"On Grandgirls and Laughter"

For those of you who have experienced depression, and I mean depression, you also know what I am saying when I express the pure, unadulterated joy of experiencing laughter.  It is a contrast and comparison thing.  The abysmal darkness, the hopelessness, the stifling  blanket of fog of the one stands starkly beside the life and light of the other.  If this is not in your experience, then you can only hear the words.  Laughter is one of the best gifts I was given when I came out the end of that very long, dark tunnel.

I love to laugh, and nothing or no one brings a belly laugh, a gut chuckle from me like my grandgirls.  I take that back.  When my son and son-in-law get together my jaws often hurt from laughing so hard.  But this is about my grandgirls.  I would like to say this is a unique, special characteristic of my grandchildren and mine alone, but I do think it can be said of most children.  

Two of the grandgirls were staying with me for the day.  As often happens, "I love my girls" came out of my mouth.  The little one, who never, ever lacks for words looked at me with an absolutely straight, expressionless face.  "Who wouldn't love us?" she asked. Laughter, instant and immediate.  And I still smile when I think about it.  Later on in the day, I was telling the girls about something that had taken place when my son, now 50, was a little guy.  This time it was the older one:  "Wow, I can't believe you can actually remember something that happened that long ago."  "Really?" I asked.  "Yeah, that is amazing." Once again, the laughter flowed from within me, and I smile when I remember.  

My life has been filled with laughter since I became a grandmother.  I remember when my now 15-year-old grandgirl was little, maybe 3 or 4.  She was concerned that I did not have a "boy" in my life.  I told her it needed to be the right one.  She didn't even take a breath or blink:  "The right one would be old, right, Nana?"  I still laugh when I think of that and that was a decade ago.

The sparkly grandgirl and the fearless one bring laughter to my soul even though they've moved away.  Talking with them on the phone always makes me laugh, and the infectious, contagious giggle of the older one still strikes a place deep within me.  I hope that never, ever changes in her.  The little one, although not so little, expressed her opinion that I need to write a Bible.  That made me laugh.  On the other hand, it gave me pause for thought too. 

It is said that laughter is the best medicine and kids keep you young.  Given that statement, I am in for a long, long stretch, as a healthy, wealthy woman, one of the wealthiest in the world.  

"A joyful heart is good medicine; but a crushed spirit dries up the bones."

"On Hiding In Plain Sight"

The parking lot was busy, the busiest time of the day at the grocery store, and I was wandering around with my phone, digging through the shrubbery.  The heat of the day, the sight of the syringe, and the futility of my efforts dampened my enthusiasm for geocaching, at least for the day.  I knew I was close to the hidden cache, as the clue Caching in the Lamplight and information on my phone indicated I was within 2 feet.  After circling the lamp post in the middle of the parking lot for the hundredth time--well, not quite, but enough to feel like an idiot and hope no one was watching, I concluded that someone had come along and stolen it.  That was my story, and I was sticking to it.

Geocaching:  a pastime in which participants use a GPS receiver to find a hidden container at a specific latitude and longitude or to hide a container to be found in this manner. 

My adult children and grandchildren have introduced me to geocaching.  It is a treasure hunt of sorts, where finding a hidden cache is the accomplishment. The new smart phones simplify it, making it a user friendly activity.  There are over 2 million caches worldwide.  When you find one, you record it in the cache, exchange trinkets, return it to its hiding place, and log it online.  This was my first solo attempt and, as with so many, it was hiding in plain sight.  I just couldn't see it.

My son found it within 30 seconds, lifting the metal collar on the post, and sent me a picture to verify his feat.  Armed with some visible assistance I headed back for a third time and found it myself.  It was, indeed, hiding in plain sight.

Many years ago, when the space exploration program was underway, astronauts were given the charge to look for God while on their outer space mission.  Man's mind is askew.   Silly man.  God is not going to be found "out there."  He is right here; He is everywhere.  As with the cache, one just has to know where to look.

How do you find someone who is hiding in plain sight, let alone God?  I am of the belief that it all goes back to the heart.  If one honestly, genuinely desires to see God, to know Him, to find Him, he will.  It is never game-playing or manipulation but purity that counts.  And unlike geocaching, where one may find a trinket in the cache, He is a priceless treasure. 

I will probably make another effort to find another cache, armed and emboldened with one successful geocaching experience.  However, it will never compare to the search for and resulting find of the One who is hiding in plain sight.  While the one is fun, recreational, the other is priceless, eternal, and life-enriching, never to be regretted.

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened."

"It's That Time of the Year"

"It's that time of the year" is a phrase bandied about by me quite regularly.  The actual  application and its meaning varies depending upon what time of the year "that" time is.  It may be a reference to cold, gray fog and the gray moods that accompany it, or I might be talking about the excitement and near-hysteria of the grandgirls as Christmas nears.  An approaching school year with school clothes shopping and the beginning of a disciplined routine are also described as "that time of the year."   It is a term applied to a specific occurrence in a specific time frame that is repeated year after year.

Very recently, I've heard myself saying that about wasps, stirring up some fear and trepidation within me.  It literally is "that time of the year."  Some of you may know what I'm talking about; some of you may not.  For whatever reason, wasps become very temperamental, very cranky, and downright mean as the temperatures become warmer--from mid-summer on, pretty much.  They take on a definite spirit of aggression and have no problem expressing themselves in an attack and conquer mode.

In my twelve seasons of gardening every time I've tangled with them it has been during this time of the year, from the end of July until temperatures get cooler and dampness returns.  And I've tangled with them almost every year.  The thing about wasps is that they have the advantage.  They are almost always hidden, tucked away, and they know where we humans are long before we find them. 

In years past I've considered them a nuisance, an annoyance, even when I encountered a nest in a rhododendron bush I was pruning.  My approach was to swat and kill, leaving the area as quickly as possible.  All that changed last season.

A year ago, while vigorously digging weeds, I drove my horry-horry, a Japanese weeding tool, straight into a wasps' nest buried in the ground.  I'm not sure why I hadn't noticed them entering and leaving, but I hadn't.  They immediately covered my hand and forearm, my ankle and lower leg, stinging ferociously.  I read that when one swats at a wasp, an alarm signal in the form of a scent is sent out within 15 seconds, attracting fellow female wasps, as they are the ones who sting. They hunt down and sting many, many times.  I can attest to that fact.  I have no idea how many stings there were, but a lot of venom entered my body.

Shaken, I assured my co-worker that I was fine and tried to continue working but decided to sit in the truck instead.  My blood pressure must have risen as I could feel my heartbeat pounding.  I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself and to get rid of a strange feeling, a really strange feeling.  I assured my client that I was breathing well, but the consensus was that I needed to go home.  I had been working in the country, half an hour away and, by the time I was home, I had a full-blown case of head-to-toe hives.  Virtually every inch of my body manifest them. 

A few days later, I found myself telling another of my clients, an ER physician, what had happened, comfortable in my perception that I had not had an allergic reaction as my breathing wasn't affected.  Gary's eyes widened as he exclaimed, "Ladonna, that was an allergic reaction," and spelled out the definition of one and offered to call in a prescription for a bee sting kit to carry in my truck.

Already this year two people have told me of being stung, and I find myself going into a high-alert mode.  I do not want to live my life in fear and have been wrestling with my Heavenly Father as to how to live with this reality, this possibility.  It was a very present issue yesterday as I was traipsing through sal al, grubbing out blackberry vines, not that different from walking through a mine field.  Any place I stepped carried with it an after-the-fact situation.  One never really knows where a wasps' ground nest is until you collide with them. 

I told myself that I was afraid, but that wasn't fear.  How brilliant is that thinking?  Not!!  What I did realize is that I am not afraid of dying, but my personal preference would be to not relive a wasp encounter.  Wrestling, trying to find a solid base, I finally heard myself say, "My life is in Your hands."  I've heard that phrase expressed many times before, and I'm not sure that I haven't used it, but this time I heard and felt the truth and reality of it. 

I am not saying that I'm out of the woods on this one yet.  One day at a time, and I made it successfully through yesterday.  It is "that time of the year," and I still have a ways to go on this part of my journey.  The good thing is that I'm not walking it alone and, even with a bee sting kit in my truck, my life is in God's hands.

"On Goals--Lofty, Realistic, Et Al"

School was out, and summer vacation was underway.  A vivid memory sits in my mind.  I had stopped by The Sugar Shack to pick up some bread, arguably the best bakery in all of the central Oregon coast, if not the world.  While waiting to pay for it someone asked if I had plans for the summer.  I responded that my goal for the summer was to not cause bodily harm to my children and to return them safely to school in the fall.  At that moment, that time, I was serious.

While exaggerated and certainly not the kindest of comments, there was an element of truth to it.  I was not the most patient mother in the world, and summer always brought with it its own set of complications, beginning and ending with several little girls.  

For whatever reason, my home was the gathering place for the children in the neighborhood.  Throughout the summer, there were usually at least five little girls, including my own two, playing in the yard, the woods, the house.  When cousins and additional friends came there were more.  At times it wasn't too dissimilar from what is taking place between Israel and the Palestinians.  All it took was for one little girl, just one, to lob a verbal rocket into the group, and the peace was over.  You get my drift.

Summer camps weren't an option then--Scholfield Road in the country was like a camp. Some wonderful memories were created and once-in-a-lifetime adventures took place, but my limited skills as camp counselor and peace-maker often pushed me to the max, hence the truth of my comment.

The bank of jasmine took a hard hit last winter and had a lot of dieback.  The task of pruning the dead wood out yesterday was monotonous and tedious but a wonderful time for contemplative, meditative thought.  I found myself thinking about a personal goal of mine and goals in general. 

Each of us has them--goals, that is.  I have no idea what yours are, but neither do you know mine.  We have our own pair of walking shoes and our own individual path and walk it we must, and we do.  There are no right goals, there are no wrong goals.  Our aspirations and what we hope to achieve are individual, personal.  I have been told of one who wants to amass a specific dollar amount in this lifetime;  another expressed the goal of being a better person and father; yet another wants to retire in another area of the country; organizing and taking control of one's environment and financial situation is yet another.  

As for me, my goal is to stand before my Creator at the end of this physical life and have Him look me squarely in the eyes and state, "I do not regret having created you."  "Regret?" you ask.  "Surely God has no regrets."  As a gentle, yet stark reminder, the destruction of mankind by water during Noah's time was the result of His regret. 

Some may say my goal is lofty, pious, with an overlay of spiritual superiority.  It carries with it none of those things.  This is where my mind and my heart is, and I have, quite simply, opened that up and shared it with you. 

A great irony is that I am not a goal-oriented person.  I do not set goals with an intent and a follow-through to reach them.  My experience over time has been it doesn't take make much for me to be side-tracked.  But then, that might be just me.  A goal?  Maybe not so much a goal, but a heart-felt desire, one I hope is fulfilled.


"The Lord saw how great the wickedness of humankind had become and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart were only evil all the time.  He regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and His heart was deeply troubled.  But Noah found favor in the eyes of the Lord."

"On the Truth, Denial, and Inspiration"

Yesterday, as I was unloading a truckload of debris at the local forest products place, a fellow woman gardener pulled in beside me with the same task.  I said "Hello" to her, and she asked if I was still gardening.  Not recognizing her,  I said that I was and wondered whether or not I should know her.  The conversation continued as we emptied our trucks, sharing the merits of working for ourselves:  being able to quit when we wanted on a hot day, not having to answer to a boss, working outside rather than sitting in an office. 

 As I was leaving she told me that I was her inspiration.  After getting into the truck I realized she was referencing the fact that I am leaning toward the elder state yet still working at such a physical job.  Instead of acknowledging that as a compliment and a very kind comment, my thought was, "Do I really look that old?" That would be called denial.  I guess I thought I had been camouflaging the reality.  It's been a busy season and apparently  I haven't looked in the mirror that much. 

I realized that when it comes to being viewed as inspirational my ideas, thoughts, and perceptions are far more grandiose than that of being an old gardener.  Somehow that one didn't show up on my list.  I do think I need to reconsider and give some thought as to what inspiration really means.

"On Identities and the Theft Thereof"

identity:  n.  Difference or character that marks off an individual from the rest of the same kind.

identity theft:  n.  The deliberate assumption of another person's identity, usually to gain access to that person's finances or to frame a person for a crime.

Isn't it interesting how we, as humans, go about our everyday lives, never giving  a second thought to a whole multitude of subjects, circumstances, or scenarios--that is, until we turn a corner and find ourselves dealing with one we had neither planned for nor expected?  These issues may run the gamut from dreadful to exciting; ordinary to momentous.  There are those who would say that variety is the spice of life.  Or not.  Some circumstances are just very difficult and ponderous.

The theft of my purse with all of its contents several days ago thrust me into just that kind of a position, putting my mind and my life in a place it had not been before.  It certainly wasn't something I had previously considered.  As with most people, my wallet contained credit and debit cards, my driver's license.  Just that morning I had put both my personal and business check books into the purse.  Breaking a cardinal rule, my Social Security card was also tucked away inside.  I knew better, but I carried it with me anyway.  It was my original and hearkened back to the days when I was a young girl, earning money by picking strawberries, raspberries, and beans every summer.  So much for sentiment.

Identity theft has become something other than a term I read or hear about. In the days since the experience I have found myself thinking about what that really means.

According to a research study, in 2017 there were 16.7 million victims of identity fraud.  The amount stolen last year hit $16.8 billion.  While my experience was one of physical theft, thieves have found a gold mine via cyber space, where personal information is accessed and then used for their own gain.

I am a one-of-a-kind, a specialty item, as are each of you.  In all of time, there has never been another "me," nor will there ever be.  Somewhere in the heavens, there is probably a collective sigh of relief  over that one.  In my mind's eye I can see my Mother nodding her head in agreement.

Every single thing about me is unique and complex.  That is what makes my identity mine and mine alone.  Try to wrap your mind around the fact that each and every person in all of time has his/her own individuality, and it is impossible, as impossible as the fact that each and every snowflake is different.  There are no duplicates, and that is mind-boggling.

This is the conclusion I have come to:  The term "identity theft" is inaccurate.  It is not possible; it cannot happen.  The substance, the essence of a person cannot be stolen.  No one can take my identity nor any other's.   Someone stole several things that identify my physical life--the credit cards, driver's license, and Social Security card.  But they did not steal my identity.  It's not up for grabs.

And for that I am grateful.


"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you."  Jeremiah 1:5

"I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made:  marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well."  Psalm 139:14

"But even the hairs of your head are all counted.  Do not be afraid..."  Luke 12:7

"On A Stolen Purse"

It was midday, and the heat was kicking in, the weatherman's prediction of temperatures up into the 90's proving to be accurate.  My trusty lawnmower and I were trying to beat the heat, getting the lawns for the day taken care of, so I could escape to the cool of my house.  The little workhorse of a truck has no A/C and, if I close everything up while I'm working, it's like an oven when I get into it.  I had found a convenient place to unload the mower, in an alley.  The wide open windows were a clear invitation saying, "Take me."  

It only took a split second for me to realize my purse was gone.  In my 69 years I cannot remember having the experience of theft--until now.  Everything in my mind countered what I saw with my eyes.  I think that is what the word surreal must feel like.  I found myself searching for that purse in places I have never put it before, as though it had legs of its own and walked off.  Then the mind began playing tricks on me:  Had I left it at home and just thought it was in the truck?  Was I experiencing an "old-timer's moment?"  In reconstructing my day, which included a gas purchase and taking my glasses out of my purse, I was able to pinpoint the theft to Lincoln Alley.  Today, less than 24 hours later, reality has sunk in.  Someone reached into my pickup and stole my purse along with its contents.

Having one's purse taken is not the end of the world, and I do not purport that to be so.  It did shake me, though.  There was an initial reaction of anger and vindictiveness as well, but  once that wore off I came back to a basic tenet within me. Point and purpose in all things--I do believe that.  Do I have a clue, any understanding, any insight?  Nope, I don't.  I will, however, continue on with my life.  This may or may not ever make any sense to me, but that does not negate that basic principle.

As the shock wore off, and I began to gather my senses about me, a list of "things I am grateful for" began to form.  I am grateful I did not have my car keys in my purse;  sometimes I do, but this time they were in another place.  What a headache that would have created.  My phone was not taken.  In addition, there is a stack of checks from recent invoicing  left on my kitchen counter.  It is not unusual for me to put such checks in my purse and deposit them on my way home from work.  They are usually endorsed but, on occasion, I wait until I am at the drive-through to do that.  I don't want to even mentally go down that road.  Adding to my list is the fact I had no cash, and I am enrolled in an identity theft service.  They are monitoring any unusual activity with the Social Security card--money well spent.

All credit card and bank accounts have been closed, debit cards cancelled.  A police report has been filed, and I have determined from on-line sites what needs to be done in dealing with a stolen Social Security card and driver's license.  Yes, I broke the cardinal rule and carried my Social Security card in my wallet.  It was my original, issued when I was a kid working in the fields, more sentimental than functional, nevertheless valid and a potential gold mine for a thief.  I need to stop by the DMV and replace my driver's license today.  I will as soon as I figure out how I am going to pay for it with no blank check, credit cards, or a debit card.  :)  

Oh, yes--the stolen purse and the billfold were ancient.  No loss there.  Life is good.

"On the Gift of Sight"

There was a time, not all that long ago, when contact lenses and lasik surgery, corrective surgery for the eyes, were not commonplace, and glasses were patently prescribed for vision correction.  A common adage from that era, "I don't need glasses except to see," is a perfect description of the condition of my eyesight.  Distance vision is decent, not perfect, but somewhere between my youth and the present I developed the need for some serious glasses in order to read or do any handwork.  In the face of that reality I have resorted to using reading glasses. The only problem is finding them when I need them, as I have a habit of pulling them off without thought and randomly setting them down after use.

Many years ago I had a dream.  In that dream I was declared legally blind.  In the physical realm legal blindness is a severe visual impairment or loss of vision.  Whereas good vision is described as 20/20, which means one is able to read an eye chart clearly at a distance of 20', legal blindness is ascribed at 20/200 or worse.  To better understand this, a person with minimal vision is able to see at 20' what one with good vision can see at 200'.

There are two ways to view anything--from a physical perspective, that which is seen with the physical eyes, or from a spiritual perspective, the unseen, seen with spiritual eyes.  Upon awakening from that dream I knew I had been shown a picture of the state of my spiritual vision.  

The questions might be asked:  "Why is spiritual sight important?  How is one able to see that which is unseen?" and "Why does it matter in my life?"

In my experience, when life--and that word covers a very broad spectrum--is seen only through one's physical eyes, the picture is restricted.  Viewing the underside of the proverbial tapestry rather than seeing it from the top, it's the same as when I try to read without my reading glasses.  I know something is on the page, but i am unable to discern what is there; there is no clarity.

We live in a spiritual world, whether one believes that or not.  What is seen with the physical eye is not the real world but a front, a facade.  A whole level of spiritual activity goes on beyond what we see and experience with our natural eyes and beings.  As the base for all that takes place in our lives, our planet, the universe, the spiritual realm is actually ground zero.  The importance of being aware of that and having spiritual sight can never be underestimated.  It is where life happens--really happens. Things are not as they seem to be.

It is my belief that man has been created in the image of God.  A spiritual entity, not a physical one, it is therefore not unreasonable that spiritual vision goes hand in hand when living life with Him.  Seeing that which is unseen takes place within a person's self.  Spirit to spirit--the spirit of God connecting with the spirit of man, resonating within one's soul.  Perhaps it is, indeed, an epiphany experience, a moment of illumination or discovery; perhaps a single thought, an awareness or sense, a visual picture which comes into one's mind, a dream.  Knowledge given from God, it is knowing something you didn't know you knew.  "I see," said the blind man, is an apt characterization.

Perception, the eyes to see, is a gift given by God and can never be achieved through efforts of self.  There is a night and day difference in everyday life between viewing just the outer, which is one-dimensional, and seeing beyond the appearances and superficiality into the inner.

To have spiritual vision is to see as God sees, where there are no holds barred and undeniable truth prevails.  It is seeing what is, not what appears to be and is the only way one can see and know what is true, what is absolute.  A natural result of walking with Him and living life with Him, it is what happens when one "rubs shoulders" with excellence.  The alternative is that of functioning in darkness, as one who is blind.  
  
In my frustration over having only a single pair of reading glasses, I have purchased several and positioned them throughout the house, in my purse, and in the car.  On a good day I should be able to find at least one.  The added bonus is that I don't need any glasses to have 20/20 spiritual vision.  

"We do not focus on what is seen, but what is unseen.  For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen lasts forever."    





 

"On Turning Ten"

The 9-year-old grandgirl is turning 10 in three weeks--"double digits," she points out.  It is a landmark birthday, this one.  I remember the happening in my own life.  At this point in time, as I am nearing 70 and have more than a few double digit birthdays under my belt they aren't so important.  However, I do remember the excitement revolving around the first one.   

This grandgirl, the "old soul," has been waiting for this special birthday for months.  Something magical is going to happen, I am quite certain.  It's akin to being old enough to go to school, to get one's driver's license, to vote.  All the events which require being a certain age.  This one is mental, though.  I am unable to think of anything which specifies the need to be at least 10 years old for compliance.  

Turning 10 carries with it the very real sense, the reality, of growing up.  Middle school is at hand, the teen years and high school are just around the corner. I've watched Ayden, and a different type of maturity and personal responsibility is developing within her.  There is an awareness of the fact that she is getting older, and she is stepping into that role. It is a joy to watch, to observe. 

Plans for a birthday party are underway, and I have been invited.  In fact, I was given a hand-made invitation.  While it included the date and the place for the party, a pool party, there was a side note:  "Try to bring a present."  That one made me laugh, but its diplomacy does bear out my point.  She is growing up, and it is happening right before my eyes.   Happy birthday, Miss Ay!!  

"On the Test of Time"

"I'm going to need some help next week."  The statement was followed by a work schedule, accompanied by the comment, "Is that going to work for you?"  For almost 10 years, my reply has been "Yes.  It works, it always works."  It has and it does.  Being a go-to childcare Grandma has been a priority ever since the almost-10-year-old was born.  Actually, being an available Grandmother for any of my grandgirls has been a priority, regardless of the need, since I became one.  In essence it has meant being responsive to my daughters, not just in word but in deed as well.

Family first.  That is the credo of a life-long friend of mine, a friendship that stretches back over 45 years.  Her own childhood family did not exercise that philosophy.  As an adult it was put in play in her life and, resoundingly, it has passed the test of time.  You'll not find a family anywhere that is as loyal and yet honest toward one another, as supportive, or as willing to work together, fight for one another.  They truly are a unit, a family.  It is that philosophy that I have adopted as well with that goal in mind.

Once again, I have been thinking--this time about what "the test of time" really is, what it means.  So often words or phrases come out of my mouth, and I know the concept, the base of what I mean, but I have never taken the time to examine them, to evaluate them.  In my mind, the test of time is anything that holds up over time.  It does not need to be propped up or constantly fed; it stands on its own, not only standing, but becoming stronger and more solid as time goes on.  It is not forced, but natural.

Friendships, relationships--those that just are.  They are the opposite of the high maintenance ones, and we all know the toxicity, the brevity of those.  I am talking about the ones we can return to regardless of passing time or personal input.  For me, one that is over 45 years old and others as well, including a friendship and relationship with my Creator, the One who made me.  Lifestyle principles--the way in which each and every one of us live our lives.  Often these are the result of a point in our lives where we have an experience and make a decision to live differently.  For example, living without judgment of others; viewing life with a positive outlook rather than cynicism; embracing change rather than resisting it.  The list is unlimited, and I have no doubt you all have your own experience to draw from.  Speaking for myself, I am delighted that, at some point, humor and laughter has become part of my life rather than sarcasm and derogatory comments. 

I can cite an endless litany of areas in my life that do not pass the test of time:  resisting the urge to go to bin #2001 in the bulk food department at the grocery store when I have a sugar attack, staying on top of the weeds in my garden, dealing with the variety of tasks both within and outside of my home, making time to visit several of my former clients who have taken residence in assisted living homes.  Yes, endless, but that is why I am aware of the difference.  While I do not make New Year's resolutions, those, along with other commitments to change a habit, would fall in the category of failing the test of time as well.

In answering my daughter's request for help I told her that our working relationship has passed the test of time, and it has.  In my gardening business my cliente'le know the importance of my family.  They always respond to the need to flex, to adjust, or change my schedule in order to meet the needs of children and grandchildren, of my family.  In these past 10 years there has never been a time when either my family or my clients have been left hanging.  That is why I am able to say this priceless philosophy, that of family first, has passed the test of time and is a worthwhile one.

"On the Gift of Music"

Dad loved music, although I cannot say that he loved all music.  He had his definite biases, and they included marching bands playing John Phillip Sousa, male quartets, and music from his Texas childhood, what he called "hoe-down" music.  Classical music, described as "high-brow," and any music with too intense a rhythm were not to his liking.  As one who plays the piano and loves music as well, I have always felt that gift was passed down to me, a genetic inheritance.

He was a self-taught musician, with the ability to create music from a variety of stringed instruments--banjo, mandolin, fiddle.  I grew up knowing that, while a fiddle and a violin looked alike, there is a vast difference between the two, and that difference was in the one who played the music.  Dad played the fiddle and left the violin to those he deemed sophisticates.  The banjo, however, was his first love.  Children and grandchildren alike connect that instrument with him.

My childhood memories are filled with Saturday night music fests, aptly described as "hoe-downs," when several of Dad's co-workers and neighbors gathered, bringing their families with them.  The house was filled with music for hours on end--music from the Southern part of our country, old gospel songs, guitars, the banjo, and singing galore.  I doubt that, like my Father, any of those men had a single day of lessons or professional training, but their repertoire seemed virtually endless.  Oh, the music which poured out of them!

Dad never learned to read music, and so he made it his goal that each of his children would learn to play a musical instrument and have that accomplishment.  My two brothers played baritone, accordion, and trombone; I played the piano.  The irony of this is that none of us were taught the instruments and the songs of my Father, and a large part of family heritage is lost, passing away when he did.   

While working in Sangita's weed-filled garden yesterday, I found myself thinking, not only about Dad and his love of music, but about music.  I've heard it said that love is the universal language; I am of the opinion that music is on a similar plane.  I daresay that each and every culture in our world has its own form, its own type of music.  One can hear a certain song and know what part of the world it has come from.  It is that singularly identifying. 

I feel that music is part of our unique creation as human beings.  One has only to watch a small child respond to a song.  Their body begins to sway instinctively to the melody, the rhythm.  Often it is an immediate response.  Anyone who has had a baby knows the natural reaction to hum a soft, gentle tune to try to calm one who is upset, restless, or not feeling well.

Try to imagine, if you can, what your own life would be like without music in it.  Songs serve as landmarks in our lives, connected to events.  Often a certain date, place, happening is correlated to music at that point in time.  The words, the melody, the rhythms--they permeate our beings without our even realizing it.  We turn to music or it comes from within us when we are happy, when we are sad, when we are excited or mad.  Even in the deepest, darkest times it is not unusual to seek solace from song. 

I have been thinking about Dad a lot this past week.  I am going to be playing a John Phillip Sousa march, Stars and Stripes Forever as part of the 4th of July weekend.  I am one of the parts, two of the hands in a 2-piano, 8-hands performance.  My Dad would have loved it, not only because I was playing, but oh, he did love those Sousa marches. 

I have always thought that I received the gift of music from my Dad.  However, in looking at the common, shared factor of music in all of mankind, I have concluded that that gift was given not only to me, but to each of us by my Heavenly Father.  Without it there would be an emptiness, a void, not just in my life but in all of creation as well.  Yet another gift that adds to my portfolio of wealth, reinforcing the claim that I am, indeed, one of the wealthiest women in the world. 

"....I am fearfully and wonderfully made."

"On Debts"

debt:  n.  Money that one person or entity owes or is required to pay to another, generally as the result of a loan or other financial transaction.  The state or condition of owing something to someone.

The clematis is in full bloom, the vine reaching up and spilling over the fence, its large purple blossoms resembling velvet.  It is a beauty, one of four taken from a client’s garden when he asked that they be removed.  Of those four, which found their way into my own garden, this one is my favorite.

This same client refused to pay me for work rendered, asserting I had taken too long to bill him.  No argument or defense can be offered as he was correct.  At the end of a long gardening day invoicing is often postponed, and I was negligent in billing him in a timely manner.  In spite of my procrastination, though, a pretty tidy chunk of change was owed for work done in the heat and dust of summer, satisfying the criterion of debt.

A debt is owed to another; it is an obligation.  Perhaps it is money owed for a service provided, as in completed gardening work, or for a product purchased.  Some view indebtedness as the result of personal assistance given or received, be it physical, spiritual, mental, or emotional with no monetary compensation in play.  For example, the phrase “I owe you,” even “I owe you big time,” is often the response when assistance or aid is given.

Personally, I choose not to live my life as though it was a balance sheet, where assets and liabilities are tallied up, kept track of.  Given those conditions, it is my feeling the sincerity and purity of a kind deed or act is negated.  A favor should not be treated as a business transaction, with repayment expected or required. 

My former client moved to New York, and he was entered in my tax records as a “bad debt.”  I think of him occasionally when my clematis are in bloom.  While there is no grudge carried, no animosity, I do remember him and the debt he walked away from.  My gardening business is now in its 12^th year, and he is the sole client who openly refused to pay.  Sometimes I wonder what has happened to him, how his life has gone, and whether it was worth it to dodge an unpaid debt.  What a sad statement of a life to have left this mark, this memory.

The manner in which one lives his/her life matters, as impressions and impacts are made on the lives of others, either a positive or a negative. 

A friend wanted to appear at his front door and introduce himself to this client on my behalf, seeking payment.  Others suggested he be turned over to a collection agency.  I respectfully refused those options.  It is my feeling a higher justice is in play in my life and by unequivocally refusing to pay a debt owed, he placed himself in a higher court, one where he no longer answers to The Traveling Gardener, but to God. 

Make no mistake—collection will be made, justice served.   

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another….”  Romans 13:8 
"Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.'"  Romans 12:19

"On the Cocky Pianist aka Me"

Serious piano practice has been ongoing for several weeks now, in preparation for the 2-piano, 8-hands rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever scheduled for the 4th of July weekend.  I am, to put it mildly, apprehensive. The last time I played publicly was at a Christmas recital this past December.  The experience was a humbling one, and I was, well, I was humbled. 

Ever since the performance last fall, when I surprised my family and played the piano for them and the ensuing CD recording of those songs, I had been heady.  I was thrilled and excited to have recaptured some of my piano skills after a 30-plus-year hiatus, but had become a bit full of myself in the process, cocky even.  Kathleen, my piano teacher, asked me if I would like to play at the recital.  "Certainly,"  I thought, "I would love to play for an audience.  After all, I am quite the accomplished pianist.  Or at least I used to be."  Oh, how foolish, how arrogant, how cocky.  It's all in the attitude, you know.

Christmas songs were the theme of the recital, and I had a favorite I had been working on.  I arrived in plenty of time at the church where it was being held and found a place to sit.  Nerves have never been an issue for me.  Playing in church from the time I was 8 or 9 years old served as a perfect training ground.  In fact, I don't remember ever being nervous when I played in the public eye.  That is, until this time. 

My palms began getting sweaty, and the longer I waited the worse things became. The program had begun, and I started counting down the number of  students until it was my turn.  As those participating went up to the piano, played their chosen piece of music and then returned to their seats, the nerves set in.  I got nervous.  Really nervous.  It didn't help either that the thought "What AM I doing here?"  kept playing through my mind.  Soon there were only 3 performers left, then 2, then 1, then......man, oh man. 

I took a deep breath, with the thought that I had done this hundreds, perhaps thousands of times and made my way up to the piano and sat down.  Reading glasses are necessary for me to see up close, and I had decided to keep them propped atop my head rather than carry them.  Once I was comfortable with my position at the piano, I began playing.  Before long it occurred to me that I could not see the music.  I had failed to move the glasses to my eyes.  I stopped and announced that I was starting over.  Glasses in place, I felt a bit better.   However, things did not go well at the piano that afternoon.  My fingers refused to function, and I bumbled through Silent Night.  It would probably have been best if it was a silent afternoon.  "I really do know how to play," I wanted to tell the audience, but alas, it did not appear so.  The torture and torment was finally over, and as I walked down from the piano, my eyes met my teacher's, and I remember mouthing "Good grief."  She knew, all too well, what I was talking about.

Cockiness is a particular trait that disgusts me.  It brings with it a flavor of superiority, full of self.  I hadn't realized it was sitting within me, trying to take root and grow.  Being brought to ground zero came quickly and easily, in an afternoon, at a Christmas performance.

Salvation is also a word, a term that has vast implications, interpretations, and meanings for most people, all of them very personal and many times controversial, causing strong reactions and responses.  For me, I simply state that I have been saved from myself, and this is a perfect example of that. 

I just found out that I am going to be playing in front of a much larger audience this weekend than I had anticipated.  I am already a bit nervous.  The good news is that a cocky attitude isn't going in with me this time.  I am grateful to know that I am being kept in line by One who knows me better than I know myself and One who cares.