Gathering Beauty

Can you name something beautiful?

If you were trying to come up with something that makes your life beautiful, what would it be?

Part of the joy, and skill, of writing is to create, conjure, and evoke imagery in order for others to see an idea, object, or scene, just as you, the writer.

I'm not certain I'm always skilled. My words tumble very quickly at times, which means the words themselves are more basic than dictionary.

A definition of beauty is: "the quality in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses."

With that being now defined, can you name something beautiful?

I can. I can name lots of things right off the top of my tongue.

Babies. White roses. Cello music. Waterfalls. Mount Timpanogos. The voice of James Earl Jones. (Seriously. You guys know it.) Blizzards. Mashed potatoes and gravy. (The Midwesterner in me had to say it)

I'm facing a birthday in a few weeks. Nothing monumental. No nice round decade number. Yet. But I must say...the definition of beauty has been on my mind as I contemplate aging.

I've never really considered myself beautiful. Some days I do better than others but I will never be the person turning heads for mere gorgeousness sake. And, let me tell you, over the course of this last year I can see aging, perhaps de-beautifying, happening. I'm getting the "sun spots" as I affectionately call them. Big brown freckles really, near my temples. (Yep, go on over and look to the photo at the right, you'll see 'em.) All the ladies before me have them so it is a family rite of passage. The laugh lines at the corners of my blue eyes are getting deeper with every smile. They just crinkle, crinkle.

We women are hard on ourselves in the area of beauty, desirability. So the idea of aging can be discouraging. But the thing is.... When I'm thinking of beautiful things, I am not thinking of the appearance of people. When someone suggests that I think of something beautiful - it usually is scenery, natural objects, or characteristics of people that initially come to my mind, not physical attributes.

Perhaps something like this...

You are standing on a grey stone balcony, overlooking a deep blue ocean that stretches for miles to the horizon, watching an approaching storm breaking the gathering clouds as a once gentle breeze picks up pace and begins to whip your hair, this way and that; a clap of thunder breaks silence and waves lapping the soft, grainy beach, intensify, as rain begins to pelt your upturned face and the stones beneath your small, bare feet. The soft tink, tink, tink of the drops is a symphony to the ears as the waves crash and the thunder resounds with authority as though leading a song planned just for you. In the distance, lightning flashes; thunder answers. A cacophony of light and sound plays around you; as the falling rain starts to deliciously chill your skin, you draw your arms close and blissfully sigh.

Beauty. Qualities that give pleasure to the senses.

How can that even begin to compare to physical beauty?

Physical beauty fades. If I'm having any parts of that, I can tell you, it's fading, friends, the freckles are coming.

But the joy of seeing and knowing beautiful things and characteristics in, and of, people will go on.

Writing the joy of feeling is beautiful.

The older I get, the more beauty I see and feel, because I look well past the physical to the heart. To the horizon. Where the storm is gathering in all its formidable, yet peaceful beauty.

Hold Your Secrets

I recently posted about keeping in touch. Writing personal notes. Making personal calls. It truly is the most important thing. Caring about each other.

To go along with my other post - it gives me purpose.

I received a phone call from an old friend after that post. We talked for well over an hour catching up on the last 20 years. It was so lovely. Reconnecting.

I thought I would make an amazing nurse. Because giving care is in my blood. I want to force my way in and care about you whether you prefer that or not. Have a cup of tea, pull up a chair, let me take a look at your hurt. That is my identity.

I tried several times, meaning more than once, to pursue this dream. I'd lose hope and digress, only to regain it and fall back in. I did fairly well in my classes, some better than others, but the important ones were so difficult. I had to retake a few because I had to have a 4.0 GPA to even be considered in the application pool. I applied when it was time, and I was so anxious and hopeful. I was made for this. I sacrificed time with my babies for this. I could do this. I will forever be grateful that my husband was on a mission when I received the news. I wasn't even in the top 60 applicants who would be granted an interview. I had a 4.0 GPA. I did everything that you asked. It still wasn't enough. I was devastated. In the truest sense of the word. I needed time to grieve. Because I knew this would be my last attempt at fulfilling this dream. I cried. A lot. It hurt. This perceived failure hurt.

The thing is. I have since understood this is not my calling. Because. When I am in emergent situations, I feel sick. I care ever so much about your situation, but from over here. On the safety of the couch. Where I can breathe. I've been told that's because these situations have generally been with people that I care about, like my children, and that is what makes the difference.

But. I think it's because it's not my calling to care about the physical hurt.

My calling is to care about the psychological hurt.

I am very intuitive in this area. God has gifted me with a great sensitivity to the feelings and hearts of others. I am very observant; I can see and sense the cards that are held close to the chest. I can see what prompts actions. I see meaning underneath words. And I care.

I'm not going back to school. This is a not-for-profit operation. Because I'm not in the business of making you fix your issue. I'm in the business of sitting with you in the dark. I'm in the business of holding your secrets.

I took my kids to see the Trans-Siberian Orchestra this week. These guys are phenomenal. You should go every chance you get, because they are just damn fine musicians. Take a little Ibuprofen beforehand if your years exceed 55, but you shall not regret your time.

One of my most favorite vocal songs is from Beethoven's Last Night - I'll keep your secrets. Look it up on YouTube. Do it. Then listen to all of the album.

I've provided the lyrics here....

Lost in your dark
I see you there
What do you see beyond your stare
And you believe that no one else can know
What is this thing you keep inside
Out of the light and wrapped in pride
Always afraid that one day it will show

I'll keep your secrets
I'll hold your ground
And when the darkness starts to fall
I'll be around there waiting
When dreams are fading
And friends are distant and few
Know at that moment I'll be there with you

What are these voices that you hear
Are they too far or far too near
What are these things that echo from the past
Who are these ghosts you see at night
There in the shadows of your life
They only live by the light you cast

I'll keep your secrets
I'll hold your ground
And when the darkness starts to fall
I'll be around there waiting
When dreams are fading
And friends are distant and few
Know at that moment I'll be there with you

I'll be around
When there's no reason left to carry on
And every dream you've ever had is gone
And the dark is deep and black without a sound
And every star has been dragged to the ground
Know at that moment I will be around
Know at that moment I will be around


I've come to know my purpose. But it shifts as the regular seasons of my life shift. As the people I know drift out... As life ebbs and flows...

This is my identity.

Have a cup of tea, pull up a chair, and let me take a look at that hurt..

I can hold your secrets.

Lessons

Two lessons from the final 6 weeks of 2017...

The final weeks of age 37...

One cannot survive without purpose.

Control means more to me than it should.

Purpose, like feelings, is fluid.

Purpose should be so much more than fulfilling our employment obligations. Purpose is loftier. Purpose is the thing beyond the thing right in front of you. It's okay for work to be fulfilling and provide a sense of joy and accomplishment, but it is not purpose. I struggled for a very long time trying to work out obligation and purpose. Trying to define each of those in my life. You would think it easy. It isn't.

I know what my purpose should be. I've been around the block long enough to give the rote answer. In fact, I believe I even wrote a blog somewhere along the line about the same. It's been such a struggle for age 37, but I feel certain if I can get this hammered out now, I can be better.

I've started a new job recently as my readers will know. My obligations are different. My course is different. And, thereby, it feels my purpose has shifted. Not true, really, but it feels off. Because. When I started a new job, I started all the way over. Meaning the life I have carved for 4 1/2 years is gone. And by gone. I mean gone.

I am starting on a branch. All by myself. In a foreign environment. With foreigners. With increased margin, I'm starting many new ventures at one time. That has been unwise; sometimes I lack wisdom. I'm intimidated. I'm overwhelmed. And underwhelmed. I'm surrounded by people. And feel entirely alone. I'm uncertain. And there is nothing I dislike more than being uncertain.

But I have been brave. Any time a new course is set, courage is required. In some cases, like Scrabble night at the library, it has paid off well. I had such a great time and the senior citizens kicked my butt. (I'm going back for more.) In some cases, like my new volunteering ventures, it has come up short of my desired expectation.

It all comes back to wrestling with purpose and control.

Purpose, for me, is equated to being needed.

Control is equated to being valued, understood, equal.

I have been enjoying this season. It has been filled with such a gentle mix of fun, rest, cookies, fresh air, reading, shopping, games and sushi. That's right. Sushi. Which wasn't easy. It's been a gift to enjoy my family and the holidays without stress.

But I continue to look for purpose and control. Looking for new friendly faces as I start fresh. It's difficult. I'm never good at it. But, usually, someone takes pity, takes you under wing and these find themselves righted.

Oh...but the interim between painful goodbyes and pleasant hellos is long....

A Black Book

Do you remember address books?

A book full of addresses and phone numbers listed alphabetically?

My grandma had a huge black book full of numbers and addresses. I thought it was magical. I can still see her beautiful handwriting. Here and there. And there, there, there. Lines crossed through street names and more written in the margins. Birthdates. Deaths. A book packed with information about loved ones.

When heartfelt cards and notes were penned and ready for delivery, to the trusted black book she would go. I so enjoyed looking through the book to see how many people I knew; when she would ask me to make a call for her, I would get so excited. I would carefully thumb through the pages to just the right name, place my finger so I would not lose my place, and dial.

How I loved talking! Holding the phone so professionally, hearing the familiar voice on the line, and delivering the intended message.

I still have a million phone numbers and addresses from 1989 in my head. Do you?

But, today, I basically know the phone number of nobody. If I was in jail and needed to make a call I'd be toast. And, if anyone actually sends a card or package, we have to send out an APB for an address.

As a writer, I am of course, a fan of written words. I want detailed communication. Paper trails. Evidence. Write it all. Hearing a familiar voice brings a smile. To everyone.

I would make a daring proposal. In these final days of the year. I propose we take a look back at 1989.

Maybe write some personal notes in the next few days. Make a personal phone call.

Wouldn't it be special? Wouldn't it make a wonderful gift for a new year?

Share your heart. Share a piece of your soul. With an old friend.

Buy a book of magic. One by one fill the pages with love. And keep it.

I'm Dreaming

For the beauty... Of love. Peace. Stars. Snow.

I love the thought of quiet, soft reflection. The scene: warm, white mini lights brighten the corner of a darkened room as I sit, alone, by the window watching the snow fall. To all those without the experience of snow, you truly are missing out. Snow falling at night is peaceful and silent.

My siblings and I spent a great deal of our childhood out of doors. We did not have a television, or electronic devices. Bicycles, dirt, trees, sleds, were the tools of childish trade. And, boy did we know how to use them.

Sleds. I have nothing but good things to say about this instrument of fun, since I never broke my leg on one, unlike my brother. Hours, upon soaking wet hours I spent on the hill in front of my house every winter. I'd lose feeling in all my limbs and still I climbed back up hauling my sled on my back. Yes, there are all kinds of lessons to be unraveled here.. like, perseverance, faithfulness. But the bottom line is joy. You haven't tasted true abandoned joy until you are on a slickened, circular object that is rotating uncontrollably down a hill, flying around trees and various objects (cars) with the sheer hope that you will 1) not hit something that you can't see because you are backward and 2) that you will make it all the way to the second hill that will catapult you to the backyard. Seriously. No. Greater. Joy.

And the best time to go sled riding? Unequivocally. Night. The added element of danger is always appealing to the pint sized. It's harder to see where you are going. Will you, in fact, fly straight into history over the ramp that has lovingly and painstakingly been built and iced for days? Will you miss it altogether? Or. Will you hit it on the side just so, get some air, and slam awkwardly, unceremoniously, into a pile of snow? The odds are almost never in your favor. But that's okay. Being famous is overrated; it is the infamous that are immortal. So when you find yourself in that pile of snow, feeling the ice forming in your watering eyes; watching your brothers running, then sliding, down, sans sleds, to check on you; you turn your eyes upward and gaze at a sky full of stars. And everything is so quiet. It's just you. Snow. Darkness. Stars. Peace. Joy.

Then you're being shaken. Concern turns to giggles. Peals of laughter echo through the trees. Through the silent night. You stand up. And head straight back up the hill.

Quiet reflection is best in winter. The cold naturally births restful, quiet mornings and evenings. A cup of tea. A dark room. Lit up with soft white lights. Thickly falling snow. It's the stuff of magic. It's the stuff of dreams. It's when princesses dance in silver forests. It's when you finally feel loved. For you. It's when anything is possible. It's when you might slip on your boots and take the hill one more time.

It's when you close your eyes and feel joy.

Understanding- A Holiday Must

Readers...

How is your holiday season?

I have a jumble of thoughts today and frankly it might not actually sync into a post that makes sense.

I've been digging through some old drawers in my mind. Going back through memories and stories. I've told you about this mind of mine - it captures and retains a lot. Mostly. Well. Except last week when it was supposed to capture and retain the concept of purchasing new saxophone music books for my eldest son. Hey. We win some. We lose some.

I've been thinking about the year my husband was deployed. What a sad time for me. What a long, sad time. I don't think I did anything good with that span of months. For the love nothing ever went right. Everything broke. All the time. I "failed" Anatomy and Physiology with a "C" and had to retake it because I had to get an "A." I tried to help out a homeschool co-op and almost lost some friends in the process. I tried to help out with a military support group and that, too, failed. I wanted to be a hermit. I wanted to stay in my home and not leave. It was. Such a time. I wanted to be left alone.

How does this relate to the holidays? Well. I wanted to be alone then too. I took my tree down a week before Christmas, with the caveat that we had celebrated our Christmas at Thanksgiving and I couldn't bear it any more. People wanted to invite me to this thing and that thing. And. "Come on by on Christmas day!" With much goodwill and thoughtfulness. But. People who are alone, or feel alone, do not necessarily want to drop by on Christmas day, even though you have asked with good intent. I don't want to be with people. I'm sad. I'm sulking. I'm ambivalent. I'm depressed. I'm uncertain. I don't exactly know how I feel right now. And you want me to come to your house on one of the most special days of the year?! Well bless it and save it, I just don't think I can watch you ooze contentment and joy right now. I can't be the third wheel who puts on an act trying to look all merry and bright. I can't feel like I really feel right now and that kinda irritates me. Because my heart is stuck.

I love people. My heart is for being with people. I am the inviter. I want you to come to my house. I want you to sit down and eat. I want to make you laugh. I want you to enjoy yourself. I want you to feel like you are home. In my presence. With my family.

But I see you, friend, the one who isn't sure. The one who feels ambivalent. The one who feels a little sad. I see you. I raise my mug of tea, thoughtfully, in your direction.

I have been you. If only for temporary times. But frankly I'm still you sometimes. Celebrating holidays without extended family is way different than when you are together. I legit have taken down my tree on 12/25 after everyone is in bed. I have to move on sometimes.

We all journey, friends, we all journey. We find ways to cope. We find ways to have some joy. We find ways to just get by.

You are invited. You are always invited, to my front porch, to my table, to sit near my cozy fire. You are loved here. In this space. It's safe. Even at lonely 12/25 kind-of-times. I will let you be sad. I will let you look at your phone. I will let you be in silence. I will let you nap. I will not let you starve.

Because what we need at Christmas is understanding.

More than anything else.

Yes, I love Jesus. Yes, I'm glad He's having another birthday. But sometimes I feel sad. And maybe you do too.

I respect that you prefer to be alone, dear friend, but you need not ever be, should you so choose.

Pick me.

I understand.

Rivers In The Desert

"Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert."

I am enjoying rivers in the desert, my friends. Restoring my soul.

If you follow my blog you will see that I've been writing some heavy chapters. Making changes. Unpacking some bags. Restoring the most important thing: my soul.

It's been painful and fulfilling.

Water spreading over parched, dry soil.

Joy is here.