"On Leaving Your Mark"

leave your mark: to have an effect that changes someone or something.  

Designated a Historical Landmark, the small law office carries the name "The Skinner House," the surname belonging to Eugene Skinner, the original founder of the city.  While the front of the building displays a large, covered porch with wide steps inviting entry, the back was a weed-laden, graveled area, stark and barren.

In my job as a gardener, a personal bonus is work efforts are quite apparent.  The appearance of my work space often shows a visible improvement after completing a job when compared to its beginning.  This back area is a perfect example, where the contrast could not have been more evident.  A narrow bed was created adjacent to the foundation and bordered with smooth, melon-sized rocks.  Planted with succulents and drought tolerant plants for summer bloom it was transformed with color, the bright orange of California Poppies and purples of a hearty, wild bloomer.  Providing a morning greeting, a feast for the eyes for the ones who work there, I couldn’t resist the temptation to bring in some spring color as well for the season six months away.  The daffodils have faded, but that bed is now filled with tulips, and the colors are stunning.  The bulbs were planted without the knowledge of the employees, a welcome surprise, an exclamation point to the end of a dreary winter.   I guess it could be said I left my mark.

We all leave one in this life—our mark, that is, and not necessarily of the kind just referenced.  It may be planned or deliberate; more often it is unintended.  It might be a positive one, perhaps negative.  Leaving one’s mark isn’t about making a casual impression either but, rather, having an influence on others with a long-term effect.  It is affecting another’s life in such a manner he/she is not the same person after an encounter or personal involvement as they were before, the contrast as real as before and after photographs.

Recently I was told of a grandfather who left such a mark, a positive one.  He didn’t do anything unusual or out-of-the-ordinary, but the impact of the kind of person he was lives on.  The way he lived his life with kindness, acceptance, inclusion, and love has never been forgotten by a grandson.  I doubt this grandfather had any idea decades later his mark would be felt, along with the desire of emulation.

Where and how you leave your mark is personal and individual.  For some it may be through family or in social and business contacts; for others the goal may be relative to concerns of the environment or planet; for another it may be, like the grandfather, in the day-to-day living of life and the encounters and relationships which occur.

 

Personally, my goal is of a spiritual nature.  My hope is to leave a mark which continues for all eternity.  “That’s lofty, egotistical even,” some might say; others, “It makes no sense.”  While some may feel that way, the reality is I have been given one life to live.  My desire is for it to have significance, to have value and purpose.  My aspiration is that, in living my life, others may see God and seek Him out for themselves.  

And so I will continue tending lawns and gardens by mowing, blowing, and edging.  I will weed like there is no tomorrow and rake mountains of fallen leaves.  I will weed-eat, deal with blackberries and ivy, and address a to-do list which never ends, leaving my mark as a gardener.  My true goal, however, is to leave an invisible mark, one not seen with the physical but the spiritual eye, a mark which is eternal.  

That is the mark I hope to leave.   

"On Pictures vs. Reality"

Recently I was described as being "a hippy girl."  I harbor no personal bias against hippies and knew the term was meant in the most complimentary way.  However, this description collided head-on with a picture I have carried in my mind for years with the fantasy of fulfillment one day.  That is the picture of my becoming a lady, a sophisticate even.  You can stop laughing now!  I can hear family members and those who know me and my lifestyle roaring with laughter as I am anything and everything but--a lady, that is.

The thing about a picture is that it is an image, one that is fabricated in one's imagination, and it has a tendency to hang around for a long time.  There is nothing real about these pictures.  We color them as we choose, we shade them, we distort them, we create the image that suits us, often in a way that makes us feel good.  That would be a "pretty" picture.

We live in a world of pictures created in our own minds.  We have the history of past experiences and can only live in the present, in this moment, at this point in time.  Tomorrow is an unknown, and we deal with it by imagining what is going to happen, what is going to be, or what life will be like.  Enter (drum roll please): Reality.  Our pictures will always collide with reality, that which is actual or real, and reality will always come out on top. 

 Each and every one of us has our own set of pictures rolling around within us.  No one sees them or even knows they exist unless we decide to share them.  How many of us have had a picture of what parenthood would be like? Maybe retirement or a new job.  Perhaps a vacation trip, a holiday with the family, a new pet, a change in lifestyle, a relationship--need I go on?  When reality takes place, the comments usually begin with, "I thought" and end with "but......." 

I maintain that man has only pictures of God as well, and they are far removed from reality.  We have ideas, images of what He is like and what He will or won't do, and we believe them and state them as absolute truths.  How do I know?  I was the worst offender.  I am challenging you to find the truth for yourself.  You just might be pleasantly surprised.  I was.  He doesn't abide by any of the rules "I thought" He did. He's not into game playing or manipulation and simply wants friendship.  It's as simple as asking Him what He is really like.  In reality, what do you have to lose?  Just a lot of pictures.  What do you have to gain?  All that is real.

Back to the evaporation of my picture, the sophisticate.  In truth, I talk far too loudly, laugh with too much fervor, and walk too hard to ever be a lady.  I have zero poise and dress and work like the gardener I am.   It has never been in my DNA to be a lady and, at the age of 69, even my prettiest picture is never going to happen.  I'm all in favor of embracing the reality of that hippy girl.  Besides, a lady wouldn't be caught dead wearing the big, floppy gardening hat that I love.

"On Please and Thank You"

I found myself in a place of desperation the other night.  OK, that may be an over-exaggeration and a bit dramatic, but at the time I was definitely spinning in circles, going nowhere fast, and I felt pretty desperate.

 It was the same day I got my tax returns back in the mail and found, as one of my clients  succinctly put it, that I am going to be contributing to the purchase of an aircraft carrier by our government.  I always have to pay money so that wasn't a surprise.  What walloped me alongside the head was the amount.  I was not mentally prepared to have to pay the tidy little sum being requested of me, double the amount I paid last year. 

That in conjunction with some recent uninsured dental work and truck repair put me in one of "those" moods.  You all know what kind of mood I'm talking about.  If you don't know, let me explain.  It's the one where "Fear" comes and sits right in the middle of your forehead, thanking you for the open invitation, bringing along its best friend, "Worry."  I know full well the futility of worry, but I was already in the middle of a full-blown case of it.  Getting out of it is nigh unto impossible.

Why does going to bed seem like a good idea at a time like this?  I don't know.  Rest, of course, is out of the question.  Go figure.  I was lying in bed wrestling, unsuccessfully, with that huge giant in my mind.  When fear and worry work their way in there is no peace, there is no reason.  This is the place of desperation I am talking about.  As I was tossing and turning, I heard in my mind the cry Help me,  directed toward my heavenly Father.  After awhile I found I was thinking of all that I have to be thankful for in the here and now.  That list is endless as I have been given so much.  The conscious thought was that tomorrow will take care of itself, and I fell asleep in peace. 

Earlier in the week I had been remembering a Bible story from Sunday School days.  It is the story of 10 lepers who were healed.  In Biblical times leprosy was a condition that carried with it such social stigma that those afflicted were shunned, banished from their families and society.  As the story goes, only one of those 10 lepers came back to thank Jesus, the one who had healed them.  While thinking about the whole scenario my reaction was  What ingrates.  What ingratitude.  How could their lives be changed so dramatically, and they didn't even thank Him?

Today as I was weeding Patt's garden with a gorgeous view of the McKenzie River, the Willamette Valley, and the mountains in the distance, it occurred to me that I had never thanked my Father for taking me from that place of desperation to a place of peace.  Talk about taking a look in the mirror.  "If the shoe fits wear it."  I had no problem begging Him for help, but when He gave it I just continued on with my life without even an acknowledgement.

As a parent there is nothing on this earth I wouldn't give my children if I am able to.  Those gifts are not contingent upon being told "Thank you," but knowing they are appreciated is heartwarming. My heavenly Father is no different.  He loves giving to His children and would withhold nothing from them.  He asks for nothing in return, but I think a simple "Please" and "Thank you" is in order. 

Note to self.
  

"On All Things Spiritual"

While vacuuming today (I clean houses as well as gardening) I considered, for about 30 seconds, apologizing to you readers for applying a spiritual bent to everything I write.  I very quickly realized that a:  It is impossible for me to change and b: All things are spiritual.  An apology isn't going to happen.  I just can't help myself.  It is how I see things.  It is who I am.

Being preached to is a personal dislike, dare I say hatred.   Coming across in these writings as a preacher is the last thing on earth I want.  It is not my goal to convince you of anything.  I do not expect, nor do I want, everyone to agree with my thoughts, my positions and convictions, or my perspectives.  They are, after all, mine and mine alone.  What I do want is for you to see things in a way or in a light you've not seen before.  Perhaps you will find a pearl that confirms or reinforces your own  thoughts and ideas.  My desire is that you find yourself thinking, wondering, questioning, and pursuing your own personal truth.  I would love it if you find something to smile about.

I doubt those who are unable to stomach spiritual input will frequent these writings, and that is not a bad thing.  Spiritual can be a bit disconcerting in its starkness and reality, but it always comes from a base of love.  For those of you who come back again and again, I hope you are challenged to think outside of the box, that you are nourished and fed, not only mentally but spiritually and emotionally as well.  Whoa!!  That's a tall order for me to fill, isn't it?  I hope you leave knowing that you are not alone in the life you live and the challenges you may be facing.  I hope you feel and know that someone cares, and that you see for yourselves that "All things are spiritual." 

When I was a little girl my name was always on the blackboard for talking in class.  This meant I spent a lot of my recess time and after school inside for punishment.  This blog is an outlet for that much older girl who still has a lot to say.  Thank you to each one of you--for giving your time in coming here, for not throwing stones, for your support and encouragement, your positive comments, for allowing me to share myself and my thoughts with you. 

"It's the Obvious That Will Get You"

obvious:  adj.  Easily discovered, seen, or understood; self-explanatory.

There are those times when a writer risks personal embarrassment, mortification, and humiliation in order to not only make a point but to reinforce it.  This is one of those times.  I feel it is worth the risk.

I got a new power washer Sunday, my third within the past year.  The first two had been returned to the place of purchase and replaced.  Upon filling the gas tank of the first one, gas poured out onto the driveway; the second had a strange odor when it first fired up, made an odd sound and died.  My hopes were this one was going to function correctly.  Why, you ask, do I continue replacing them with the same type?  As long as the store where it was bought refunds my money with no questions asked and gives me a new one, why not?  And as my mother would say, “The third time is a charm.” 

There is a reason behind my telling you this is my third one, and it is that I am not a “newbie,” but a veteran at assembling this machine.  As is typical, they come in a large box, and the consumer puts it together.  Having assembled two of them already, I was filled with confidence.  Boldness exuded as I briefly perused the instruction sheet, assured I knew what I was doing. There’s not much to it—fill with oil and gas; attach handle; connect a hose on one end to the machine, on the other end to the spray wand; attach the spray wand to the gun.  Hook a garden hose up to the machine, turn the water on, and one can be power washing within minutes.

This is where the humiliating part unfolds.  The only step left was to attach the spray wand to the spray gun, but It would not fit.  Matching the two was impossibe.  Checking the opposite end, I saw what I thought was a blue spray nozzle so was certain I had the correct end.  After multiple efforts with no success, I finally decided I would make another attempt when I was more alert, after a good night’s sleep, and having fed my brain.  The task had become daunting and was worthy of my best efforts. It is a verifiable fact one cannot put a square peg into a round hole, and it appeared I had been trying to do that. 

This morning was that time.  After checking the picture on the instructions I resumed my effort.  Nope.  Nada.  It wasn’t going to fit even when I was rested.  Options began floating through my mind.  I could return it to the place of purchase to exchange it for machine #4; I could take it to my power equipment people and see if Scott could make it work—Scott can make anything work; I could have my son-in-law stop by—I knew he could fix it.

THEN—my eyes caught what I had thought to be the blue spray nozzle.  It wasn’t a nozzle at all, but a cap, a screw-on cap, a new feature from the previous two.  Voila!!  Screw cap off, attach spray wand to spray gun.  I had been trying to connect the wrong end all along.

Now here is my point.  How obvious was that?  It wasn’t a secret; it didn’t take any special technique or brain skills; it wasn’t made deliberately difficult and was right there the entire time.  I just missed seeing it until I actually looked and gave it some thought.  

It is no different when it comes to God.  

God has placed within mankind the fact that He is. 

“For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them.  Ever since the creation of the world his eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made.  So they are without excuse.”  Romans 1: 19, 20.  NRSV

Some will deny that truth; some say they will accept that truth if/when certain conditions or terms are met; some will casually treat that truth as though He is part of a giant fairy tale when, in fact, this is His world, and we are His creation.

In my life, He is an obvious.  I see Him in my daily encounters and experiences; I see Him in times of frustration and times of joy and pleasure; I see Him in my inadequacies and my fears, accomplishments and courage as He walks with me through life 

My message is “Look.  Open your eyes and see.”  Look at a flower, a one-of-a-kind snowflake, the perfection of a baby, the cycle of the seasons, the stars in the sky.  Look in the mirror at your own capability to function, to think, to reason, to laugh, to love, to live life.  “Look.  Open your eyes and see.”

It’s the obvious that will get you every time, whether it’s a blue screw-on cap or something that is as plain as the nose on your face, and that would be God.

Mankind will either acknowledge Him in the present or face-to-face later.  Sooner is definitely better than later.  And while it can be said, "I did not believe," it can never be said, "You did not show me.  I did not see.  I did not know."  

 

"Postscript--A Whole Other Tale"

My most recent post chronicled a very difficult time in my life and the life of my family--the loss of all our worldly possessions in a freak flood.  In it I also commented on a part of the  outcome--ending up on two acres of country property.  At the time I said it was a "whole other tale for another day."  This seems to be a perfect time to fill in the blanks.

We were one of the fortunate ones to have been covered by flood insurance.  Our home at the time of the flood was a mobile home and, because it had wheels, was given the same kind of coverage as an automobile.  While not a huge amount of money, it was at least something.  Those who lived in real houses were not afforded any protection or compensation at all.  

Housing in the area was in short supply due to an influx of population which had come to man a newly built paper mill, so we had no real options other than to replace the mobile home.  Excitedly, we placed an order for our new home unsure where we were going to set it up.  

 I refused to go back to the mobile home park where we were flooded, and there was only one other setting which would accommodate the all-electric feature.   We made the decision to have it brought to the alternate park even though it was a very crowded space.  Having grown up in the country, being squeezed in on all sides didn't set well, but there was no other choice.  My husband at the time was working the midnight shift and was supposed to stop by on his way home from work to place a deposit.  He forgot three days in a row.  Because we hadn't secured the site it was given to someone else. 

 We had the pending delivery of a new mobile home and virtually no place to put it.  I'm not sure how long we wrestled with the situation, but at one point my husband said, "Let's go find some property to put it on."  Now that makes perfect sense, doesn't it?  We got in the car and headed out with no thought or direction in mind.  To make a long story short which, in case you haven't already noticed, I am incapable of doing--We headed up a winding road we had never driven up before and which I was quite certain led nowhere.  There we discovered a plot of land.  I'm not sure there was even a "For Sale" sign on it as we asked a neighbor if it was available and who the realtor was. 

We had all of $100 which we used as earnest money with the promise of $900 for the down payment.  It turned out that we were able to claim our  flood loss on taxes and that $900 came just in time for the finalizing of the deal.  We had a place to bring the mobile home to.

Our home up Scholfield Road was a gift.  I loved living there.  The mobile home was replaced with a house as the family grew, and it was a gathering place for people of all ages.  All of my four children grew up there, and I would not trade that place, that space, that time for anywhere else in the world.  Do you wonder, do you question why I live my life the way I do?  The One who made me has taken such good care of me and continues to do so.

"On Tumultuous Times"

Tumult is a very personal, individual matter.  I looked the word up in the dictionary and found it to mean disorder, great mental or emotional confusion, violent agitation of mind or feelings.  It is one's response to what may seem a cataclysmic event in our lives.  It can also involve a lot of noise, but I am referring to the inner turmoil which results.

When I speak of tumultuous times I'm not talking about a bad hair day or the fact that, ever since I had some ignition work done on my truck, it dings when I open the door whether or not the key is in it.  Those are annoyances, a nuisance.  I'm not even talking about a vacation when the weather was not cooperative or those 3 or 4 days that kept everyone housebound because the snow was a foot deep.  I'm talking about those times in our lives which resemble an emotional tornado, an earthquake, those times when everything is turned upside down and mark a turning point in time.  Those are the times we use as a "before" and "after" marker in our lives.

The "Flood of '64" was that kind of an event for my young family.  A warm Chinook wind hit an early snowpack in the Cascades, melting it.  The low-lying areas of the small coastal town where we lived were filled with water, and that is where our home was.  Everything we owned was wiped out by an unusual set of circumstances.  We had no money as we had put it all in the mobile home and the move to this area.  I can still remember trying to set up a household afterward in the small motel suite provided for us by Red Cross.  I will never forget how that time felt.  At the time I did not apply the word "tumultuous," but it is a perfect description.  While the entire community was affected, I was dealing with my own individual loss.

I am betting that each one of you has had your own "tumultuous time" in your life and can relate to what I am saying.  I'm not going to spell out a hypothetical list of events and circumstances that may or may not be applicable.  As I said in the beginning, "Tumult is a very personal, individual matter." 

This much I know and believe to be so:  I am given three choices when life hits me full on.  I can turn to my Creator, I can turn on Him, or I can deny the fact that He even exists and cares.  In my life I opt for seeking Him and His help.  Life is hard enough as it is.  I prefer not to do it by myself when I don't have to. 

I am also of the belief that nothing is happenstance, that there is purpose and design to my life.  Four months after that total devastation we found ourselves on two acres of country property.  That is a whole other tale for another day.  This was the site where we raised our four children and were able to give them "the best childhood any kid could ever have."  And this is their quote, not mine.  The "Flood of '64" was life-changing for me on so many levels.  Spiritual and emotional growth and maturity comes at a price sometimes, tumultuous or otherwise, but it is invaluable.  It is what makes it possible for me to simply stand.

"On Being Real"

Real:  n.--the state or condition of authenticity.  syn.--genuine, without pretense; ant.--counterfeit, facsimile, facade.  (Note:  my definition, not Webster's.)

So what set my mind in motion on the subject of "being real?"  I have not a clue, though it was a sunny day.  Where my mind goes, your mind comes along as well, if you are prone to reading these entries, so here we go.

In the 80's my son worked for a well-known pizza company whose claim to fame was its use of real cheese.  Who even knew there was fake cheese?  That was one of my first exposures to the world of artificialdom which has escalated to the present, a world where things are not as they seem to be. They aren't real.  I recently had a CD made of several piano renditions.  The end product is not real.  I did not play the music as mistake free as it sounds.  The producer repeatedly told me that this is how CDs are made.  In that world it's called editing, a process where notes are moved around, where time between notes or phrases is either squeezed together or lengthened.  Photographs are manipulated, music is electronically contrived, accounts of current events are distorted, and we aren't even aware it is happening.

Even though the physical world we live in is filled with everything that is fake I hold to the importance of being real as a person.  What do I mean by that?  I am of the belief that each of us began our lives in that state of being real.   Over time that authenticity was compromised.  Perhaps it was a parent requiring us to say "I'm sorry" to a sibling when what we felt was anything but sorry; perhaps it was a teacher expecting "good" behavior in order to maintain order in the classroom; perhaps it was a spouse or friend asking for a concession that was given in order to maintain the peace; perhaps it was a minister suggesting punishment for misbehaving.  As the mother of four children, I'm all for getting along.  What I am talking about is compromising myself, how I feel, and what I think in the process until I no longer even know how I feel or what I think.  I don't even know myself.

A person who is real in your life is like money in the bank.  They say what they mean and mean what they say.  They do not sugar coat, they won't tell you what you want to hear just to be "nice."  Their emotions, reactions, and responses are valid; they don't play games with people, emotional or otherwise.  They will never try to control another but offer guidance, leadership, and support.  Support from a real person is beyond measure.  You always know where you stand with this kind of a person.  There's never any doubt or question.

The facades and layers that build up on us over our lifetime take some time to peel away.   Layer after layer must be taken off until the real me (or you) is uncovered.  For me, it was a discovery of sorts, becoming acquainted with the person I really am.  It was unnerving at times, because I didn't know who or what I was going to find or if I would even like what I found.  I have found the child within me, the 5-year-old who loved life, was outspoken, and who drove her parents up the wall with her inappropriate questions.  I loved being that little girl!  For me the end result was well worth the process.  I like the person I have found. It is a place and a state I highly recommend.

"A Personal Shout-out"

I want to give a shout-out to two of my grandgirls, Kendall Jean and Avery Ione, for their stellar attitude and behavior this past week.  With Mom and Dad both gone and Gramma (that would be me) on the home front, it could not have been easy for two girls, but they performed above and beyond.  They got along with one another, they did everything that was asked of them, and I only had to throw the I-pad and phone in the garbage one time for each girl.  Just kidding. 


I know they love reading about themselves in this forum, so I wanted to dedicate a special entry just for them.  I had a great week with them and loved the conversations on the trip to school.  I honestly cannot think of a negative time the entire week.  #Hip, hip hooray for Kendall and Avery!  I am very proud of them, and they have every right to be proud of themselves as well.

"On the Aging Process"

It happened while I was on my hands and knees weeding Bruce's blueberries prior to fertilizing them.  I turned a corner and ran smack-dab into a wall.  It wasn't a literal corner or a literal wall, but it might as well have been.  It was that tangible, that palpable.  In fact, it was so real, I didn't know if I would ever find my way past it.  I was not a happy camper as it was the first day of real sun in forever, a day without rain, and the last thing I wanted to face was the fact that I am aging.  Reality aside, what a grim thing to be thinking about! 


Several days ago, my daughter sent me a picture of the two of us, one I had not seen before.  I asked her when it was taken and who the old lady was with her. The two just didn't match--What I saw with my eyes and how I feel.  There is a two to three decades disparity between my chronological age and what I feel within me.   I don't feel old, but "pictures don't lie," and boy, this one didn't do that!


I began thinking today about the fact that aging is a process as are many things related to the body.  There is the birthing process, the healing process, the dying process.  The very word itself is indicative of something that takes place over a period of time.  It is not something that happens overnight, but it does happen. 


I also began thinking about how our lives often go full circle, ending up where we started.  We all began this life being taken care of.  Someone saw to it that we were fed, clothed, that our basic needs were provided for.  We never had to be concerned over bills, budgets, the weather.  This doesn't sound all that different from the assisted care life provided for an older person.  We eagerly awaited the magic 16-year-old birthday when we could get our driver's license.  Having the keys to our own car was a rite of passage.  At the other end of the spectrum,  the license isn't renewed, the keys are taken away, and driving privileges revoked due to age.   It is a circle of limitations and boundaries placed on a person beginning in childhood, ending as an elderly person.
 


This morning I heard myself say, "Let  me live my life with grace and bring honor to you, God."  The aging process is part of life.  I hope this is something I am able to do and to do it well.  This process is not personal, it is universal.  I guess I was just expecting it to circumvent me.  It hasn't.


I made it past the wall today, and this much I know:  Having a sense of humor and a positive attitude at any point in life is priceless.  Having a daughter who says, "You're gorgeous," when you know the two of you were looking at the same picture is even more so.  What is that saying about not being able to stop progress?  Oh, yeah, that has to do with progress, but the aging process can't be stopped either.  Thank God that one can look old AND be old, yet not feel old.

"Hashtags aka The Generation Gap"

You know it's a good day when it begins with a gut chuckle and an experience that is going  to have a smile on your face for the rest of the day.  That is how my day began as I was taking the grandgirls to school.


The commute to school with two grandgirls and myself in the cab of my small pickup truck is always unpredictable.  One never knows what the dynamics are going to be between siblings, and the space is crowded and cramped if they decide to be physical.


The trip was uneventful until they decided to have a "hashtag" conversation. That is an off-shoot of tweeting, and every comment begins with that word.  "Hashtag be quiet."  "Hashtag I don't have to."  "Hashtag I don't care."  Just imagine that for a couple of miles in a very small vehicle.  I asked them to stop and, of course, that was unsuccessful.  Finally I said, "Hashtag settle down."  There was a drop-dead silence, then embarrassed giggles before the older one said, "Somehow that just doesn't sound right coming out of your mouth, Gramma."  The laughter rolled out of me, and the stage was set for my own hashtag comments.  We were all laughing as I dropped them off at the school door.


Electronics is not my niche so I am fairly clueless as to what is current and up-to-date in that realm.  I rely on the grandgirls to turn their respective televisions on and off, I only learned about FaceTime two nights ago, I have a "stupid" phone rather than a smartphone, and I have a sparse idea of what Twitter is and the correlating hash-tag.  The girls know that so the grandgirl's comment was spot-on.


I had my own generation gap experience today, but it was a fun one.  I know I'll be smiling over this one not only today but for a long time to come.








 

"On Being a Grandmother"

I love my grandgirls, all 5 of them.  I became a mother when I was 18 years old.  I did not become a grandmother until I was 54, but oh, was it ever worth the wait!

I lived with my daughter and her family for a year and a half, from the time my oldest grandgirl was 6 months old until she was 2.  You don't think that didn't make for a bond?  We are both early risers, so she and I spent hours together during a time of the day when no one else was awake.  I introduced her to chocolate-dipped pumpkin ice cream cones, zucchini squash, and a whole slew of other vegetables.  It was just the two of us for several years and relinquishing the status of Nana's only grandchild was not easy for a little girl, but she did, welcoming four cousins into the family.  She is an excellent big sister/cousin and is worshipped and adored by them.  Now a 15-year-old, she has introduced me to hip-hop dancing and friendships that exist via texting.  And yes, she still enjoys her vegetables.

Two of the grandgirls were my next-door neighbors their whole lives until they moved out of the neighborhood a year and a half ago.  That connection earned me the distinction of "neighbor Gramma."  Since the move I am now "Gram, Gram" or just plain "Gramma."  The oldest, now 9, is a deep soul.  She was called an "old soul" as an infant.  Even then her eyes could bore a hole through you, causing one to wonder just what she was thinking.  She is quiet, but mighty.  I have saved her from more than a few spiders in her life, making me her heroine.  The little sister, 7, was born with a zest for life and a smile on her face.  This one knows how to laugh at herself and does so quite frequently.  What a gift!  "Spitfire" is probably the most accurate description of her.  Talk--oh, how she loves to talk.  I've often told her that her ears and mouth don't work at the same time, but that has been a futile attempt to get her to listen. 

The other two grandgirls, 11 and 7, are moving to the other side of the world.  Not really, but compared to the 45-minute road trip it takes me to land at their front door, Boise, Idaho seems a world away.  The older sister in this family has the most infectious laugh you will ever hear.  She is one who devours books and loves volleyball.  One of her most favorite interludes in the world is to see who can be the grossest in a conversation with her Uncle Doug.  Add her love of unicorns and sloths to this description and you can see how broad her interests are.  The younger sister is one who marches to the beat of her own drum.  She has a consistent disposition in life which is unique for a child.  Not much ruffles her.  She knows no fear and has a level of trust which strikes the very depth of panic in a parent or grandparent.  She knows no stranger.  I am Gram or Gramma to these two as well.

While each one is unique and individual, they share common traits of being strong-willed, stubborn, independent, honest, out-spoken.  These are positives, not negatives, just difficult for parents to deal with at times.  That's when being a grandparent has its advantages.

I very rarely use the word "blessed."  I feel it is over-used, misused, and abused.  However, in the context and scope of having been given a gift from God, I am blessed.  I love my grandgirls, all 5 of them.  I cannot imagine my life without them.

"On Thinking For Yourself"

I spend a lot of time thinking. Allow me to extol the virtues of thinking...for yourself. 

As one raised in an environment where self-thought was not particularly promoted, I know the difference. No one told me what to think. However, the parameters of any given subject were sensed and felt. I knew what thoughts were acceptable. Over time I adopted them as my own. I enjoyed the approval that came with it--and a place where I fit. 

I maintain people do this all the time, young or old, in all varieties of circles--religious, the classroom, political, social, familial. Sometimes it just seems easier to either be told what to think or accept the current narrative. Thought that differs from the norm may be viewed as controversial, so it is often avoided..

"What do YOU think?" was the impetus of a new adventure for me. In the beginning, thinking for myself was not an easy thing. All kinds of thoughts ricocheted around in my mind before I settled down to a conscious assessment. Even now, when approaching a situation or a problem, I often start with "What DO I think?".

Thinking is different from worry. Worry is negative and non-productive. Talk about going in circles!  Worry will do that to you every time.  

Thinking is elemental. The process of thought is what makes humans different from animals.   It is the basis of decision-making, opinion, belief, conviction, or an action.  It may be a simple assessment of facts, or it may include one's emotions, past history, and experiences. It is productive, often culminating in a conclusion.

No one else in the world thinks as I do. My thoughts are mine and mine alone, as are yours.  They are as individual and unique as my DNA. They are personal and private and become privy to others only if the choice is made to share them. 

We have all been given the capacity for thought. Don't squander it. Don't waste it on garbage. And--most importantly--don't turn control of it over to another. Use it wisely.