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.

Sprauncy

Care to join me in setting the word 'dapper' aside for awhile? How about enlivening popular vocabulary with the word Sprauncy?

I think it's a grand idea.

Absolutely grand.

In the comment forum below, leave your photos or descriptions of the sprauncy folks in your life.

This could be fun!

Sensational

"The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls." ~~Pablo Picasso

Lost within an image before me, whether hanging on a wall in my home, displayed in a museum, glowing from a computer screen, or glossily printed in a large book, transcedency seems to occur. 

I become the woman dancing with the gentleman in the rain under an umbrella in Paris, Eiffel's Tower a grandfatherly sentinel.

I feel the rain on my skin, hear the sizzling sound of it pattering on the cobblestones, smell the gloriousness of its fresh presence. I sense my partner's warm breath, the light pressure of his hand on the small of my back, his legs swaying to music only the two of us hear.

As my eyes search the image before me, I am transfixed, in wonderment at the artist's intention, at my response to it. For a time I am no longer in the room where the painting is located, I am in the painting.

A mental, emotional, and for some a spiritual escape, this is the offering of art. As Picasso stated, it washes the dust of daily life off our souls.

Today there is dust on my soul, the dust of a hundred gray winter days and a year of urgency.

Art offers me a beginning. A fresh start. A new perspective. A pristine opportunity without leaving my home.

This transfixing has resulted in marvelous life experiences for me. Twice I have left my comfort zone for the Old World because art shook off the dust, stirred my heart for explanations and experiences.

Today, there is excitement in my soul for art is once again pushing to the front of my attention, and I am glad. 

What new wonder awaits? 

Time will tell.

But God Meant it for Good

An unrecognizable emotion flounders deep in my mind and heart. It inks my dreams turning them into anxious foreboding. 

No label presents itself.

What sort of creature haunts my inner being?

Upon description my husband places a moniker that seems correct.

Abandonment?

My mom died a dozen days ago. There is peace and even relief with her passing as it was expected; there was verbal closure lasting eight years, and her suffering is no more. I know I will miss her, and I know the days, months, years ahead will be altered, weird.

Those emotions I recognize. They are appreciated. They inform me.

But this slithering nameless entity I do not know. It is not appreciated. It does not inform of anything but danger. It does not seem attached to my mother's passing.

Abandonment?

I think my husband accurately deduces the presence.

My mother was the magnet around whom her children clung.

She is no more.

Her children - without her pull - regroup, and just as it was in childhood, so it is now. I am here. Two of the other three are together there. Way over there, purposefully out of my reach. Two whom I thought were my solid rocks, now intentionally cold and silent to my requests for conversation and connection. They grieve together leaving me to grieve alone, without them and their shared memories, alone in my attempts to come to grips with our common loss.

I have been Cut Free, like an unwanted pest.

Instead of focusing on the Cut, I shall focus on the Free.

Sometimes it is a gift when people walk away. A gift of freedom, because, to be honest, more that is different than is same reigns in the relationships anyway.

Abandonment horrifies. At first.

But, to a rose-colored mind such as mine, being cut free from something that is unkind, inconsiderate, and rude still feels like cruel dismissal and posturing. Now that the situation's reality is noticed and accepted, relief enters. And gratitude. 

As if hunkering in a lifeboat cut free from a sinking Titanic, horror and relief bubble up all at once. All that seemed safe is gone! But the safety was an illusion, the damage irreparable, the glory, pride, and luxury dropping out of sight into the dark and pressured abyss.

My tiny lifeboat, however, is free to correct its balance on life's open sea, to begin again, to sail toward fresh sunrises and sunsets, accompanied by other survivors, to sail, infused with a pleasant restorative peace which gently fills the void where once resided those who do not understand. 

Yes, I've been abandoned. 

But all is well.

I will fondly remember the good times while remaining saddened by this unhappy - though inevitable - parting, this dreaded cutting away of people I have long and deeply loved, however unreal those connections have turned out to be. 

Abandonment is named. The dark presence tamed.

Life makes sense again.

Domination and Power Lust Hurts People

"Whosoever ... desires domination and power, very often seeks to obtain what he loves by most open crimes." --Augustine

Even crimes such as lying, controlling, deceiving, envying, competing, jealousy, boastfulness, ridicule, bombast, fakery, withholding, manipulation, cheating, and rudeness are considered - by me, anyway - to be 'most open crimes'.

As the recipient of such open crimes I can testify that they really are criminal. They hurt. They confuse, frustrate, and cause to stumble.

They are not only not good, they are very very bad. Evil even.

Thanks be to God whose presense in our lives bears fruit that is lovely, good, uplifting, and true.

I choose to avoid evil in whatever form it takes - to battle it to the death if need be! - whether in others or in myself. When in others, an admonishment may be called for. Sometimes walking away is the only recourse. But evil - if it won't be confessed and repented of - must be shunned, for it is a thief of serenity, and a time-bandit, and a messer of minds.

I choose to 'think on these' noble things, and shun the open crimes which creep into life but can easily be swept away once recognized.

Secret: Recognize and Refuse

Over and over if necessary.