On Finding Solace at My Piano

solace: n. Comfort or consolation in a time of loneliness or distress. A source of comfort or 

consolation.

There is no “cush” left in the cushion. The upholstery fabric used to cover the bench is threadbare; the edges and corners reveal the batting which was meant to serve as padding. It is obvious that the covering served out its purpose years ago. Yet, even though it is undeniably outdated and scruffy, reupholstering my piano bench is out of the question. Whenever I sit down to play, the worn material reminds me of the countless hours my “tush” has been planted there. It is a part of my life's history. 

The piano, a small upright spinet—and the bench which came with it—is over seventy years old. As a little girl of five, I repeatedly begged my parents to let me take piano lessons. We didn't have a piano and, though I suspect there was one at church services, I don’t remember hearing or seeing one played. And yet the desire within me was strong. My parents were not wealthy people, and I’m quite sure they knew the whims of a small child shift and change with the wind. Investing in a piano and paying for lessons was a big deal for them and wasn’t a casual decision. “You’ll have to practice,“ I was told. “Every day.” Yes. I understood that--at the ripe old age of five, I understood commitment. The unspoken fact was that I could not begin and change my mind when I decided it wasn’t all that much fun.

Mrs. Jacobs, my piano teacher, was a perfectionist. She was also skilled and knowledgeable in her profession. A classic lady, she sat erect in her chair at the end of the piano bench with pencil in hand. The pencil was used  to make notations on the music or on the steno pad where she wrote my practice assignments for the following week. That same pencil was used more than once to tap a high wrist or fingers that splayed instead of curved. My music—Bach, Chopin, Mozart—still bears her mark, and as I play I am conscious of the role she played in my life.

I took piano lessons for over ten years, sometimes practicing three hours a day when preparing for a competition. My mother, who was usually in the kitchen or at her sewing machine when I practiced, said she could always tell what kind of a mood I was in by how I played. I was a kid and didn't notice, but now I realize that, even then, the piano was a means of expression. Dad's assessment was that I played “with feeling.” 

I walked away from the piano when I was in my thirties. Life was just too hard. I was unable to play with the skill, precision, and technique I had in my youth--the fingers simply didn't work. I was weary of people telling me, “I love hearing you play” when it brought me no joy. For over thirty years my piano was another piece of furniture in the living room, dusted but never used. 

Then, out of nowhere, my son asked me to play three songs he had chosen as a present for his 50^th birthday. The music for all three was difficult. It had been decades since I spent any time at the piano, and I knew there was every possibility I would not be able to master them even in the most elementary manner. I did a great deal of soul-searching, however, and made the decision to go back to my piano and its bench. My niece, a pianist as well, gave me the profound, sage advice to "Just show up." And that I did. After nine months of intense, grueling work, I presented him and the rest of my family with a personal concert. What I did not anticipate was the reality that the gift I gave was given back to me--my piano was once again a part of my life.

Today was one of “those” days, the kind I haven’t had in years. I am typically a morning person, up at the crack of dawn and raring to go. Not today. Today I wanted to crawl back into bed and stay there.

The atmosphere in my country is heavy. The nation is divided with a hatred towards the sitting president that is palpable and toxic. There is no regard for law as destruction runs unbridled. Right has become wrong; truth has become lie. And with a presidential election a month away, the future is unknown and uncertain.  

My piano beckoned me. And so I sat down on my timeworn bench and began to play. How do I express what it is like to pour out what you are feeling through your fingers? There are no words to describe the two-fold experience--where the performer is also the audience.  

As I played, something happened--I had a visitor, an audience of one, as my Heavenly Father sat, listening. The music flowed from my fingertips then came back to my ears and entered my being.  My eyes filled with tears, the sanctity of the moment touching me.

God never spoke. When I finished, I stood up and pushed the relic of a bench back in its place under the piano. I was at peace.

The need to be comforted and the means of finding comfort or solace is individual and personal. For some, it may be found in a long walk; others may find comfort curling up in a blanket in front of a fireplace with a book and a cup of tea. Another person might find solace watching a thunder and lightning storm from inside the safety of their home. The list is endless. On a personal level, today I found solace at my piano.

Wherever you are, whatever is going on in your life, may you find solace as well.

 

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Matthew 5:4

 

 

 

He Doesn't Need My Help

engage: v. To interact antagonistically; to enter into conflict with (an enemy); to enter into battle.

I have been censored. “How can that be?” you may ask. “Freedom of speech is a guaranteed right in our country, the United States of America.” Yes, it is, but I have been—censored, that is.

COVID-19, the recent pandemic has brought with it a new set of rules and regulations for interaction described by new terminology. “Stay safe. Wear your mask. Practice social distancing.” Within a short period of time the citizenry of this nation has complete understanding of what those terms mean. There are, however, very personal and diverse responses and reactions to these mandates. Many readily obey, but there are also many who refuse to quietly comply. 

At the same time, the politics in this country has become a cauldron of colliding ideologies and emotions. Have you ever put soda and vinegar together? The combination of those two is a roiling boil which cannot be contained. Thus is the environment in the nation as two very extreme opposites bounce off one another like bumper cars. It would appear there is no middle ground as chaos rules.

Life as we knew it is no more, with the possibility of it becoming even more altered in the future.

Facebook, a social networking site, makes it possible to connect with people all over the world. My list of “friends” is quite long; many of them I do not personally know and would not recognize them if I passed them on the street. But that is how it is in this community (a wide stretch of that word) called Facebook.

“What’s on your mind?”, the question posed to all who participate, has opened a floodgate of opinions, thoughts, and ideas—about the pandemic, politics, religion, and everything else under the sun--often fueled by heady emotions. I have been as guilty as the rest with the need to make myself known to those who are obviously on the road to hell—or at the very least, headed in the opposite direction I am going.  It is important, after all, isn't it, that I set people straight, that I point out where they are wrong and offer another option? 

Oh, how silly you are, Ladonna...

One of the doctrines of traditional, conservative, evangelical Christianity is that we are to spread the Gospel throughout the world. “Tell ‘em like it is!” What has got lost along the way is the truth that words are, indeed, cheap, and that we have also been told we are to be as a light set upon a hill--to be seen by those searching for and seeking God. A candle has no voice; it simply is.

In my experience the mind is an open vessel, absorbing and taking in whatever it is fed. My time spent reading vitriolic comments regarding things I value had begun to take over my thoughts and my life.

What should I do, God? Please help me. I have not yet reached the place of completely removing myself from the Facebook medium. I have connected with family members in the South and Midwest that I would otherwise have no contact with.

“Don’t engage,” He said—His form of censoring. He has repeated that over and over as I have walked away from arguments—then gone back to put my two cents’ worth in. I have always felt I needed to have the last word, but I am learning.

I have been called to walk with my Heavenly Father in the here and now. I was not called to try to fight His battles for Him. And that is where I find peace.

By the way, "Not my problem," is my new mantra. He doesn’t need my help.

"On Happiness vs. Joy"

 

happiness: n. The emotion of being happy; joy.

joy: n. A feeling of extreme happiness or cheerfulness, especially related to the acquisition or expectation of something good.

I want to tell you a sweet story. 

Washing my truck is a rare thing. I wholeheartedly avoid some tasks in life. Washing a vehicle is one of them. Road dirt is just so dirty...and gritty and grimy.

The recent fires in my home state of Oregon left a residue of smoke and ash remains on everything, including my pickup. My son-in-law told me the paint job could be ruined if it wasn't washed off. God forbid that should happen. The sparkly blue finish was the main reason I bought it two years ago. I knew I needed to address the issue.

Arriving home from work, I parked in the driveway instead of entering the garage, an incentive to follow through on the project. Grabbing an old rag, I began the process by filling a bucket with hot water and some Dawn detergent, the recommended cleaner for dealing with ash on vehicles. I had disposable gloves on, but I could feel the warmth of the hot water as I began washing the surface.

It was a good day. A week ago, the area I live in was covered with oppressive smoke from the forest fires with air quality the worst of any place on the face of the planet. Going outside was unthinkable. Then the rains came. They dumped water on our dry, thirsty soil, flushing ash-covered surfaces clean. 

The truck still needed a good, old-fashioned scrub though, and I was up for the task.

It was the first day of fall. The changing of seasons was in the air, freshened by the gift of rain. 

While digging through my utility room cupboard in late Spring, I discovered a package of seeds. The label said it was a Hummingbird and Butterfly Garden Mixture, a combination of reseeding annuals and perennials. It was dated for use in 2016, so I was aware the four-year-old seeds might not be viable. Having a wildflower garden has been on my wish list for quite some time, though, so I decided to give it a try. The soil in the area I chose to plant was rock-hard and the opposite of fertile, but reason had no voice. I dug up a space bordering the sidewalk that was approximately 4' x 12', added compost from my compost bin and several bags of potting soil. My attitude was I had nothing to lose.

I sprinkled the seed mix on the area and watered it. And watered and watered some more. They were planted late in the growing season, so I had zero expectations. I checked the area often, sometimes several times a day. A magnifying glass would have been helpful in my search for any signs of life. I was ecstatic when, bit by bit, tiny green leaves peeked up through the surface. Granted, some of them were a nasty, invasive grass weed and volunteer vegetable starts from my compost that I had to pull out, but other plants were sprouting as well.

I continued to water them faithfully, ensuring their roots never dried out. They rewarded me with growth and blossoms. I recognized some of the plants--orange California Poppies; pink, blue, and purple Bachelor Buttons; Dill, Coreopsis, and Blanket Flower; Black Eyed Susan; bright pink Godetia and red Larkspur--and others unidentified. The colors resembled a crazy quilt, a mishmash of blooms and textures. I delighted in their survival and beauty along with the prospect of a perennial garden that will attract bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds.

I was focused on washing the passenger side of the truck, making certain all the smoke residue was removed when I happened to glance up. A young woman was walking along the sidewalk, pushing a baby stroller and chatting with her little girl, the big sister. They stopped by the bed of flowers, the tiny sprite of a girl squatting down to get a closer look. The washing project came to a halt as I became the proverbial "fly on the wall," observing from a distance. It was as though I could hear their conversation: "Look, mama--isn't that pink one pretty? Oh, I love the orange one! Will you take a picture of it for me?" Leaning down by her young daughter, the mother pulled out her phone to take pictures. After several minutes they were on their way.

My being was filled with pure joy as I watched the young mother and her child admiring God's handiwork. My first instinct was to run to social media and "share" it. No. This was given to me to revel in and appreciate. I have done that, thanking God for the original idea, the follow through, and for the beauty of living, growing things.  

What, exactly, is joy? What is the difference between joy and happiness? Is there any? 

I am going to state that happiness takes place in the physical and joy is spiritual. From experience, I agree with the dictionary definition: happiness is emotion, joy is a feeling. 

My best description is that happiness takes place in the chest, up to and including the head. It tends to be transitory and short-lived. A happy mood can easily be shattered by a comment, look, or blip that results in a change of circumstances. 

Joy goes the opposite direction, sinking and settling deep within a person. Each "joy" experience is a gift and blessing from God. Joy cannot be fabricated or faked. Counterfeit efforts will not, cannot endure.

My wildflower garden has brought me great joy. It has also given joy to others. 

And this: If I had been washing the driver's side of the truck instead of the passenger's, my back would have been turned on the entire scene, and I would have missed out.

 

                     "  ...the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness,

                              generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control." 

                                                           Galatians 5: 22, 23

                                 Happy comes and happy goes, but joy...

                      joy plants itself within and reminds us of how good God is.

                                            Just me. Just sayin'.

  

   

"Coming from a Place of Thanksgiving"

In everything give thanks.

I'm up early. The house doesn't have a heavy underlying stench of smoke this morning. I am able to see the lights of houses several blocks down the street. It's all a welcome change from the falling ashes and smoke-filled skies of the past few days. I am thankful.

Coming from a place of thanksgiving is often a comparison thing--I'm thankful I'm not like THEM; or Thank God I don't have THEIR life; I'm so glad THAT didn't happen to me! May I view my life from a very personal place and not one of comparison.

I have much to be thankful for. The list is lengthy.

I have been part of a physical fire storm here in my home state for the past week...a very long week. The foundation of my thankfulness, however, is that I have a spiritual life. I continue giving thanks for it. Nothing can touch it nor take it from me.

There have been ups and downs this past week as fire came roaring down the mountains, heading for the valley floor where I live. With heavy winds at its back, the fire had a life of its own. In my mind I was thinking that I lived on the "other" side of Springfield and Eugene, and there was a buffer between it and me. Then...I heard of Medford in the southern part of the state, with its population of over 80,000 people, being forced to evacuate. Reality is a heady trip.

The winds died, and the fire lost its savage nature. How? Why? I know the how--even the winds obey their Creator. Why? All things are at the hand of God, touching and affecting humankind in personal ways.

I am a person of faith. Faith, however, only has as much value as who or what I entrust with that faith. Ideologies come and go. God doesn't.

We are living in hard times. There is only One who can see any of us through them. I am thankful.

"On My and Mine"

my: determiner. Belonging to me. Associated with me. In the possession of me.

mine: pronoun.  My; belonging to me; that which belongs to me.

"It just happened," she said. "You got here at the perfect time."

'She' is a 93-year-old gardening client who has the spirit and spunk of a 13-year-old. For the past nine years you can usually find me on Mondays mowing Lucille's lawn or working in her garden--at least during the gardening season. Several years ago she informed me, "You can't quit until I no longer need you." Apparently (with tongue in cheek), the decision as to when I retire rests in her hands. 

'It' was the cord of her telephone charger, tightly wrapped around the beater bar of her vacuum cleaner. Unable to pull it out, she had resorted to the informational booklet which came with it and had come to the conclusion the only way to retrieve it was to cut it.

The weather forecasters had predicted a hot one today--in the upper 90's. It was my intention to get out to work early in order to beat the heat, but that hadn't happened. It was already almost noon by the time I made it to Lucille's.

This sparkler of a human always opens the door to chat when she realizes I have arrived with my mower. This morning was no different. After telling me of her dilemma, I asked "Would you like me to come in and see what I can do?" 

She'd succeeded in wrapping the entire length of the cord, and it took me a while to get it started, but once I did, it began unreeling off the bar. 

I was her knight in shining armor. As I headed off to mow her lawn, leaving her to finish her vacuuming, I thought of her comment about arriving at the perfect time. 

My life is not my own.

A pervasive fallacy of possession and ownership has spread throughout humankind. Property (known as private) is bought and sold, and the transaction is recorded at a local courthouse.  Automobiles are purchased or exchanged, and a title verifies the deal. Selling either is impossible without a piece of paper indicating the right to possession--mine.

Native Americans had a different view from the Europeans and Americans of today. They believed no one owned the land and that the land belonged to everyone in the tribe. They could not conceive land ownership was respectable. The land itself was for the use of everyone in the village, and a person's right to use it was temporary. "My" and "mine" did not exist. 

The idea of ownership carries with it the concept of control and authority. "That house, property, or car is mine, and no one can tell me what I can or cannot do with it." Children are often viewed in that same light as well. On a more personal level--"It's my body, and I have the right to do whatever I choose." Does that sound familiar? "If I want to color my hair purple, I will. If I want to be tatted, I can." On and on and on...and the laws of the land have reinforced that attitude, labeling them "rights."

In truth, I own nothing. I entered this world with nothing, and I will leave it with nothing--at least nothing that is physical or tangible. The title to my vehicle, the deed to my property, and any and all of my other possessions will be left behind. "My" isn't worth much, is it?  

Not a one of us possesses the ability to control the beat of our hearts or the capability of our lungs to take in air and process it, allowing our bodies to function. We do not own a single thing that we apply the word "my" or "mine" to. Our homes can be burned or flooded, businesses shut down due to a downturn in the economy. Our lives and those of our family members can be altered and changed forever because of health issues. We control nothing.

I live with the knowledge that my life is not my own. I breathe and function at the hand of my creator. I may plan out my days, but He is the one who actually brings them about. 

The earth and everything in it is not in possession of us earthlings. It belongs to God, and His will will be done. 

My challenge to you is this: The next time you hear yourself think or say "my" or "mine," consider the truth. Consider it in the spiritual context. The sacrifice of Christ on the cross and His resurrection resulted in redemption--for humanity--for you and for me. The price was paid. Your life is not your own.

I was at Lucille's at "just the right time"--not because I planned it that way, but because I have a daily planner who coordinates my schedule and my life. My life is not my own. I wouldn't have it any other way.

...do you not know that your body is a temple 

of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God,

and that you are not your own?

For you were bought with a price...

I Cor. 6:19, 20

"On the Blessing of Life"

blessing: n. Some kind of divine or supernatural aid, or reward. Good fortune. 

life: n. The state of being alive or living; the state of organisms preceding their death, characterized by biological processes such as metabolism and reproduction and distinguishing them from inanimate objects.

Blessings come in many different forms and shapes--the air we breathe, the breath we take; inner peace in the midst of a storm; human touch or the love and devotion of an animal. As humans, our lives are filled with them.

My gardening business has consumed my life for the past eighteen years. The days have been long, the work arduous and demanding. Personal time has been at a premium as my clients' gardens have been a first priority. My own garden, weed-ridden and neglected, could have been a poster with the caption "The cobbler's children have no shoes."

Over time--and it has happened gradually--my work load has lightened. Within the first two years of self-employment, I had seventy clients. I worked long hours, seven days a week. That lessened some when I moved to another area, but I still had an extensive list with large gardens to tend. Several clients passed away, others moved. I opted out of several jobs, ones which needed a crew of young men instead of a seventy-something single woman to care for them.

In the past year, I have been given time to work in my own garden.

For several years, I have wanted a wild flower garden--flowers which attract bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds. Planting anything from seed and having a flower grow has never been my strong suit, and typically that is how natural gardens are started.

While digging through a cupboard in my utility room a few months ago, I found a packet of seeds. It stated on the outside of the package that they were perennial flowers--which means they last from year to year--and that they will attract butterflies and hummingbirds. I felt like I had found the mother lode.

The date on the package was 2016. The viability of four year old seeds was in question, but I was on a mission. My soil is in bad shape, another negative before I even started, but determination took over. I scraped and scraped the hard-pack (digging wasn't even an option), mixed in bags of potting medium and compost from my compost bin. As I sprinkled the small packet of seeds on the prepared area, I was filled with more wishful thinking than hope.

I faithfully watered them every day. Getting down on my hands and knees with my glasses on, I checked for any sign of germination and growth. Success!!--as small green sprouts gradually appeared. What I did not realize was many of them were either weeds, which had responded to the love and care, or vegetable starts which came from the veggies I had composted. I could have raised tomatoes, squash, and cucumbers as well.

It has taken a while to weed out the unwanted growth, but I now have a wildflower garden. As I drove toward my home yesterday, my eyes caught blooms on the plants. They cannot be called lush and prolific, but I will provide mulch and give them opportunity to grow in the future. 

I have been blessed with life; it is evident.

In this age of materialism, we live with life all around us and think nothing of it. Children are born into the world and grow up before our eyes. The lawn needs to be mowed or I need a haircut. We trip and fall, breaking bones, or "catch a cold" (though I don't think anyone seriously sets out to do that) and, with no effort on our part, the body heals.  

Those tiny specks of seeds the size of a pepper flake contained life--God-given life. I provided the medium for them to grow in and watered them, but I did not...cannot cause them to grow. 

This is my challenge to you: The next time you say or think God is nowhere to be found, look around and note all that is living. Humankind has never been able to create life--and never will. 

We have been blessed with life. He is the creator of life. He is life. 

                                                Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; 

                                                Praise Him, all creatures here below;

                                                Praise Him above, ye heav'nly host;

                                                Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!

You have granted me life and steadfast love, 

and your care has preserved my spirit.

Job 10:12

"On Being Free to Be"

fun: n. amusement, enjoyment or pleasure

I was on my hands and knees, weeding an area around a lovely pond for a gardening client when the thought, This is fun, passed through my mind. The next to follow was: Why would I even think this is fun? But it was. 

Fun is not a word generally applied to grubbing out Stinky Bob weeds--so described by another of my gardening clients because they do stink--I'm not sure where "Bob" came from, though I doubt it was ever personal...or Forget-Me-Nots--given that label since once you plant them, you'll have them forever, never to be forgotten...or a profusion of other weed varieties growing in the landscape surrounding the small waterway that led down into the pond, newly stocked with fish and flashing a bright water lily. 

Perhaps it was fun because the area was overrun with weeds, and I knew my clients were going to be surprised when they discovered it was cleared out--perhaps. Then again, maybe the soothing sound of gurgling water as it gradually flowed down the slope towards the pond before being pumped back up to begin its journey all over again made it fun--maybe. I could say it was because bright, blue-bodied dragonflies with transparent wings flitted around while I was working, but I know better. I know that true enjoyment comes from within, not without. 

I began writing over six years ago. In May, 2019, I self-published a book, a compilation of blog posts I had written. I joined the Oregon Christian Writers but I have never considered myself to be in the same league or class as my fellow members. Unlike many published, successful authors, I have no training and no credentials. I certainly don't have an agent. 

I have been in an ongoing struggle with self-doubt since my first published post. Do I really have anything to say? Is it anything anyone wants to hear about or read? Just who do I think I am? I simply cannot call myself a writer. That term applies to others--not to me. In that frame of mind, I shut down; I become silent. 

While in my garden today, I was watering some cosmos and a wild flower bed I planted from seed. I've never been successful with seeds, but these are thriving, largely because I am tending them. I provided good soil for them, giving them consistent water so they could sprout. I have given them the environment they need so they can eventually bloom. I am giving them loving care.

Nothing is more exciting, I thought, than planting a seed and watching it grow--whether in the physical or the spiritual. Bingo! THAT is what my God-given words are as I place them on paper. They are seeds that He tends and cares for, with the potential to bring about growth and change in the one who reads them. 

What struck me is the fact I need to forget the "writer" label and the semantics and just do what has been given to me to do--write. I was given a voice to use, not to stifle. 

And that is why cleaning up around the pond was fun today. My mind was freed. I gave no thought as to whether or not I qualify as a writer. Instead I thought of my experience and how best to describe it when I returned home--how to write about it and deliver its message. Thoughts of the current global pandemic didn't touch me. I was oblivious to the hatred and anger permeating my country, and the dissension and division between the political left and right never entered my mind. 

I am a person first--one who is a grandmother, plays the piano, gardens, and...writes.       

God is good--He is also pretty sneaky.