love – BethSings

This Week

Fair warning. No pictures. This blog will be different but may very well be my most candid.

Two months since the last posting and news abounds. Sitting in my regular pew this morning I reflected on a promise I made to my friend Leslie that I would finish a blog by today, October 1. I don’t want to disappoint my first friend and blood sister.

Deleting the multitude of ideas and drafts over these weeks, we’ll call it writers block, my creativity has been dry as a bone . This morning it struck me, many times I write about the past, not because I believe in glamorizing or romanticizing yesterday but because I’ve needed to learn from it. We learn, we grow from history. Our choices. They become a part of our present and stepping stones into our future. The past can’t be changed. There are no mistakes or regrets waiting there to be repaired. It just is.

Wonderings

Without such growth we become self-absorbed, wallowing in our ‘what ifs’.

More than ever, this week I’ve experienced the grace of companions: family and friends, those who are present in times of joy and stress. Their presence is meaningful…they make joys sweeter, they are balm in times of trouble. Their absences are felt. Their love is unconditional. I hope I have been that for them.

For years I made this prayer by William Martin my own for my children…..

It became my prayer for a simple life after they grew up.

Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is a way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples, and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.

This week my daughter said “yes” to the “touch” of another hand. Our family is elated that this young man will be joining our family.

This week I learned to an even greater depth that my son is a ‘wonder’ and has found the ‘marvel in an ordinary life’.

This week I reflected on the people I love. I don’t say “thank you” and “I love you” nearly enough.

“Sometimes” by The Carpenters

Witness

How does a moment last forever?
How can a story never die?
It is love we must hold onto
Never easy, but we try
Sometimes our happiness is captured
Somehow, a time and place stand still
Love lives on inside our hearts and always will.

Last week I woke up vividly remembering a dream. It was the kind of dream that seems real and lingers. I was 8 or 9 years old sitting in a circle, singing with other children at the community center my mother once managed. I was leading a song. My mother was there in the distance. I couldn’t see her face but felt her presence, comforting and secure. All of us in that circle were connected through the music. What was happening seemed right and important.

The dream was a memory.

Journey Window – St. Aloysius Catholic Church, Baton Rouge, La.

That recollection has been with me for the last week. I thought of it again today as I witnessed a mother’s sad farewell to her son, a seventeen year old with a sparkling personality who I had the honor to teach. A bittersweet day in a myriad ways. Countless really.

Sometimes our happiness is captured with friends and family, frozen in time with stories that will live on. We’re blessed to have them and remember them. Moments that last as long as we do…..and beyond.

For now I’m content to continue dreaming….teaching…and learning until I find ‘my corner of the sky’…..

Corner of the Sky – Pippin

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The Sky is Falling

Wordpress Chicken Little

My maternal grandmother was a gentile southern woman. Quiet. I admired her spirit and spirituality. We shared a birthday and a love of cooking. There were only two places I’d spend the night when I was a child: Mama’s and my friend Leslie’s. For the past several months one of Mama’s stories has been with me……it’s time to let go.

ONE day Henny-Penny was picking up corn in the cornyard when–whack!–something hit her upon the head. ‘Goodness gracious me!’ said Henny-penny; ‘the sky’s a-going to fall; I must go and tell the king.’

quote-the-story-henny-penny-has-the-best-opening-in-all-literature-the-sky-is-falling-cried-john-steinbeck-96-54-46 (1)

2016 called us to a place of soul-searching. What it meant to be family and neighbor. Ultimately, asking a moral question of who is my neighbor?

When the sky really is falling, a helping hand, a compassionate voice, a casserole….a boat….a sledge hammer, a bottle of water. It was a record-setting year….one that shaped characters and cities. For some, the sky fell when a ceiling might have been shattered conjuring images of a dystopian world: Lines drawn. Another piece of the sky fell. Fearful.

good-men

In these days of twenty-four hour news cycles and social media addiction have we forgotten intelligent discourse? Have we forgotten that the sky will not fall if we agree to disagree? That drawing lines in the sand is not always necessary…and that neighbors are not always next door.

2016 was tough, no doubt…..but if you asked my grandmother, who was born in 1901, so was 1917, 1929, 1941, 1959 and any number of other years, although she would never have talked about the difficulties.

The take-away is the sky didn’t fall because her generation figured it out without falling apart. While holding the sky up…they held each other.

“Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.” —Cecil Beaton

Leap

Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I’m through with playing by the rules
Of someone else’s game
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It’s time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes and leap!

Ana Gasteyer – “Defying Gravity”

Full disclosure. I’ve never been a big fan of the musical Wicked. I read Gregory Maguire’s best seller in the mid-90’s and was probably one of the few people who found it, well, in a word…tedious. He does get points for marketing “chops”. Capitalizing on The Wizard of Oz was a stroke of genius right up there with Disney but Dorothy’s journey down the yellow-brick road is sacred as far as I’m concerned. Who messes with Baum and Judy Garland?

Friday night my friend Beth and I saw Ana Gasteyer’s cabaret show—great friends and music. She and I reminisced about taking my daughter to Houston several years ago to see the show…and many other GNO’s over the span of our wicked friendship. A lovely, serendipitous evening!

Another disclosure. My New Year’s resolution seemed to drift into February. Good news: I haven’t had a Diet Coke since January 1, bumping the water intake significantly. However, at the end of January when the health screening came around I got news that my blood pressure was not just high but off the chart. Reality check into making better choices and living a healthier life.

Great, I thought, another sign of middle age, that is, if I plan on living to 112. Not bloody likely! Truth be told, in the last year I had let diet and exercise slip with the exception of weekly yoga practice and the occasional salad at lunch. Ash Wednesday was set as the 40 days to a Healthier Life start date, embracing Lent as a time of joy, a new spring. Eating at home – which shouldn’t really be a choice – I enjoy cooking. I’ve carved out more quiet time reading, photography and yes, exercise—yoga and getting back to walking/running again. The result at 20 days and the halfway point— I’m already down almost 10 pounds, several inches and my blood pressure is improving. More importantly I feel better. Ironically, I was too busy taking care of “things” to recognize I felt bad, mostly things out of my control. I’ve practiced not complaining and letting go of things out of my control; when in doubt I go to my yoga mat or put on some music.

I’m through accepting limits
’cause someone says they’re so
Some things I cannot change
But till I try, I’ll never know!
Too long I’ve been afraid of
Losing love I guess I’ve lost
Well, if that’s love
It comes at much too high a cost!

Richard Rohr wrote recently that “pain teaches a most counterintuitive thing: we must go down before we even know what up is. Suffering of some sort seems to be the only thing strong enough to both destabilize and reveal our arrogance, our separateness, and our lack of compassion.” He defines suffering as whenever you are not in control. Through the sufferings, great or small, we learn to trust ourselves and others….or we don’t. The experiences can be transformative, almost without realizing it. They show us what to do with our pain, with the absurd, the tragic, the nonsensical, the unjust. “If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it.” .

So if you care to find me
Look to the western sky!
As someone told me lately:
Ev’ryone deserves the chance to fly!
And if I’m flying solo
At least I’m flying free
To those who’d ground me
Take a message back from me

The take-away in Wicked-The Musical is forgiveness…of self and others and as Richard Rohr says: always building something new, good, and forever original, while neither playing the victim nor making victims of others.

Flying Free…….who needs monkeys to do that? Like Dorothy, I love a good adventure.

Pruning

Love is little, love is low
Love will make our spirits grow
Grow in peace, grow in light
Love will do the thing that’s right

Shaker hymn

BYU Concert Choir- “Love Is Little”

Simple. Connections. As we grow older I believe that’s what we’re looking for really. Family, friends, colleagues. Sparks that light the way in a world that’s often overrun with chaos, too many choices and confusion. Voices of clarity. They challenge us, as the Shaker hymn suggests to ‘do the thing that’s right’.

Last week was Mardi Gras break. My North Louisiana roots always show the final weeks of carnival season when I escape to different adventures, mostly back to those Monroe roots.

This year, travel lead west to see friends and especially my daughter. I drove back from Austin on a dazzling day. I was well past Houston before I turned on music. The first song on the playlist was that Shaker hymn….I replayed it several times, listening to the lyrics. “Love is little. Love is low. Love will make our spirits grow.”

“Lent is as much about quitting the obligations that clutter our life as it is about learning to dedicate ourselves to more eternal tasks — because fewer branches equal better fruit.”

Since the word Lent comes from the Old English, “lencten,” which means Spring, “pruning my branches” during these next weeks seems very apropos.

Another beautiful day hanging between winter and spring, my daughter and I visited the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. If we stop long enough to ‘declutter’ the ‘fruit’ is much better.

If you’re looking for me in the next weeks I’ll be pruning…..pruning…..and relaxing into spring….

Pruning doesn’t mean…”you don’t have to try so hard, bend until you break…..or giving it all away…” Take a listen!

Colbie Caillat – Try

Gurgle

The house is quiet again but echos with the laughter and talking that filled it a few days ago. Not unlike others, our family gathered to celebrate.

Celebrate a birth. Celebrate our love for each other.

The last week has been a whirlwind of cooking, eating, visiting with loved ones far and near. Their presence, whether by walking in the door or a phone call or card was a gift in itself.

On Christmas Day a wave of sentimentality hit me, a brief moment of melancholy.

Call it desire, wanting a little more, instead of being satisfied with what we have. Missing those who are absent is human nature. My son’s words grounded me. The sentiment was fleeting. Generations, family and friends gathered at our table….some present, some in spirit. The days spent together were as splendid as the feast.

This year there was a new addition at our table: a whimsical fish pitcher from my childhood best friend, Leslie. At each meal we giggled as we poured water. It wasn’t until a few days after Christmas that I discovered the story.

The ‘gurgle pot’ was the creation of artist Matthew Ellison inspired by his travel to a small French village for his brother’s wedding. There were no hotels so all of the guests stayed with host families. His spoke no English and he spoke no French so conversation was awkward and challenging. A saving grace at meals was a fish-shaped pitcher that gurgled with each pour. …what a wonderful connection. Laughter. Listening. Whimsy. Trusting communication in all it’s forms on the journey.

In retrospect, 2015 has been a year of similar connections: lightbulbs in deep grace and dark journeys on long days. Listening for a gurgle.

Blessings. Births. Graduations. Weddings. Illness. Deaths.

Maneuvering day-to-day living. Connecting to the gurgle of those we hold dear. Finding the way to connect to them in a meaningful way. Not our way, but the best way.

Gratitude for it all.

In this coming new year, may your connections gurgle…simply with love, and abundantly.

A letter home…

Spring has been opera performances, conducting musicals, organizing a cabaret, teaching. A last minute trip to visit my son for Easter. Preparations for my daughter’s Masters degree graduation in Boston. My hesitation in blogging has something to do with all of that activity but also with tomorrow. April 19. Thirty years.

A letter that’s long in coming but has been formulated in my heart and mind for quite some time. A letting go.

It seems odd to write. Over these decades you have been a part of the journey. Some days, like today, it’s a fleeting flashback, almost relegated to a hashtag. How you visited with women in the Monroe A&P. We’d get animal crackers. Now, I understand the significance of those grocery store chats. What is said in those whispers on the aisles. I understand a lot more than I did thirty, forty, fifty years ago.

You’d be proud of your grandchildren. They are creative, generous, intelligent, funny people. There has never been a time I haven’t enjoyed their company —-from the first moment I held them to the last moment we spoke. I hope they can say the same of me. You were right. Children grow up very quickly. It’s hard to believe that Sarah (named for your grandmother) is the same age I was the last time I saw you. Patrick (named for your great-grandfather) is now the age I was when I had Sarah. I remembered what you said… to spend time with them. . . the dishes and everything else did keep.

During most of my life I had a clearly marked ‘road map’. About four or five years ago things seemed very murky. Hormones and a redefined self-image…. I recalled one of our last conversations: about middle-aged women – – – a complicated conversation that I didn’t understand at the time. Now I understand the aging process: physical and spiritual. You prepared me for those steps just as you prepared me for so many others. It’s hasn’t escaped me that like many women, you found passion in your 50’s—-yours was public service and education. It’s not that you weren’t interested in public service before, after fifty you just had time to dedicate. Freedom and independence are exhilarating. That was our last conversation April 17, 1985.

You and Daddy taught by example that each day is enough. I hope Patrick and Sarah know that too. Finding the ‘simple’, in themselves and in others; Sifting through life’s concerns with style and grace. Keeping their ducks in a row….sometimes alone, sometimes with others. Always remembering….Family. Friends. Respect. Love. Laughter and fun along the way.

Yeah…it’s more than enough….and the conversation continues….

Finding Home

Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.

Dr. Seuss

….music (especially singing), theater, photography, writing, pork roast, mashed potatoes, asparagus cooked al dente, soup, reading on a rainy day, watching the sunset or sunrise, travel, cooking, spring gardening, touching base with friends and family…..

Don’t we all have a list of ‘comforts’ that keep us grounded, reminds us where we came from, keeps us centered in today, challenging us into tomorrow?

Two days after Christmas a friend and colleague for over twenty-five years went into sudden cardiac arrest. His condition was ‘serious’ at best, so I postponed my Christmas trip home. Over these weeks he has miraculously recovered. Two weeks ago I was finally able to make my Christmas trip home to North Louisiana. Home. Comfort.

In these weeks since Christmas I’ve thought about friends and family: the comfort they bring. Hopefully the comfort I bring them. What home means.

I once thought that “home” was about reinventing what my parents had created, a magical place from my childhood. I wanted magic for my children, a place the three of us would find safe, warm and filled with love, understanding and acceptance. Ultimately, we created our own rhythm and brand of magic. Home. Comfort.

Earlier this week on my way to run errands, out of the corner of my eye I noticed someone opening one of those clothing drop-off boxes. The person was on a bicycle so it seemed odd that they would drop off anything in a rainstorm. Suddenly they went head-first into the box. My heart stopped when I realized what I had witnessed. I’ve been haunted by that image. Home. Comfort.

Coming back from that Christmas visit I reflected…maybe we’re all turtles in a sense,finding home in each place and carrying with us those people and things that bring us comfort. Maybe that’s what that person in the parking lot took with him/her into the drop-off bin….memories and comfort. I never saw a face. When I drove through the parking lot the next day he/she wasn’t there.

Home. Comfort.

My little brother Mark will tell you I’m convinced that life can be boiled down to The Wizard of Oz…..there IS no place like home….wherever you find it.

Measuring

Since Christmas life has been going at fever pitch. These last few days there has been quiet time to reflect…rest and relax. Not as much time with the camera as I would’ve liked but those days will return. Images of this last year flashed before me….one song stuck in my head.

Signs and symbols measure our lives. Often they speak louder than words…fill us with gratitude…grace Measuring in love……

Finding Crème Brûlée

It’s been nearly a year since I began this photo-journal blog adventure. It started as a thank you to my adult children after last Christmas: to my son Patrick for his thoughtful gift, a new camera; to my daughter Sarah for her advice as a photographer and blogger. Each time I’ve held the camera my life quietens in prayer for them and for what surrounds me; for those–near and for—who I keep close. It has been a wild ride….filled with fun and adventure. At fifty-five that seems appropriate.

Like most people, these weeks before Christmas are busy with mundane balanced with preparations for the coming holiday. I learned long ago to take an inventory of values and expectations during this season. Traditions are important. . . well, at least to me they are. Name the day and time, keep it. Stay in the moment and enjoy it. All of that was very helpful raising two children. Keep It Simple Silly

Over the last week I’ve been preparing my daughter’s bedroom for a holiday spruce up. The renovation was a long-time coming. This transformation seemed to erase her childhood in my mind. With a few strokes exuberant, innocent hot pink became crème brûlée. She’s an adult. It was time.

As I was moving furniture, etc. I found what I thought was memorabilia that Sarah had been saving. Not so much! Mostly empty bags from shopping excursions she and I had taken together over the years when she had been home during holidays and summers. Lovely memories. At the bottom was a HUGE box.

My daughter has lived on her own for the past six years–all over the world. I do have some of her things in storage but I couldn’t imagine what was in it. I saw the box, smiled and laughed out loud.

Sarah had been studying in Prague, living there for a year. At the end of the year I joined her in Prague to pack up her apartment, travel a little then back to the states. There was a year’s worth of life to collect. Her suitcases broke; we bought new ones in Vienna. The image of our parade of suitcases on the tiny streets of Salzburg still makes me smile. On a cold, wet June day we decided to ship two LARGE YELLOW boxes back, praying clothes, books, worldly possessions would find their way home. Neither of us could part with the boxes. Seeing them reminded me of adventures with both of my ‘children’….and the promise of future adventure….for them and for me. It is, after all, our tradition. . .

With those memories hot pink became crème brûlée. In a way, isn’t life like those layers of paint? It’s comforting to know somewhere in me is a shade of pink rose bud layered with green gingham checks. We move on taking pieces with us. . . keeping it simple.

Here’s to tradition…no expectations. You’ll never know what you’ll find.