a kind hand. Where bitterness grew like a snake root in the earth, mercy poured forth and cut down the hell tree. People who don't believe in God, in miracles, in the divine, line up and I will tell you. I, pilgrim of the tainted heart, witness of things beyond what can be explained. He is alive, I tell you. There is a redeemer...    

Savoring the Days

I don't like it when the days get short. As a youngster, I didn't think much about when the sun went down...I just knew I loved summers, when the days were long and hot. We played and played in the evenings until the dew began to fall on the ground and the fireflies came out to dance. When we came inside, Mama sent us immediately to take a bath (always baths, never showers, not sure why!). We then went to bed, where it was prudent to be not completely dried off....so the tiny bit of summer breeze from the open windows would keep us cool long enough to fall asleep. Summer was a hazy dream, then came September and the Fall, where school and basketball took over. I think of steamy gymnasiums and the bleary skies when winter reigned. Christmas was the star, and then it was a hop, skip and jump to Spring. 

When we married and I had our first son, it was prudent for me to take that loud, curious boy for a walk every day. I found that he was happiest when the outdoors were involved and he was moving. We soon knew most of the old folks in our small neighborhood that backed up to the train tracks in Mableton. I was never so aware of the changes in the seasons. When the fall time change occurred, I was so sad. Ken worked evening shift at the plant, and baby Jon's nap time was in the afternoon, so when the dark winter took over it seemed cruel and mean to me. I'd lay the baby down for the night, usually by 7:30 or so. Daddy wouldn't be home for hours, so the house was still and quiet. What at first was difficult became my happy place. I had a good four hours to create, paint, draw, sew, or just catch up on housework. There was no internet and I'm not a big TV watcher. I went to the library and got books (remember them?) on how to do new things. It laid a foundation for so many layers of life experience that also affected my husband, children, other people, and even helped us as we made choices along our unorthodox and interesting paths. No college or traditional trajectory could have taught me what I learned in those quiet, dark evenings alone with my babies. I will ever be grateful for those serene, simple years where I was able to focus on what may have appeared to others as trivial, but was actually what mattered the most: God, my family, ministering to others, learning, reading, praying...plain walks in a humble neighborhood, fixing up our tiny abode to be a little warm place to come home to. 

Last night, while my husband had a meeting, I took a walk with the dog. Sundown took me by surprise. I forgot that it's getting dark earlier. The night smells of trees starting to give up their leaves; I heard the murmurs from houses where supper was being served, laughter across the way. Cars rush by, hurrying to their destinations. I paid attention to the sidewalk... nobody needs me having a fall. That bit of dewy chill hit me and I thought about long days ago, walking my newborn babies on such days. The days are long and the years are quick. How I love them and the people found there.  

Soli deo Gloria

  Our faithful conductor (of the Carrollton Wind Ensemble) always kicks us in the fanny every fall with musical pieces that are beyond our reach. We have a very short time to pull it together...I believe we had only six weeks this season to practice before our big Fall concert. Every year, I moan and complain about it, with my favorite saying, "I guess I'll have to quit my day job to get this up to speed." I don't actually quit my day job, and then I torture my husband, family and neighbors with scales, squeaks and trills from my flute, eschewing responsibilities and events to try to make the Maestro happy. Alas, I never get any of it perfect, as much as I try. I bemoan my youth, where I had the agility and energy to learn this blasted instrument but really didn't. So now, in my Fall years, I try valiantly and with commitment, getting half the results with twice the effort. But I'm not going to quit trying. They say it's good for our brains and our hands to keep playing as long as we can. I played basketball, softball and ran track in my youth. Not doing that now, but I can still sing and play my flute until I die, hopefully. It seems silly, to practice my flute, even at the beach, but I can't let up or it might slip away. I have to admit, it sounds like a lot of work, but I love that sweet, silky sound when a melody hits the right spot. And I so enjoy joining with other humans with different instruments, to find a way to play something together. It's beautiful, where people can get along and harmonize. Sorta like heaven, maybe.

I acted like a diva last week, stressed and self-important about my solo with the harpist. I tried to clear my calendar and practice more, took a couple of flute lessons, stayed home, lost a client or two. I was as skittish as a cat the last few days before the concert. The night of, my heart was beating like a drum and I wondered if I might have an arrythmia and die right there like my MawMaw and Daddy did, though there wasn't a recliner involved so I felt fairly safe. Emma (the harpist) and I grabbed each other's ice-cold hands and prayed for mercy. We all warmed up, then suddenly it was over. We made mistakes, the Mozart was too loud, the Jupiter piece sounded like a train wreck, but the audience clapped and made over us all when it was over. As I sat in the restaurant after, where we gathered to laugh and eat, I thought about how life is....how we work and play and stress about so much that really doesn't matter. We hugged and went our separate ways. I slept like a kitten and haven't practiced at all for nigh on a week now. 

At the end of it, I simply thought, "Whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God." (I Cor. 10:31) That goes for even a silly diva lady playing her flute... 

Cinnamon Spice, Everything Nice...

I used to take my kids and two dozen more up to North Georgia for a field trip to an apple orchard, where they'd charge us an arm and a leg for a wagon ride and then we would buy ridiculous amounts of apples (I was thinking "Oh, I'll can some of these!" Which, in truth, never, ever happened. I still don't know how to can anything.) I would freeze extra food, which often sat in the freezer-locker (as Ken insists on calling it...there's no lock on that thing) and then watch it turn brown over the months (and years, if I'm honest) and get covered with frost until I added them to the landfill. At least they might possibly make it back to the earth and do something beneficial there. Despite that, much of our frozen food got eaten, so my conscience can rest somewhat. I so wanted to be Suzie Farmer, with gleaming cans of produce and stores for years in my pantry. There came a day when I recognized the truth: that I was artistic and distracted, with lots of jollity to be had. A steady, consistent farmer's wife I was not. Dear Lord, that sounds like the grasshopper in Aesop's Fables. Didn't he starve or something? Somehow, my children done got raised and they seem pretty hale and hearty to me, even with my haphazard ways of doing things.

Last Friday, I went with a girlfriend up to the mountains for a day-long trip. She is very crunchy (that means she does everything natural and healthy, unlike me, her hedonistic friend who tries but often fails). Those kinds of friends are always trying to reform and bless me with their wisdom. I am grateful for them and have truly benefitted, but the rebel still comes out at times. We drove up there and had quite the day: stops at the health food store, the chiropractor (apparently from heaven), a fantastic BBQ restaurant (now we're talkin'), an art gallery, a knife shop and then finally dinner at an old, dear friend's home (they're not old, just the friendship). I couldn't afford the time to be doing that, while properties are being snapped up all around and I'm just hob-nobbing around the mountains. Truth is, I could afford it. Each thing we did was a blessing, even just the hours of conversation to and fro. It is good to set aside the urgent, to breathe in the moments. This seems to be a theme that I write about often, but don't heed nearly enough. 

My advice: head up to the Georgia mountains as soon as you can! The trees will be turning, the apples are crunchy and ripe, and there's shops and restaurants galore. As the summer gives way to fall, and the sad winter follows, store up these days for those back parts of your brain that need a sweet place to savor for later.  

Window and Door Summit

They say it's fall and that summer has flown. But has it? Ken and I wrestle with the temperature of our house like we've just started housekeeping or something. I walk by the thermostat and see that he's got the heat on, just when I'm ready to fling all the doors and windows open. Our house is very old and needs to be aired out properly. It smells like an old Granny's attic, especially when we get back from the beach and it's been shut up all week. The only windows that work in this house are the "modern" ones, so I have to be content to open them and all the doors, making us more susceptible to strangers walking right in and making off with the furniture and such. A few years back, I hired some people to paint the trim on the exterior of the house, something that grieved my personal pride. I've always been the one to paint any and everything we own. Alas, I conceded that I did not feel like climbing up twenty feet to paint the extensive eaves on our Victorian dollhouse, so I bit the bullet and hired them. On the day they put all the storm windows back on, I was not home. That cruel mistake will probably haunt me the rest of my life. They not only didn't clean the inside of the storm windows or the old original ones, they also painted shut every single window on our house. I start getting claustrophobic if I ponder it for very long. Before the big error, I used to take sawed-off closet poles to prop up most of them on balmy spring or fall days. Now I am caged up in here until the day we decide to take them down (by unscrewing about two hundred screws), clean all the windows and the storms, get dangerous tools and cut through all the painted-shut areas, then screw everything back on. I'm exhausted, just sitting here thinking about it. 

So I have to be content with opening up what I can. The other day, the heat had been on all night. I woke up covered in sweat, only to catch my husband turning on the air conditioning before he was leaving for work. I shrieked something about opening up the windows, since it was 52 degrees outside, rather than turning on the dollar bill machine. We had a heated discussion about how I'm prone to opening windows, even when the A/C or heat is running. I have to admit that it's true. And there's a serious problem with him needing four blankets and me needing just one (which gets heaved off after two hours anyway). I want the house at 65 degrees in the summer and pretty much 65 degrees in the winter. I think he's good with 80, just like his Grandmama Goldman was. These are not questions I asked, at what would have been the appropriate time. Now that all the kids are gone, these kinds of things surface just like an old shipwreck. 

When all's said and done, maybe I might have to actually communicate (and negotiate) better. And since he's a good old bird, maybe I'll just have to keep him.