"On Things That Make Me Go 'Hmmm...'"

There is nothing earth-shattering, generally speaking, about things that make me go "Hmmm."  There are no fireworks, no fanfare or public announcement over speakers, no reason to share on Facebook or Twitter.  Instead, they are incidents which unexpectedly come out of nowhere, causing me to consider, think, and reflect. 

What kind of experience falls in this category, one that doesn’t necessarily provide answers or conclusions, a “lightbulb” moment of epiphany?  Rather, they leave me with a sense of wonderment and an awareness of design, synchronization, timing, and order which is completely separate from me and my schedule of events.  

We all have them; I know we do.  At times they impact us, other times they fade quickly, filed away with the many daily happenings of our lives. 

A friend is in the hospital, and I had picked up a card to send to her.  Recovery is going to take a while, so I wanted to get it in the mail, offering support.  The idea was to put it in the mailbox before I left for work.  Remembering I had left it in my truck, I went to retrieve it, but it was nowhere to be found.  Having only recently cleaned out the inside of my vehicle, I knew I had left it on the seat.  Searching high and low, it had virtually disappeared.

A stop by the store was in order to purchase a replacement card, and the original goal would be accomplished. 

A gentleman was walking towards me as I headed to the card section.  There was something familiar about him, and as I walked past a name passed through my mind.  After choosing another card, I headed towards the checkout counter.  Glancing down an adjacent aisle, I saw him once again and made the decision to approach.  “Excuse me, I think I know you,” as I spoke his name and revealed mine.  “Yes."  The name and the face were a match.

We had been neighbors up a little country road outside a small coastal town 30 years ago, and it had been that long since I had seen him.  Standing in the shampoo aisle of the store, we visited for quite a while.  We spoke of that period of time in life, events of happiness and sadness since then, and present circumstances.  He is once again my neighbor, living just a few miles away.

I paid for the card and headed for the truck.  As soon as I opened the door my eyes spotted the card which I was certain had vaporized and disappeared and no, it wasn’t even hiding from view.  I had overlooked it repeatedly in my search.

An unplanned trip to the store, a “chance” encounter--I don’t try to figure out or understand these types of experiences, the "Why?" of them.  The intricacy of detail, the way circumstances are lined up and fall into place, the choreography in order to place two people at the same place at the same time never ceases to fascinate and intrigue me.  

At the base of these is the fact that my life is not my own, that One greater than I is in charge.  These are the things that make me go, “Hmmm…”  These are also the things that give me hope and an anchor in the midst of this crazy, insane world that is exploding all around.   

"Stop! Stay! Come!"

It was a wonderful idea, a grand plan.  My daughter was working in Las Vegas for a week, and she suggested I fly down with the two grandgirls for the weekend.  She had a list of places to go to, things to see, and activities that were kid friendly.  The dates were set, plane reservations made, and it was set in motion.

The girls were excited and thrilled, for the most part.  The one exception was that the one I call the sparkly girl had a grave fear of airplane travel.  However, not wanting to stay behind and miss out on the possibility of a fun-filled weekend, she mustered up all the courage she had and consented, the prospect of seeing Mom at the end of the flight adding to her resolve.

Dad had allowed the girls to pack their own backpacks with the instructions that, since they would be carrying them, they needed to be a weight they could handle.  What wasn’t factored in on the test run--or walk--was the fact that carrying a backpack while walking around the living room is not the same as carrying it a distance through an airport, especially when you’re 5 years old.

Neither of the two adults in this situation did our own TSA check prior to leaving for the airport.  Had we done so, we would have discovered the little one had filled hers with books, a video game, and as much of her bedroom as possible.  I’m not sure she had packed a change of underwear or clothes, but she made certain she was going to be entertained.

I have parented four of my own children, but having the responsibility of my grandchildren on such a trek was something completely different.  I haven’t figured out what the difference is, but it weighed heavily on me from the beginning, delivering this precious cargo to their mother.

We had just got through the doors, heading into the airport terminal when I knew I was in trouble.  I was just hoping I wasn’t in over my head.  This wasn’t even a large group, just two little girls! The older one was a sprinter, striding ahead towards God-knows-where and-what; the younger one a lagger, sight-seeing along the way as though she had all the time in the world. 

I explained the importance of staying together, and I’m sure they heard me.  At least they seemed to be listening.  Life in action is a whole other story, though, isn’t it?

The flying experience of this grandmother and her two grandgirls very quickly reached the point of monosyllabic communication, that of “Stop!  Stay!  Come!”--the first two directives spoken rather loudly at the one who was heading out, the latter at the one who was trailing.  When we had once again become a group of three, we would continue on. 

At some point the little one trailing behind expressed how heavy her backpack was.  When I offered to carry it for her I realized the truth of what she said.  The weight of all those books made it a load, even for me.

This scene played out over and over as we made our way towards the plane.  Laughter soon took over as they knew what was coming, what to expect as our group of three spread out.  At one point the sparkly one asked, “Grandma, is 'Stop!  Stay!  Come!' the only thing you know how to say?”  I explained to her that it was the only way I could get their attention, that talking to them was ineffective.  She giggled.

I am this same way with God at times. Sprinting out with my own plans, my own way, He can try communicating with me, but when dealing with headstrong determination it is futile. And so He says, “Stop!  Stay.”  With no place for me to go, no other options I concede and wait.  Other times I drag my feet, resisting a path or a direction He has laid out. Once I have reconciled and understood that His way is the better way, then He says, “Come!,” and the two of us head off once again.  As with my grandgirls, the base is love.

Sometimes I find myself wondering how I am going to be remembered when life in this form has come to an end.  I have no doubt that for two of my grandgirls that memory will be condensed into three words—“Stop!  Stay!  Come!”

 

"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."