Oh Little Angel, Shining Light

When I hold my little two month old granddaughter as she sleeps, the world slows to the sound of her breathing, embraces from the warmth of her relaxed, slumbering body, and refreshes at the smell of her fuzzy, soft head at my cheek. I explore her tiny hand wrapped around my finger, her little ears that look like her mama's which look like mine, the perfect shape of her tiny head, her nose, her eyes, her rosebud mouth. I am only aware of God, my life, this baby who is part of me. I do nothing but experience that blessed, prayer full moment - utterly undistracted - in the beautiful, timeless moment that is love.

French Level One, Fourth Time

Je parle français. . .

. . .un peu.

French is a very difficult language for me to speak, though reading is easier, writing, too.

The shape of my mouth and throat seem to resist forming the sounds required to pronounce some of the letters and blends.

Now, Italian, ah, there my mouth finds its home. Easy peasy!

Parlo italiano con felicità.

So, why study French?

Because I am - and have long been - a francophile. Studying the language was a natural result of my french explorations.

The same logic drives why I study Italian as well. I love Italy and the Italian way of life, for the most part. In fact, I began studying Italian first, but it was kind of hard because no one I know speaks the language, so I was all on my own. Reciting the words was easy enough. Understanding what I was saying, not so much.

Enter two daughters taking French lessons in high school.

Aha! Here's my chance to adequately learn a second language, I thought. I was right. The girls helped me quite a bit with grammar, with pronunciation, with answering questions about this and that.

Still, the language is a bit difficult for me. French people speak quickly. Very. And with very small mouth movements, quiet mask-type faces, not to mention those 'r's' in the back of the throat. Help! I am Old School American, big mouth, many facial expressions. 'Nuff said?

However, I am persistent. I have kept at it off and on over the years, twelve to be exact.

My foreign language skills helped tremendously during a recent trip to France and Italy, especially in reading literature and road signs. When it came to speaking, I was pleasantly surprised how the words and phrases popped into my brain when I needed them. Sure I was clumsy. Sometimes I'd become flustered, and all words French disappeared. I'd stand there stupefied. Those moments, though, when the words just flowed out unconsciously, those were the best. The French people were kind to me. They appreciated my effort. Communication happened well enough. (I should note here that the Italians understood me and praised me, though I speak Italian like a four year old. They encouraged me to keep at it, said I was doing well. I credit my pronunciation. I loved chatting with locals in Italian. I thrived and am eager to get back to that language once my French goals are met.)

Closer to home is the main reason I am determined to reach a higher level of skill: my son-in-law is French. His family is French. His friends are French. My daughter's and his children will be bilingual. (Their pup is! The command, "Fais bisou," which roughly means 'give a kiss,' is happily followed by a little Corgi nose bump on the cheek. It's quite cute.) How grand will it be to read French books to my future grandchildren! C'est merveilleux!

As anyone who has taken high school - or even college - foreign language studies knows, rustiness occurs pretty rapidly with disuse.

Herein lies my dilemma. Months and months go by without any cracking of the books or computer programs. Slip-sliding away.

I go back to the drawing board over and over.

BUT, each time I revisit the beginning levels, I find the review reveals that I am retaining the basics better and better, my pronunciation is improving, and I am tip-toeing around the beginnings of the faintest whispers of the outlying area of fluency.

It's hard!

But I love it!

Last night at midnight, after a few weeks of review, I finished - for the fourth time - Level One in my Rosetta Stone French course. It was so easy for me!

Final Score: 98%

I noiselessly, giddily danced around my living room, cheering myself on as the empty neighborhood streets glistened with light rain, and my husband peacefully slept in bed.

It's a big deal to me, to be still at it, to be improving, to be engaged and passionate.

Never give up. Never surrender.

Tomorrow I shall begin Level Two, for the third time.

Wish me luck!

Yearn, Ache, Sob

Me photographing the Irish countryside, 2015

In all my dimensions I miss the United Kingdom and Europe. Mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually I pine pine pine to be there right now.

In particular England, Ireland, Italy, and France.

I was fortunately blessed to travel there about a year ago, for an extended stay.

While I was blissfully happy to return to my home once again, that bliss has completely receded.

In its place is a void so huge it hurts.

I find myself weeping - even sobbing - to return.

I miss the old buildings, the Old World everywhere.

I miss the languages.

I miss the people.

I miss the beauty.

I miss the clock towers with their ringing bells.

I miss the clatter of the cobblestones.

I miss the Irish smiles and laughter, the friendliness.

I miss rashers, those delicious breakfast meats.

I miss Dublin's energy, and Galway's pride.

I miss the smells - old and musty and then new and alive.

I miss the arches and bridges and rivers with their walkways.

I miss the Tube of London, the buses, too.

I miss Hyde Park in the evening.

I miss the meat pies, the tarts, the lemonade.

I miss the flower boxes and gardens surprising me as I stroll and explore.

I miss the Left Bank with its ghosts of people I would love to have met.

I miss the castles and cathedrals.

The wrought iron...how is it I can so incredibly miss wrought iron, but I do.

I miss the meandering rock walls and crumbling rock ruins.

I miss the art EVERYWHERE.

I miss the shops, the pubs, the excellence.

I miss the little hilly Italian villages with the moon and sun over them.

I miss Venice, the canals, the boats, the lights, the colors.

I miss thick drinking chocolate with whipped cream.

I miss the olive groves heavy with fruit, their pale green leaves merry in the sunshine.

I miss the bread - oh, my, do I miss the bread.

I miss standing and moving and breathing in an ancient timeline of which I am part.

I miss the way I feel when I'm there...

... as if I am embraced...

... as if I am home.

Five Years Later. . .

Twenty-seven years as a homeschool mom ended for me five years ago when my youngest graduated from high school.

Now a married woman, this precious daughter and I reflected on the number of years that have passed. Here she is in her own home, a brand new husband, a dog, and much happiness.

I thought about my own life. I even spoke out loud, "What have I done in those five years?"

A lot.

A look back.

I traveled to Hawaii, England, Ireland, Italy, and France for extended amounts of time.

I bought a kayak and thoroughly enjoy paddling it in our local waters.

I passed six terms in French and Italian language study, and am in my seventh.

I study American Sign Language.

I took two art history classes and visited numerous art museums.

I have participated in a lengthy study of early philosophers and philosophy.

I began an extensive study of the Left Bank artists of Paris.

My husband and I bought a large swimming pool and have put it up for enjoyment every summer.

I have designed and supervised the construction of a beautiful, long concrete walkway along our house.

I've learned to prepare French foods such as croissants, Mousse au chocolat, and Croque Monsieur.

I negotiated the use of land which increased the quality and use of ours and our neighbors' property.

I have reconnected with college friends, sharing many visits, laughs, and deep conversations.

I continue to play tennis - badly - with my husband.

My mother died - I grieve.

My father died - I grieve.

I orchestrated the cleaning of my mother-in-law's hoarded house - a nightmare, but it's done.

I helped plan the weddings of two daughters who were married six months apart.

I have continued writing three blogs, three paper journals, and the occasional published article.

These things quickly pop into my head. I know there are more delightful and difficult experiences within those five years. Some things are too private to share here.

I am satisfied with how I've spent my time as a retired teacher. I intend to keep learning, traveling, following my curiosity, pursuing my dreams, serving those I love. I look forward to being a grandmother to my very first grandchild soon.

"Aging can be fun if you lie back and enjoy it." ~~ Clint Eastwood

For Tom

Sniveling.

Defiant.

Confused.

Demanding.

"Where is the justice!"

Lost and Alone.

Why... and What If...

In time - lots of time - from disorder the hint of form, edges connect, encircle a slowly focusing message. An answer? A reason?

In the unfolding of daily life in decades, the puzzle of truth exposes its crucial final pieces.

There it is!

The obvious answer, obvious only after time searching, information revealed, evaluation, and mercy.

"I rescued you."

Rescued from...

Rescued to...

"See what from. See what to."

Contrition! Knees bend, hands fold, heart breaks, then rejoices. Thank you!

"Thank you for rescuing me. I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know how bad it was, couldn't comprehend the mire of falsity, the depth of evil. You loved me before I loved you. You chose me though I angrily rebelled in misunderstanding. You protected me even as I squirmed and scratched. You placed me in freedom where You could be found and known and eventually loved.  I clearly see from what, to where."

One Savior, but twice saved.

Amazing Grace.

An Artful Day

While waiting for news of a loved one's surgery - a brain tumor - I find myself trying to remain calm, to go about my day as planned, with prayerfulness at the forefront of my mind.

It will do no good to sit and fret, after all.

My husband is very much looking forward to enjoying the Italian Roast Beef I promised to cook him today. How easy it is to plop it into the crock pot with some onions and seasonings! Done.


The quiet studio beckons. I answer the call, slipping into its coolness, opening the two windows to gardens outside and abundant fresh air. At my table my hand slides a leather daily journal before me along with my fountain pen. I write. And I write. And I write.

Another journal, hardback with an embossed leather cover, seems to vibrate that there is an entry it needs on its pages, an entry about my father, a memory. I write. And I write. And I write.

Then, I sob.

Memories bring back sights, smells, sounds, but what brings up the sobbing is that I can hear my dad's voice and see his kind green eyes. Vivid memories, mine. I loved him. So much. I still do.

Love doesn't die with people. It changes into something extra beautiful, precious.

Tears brushed away, the garden calls. There's the procrastinated job of tidying up the huge mass of now-finished tiger lilies. Okay, this is the moment; I dive in.

Dried leaves, dead stems clipped away.

"There, that's better."

After wheelbarrowing yard debris to its place in the backyard, I sit calmly under the giant silver maples on the bench I created for my mother, a memorial to her in a shady, lovely place surrounded by lavender, begonias, and a pink rhododendron, now finished blooming. I pray for my loved one's surgery, for the doctor's hands and wisdom, for the family. Deep sighs. I think I've never fully appreciated my life and health until this point in my life when I know elderliness is fast approaching.

"Thank you, Lord, for how good I feel today. Thank you for the good health I've always had. Thank you for whatever you will bring my way because I know all things work together for good, because I love You and am called according to Your purpose. You are the Best."

This feels like a very artful day.

Creativity of different types.

Appreciation.

Observance.

Study.

Work.

Beauty.

People.

Remembrance.

Prayer.

Love.

God.

Yes, a very artful day.

So far.

I Sleep Among Gardens

Every morning these days I awaken to the scent and scenery of beautiful gardens surrounding my bedroom on three sides. With two wide-open very large windows on opposite walls, fresh air delicately wafts across my room, swooshing gauzy white curtains as it daintily pushes them floating into the room then sucks them back tightly against the window screens as if breathing. The zephyrs drift over my bed, swirling, dancing in the vaulted space. 

I sleep in delicious dreaming and awaken to sweet and spicy scents amidst the sounds of birch leaves tapping together in gentle breezes, chirping birds, and scampering squirrels. A Wall Street Journal delivery boy softly opens the front garden gate, tiptoes noiselessly toward the front door, gently plops a paper onto my porch. The neighbor’s quiet scritching of garden tools in the soil assures of beauty on the other side of the fence. All these sounds comfort and soothe me. There is a tranquility in the murmurings of life going on about me. I am not alone. I belong to a world of flora, fauna, and people! 

Still, here in my home is solitude, privacy. 

Balance. A vigorous life is all about balance.

Out my sparkling north bedroom window is verdant lawn edged with abundantly blooming rhododendrums, peonies, azaleas, various flowering spring bulbs, a pink hydrangea soon to open, and white birches festooned with brand-new supple dark green leaves. Ferns in various hues of green arch and curl under shading eaves, offering a forest quality to the prettiness of the garden. Blue jays and squirrels daily bathe and drink from a dark red birdbath, its puddle of sun-reflecting water invites them, quenching their thirst, washing their wings. Two log rocking chairs on a veranda offer restful shade, a place to peacefully view nature’s gaiety.  A little piece of heaven, glorious under a bright blue sky! 

Directly below my bedroom’s south window - in my secret potted Italian Garden - one Meyer Lemon and two Cara-Cara orange trees offer intoxicatingly scented blossoms. Bliss! My mother wore orange blossoms in her hair the day she married my father. My father grew one lemon, one tangerine, and one orange tree on the California estate of my childhood. The scents of the sweet-smelling, tiny white flowers in my secret garden bring to mind the parents whose memory blesses my heart every day.  Perfume from two nearby jasmine bushes, in earth-toned ceramic pots, joins the aromatic dance. Next to the citrus trees and across from the jasmine twins is an eight feet tall avocado tree started from a pit by my French son-in-law, the son with the green thumb. 

From my south window, if I lean in and to the right, I see geraniums, lettuce, zinnias, marjoram, basil, purple flowering chives and thyme, oregano, alyssum, orange California poppies, a Vietnamese fish plant, parsley times two, tiger lilies, a tall Cyprus tree, and cilantro blossoms. A tidy bed of asparagus planted in fertile ground by my daughter, the daughter with the green thumb, joins more savory delights, plus lavender, and a large terra cotta container overflowing with fruitful strawberry plants all thriving in the rich soil of Mother Earth. 

A Greek-blue umbrella in the center of a lovely, round, tiled bistro table - a gift from a friend - nestles between two black wrought-iron chairs cushioned with vibrant red and aqua floral cushions.

All of this greets me every morning as I lift the shades from my huge windows.

Calmy settled and dreamy-eyed from a good night’s sleep, I slip a colorful robe around my shoulders and over my arms, untied, its soft fabric flowing against my legs as I stroll down my tiled, sun-lit hall to the patio door. I roll it open with anticipation. Another glorious day greets me! I speak to my plant friends in muted, happy tones, touching their leaves, bending to smell their blossoms. The decorative concrete is pleasantly warm under my bare feet. I amble to the arched garden gate - built masterfully by my beloved husband - open its little black latch, walk through, and am greeted by yet another garden area, one unseen from my bedroom.

Lush green lawn underfoot beckons me to enter further. Before me, abundantly budding and blooming, stand two cheery red cluster-roses, their shiny leaves glistening in the morning sun. Calla lilies, nestled in the corner of our curved gate and tall picket fence, freshly flower amidst tiger lilies just days away from bursting forth their orange-striped blooms. Spread before the green-leaved lilies lies a cozy mass of Sweet William, those lovely, spicy, pink dainties.  A pleasant scent from my childhood! Dad planted pinks, as he called them, under my bedroom window when I was a teenager. I used to pick bouquets of them, place them on my bedside table, then enjoy sweet slumber each summer’s night. A bouquet of Sweet William sits on my nightstand today, reminding me of a father who gardened with joy.

Along the exterior of my bedroom wall, in this lush garden, lies a sea of merrily flourishing coral bells on slender stems, tall, waving at me in the gentle breeze. Prolific this year, my bed of coral bells began with a small start gifted to me by Dad. Their vibrant color and intricate form take my breath away this morning. Brightly edging the verdant lawn while complementing our pale green house the flowers cause many a passer-by to pause. Beauty beckons. Along the coral bell garden, a stone path leads to the birch tree garden, the one seen from my north window where this garden tour began.

Yes, I sleep among gardens, beautiful and aromatic, inviting and sweet, secret and shared.

The mind, nourished by gardens, spreads open the deepest chambers of the soul where truth and understanding dwell, and in this accepting state of grace grows a certain and unexplained serenity.