"On a Treasure of the Heart"

The almost-10-year-old, the one I call the "old soul," the one who is quiet but mighty, called me the other day.  After chatting for a bit, I asked her what she was doing.  "Nothing," she said, "I just wanted to hear your voice." 

That one comment, pure and sincere, sunk to the very core of my being and shall remain there for the rest of my life.  No embellishments, no analogies or analysis.  It sunk deep, has taken root, and feeds my soul. 

It isn't the amount of words; it isn't even the words themselves.  It is the heart from which those words come from.  Lesson lived and taught by a now-10-year-old.

"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