"On Hands-and-Knees Kind of Thinking"

"Hands-and-Knees" Kind of Job

My clients are in Italy for an extended period of time, and a list was given to me, tasks to do while they are gone.  I considered the various chores, which included some pruning, and settled instead on cleaning up the daylily bed along the front of the veranda.  As I began, the thought passed through my mind—This is a hands-and-knees kind of job; this is when I do my best thinking.  And it is. 

When I made the decision 15 years ago to become a single person it never entered my mind as to how I was going to support myself.  I soon learned that listing "stay-at-home Mom for over 30 years" on a resume' doesn't translate into today's job market, and the fact that I had experience in the insurance industry 40 years prior wasn't any better. 

The owner of a small, local nursery hired me, giving me the opportunity to grow and to thrive.  Wild by Nature was the perfect environment.  Working outdoors suited me.  As I tended and cared for the plants, shrubs, and trees, I realized later I was being tended and cared for as well.  I left that nursery position a stronger, different person than when I began.
   
In the nursery business there is a lot of interaction with people during the busy season, but there are also long stretches of solitary work in the greenhouse or in the nursery watering, transplanting seedlings, taking cuttings, dealing with a host of stock.  My mind, my life was in the process of being renewed and refreshed.



Before

After

In my world, the gardening world, the term "hands-and-knees" work is self-explanatory.  It is work that can only satisfactorily be done while crawling around on your hands and knees, cleaning out under shrubs, grubbing out errant weeds, dead-heading spent blossoms, removing dead foliage.  

The work itself is mindless, for the most part, and yet I find it to be most productive when the time is used for thinking. Distractions are minimal with a focus on the task at hand, the area beneath my nose.  There is no way to speed things up the process when doing the job well.  It just takes time.  Given that scenario, the opportunity is optimum for thought.  

While meditation is more conducive to emptying one's mind of thought, the thinking I am talking about is more like a pinball machine game where thoughts, like balls, ricochet, bouncing around before finally landing.  There are times when my mind is quiet, silent, absorbing the scenery and the sounds surrounding me; other times it's as though a wrestling match is taking place within as I consider the "Whys?" and the "I don't get it" things in my life and those of my family and friends. Often a Spring cleaning takes place, as mental junk is set aside for the trash, never to be considered again.  And then there is the time of pure, simple gratitude and thankfulness as I sit quietly before my Heavenly Father.

I am a proponent of this kind of thinking for young and old alike and would argue one doesn't have to be on their hands and knees wallowing in the dirt.  Each of us has our own personal place where we go when we feel the need to be alone and to think.  It might be while driving to and from work, on a treadmill or in a sewing room, on a porch or on a boat, on a walk, while folding laundry, or doing daily chores.  Mine just happens to include my workplace.

Life is filled with an overload of outer stimuli.  Cell phones, with texting and twittering; television with limitless channel availability; the choices of never-ending music--a time of quiet and thought is a scarcity.  The day is filled with schedules, choices of activities, and busyness.  Children are growing up in a raucous state of cacophony, where being alone with one's thoughts is a rarity, not the norm. 

The suggestion has been made that I listen to music while performing such mundane chores to make the time go by faster.  My response is, "No, then I wouldn't be able to think....really think."  

We, as humans, have been given the gift and the ability to think, to reason, to make decisions.  It is not a gift to be squandered, to be readily relinquished.  Besides, who knows what you might find in the recesses of your mind, what problems may be solved, what discoveries made?  For me, nothing equals that kind of thought process, the kind I call "hands-and-knees" kind of thinking.  Try it.  You just might like it. 

"Be still and know that I am God."  Psalms 46:10





 

"On A Return to the Scene"

It had been three weeks since I mowed.  After encountering the wasps' nest on the bank of blackberries and ivy, I had postponed the mowing job as I was uncertain what kind of nearby activity might set them off.  That was a good decision, because when I showed my client where the nest was located so it could be dealt with, several unruly wasps chased us into the house.  Did you know that in addition to stinging they also bite?

A professional had been called in to dispose of the nest, and the owner notified me she had checked several times, and there was no sign of the threatening flying menaces.  As I unloaded the mower from the truck the thought passed through that I was returning to the scene of the crime.  While no crime had been committed, I was returning to a scene, one which evoked unpleasant memories and brought with it accompanying fear.

Even today, another two weeks later, I found myself checking out of the corner of my eye as I mowed past the place where the nest had been located.  I've seen several wasps flying around the past few days. The cooler weather seems to have dampened their nasty dispositions some, so they aren't as threatening.   And yet the memory of digging into a wasps' nest in the ground two years ago with my garden tool and the ensuing attack lingers.  I still have not tackled those blackberries up on the bank.

I found myself thinking about how experiences from our past, some of them from decades ago, have a way of sneaking into the present, influencing not only the way we think, but how we live, often holding us mentally and emotionally hostage.

The mind is a tricky beast.  In fact, I'd put it right up there on an equivalency with the tongue when it comes to the degree of difficulty in exercising control over.  An enormous amount of money is spent on seminars, books, and videos in an attempt to better regulate thoughts and subsequent reactions and responses to those thoughts.  Oh, that it were that easy to simply train one's mind.

Experiences from our past which have caused pain, sadness, turmoil, or grief have the potential of being springboards, situations which rear their ugly heads to appear, once again, in our daily lives. Even though the likelihood of the same thing being repeated is improbable, the memory and thought is often enough to taint the present.  It's as though we return to the scene each and every time a similar situation occurs.  Getting back on a horse after being bucked off or on a bicycle after falling off carries with it the idea of not allowing a single incident to define one's future.  Sometimes that is possible; other times it isn't.

A dental experience when I was in my 20's, when a cavity was filled without the tooth being deadened; three very serious bicycle accidents involving my children; a scenic drive on a logging road which nearly ended horrifically; my family swimming in a river, watching as panic took over and realizing later they could have all drowned right before my eyes--these are just a few of the springboards in my life.  I know you have your own; anyone who has lived life does. 

So how does a person live life in the present, not allowing the past to color it, without being affected or influenced?  How does one deal with the mental recurrence of a difficult time, a return to the scene, as it were?   Personally, I haven't stopped going to the dentist or forbidden my grandchildren to ride bicycles or swim, though I don't take any sight-seeing tours through the mountains on logging roads. As I see it there are two options: When my mind is flooded with a tsunami wave of memory and the fear that comes along with it, I can either try dealing with it on my own, or I can concede my inability to do anything and seek help from my Creator. 

I have an abundance of experiences to draw from in my life which make me an advocate of the latter.  There are more than a few situations in my life already lived which have the potential to ground me, bring me to a screeching halt, but for the work of the One who made me.  It all starts in the mind, you know.  There are many things from my past which do not touch me, don't affect me or my life, because of God--His hand, His touch--in my inner psyche. 

We, He and I, aren't all the way through the wasp thing yet.  I will say, though, that I made it through this season with nothing more than a swollen foot and a bite on the neck.  I am, however, considering skipping next August and September when the wasps go on their rant.  Thank God He walks me through this stuff.

"Why Paris?, an Averyism"

When the grandgirl speaks, she does so with clarity, precision, and authority.  She has command of the English language and is capable of holding any audience, regardless of age--adult or peer.  This is the one I call the "fearless one," because she really is fearless.

The 8-year-old was telling her mother about the school day.  The teacher had asked the 3rd grade class to choose any other place in the world they would like to live and tell why they would want to live there.  She said  she had chosen Paris, because........she can eat fancy food...... go see the Eiffel Tower..... and wear barrettes. 

There is a possibility something got lost in the translation.  But then, who's to say "berets" isn't really supposed to be pronounced  "barrettes?"  I don't think there is anything in the world to match the joy, laughter, and freshness a child brings into our lives.  I love those "isms."

"On Being Creatures of Habit"

 habit: n. An action performed on a regular basis. An action performed repeatedly and automatically, usually without awareness.

 

The switch was made over a week ago. It wasn't anything earth-shattering or life-changing-- just a simple rearrangement of appliances in my kitchen. It occurred to me the microwave and toaster would each be more efficiently located if they were interchanged. It turned out to be a good move, if such an appraisal can be applied to kitchen appliances. What struck me once again this morning, though, is what a creature of habit I am.

Unconsciously, without thought, I headed towards the toaster, the former location of the microwave, with my teacup to heat the water. I could say I wasn’t quite awake yet, as it was early in the morning, but such occurrences are taking place frequently. Just last night I reached for the microwave with the bread I was going to toast. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve looked in the direction of the toaster expecting to see the time on a digital clock.

Whether we are asleep or awake, our lives are filled with habits. My head would take to spinning in place if I were to seriously consider the degree to which habits are part of my daily life. For example, since my mind has been there, I realized I put my socks on in a certain order, left foot first; I always leave doors open when I go outside, the result of having locked myself out once. I am quite certain my life is permeated with such unconscious acts.

Watch and see what happens if/when we aren’t able to do something that is ingrained in our daily lives. It may be as simple as having to adjust to another time zone while traveling or coping with the time change for Daylight Savings Time. Try altering the personal "first thing in the morning" pattern and see how uncomfortable it is. 

The loss of a loved one or a catastrophic event which affects all routine can be life changing. For some, it has the potential to be disastrous, as one’s world is turned upside down, propelling folk into a fetal position.

Daily rituals, patterns, order, and routine—in truth, these are habits which monitor how, when, and where we live our lives. I think there must be a comfort in the sameness of things, the repetition of life, and a semblance of control. They create a rhythm of sorts, an attempt to minimize the surprises in our lives.

As humans, we tend to characterize habits in our lives as either good or bad. The bad habits are those things we do not like about ourselves and would like to change. The good ones counter that degradation and demeaning of self with behavior that makes us feel truly wonderful about ourselves. Remove those labels. I am of the feeling many of our behaviors are traits that make us unique individuals, the idiosyncrasies that identify each of us as one-of-a-kind.

Some say that, in order to break a habit--and that would, of course, be a “bad” habit-- one need only substitute the behavior with another for two weeks. Others suggest it takes 30-60 days or even longer. Of course, the replacement would be a “good” habit.

Now, it might just be me, but I’ve tried that approach more than once and find it to be short-term. Before I know it, I’m back in the old habit pattern I had hoped to change. Hence, I am of the conviction that, left to myself, “Old habits die hard.” They really do, especially when I’m the one trying to kill them.

For the most part, I have given up trying to change myself. It is always an exercise in futility. Thus, I have learned to leave that to my Heavenly Father. For starters, He does not categorize my behaviors, habits, and actions as good or bad, right or wrong. It took a long time for that precept to sink into my being. 

I’ve also discovered things which bother me often do not bother Him--at all. The converse is true as well. He sees the need to change areas in my life that heretofore hadn’t fazed me.

True change is the goal, I think--becoming a different person, a different kind of person--not just altering one’s habits. To only change a habit is akin to patching a couture original, a designer garment, with rags.

I am speaking of real, valid, undeniable, irreversible change that takes place within instead of just altering an action:

1.   Peace, not worry

2.   Contentment in place of discontent

3.     Courage instead of fear

4.    Joy replacing sadness

5.     Gentleness overcoming anger

6.    Generosity as opposed to selfishness

7.    Kindness in leiu of harshness

8.    Harmony rather than dissension

9.    Love expelling hate

Only God can accomplish that. I am reminded of the statement, “God loves me as I am, but He loves me so much that He won’t leave me that way.”

Yes, we are creatures of habit in many ways, but we don’t have to carry the burden of trying to change ourselves where and when it really matters. There is One who is able, capable, and willing to do that.

And sooner or later I’ll figure out that I can’t heat my tea water in the toaster or toast my bread in the microwave.

“Old habits die hard.”

 

 

 

"On The Things I've Learned From My Truck"

The Beauty

My transportation of choice the past two days has been a gorgeous, gas-guzzling 2014 Chevy Tahoe, the kind of SUV red-blooded males drool over, discussing horsepower and God knows what else.  This is unlike the reaction my '97 Ford Ranger pickup evokes, which would be none at all.

In all honesty, I can't really say it was my choice; it was the only vehicle available on the car rental lot.  They rented it for the same price as the compact car I had reserved, but I'm certain when I refill the gas tank to return it, that savings will disappear.

It won't be long before the guy at Avis, the rental lot, and I are on a first name basis.  When I walked through the door yesterday morning, he commented, "Is your truck in the shop again?"  He nailed it.  When problems occur with my pickup, I still need transportation for work, and that is how our relationship has developed. 

While heading home from a job the other day, I found myself thinking about the recent blog post about surprises.  My thoughts were rolling around the fact that we don't know how our day is going to unfold or what is going to happen, how little control we have over occurrences or our lives.  And then it happened--my very own surprise!

It was rush hour traffic, so I was driving with all my senses in gear.  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed it.  It was the light.  If I didn't know differently, I'd say my little truck was participating in the Christmas-before-Halloween thing, as the "check engine" light shone brightly.  Nothing seemed amiss, so I headed on home, knowing a call would be made to the mechanic the next morning, with whom I am on a first name basis. 

The Workhorse

This red truck has been a part of my life for almost 12 years.  I have never named it.  I couldn't decide whether to attribute a male or female label, so I call it my workhorse.  I've clocked over 140,000 miles on it, with a current odometer reading of over 225,000 miles.  That means the two of us have spent a lot of time together--a lot of time.  You could say we have an on-going relationship, and  it has become an old friend.  Though an inanimate object, I have learned a lot from it, much of which is applicable to those of us who ARE animate, alive and well. 

An important lesson is that, just because a lot of highway has been covered and a lot of miles traveled, it does not mean it has no value or worth.  Granted, my truck isn't capable of participating in a NASCAR race, but there is something to be said about meandering the back roads of life,  taking one's time at a leisurely pace, absorbing and enjoying one's surroundings rather than doing laps at break-neck speed.  Yes, it is old, but it's not ready for the scrap yard yet.  It still has a lot of life left in it.

Nothing about this truck is perfect, including its exterior, its interior, and under the hood.  Each dent and scrape has its own backstory.  The gouge in the interior roof liner took place when I was trying to put my hedge trimmer in, and the angle was wrong; the scratches on the paint are from branches inadvertently scraping; then there's the dent on the side where Sophie backed out of the drive across the street and didn't turn in time.  I heard it when it happened.  

The same can be said of me.  While I don't carry wounds of war, the perfect body of infancy has been replaced by scars, each one a reminder of the incident that caused it.  The scar on my knee takes me back to second grade and a fall off the teeter-totter at school; the crown on a chipped tooth, the result of playing chase on the merry-go-round and coming up the loser; a scar on an eyebrow, caused while being the catcher in a ball game and learning what happens when standing too close to the batter and her bat.  Scars that comprise the story of my life, a virtual non-fiction book. 

My truck is well maintained.  Oil changes are performed regularly, belts and brakes are checked, tires rotated.  I do what I am told to do, when it needs to be done, by the lube-it place, the tire shop, and the mechanic.  I have learned, however, that, even with maintenance, parts wear out with time and need to be repaired or replaced.  Isn't that so true when it comes to us humans too?   Sometimes the body just breaks down, despite being nurtured and well taken care of. 

That brings me to the most important thing I have learned from my little red truck:  When the "check engine" light goes on, it must not be ignored.  As Nick, at the shop, puts it, "It won't repair itself.  It never gets better." 

We are in that same category.  While the body does heal and repair itself, there are those areas deep within that don't, those which aren't visible to the physical eye.  Ignoring them doesn't make them go away, they don't disappear, and they never get better.  They need to be faced, acknowledged, and dealt with.   Perhaps a hurt, an offense from childhood is still being carried; anger and frustration over an unresolved family situation; a fissure in a relationship and the resulting pain; grief due to the loss of a friend, be it a person or a pet. 

As humans, it sometimes seems easier to push all the feelings inside as deeply as possible rather than confronting them or having them confront us, getting them out in the open.  That is never the easier way, nor is it the better way.

While we don't have a "check engine" light that shows up, there are usually indicators of such problems.  As with my truck, ignoring them is not a solution.  Getting them out in the light of day, laying them out on the table is a good start.  God cannot heal what isn't acknowledged.

When the time comes for that 1997 Ford Ranger pickup to be set aside, I'm not sure how I am going to feel.  I have been holding on to it for quite a while.  As with the rest of my life, though, I have no doubt that I will know when it is time, and I will be ready.  My suspicion is it will coincide with the completion of this gardening gig. The allure of A/C in a replacement vehicle will no doubt help with the transition. 

Thank God for Ford Ranger pickups with their longevity and endurance.  This experience has been enough to convert me into a "Ford man"--or make that "Ford woman."  Add that to the list of "The Things I Have Learned From My Truck."

"A Request"

While cleaning a house today--an awareness, a recognition, a sense:

"Everything I have has been given to me by You.
Everything I am I owe to You.
Please don't let me ever forget."

"On Surprises"

surprise:  something not expected

"The writing" has been a surprise.  Being able to share my life and how I live it, it is something I neither trained for nor what I expected to be doing at this time in my life.  In fact, had you asked me a year ago, let alone decades ago, if I thought I would be writing as I neared 70, I would have probably laughed, the idea being ludicrous.  It isn't that I haven't tried before; it's that the paper always came up blank.

What fun it is to surprise children, planning first experiences of wonderment for them, working out the details of adventures in secret, then plopping them in the lap of an unsuspecting child.  Holidays and birthdays, summer vacations, and week-end treks provide opportunities to fill a child's life with surprise.  But I contend there is that same child within each of us, regardless of the number of years we carry.  Who doesn't like being given a gift or a treat, one that is unexpected and prepared especially for us?  Large or small, they leave a smile on our face and joy in our heart. 

I've heard some say, "I don't like surprises,"  and yet life never goes as planned and is filled with the unexpected.  Some of those surprises bring great joy, others great sorrow, and still others great frustration and complication.  Each and every day of life is an unknown.  How often do we find ourselves thinking and saying, "I didn't know that was going to happen."?

As much as we would like to think we are in charge of the planning and the preparation, the future is hidden from our eyes; we watch it unfold as it happens, either as participant or bystander.  In essence, isn't that what the news is--reporting the surprises of the day?

Forrest Gump's "Life is like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you're going to get," says it well.

As one who views life through a spiritual lens, I have been thinking about this element of  surprise, the unexpected.  My Creator is a Master at seeing I am prepared for living life.   It is not His goal to have the surprises of the day wipe me out or immobilize me, but to walk me through them, having given me the capability of "rolling with the punches," flowing, and moving forward.

Car problems, scheduling conflicts, a weather event, a trip to Urgent Care, the report of a test result from a doctor, surprises ad infinitum.  Some require a simple adjustment in the day, others turn one's world upside down.  For me, that is when I reach out and place my hand in His.  Naive', simplistic, childlike?  Perhaps--but it is how I live my life.

My Heavenly Father has given this child a gift, a treat when He gave me "the writing."  He has given me my voice.  Isn't that something each of us, regardless of our age or our gender unconsciously seek, that of being able to express our thoughts, our feelings, our beliefs, and opinions?  Being heard is a bonus.  It brings me great joy, a deep gratification to share myself with you.  

A lovely surprise especially prepared for me, it is uniquely individual, suiting me and fitting like a glove.  May your life and the lives of those you love be filled with the same kinds of surprises--at His hand.


"No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no human mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love Him."

"Every good and perfect gift is from God.  This kind of gift comes down from the Father who created the heavenly lights."

"On Nudgels"

Upon awakening this morning, before my eyes had even opened, the nudgel was in my mind.  I have an appointment with an editor today; she has been reviewing some of my writing.  She is also one with whom I shared my musical enterprise, that of returning to the piano after half a lifetime.  I had not thought of it before, but I will give her a CD I had made of a compilation of several compositions.  

My life, my world is filled with these, and I love them.  As soft as butterfly wings, yet as persistent as true grit, they will not be ignored.  I would have to deliberately reject them, and that I do not want to do.  They might be the result of a "What to do, what to do?" outcry or, as this morning, something I've not considered before.  I have learned to recognize this as the hand of my Creator in my life, His "still, small voice."  Unlike other thoughts, a process of critical thinking, they come from a deeper place within.

In searching for a descriptive term, I have always come up empty--until now.  The word nudgel does not exist in our English language. However, in the same way certain nicknames suit individuals, fitting like a glove, I feel it is apt; it even makes sense.

nudgel:  an experience of direction, guidance, insight, knowledge; understanding imparted within from God, without words; knowing something never known before  

This past week I was at a client's home, one who is away for some time.  While cleaning, I opened up a window to let some fresh air in.  "Note to self," I thought, "make sure the window is shut before leaving."  I finished and had gone on to another job when the nudgel presented itself.  Had I closed that window or not?  Upon returning I discovered that I had, indeed, left it open.  Some will say such happenings have nothing to do with God, that it is just the way our mind works, reminding us.  I understand that reasoning, that position, but I disagree.  

I don't know other's lives.  I only know mine, but I suspect you have each had your own nudgels over the course of your life, those experiences or thoughts that are beyond your own mind, your own thinking--reminders or, simply, "knowing."  

It seems there is an unwillingness to identify them as spiritual. Called "luck, a gut feeling, intuition, instinct, sixth sense," there is a reluctance to identify them as spiritual, a hesitancy on the part of man to correlate God to one's personal life.  Perhaps that idea has never been a consideration before so it isn't a part of man's perspective.

This much I know:  He is present, He is a factor.  And we can call that whatever we like, whatever we are comfortable with and whatever suits us, but that still does not alter the truth.  Mankind is fortunate that He cares, and we are fortunate that He places nudgels within--if we just pay attention.    

By the way, I need to get that CD out of the closet now.

"A rose by any other name is still a rose."  And so it is with God.

"On Being Prepared"

Whenever I hear of or think of someone who has passed away, I find myself wondering,  "Where are they now, what are they doing, what did they find in the next life?"  Some may find that grim, macabre even; I find it realistic.  I am of the belief that life does not end when a final breath is taken on this earth but continues on in another realm, another dimension, that which is spiritual yet actual.  This life is temporal, short-term; the next is eternal, lasting forever. 

The afterlife, as it is often called, is conjured up in the minds of man to be almost fairytale-like, where the life left behind on earth continues on, filled with ethereal scenes and all things grand and glorious.  The possibility and probability of it being as man thinks is certainly remote.  Our imaginations are natural, a human response to deal with ideas and concepts which are larger than life.  After all, how can we begin to conceive of that which we've never seen?  

There are those who have had "Near Death Experiences," ones where the body has shut down, and the occupant of that body is taken into the realm of all that is eternal and then returned back.  They each have a similar, recognizable experience to recount, and the common theme is the sense of being unconditionally, overwhelmingly loved.  

For the most part, however, it's not like a tourist site, a cruise ship, or hotel accommodations where friends go and then return with their critiques, their recommendations or lack thereof.

Man spends an inordinate amount of time planning and preparing for situations and circumstances in life:  the evitable and the inevitable; the foreseen and the unforeseen; the what-ifs?, the emergencies.  Then there are the events:  the births of children, birthdays, holidays, graduations, weddings, education, vacations.  Retirement, healthcare concerns, end-of-life issues, funeral planning, insurance protection--In our culture we do everything possible to make certain no stone is left unturned, that all the bases have been covered, right up to death.  But what about preparation for the next life?   

The average life expectancy in my home state of Oregon is listed at 79 years of age. Think, for a moment, of the amount of preparation given to the needs of a physical life that may expire before the age of 80.  And there is a major problem--None of those plans and preparations are transferable into the next life.  They have no value there.  This brings up a question for serious thought and consideration.  Since eternity is, well....., it is a long, long time, wouldn't it be prudent for us to prepare for that life with the same perspective, importance, and intent as we prepare for this earthly life?  It seems to me it would be a good idea to make certain we are ready when it is time for that transition to be made.  There is, after all, no turning back and no do-over.

How DOES one prepare for eternity?  While that question has, indeed, been raised,  I do not have a go-to, a how-to answer.  There is no pamphlet or brochure which lists the steps and the processes for that.  The reason is because man cannot prepare himself to meet God. 

This much I know:  The first step is the acknowledgement that God is and of the need to be made ready for the next life, as that life will either be with Him or without Him.  There is nothing more we can do.  The rest is in His hands.  I also know that He will not turn away anyone who comes to Him with sincerity, a genuine desire, and a pure heart.  All it takes is a simple request:  “Prepare me to meet you, God.”

Being prepared and living in the knowledge of that preparation is a gift, a treasure.  Not a single one of us knows when this physical life is coming to an end so, in my thinking, time is always of the essence.  For me, I don't want to go into eternity with regret.

There--I am at the end of my post.  Why do I feel the need to share this and ask for your consideration of this matter?  Because "Eternity is a long, long time," and each one of you matters.

"Life does not consist of an abundance of possessions."  The story is told of a certain rich man who had an abundant harvest.  He said to himself, "You have plenty of grain laid up for many years.  Take life easy; eat, drink, be merry."  The response of Christ was, "You fool.  This very night your life will be demanded from you.  Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?  This is how it will be with whoever stores up things for themselves but is not rich toward God.

"On Good News, Good News"

The bank is covered with ivy and blackberries, and it is my annual task to cut back the blackberries so the ivy is encouraged to take over.  Since it is one of my least favorite gardening activities, I tend to postpone the job, and this year was no exception.  It had been a while since Lynn asked me to deal with them; it was on my to-do list.  Finally, I made the decision to tackle them.  I headed up the bank with pruners in hand and began snipping the blackberries back to the ground. 

"It was bound to happen sooner or later."  That is the thought that has been playing over and over in my mind.  The whole idea wasn't foreign so when it did occur I really wasn't that surprised.  A person can't go traipsing through the brush and dried vegetation like I do without expecting to run into the nasty buggers. "What?" you may ask, was I more-or-less expecting.  That would be another encounter with wasps.  It is, after all, that time of the year, the end of summer, when  wasps become very aggressive, anti-social, and just down-right mean.

Learning about wasps was never on my need-to-know list, but learn I have.  And they are wasps, rather than bees.  Ron, another of my clients, specializes in moths, and when I tangled with them a year ago, he gave me that information. 

What I have learned is that by the end of summer, the beginning of autumn, the worker bees have nothing left to do.  They have fulfilled their mission of providing insects to feed the young grubs back in the nest.  Their food of choice is often decaying fruit, rather than the protein they eat early on, and they handle nature's wine in the same way many humans do.  They become mean drunks.  In addition, the queen has stopped producing the hormone that keeps the wasp colony within the nest.  They are on a final binge, as these worker bees die when the weather turns cold.  And they are not nice.

Recently I wrote of my experience a year ago when I dug my weeding tool into a bee's nest tucked away in the ground.  My body reacted to the angry bees quite significantly.  Ever since that post and the recollection of that incident I have been on a kind of red alert.  While Al Qaeda and Isis are definitely terrorist groups, these teensy, tiny, little black and yellow flying, stinging critters have the capability of striking their own kind of terror.  Just thinking about them causes me to cringe.

On the ivy bank, I had clipped two or three blackberry vines back when I felt something bothering my foot.  Looking down, I saw several of my least favorite insects flying around my feet.  My eyes glanced up, and it was then I saw the hole in the ground and the wasps swarming out of it.  Given my past experience, I am amazed at how calm I was.  Another tidbit I have learned is that when one swats at them or stirs them up a chemical is emitted, a signal of distress, and those in the nest respond.  They swarm, attack, and even chase.  Wasps are able to sting repeatedly as well, so the potential is a recipe for disaster.

I calmly walked down the hill--yes, calmly.  When I was a distance away, I killed the two left on my feet.  One was trapped between my shoe and my sock, so he was stinging over and over again.  I got in the truck, where I have a bee sting kit, and headed home, conscious of my breathing and physical response. 

I'm certain you have heard situations described in terms of "good news, bad news"; however, this experience is only "good news, good news."  Yes, I was stung, but part of the good news is that my body did not go into shock.  While I have no desire to meet up with a family of wasps again, it is good to know that I was able to continue breathing, and I did not break out in hives. My response to the initial assault was a gift.  Typically, I would become hysterical, swinging for all I'm worth.  Additional good news is that I did not step on that nest.  It was less than a foot away.  Had I gone up the hill at a different angle I would have walked right on top of it. 

My life is not in my hands.  Once again, I was being watched over and taken care of by my Heavenly Father.  While I continue to be apprehensive when I even think about wasps,  and my foot swelled like a football, not a morsel of this encounter was a negative, only positive.  I did end the day with "good news, good news."  It goes without saying that the blackberry briars are still up on that bank.  I think I'll wait for cooler weather.  That, and for Lynn to have the nest destroyed.

"On Granny Gear"

Dragging my feet, procrastinating, digging my heels in--any way I phrase it, I have been taking my sweet, sweet time getting off to work.  I know I'm in slow mode when I hear myself pleading, over and over again, "Just get me going, just get me going.  Please."  I talk to God a lot.  As I made a detour to check the raspberries and graze, the thought occurred to me:  I'm in "granny gear."  It made me laugh as that description is so fitting and on more than one level.

For those of you who learned to drive with a stick shift, you know exactly what I am talking about when I use that term.  And is there any other way to learn to drive than with a stick? If you have only driven with an automatic transmission let me explain--"Granny gear" is the lowest of low gears in a vehicle with a manual transmission.  I doubt one can go more than a couple miles per hour when in "granny gear."

When I was 8 years old, my Dad set me up on the tractor and showed me what to do and how to do it.  My task was to steer the giant tractor through the hay field, pulling a trailer, stopping periodically for my brothers and Dad to load the baled hay.  There isn't much to run into in the wide open field, other than bales of hay, so it was the perfect place to learn. Plus, operating in granny gear, the lowest speed on the tractor, meant I was virtually crawling.  I wasn't particularly dangerous or threatening to anyone or anything.

And so I am, all these years later, operating in granny gear once again.  In thinking about it, it feels as though slow motion has been my modus operandi for several months now.  This gardening season has been an unusual one for me.  Getting into a real work rhythm has been elusive.  When I am operating full throttle it is not unusual to be on the job site by 8, returning home 10 hours later.  This year, I find I am puttering around the house, taking my time, and I am fortunate if I make it to a job by 10.  At the other end of the day, there is always a variety of reasons aka excuses to call it a day and return back home. 

When I am able to put circumstances in my life into words, when they can be described, it is as though I have turned a corner.  Situations that have been troubling me are brought into focus, there is clarity.  I have been bothered a great deal by my lackadaisical approach to work and have judged myself as being lazy.  The "granny gear" description is perfect, not only as it applies to my slow rate of speed, but the granny part as well, for I am that, five times over. Pleading the Fifth Amendment to avoid incrimination isn't going to work.  I am guilty.  

There is no explanation for nor understanding of my work habits this season;  I don't have to know why.  What I will do is "just keep going."  And that is a whole other subject for a whole other day.  Besides, even in granny gear a person can end up covering a lot of territory.  It may take a while, but it's better than standing still.  Remember the story of "The Tortoise and the Hare?"  Point made.