"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.