My Palomino Ride

Over the years, in times of stress, I have resorted to visiting a childhood memory that lulls me away from the anxiety of the moment and into a peaceful escape.

An unconceivably beautiful carousel, which had originally been crafted by skillful hands in 1926, was purchased from another city by my childhood home town’s Chamber of Commerce many years later.  It touched the ground in our city park the same summer that I touched down in the maternity ward of the town hospital.

Through the years as I grew I watched the magnificent horses go round and round while the calliope music wafted through the air compelling me to hop on until finally I was old enough and tall enough to ride by myself! I purchased what seemed to me to be a magic ticket and ran to the pony that I had long since chosen as my favorite of them all.  A cream colored palomino with a flowing blonde mane and tail.

“Oh you’ve chosen a fine one!” the carousel man said as he hoisted me up onto the saddle and wrapped the soft leather security belt around my waist which fastened me securely to my steed.

I ran my hands lovingly along the smooth painted surface of the mane and leaned over to look into my pony’s big brown eyes.  “Hi” I whispered and felt we were already good friends.

Then the music started and the carousel slowly moved forward. I reached for the brass pole in front of me with both hands and closed my eyes, around and around and around we flew.  Up and down in a happy world with the rest of the world spinning by in a blur.

These exhilarating and yet peaceful moments in time have morphed into a liberating and centering meditation memory for those frazzled moments when I needed a quick mental break from stress in my later years.

I mentioned in a previous blog that I have trudged through the stressful journey over the last two years since Dale died and I am now finally at a virtual blank canvas ready for me to paint what’s next for my life.

It occurs to me that the realization that I actually have control of this pivotal time of my life is making me lean towards a desire to avoid stress!  Why would I ask for more? Aren’t I entitled to a break from stress for heaven’s sake?  I find that I am even very guarded about letting in the stress of the terror that is happening in the world right now.   Because…for the first time in a very very long time…it’s all about ME now!  And this ME wants peace. What possible good can this ME, all by my lonesome self, do that would be of any use anyway!

I have the flu today. The kind with the deep cough that won’t let me sleep kind of flu. The kind that forces me to stay home today; this rainy day, and think about what peaceful and self-absorbing things I want to plan for myself.  I settle down into the comfy chair by the window and watch the rain hit the window and send droplets slithering down in artistic patterns. I consider drawing a raindrop and then I glance over and spy a magazine I selected (for future use) at the local visitors center.  A travel magazine.  I pick it up and flip through it.  I land on an article by Susan Moore titled  “Stress? Bring it On!”  

Really? I think!  In a travel magazine!!  But I start reading it in spite of myself!  Her first sentence reads: “Stress. The name itself is synonymous with all negativity in our lives”

“You’ve got it right there sister”, I whisper in my froggy voice and I read on. She writes (and I paraphrase here):

“Our lives are the byproduct of our decisions. It isn’t the stress that gets us; it’s our belief that we deserve better. You only deserve better when you work to be better.  Earn your better!” …“We have the ability to change. Every action and every inaction has a consequence. Do not be a victim in your life. Meet your stress head on and do something about it. Realize that some things are out of your control, and that’s OK, but most things aren’t. As Ghandi said, “be the change you wish to see in the world.”

She ends with a suggestion to: “Spend less time trying to be happy and more time trying to be useful”.

I know without looking that a blank watercolor paper is taped to my drawing board and my mind wanders to an idea I’ve had for quite some time of a sequence of motivational images that I have wanted to paint. But then I’m instantly hit with the all too familiar stress of whether I’m good enough; reminding myself that my first attempt at this project was sitting in the shredder pile…

And then, my phone blings.  It’s the Daily Message that I signed up to receive each day and it’s a quote by Kim B. Clark today.  It says simply “We do not have to be perfect, but we need to be good and getting better”.

So, OK, I climb off my safe AND peaceful AND stress free mental carousel ride and start sketching. It will be a challenge but I’m already feeling happy and perhaps even useful.  So…bring it on blank white canvases - both real and metaphorical I prefer the consequences of diligent actions to the consequences of a safe and stress-free inaction.  And that thought alone gives me hope that I can be a part of the change I wish to see in the world. Even if it’s just a small contribution, it can be my widow’s mite.

And so my journey into widowhood continues with new challenges.

Live and Learn

I had an Ah-Hah moment this morning.  Interestingly it wasn’t as the shower water turned to an icy spray just as my hair was lathered into a riot of white bubbles and it wasn’t when my brain registered that in my new place I CAN’T run the dishwasher, the clothes washer AND a hot shower all at the same time!  No, the Ah-Hah hit after I had screeched; then blindly flipped off the water; leapt out of the shower; wrapped my head in a towel to keep the shampoo suds from dripping into my eyes and wrapped my shivering body in a warm robe then rolled my eyes, shook my head and muttered under my breath; 

”Well….Live and Learn!” 

And then….bling....

It occurred to me at that moment just what a gift those two things are to me.  Such a precious gift of still being Alive.  And amazingly, I can still LEARN.  It’s a flippant little statement, “Live and Learn” one that I’ve said and heard many times over the years but now, when I know how quickly life can be taken, and how there is still so much I want to do and learn that this good old throw-away statement changed direction and marched to the top of my motivational list as a highly valued mantra!

Like my water heater’s capacity, I often learn things the hard way.  I’d like to avoid that form of learning in the future as much as possible.

I’ll always remember a hard lesson learned the early autumn day when I was six years old while walking around the yard of my Grandpa’s old white farmhouse. I had picked up a twig and was dragging it behind me in the dark green grass when my eye caught site of a teeny-tiny bird falling through the air from the branches of the giant apple tree and bouncing abruptly onto the thick carpeting of lawn below. I ran to it, and oh it was so tiny, no feathers yet, just a bit of hair on its flesh colored body and skeleton wings. His oversized eyes were closed tight but his yellow beak opened and closed as if to say; “Whoa, what just happened!!”

I gently scooped him up into my hand and examined him closely to make certain nothing was broken, looked up to locate his nest and then tucked the trembling little body into the pocket of my sweater.  I climbed up on the white picket fence next to the tree and reached for a branch, pulling and inching my way up, up, up. My sweater caught on a sharp branch and R-I-P but that didn’t matter, I was on a mission to bring the little fellow back to his home.  I arrived at the nest, found a good branch to sit upon and felt inside my pocket…all was well there!  Whew.  I pulled him out and gently dropped him back in the nest with his brothers and sisters.  “Where’s your mommy?” I asked as I carefully tapped each one on their cute little heads and did some nest cleaning by pulling out some of the brilliant blue cracked shells.  Then I settled back on my branch chair and pulled a bright red apple hanging from another branch to munch, pleased as punch with my compassionate service.

I heard my Grandpa calling from down below.

“Up here!” I called back. Grandpa was a tall man, with hair as white as a baby lamb and eyes as blue as the broken robins-egg-blue shells that had been in the nest.  He was close to 80 years old but he was easily able to hoist himself up to sit by me in the giant 50 year old apple tree.  I told him what I had done and thought I would get a good pat on the back.  But instead, he said, “Oh dear. When a human hand has touched a baby bird, or a nest, the mother robin might not return”. The apple fell from my hand as the tears fell from my eyes. I didn’t know!

“What will happen to them?” I sobbed, feeling more miserable than I had ever felt in my whole 6 years of life.

“Well, I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll watch to see if she returns but what I do know is that the Bible tells us that Heavenly Father knows and loves each and every little bird and he will protect those little birds or take them safely to live with him again.”

“Is Heavenly Father mad at me?” I asked Grandpa.

“I’m sure He knows that you were trying to help and that now because you know, you’ll do better next time…Live and Learn”. And he climbed out of the tree, lifted his arms and helped me down.

I prayed and prayed that Heavenly Father would forgive me and asked if He would kindly take care of the little birds and to please tell them I was so very sorry.

When I came back to the farm a week later, Grandpa didn’t mention the birds so I didn’t ask.  I assumed the worst and then pictured in my mind the little birds sitting by Heavenly Father singing Him a cheerful song.

So, today, I am committing to learn something new every day while I’m still alive. Never before has so much information been so readily available for learning and learning the easy way, not the hard way.  In fact, I think I’ll just start out every day by saying “LIVE AND LEARN” and have it be a ‘woohoo’ instead of an ‘oops, oh well’.

Possibilites

I awoke before daylight this morning, a thing that is not so very hard to do on a winter’s day when even the sun itself wants to sleep in just a tad longer. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I slipped out of my warm bed and into my fuzzy slippers that were waiting by my bedside and padded into the living room. I blindly clicked a switch and the lights on my Christmas tree illuminated a cozy corner of the room and touched my heart with a gentle joy.  I noted that there are still no ornaments on the tree, just the white lights shining among the branches like tiny little ice crystals.  There seemed to be a hope in the simplicity of the sight. A feeling of possibilities.

Through the window I could see just a touch of daylight.  I wrapped my robe more tightly around me and walked to the large window that looks out over the rooftops of the charming homes in my neighborhood and the banks of the river with the pine-tree-covered hills beyond. Everything appeared to be white. I stood entranced as if watching a beautiful stage being slowly illuminated.  As the lightness grew I could see snowflakes the size of goose feathers silently falling and I was again struck with the beauty of the quiet simplicity and pureness of what was unfolding before me.  Again, in that moment, a feeling of hope and possibilities seemed to recharge my lonely heart.

I walked to my studio desk where just last night I had tidied up my paints and brushes and attached a clean white watercolor paper to my art board.  This morning it appeared to be another beautiful white enticement with a hope of possibilities waiting for my touch.

My stomach growled and I suddenly remembered that yesterday I had purchased a box of hot chocolate mix in anticipation of the arrival of my grandchildren on Christmas Eve, so I headed to the kitchen to heat some water and to take the bow off the new mug that I found on my doorstep last night just moments after I heard the knock on the door, no one was there, just the mug in a festive bag and no gift giver’s name on the card. It had my initial on the mug which was filled with candy and nuts. It came at a moment when I was feeling discouraged and more than a little bit lost.

For over two years I have known what I needed to do.  From the time of Dale’s illness I knew that I needed to help him fight, take him to the many doctor’s appointments, survive the sleepless nights trying to comfort him while he courageously dealt with the pain. Then, his death and knowing that I needed to take care of all the things related to that horrific and yet in the final moments, beautiful event. The sudden new requirements of widowhood, the lawyers, the bills, getting the house ready to sell, giving away so much, going through Dale’s many things with all of the memories attached, packing, moving to my sister and brother-in-law’s home that became a beautiful bridge between the then and the now periods of my life while I still worked at Dale’s business and searched for a new home. I finally found my place and then came the quest to fit into smaller quarters what I had packed away in storage, establish a new décor design, buy new furniture, pack up (again), retire from work, move in and work at the task of getting settled.  Fill the pantries, establish a routine, become familiar with my surroundings, where to shop, where to get gas etc. etc. etc.

And now, this morning I realize that the angst I was feeling last night stems from the fact that I’ve done it - All those things on my to-do list.  My life now is a blank canvas. No wonder I’m concerned, when was the last time my life fit into that description? I’m a bit stuck with this new realization.  Nothing and no one (at least of the mortal kind) is guiding or directing my steps through the long days now. Everything and everyone else is tucked neatly into their places now. I’m not responsible for anyone or any thing really. It’s actually a little unnerving, somewhat confusing and quite lonely on the other side of the long, rough and unexpected journey that brought me to this destination in my life.  

I think I should give this cartoon a new caption now being: 

                     “Ok, I’m Finally Here!!…Now what?”

And then in my mind’s eye I see the me of nearly 10 years ago pulling my carry-on bag out of the overhead bin of the plane that had landed in Copenhagen Denmark after a long and often times bumpy journey across the American continent and the wide Atlantic Ocean. I was alone, I didn’t have a plan other than it was something I had always wanted to do since I was a child and now here it was, my ancestral home waiting for me to explore; an entire country filled with possibilities and all I had was…time and a desire to figure out why I had been given this opportunity.

I pour the boiling water into the mug and the hot chocolate is now too hot to sip so I take it into my study. I see a blank paper on my desk. It’s my “to-do” list.  And normally, in the past, it would be filled with more items than I could possibly do in a day’s time but today it doesn’t even say “To-Do”, just a blank white page. I sit at my computer and open up a blank white Word document....

I’m suddenly reminded of a statement by Larry R. Lawrence that I read recently:

"Our Heavenly Father knows our divine potential. He rejoices every time we take a step forward.”

And so I take a drink of the hot chocolate, set it down, look at the blank screen, pick up the mug again and take another drink, it’s good and it’s warm and it’s comforting and I begin to write.

The sun is up now, there is even a break in the snow clouds. As I take on the task of stepping into my next reality, I realize I need to reach into the inner me. The time is mine now and I don’t want to waste it in any way. I need to pray for comfort and ask for an understanding of what I am to do now, at this new juncture:  this actual arrival at blank canvases and possibilities.

I remember standing at the quarry in Carrera Italy and thinking of Michelangelo’s statement that he would look at a block of white marble until he could see the figure inside that needed to be released and then he would get to work. And then later while standing at the Academia in Florence I studied and absorbed the mastery of his work - Atlas, a prisoner escaping from the stone.

Clearly, it’s a time for me to bundle up in my warmest attire and take a walk along the shore to think and pray and seek to understand how I can release the inner me now.  The me that is focused on being right here, right now and determining how I am to fill in all of these blank white canvases, both real and metaphorical.

I’ll keep you posted on this next un-requested step of being a widow!

Dappled Sunlight

Yesterday I passed by my study and caught a glimpse of the late afternoon sun shining through the trees sending dappled light through the window and across my desk.  Dappled light.  I stood at the door in a frozen state as I envisioned the paintings of the French Impressionist Auguste Renior, who was the master of painting dappled light.

My thoughts then segued to a lazy September afternoon when Dale and I meandered, hand in hand, through the streets of Paris to the Place des Voges near the apartment of author Victor Hugo. I had been instantly drawn to the dappled light before me that was so reminiscent of Renoir’s paintings that I couldn’t resist taking this photo:

As I pulled myself back to the present I steadied my hand on the door knob in anticipation of the all too familiar plunge into sadness and tears when forced to negotiate the painful levels of loss that these kind of sudden unsolicited memory-moments summon. It’s one of those “Dale and I together” moments that hit my heart with the knowledge that I will never experience a moment like this with him again throughout the rest of my earthly life. It’s yet another virtual emotional explanation-point emphasizing the fact that he is gone and I am left without him.

But this time…..a sort of calm happiness crept over me. That was a surprise.  Perhaps it was the dappled sunlight itself that worked the magic or perhaps, just perhaps, at long last I’m doing a better job of dealing with my loss?

I have come to realize of late that I will never, ever miss Dale any less. Which is different from what people have been telling me..that I’ll miss him less with time.  Knowing that I will never miss him any less and it’s ok was an ah ha moment for me  - I realized that I can only learn to safe guard my heart in its fractured state and yet I’m well aware that it would also be very easy to lock my heart  away completely and not allow any emotions to touch it.

Remember the story of “The Three Bears”?  It comes to play here now… I realize that I cannot allow my heart to burn too hot with the memories, seeing them as a source of pain (and slip into a depression where I can’t accomplish anything)

OR I can just as easily lock up my heart from emotions to avoid the pain and allow it to grow too cold (but then I would miss out on the good emotions that are here with me too)

OR since neither of those options seem right to me, I will take the “Goldilocks” approach with this grieving process. And allow my heart to accept the memories,  not too hot so as to be carried away with the pain and not too cold in an attempt to not care but as if they are a warm, nourishing replenishment that helps my heart heal with the joy of that moment not the pain of the loss of that moment.

Perhaps yesterday as I looked at that dappled light, my subconscious mind actually did this for me and allowed my heart to enjoy the pleasant memory because for the first time, in a long time, it let me gently embrace the unexpected moment with a smile and a warm feeling in my broken heart.  It actually felt…not too hot and not too cold but kind of just right.

Now that I have experienced that feeling I’ll tuck this peaceful dappled sunlight moment away in the mental hope chest I’ve been filling with experiences and words of wisdom so that I may draw upon them when I am, and I will be, hit with future unexpected moments (there are decades of memories!)  It’s a small step, but it’s going in the right direction.

I’m reminded of a quote I saved a long time ago, years before I actually needed it, by Neal Maxwell:

Whatever our particular furrow, we can, in Paul’s words, “plow in hope,” not looking back, and refusing to let yesterday hold tomorrow hostage.

Norman Rockwells' "Second Thoughts" & Writing Assignment #9

What is it about this moment?  I am encountering it so often!

The bleakest part of my day since Dale died is that moment, late at night when I finally build up enough courage to crawl out to the end of the allegorical diving board and head to bed. It seems like I literally inch down the diving board as I turn down the covers of the bed,  take off my robe; kick off my slippers; slide between the white sheets and nestle onto the pillow, which I then punch a few times to make it more comfortable. Then I reach for my book and read a bit, turn on Pandora and listen to some relaxing music for a bit, turn it off, click off the reading light on my nightstand, turn it back on to check the time, click of it off again, and then on again and then off again suddenly fascinated by the shadows it makes on the ceiling, turn onto my side and then…there’s that dreaded moment, as painted so precisely by Norman Rockwell.  I’m at the end of the board.  It’s quiet and dark, so I’m left with nothing but my thoughts and the pictures swirling in my head that remind me that “I am alone” and I wait for sleep to overtake me….wait wait wait.  It seems my mind just won’t allow me to take the plunge into blissful, restful sleep.  And so I lay there, not at peace like it is supposed to be at bedtime (and as it used to be when Dale was at my side) but rather I feel apprehensive, fearful, nervous, sad…..until I succumb and  get up or miraculously doze into a fitful slumber.

I feel myself at this pivotal “edge of the diving board” moment in other instances as well. I refer to them as my “Norman Rockwell Moments”…

People often say, “Just jump right in” “Dive right in” “Take the Plunge” Oh if it were just that easy! Regardless of how prepared you are it’s that last moment, that Norman Rockwell moment, that moment between getting yourself there and then actually making that leap that is so hard.

I encountered it last week as I determined what was holding me firmly at the precipice of writing again, oh the dreaded writer’s block. And I’m encountering it now as I am holding on and trying to overcome an artist’s block. 

I have the stage set, everything is there waiting for me in my studio. Waiting or taunting, I’m not sure which…I’m holding on tight to the edge, can I do it??  Second thoughts are holding me back. I’m stuck.

And then, out of the blue I hear a bling on my phone with a text from my son 2500 miles away. He says that he felt that Dad wanted him to give me the message “Creativity is Key”.  I chew on that 3 word piece of advice for a full ten minutes before I realize that I have been focusing on the wrong thing.

Let me explain it this way…

Each August, when I was about 8 or 9, my sister and I would venture to our little town’s public swimming pool.  It had two diving boards, the standard one and a 20 foot high dive.  I would sit on my towel at the edge of the shallow end of the pool and watch the brave souls who would climb the ladder, walk to the end and jump in!  Wow!!  The long summer weeks wore on and the hot summer sun and the trips to the pool and the smell of chlorine became the norm as did my desire to be brave enough to take the plunge.  (I already knew how to swim quite well, I had learned at the lake when I was 3 or 4, well I was good enough in fact that one day my sister and I were able to swim under the dock and tie together the lines of the fisherman’s poles that were hanging straight down from the dock with little worms wiggling on the hooks and then we pulled, and as the dozing fisherman all thought they caught a fish at the same time they jumped for their poles and reeled each other in…oh they were mad!) But I digress, one day at the swimming pool, I stood up, clenched my little fists and walked the full length of the pool and grabbed onto the ladder of the high dive.  I climbed each rung feeling less and less sure of myself as I reached higher and higher into what? Bravery or foolery?  I pulled myself up on the final rung and looked at the view of the park, its green trees, the little stream running around the edge and oh look at all of the teeny tiny people around the pool.  What???  Gulp.  But the big kids behind me were yelling, “Come on! Get Going!”

I walked down the length of the board being careful not to slip. There was a bit of carpeting at the very end, wet from the feet of former divers and I stood on it. OK, I could turn around, walk back down the long diving board and climb back down the ladder past each laughing boy or, I could jump.  I realized in that moment that the decision was mine and mine alone.  So I jumped!  Feet first, my life didn’t flash before my eyes, that was a good sign, but I held my hands out like putting on the brakes I guess and whap, I hit the water and then it was silent.  That other worldly underwater silence enveloped me as I careened down to the bottom of the pool, pushed off the coarse texture of the floor with my feet and rose to the top. I’d done it!  My hands were stinging and red for a full 2 minutes though.  Hmmm.  Note to self…”Don’t put out your hands when you jump off the high dive!”

It didn’t take as much “courage building” to go the second time.  This time I had a different mission, it wasn’t to have enough courage to jump this time but to do it with my hands pinned down to my sides.  I forgot to notice how the rungs of the ladder were hard on my bare feet, I forgot to notice how far up I was when I reached the top, I forgot to notice how long the walk to the end of the diving board was, I even forgot to notice if anyone behind me was cheering or jeering.  I just put my hands tightly at my sides, took a breath and jumped.  Down I went, that fluttery butterfly feeling in my stomach wasn’t from fear this time it was from the determination of it. My hands didn’t slap the water; I went straight to the bottom. I bent my knees and thrust myself back up to the top for a glorious deep gulp of oxygen.  I swam to the edge of the pool, climbed out and sat back down on my towel.  Satisfied and happy.  The new goal, or the focus on it, instead of thinking about each step and the potential pitfalls made all of the difference.   I immediately began to formulate in my mind that perhaps the next time I would put my hands together up over my head, like an arrow diving in but feet first. 

So, once again, as we so often do, I am reaching back to my youth for the inspiration and motivation I need today. If I could do it then, I can do it now.  Thank goodness it’s just picking up a charcoal pencil not diving off a high dive. But… alas, here I am….

If Dale says Creativity is the Key.  Then that will be my focus instead of my fear...

I’m going in…feet first.  Here I go.......

Say a little prayer for me!

WRITING ASSIGNMENT #9 -  FAVORITE ANCESTOR STORIES

Chances are, throughout your life, you have been inspired by stories of your ancestors. Retell at least two of your favorite stories this week.

We will have a future assignment about your Grandparents, so you might want to chose Ancestors other than your 4 Grandparents.  If you don't have any stories, it would be a good time to ask a relative if they have any to share with you!

Remember to give the full names and birth dates and birth locations of your ancestors in the stories and exactly how you are related to that person.

Have fun with this one and include photos if you have any!  You're on a roll now!!

Row Row Row Your Boat - And Writing Assignment #8

I sat silently at the shore today, alone on a bench with a book lying unopened beside me.  The leaves on the trees overhead were brilliant in the afternoon sunlight. Gold and orange, crimson and yellow and brown, all of the comforting colors of autumn. Across the water on the opposite shore, pine trees were interspersed with yellow aspens. I tried to breathe it all in. The color, the coolness, the sound of the Canadian Geese calling to each other as they joined their autumn party noisily skidding onto the water.  A tiny breeze fluttered the pages of the book I had been ignoring. It was a book about “self-doubt” that I had purchased in an art gallery earlier today.

I had been hit with a massive case of creative self-doubt the first week of August.  The first week after I retired from work.  Suddenly, I couldn’t write Emails, I couldn’t write a letter, I couldn’t write a blog.  I wasn’t lazy, I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t discouraged, no,  I was swaddled tightly in a blanket of self-doubt; I doubted that I could write, doubted that I could paint or draw.  Doubted that I ever could or should again. I tried but it was figuratively and literally painful, no words would come to my mind and I couldn’t make myself even pick up a watercolor brush.  I had finally arrived at a time when I actually have time to concentrate on the things I’ve always wanted to do….and…nothing.  A blank, white page on my computer screen with a blinking cursor that seemed to be saying “You Can’t” “You Can’t” “You Can’t”.  Such a mystery!

I reached over and picked up the book and then laid it down again as my eye caught site of a man methodically and self-assuredly rowing his boat through the water. He knew what he was doing; he knew where he was going.  And it was as if I had suddenly pushed “play” on a video memory from ages past in my mind.  I was five.  I was in a rowboat in the middle of the lake with my 8 year old sister. I had one oar, she had the other.  Frantically we pushed and we pulled and we went around and around and around in circles. First one direction, then the other, never advancing even an inch closer to shore.  How did this happen? How did I get in this sad state of affairs?  I hadn’t asked for it?  Our little arms were aching from rowing and our feet were sore as our toes were forced to the ends of our keds from supporting our backs as we rowed and rowed and rowed.  My cheeks and the tip of my nose were burning from the sun when a ski boat suddenly pulled up in front of us.  Dad reached from the back of the sleek white boat and looped a rope through a grommet on the front of our wooden boat with the outboard motor and the curious name of Su-Dee-Bob hand painted on the bow and pulled us to the dock.  Yes, he put us there, but he was watching and even though we couldn’t see or hear him, he was rooting us on and aware of our every move and struggle and ready to help when we needed it most.

As we were being towed toward the shore, I was not relieved that we had been saved, I was not upset about being tired or stranded, I wasn’t even angry at my sister whom I found out later had been hounding and hounding Dad to let us go out in the boat until he relented and she climbed in the boat, determined and satisfied with her little arms folded and her chin held high.  I had been blissfully fishing on the dock hoping I wouldn’t catch anything today so that I wouldn’t have to clean the poor little thing but I was suddenly being strapped into a life jacket and unceremoniously plopped into the boat and we were shoved off to follow the current to the center of the lake. No, I wasn’t angry at my sister and I wasn’t even feeling embarrassed for our failed attempt.  I wasn’t feeling any of those emotions, I was just MAD.  Madder than a bee in a bonnet as my Grandmother used to say.  Simply and powerfully and honestly mad, mad because no one had ever taught me how to row a boat.  One shouldn’t be in the middle of a lake in a row boat not knowing how to row!  

Here’s a photo of us being rescued.  I’m the blonde with the angry grimace.

I read recently that Mysteries without solutions are Miseries.  But at 5 I had already determined that the mystery of how to row a boat would not ever be a misery to me again and you know what?….I learned how to row.

When Dale died.  I didn’t know how to be a widow.  I didn’t know how to be alone.  There were so many things I didn’t know, so many mysteries and unanswered questions.  I have been on this journey for 1 and ¾ year now.  It has been hard.  It was as if I had once again, through no desire of my own, been unceremoniously plopped into a row boat that I didn’t know how to paddle. But like then, I have oars, (my hope and my belief),  I have my sister with her compassionate and unconditional love and I have a loving Father in Heaven who comes to my rescue on nearly a daily basis.  I’ve learned that losing Dale, although it was the most painful, difficult thing I have ever experienced has given me understandings and challenges that I would never have had any other way.  Without these mysteries I am facing, I wouldn’t be learning that I can do much more than I knew I could do and that I know much less than I thought I knew.

I now know more about life, more about love, more about friendship and family, more about myself and more about the Savior and our loving Heavenly Father who gives us trials - some we hound Him for, other’s He gives us so that we can learn and not to just learn to survive but to thrive. To be better than we thought we could be, to be stronger than we thought we could be and to know more than we thought we needed to know.

The setting sun hit my eyes and I realized that the man rowing the boat was nearly out of site now. I focused my mind on the memory of this old photo, I’ve seen it enough times that I didn’t need it in front of me to be able to look deep into my own 5 year old’s eyes and I seemed to hear my young self-tell my old self; “We’ve solved mysteries before, we can do it again and with Heavenly Father’s help, everything is possible”. I picked up the book, put it into my purse and walked home enjoying the crunch of the leaves under my footsteps not unlike the way a child would.

I stopped only long enough to drop my purse and keys on the kitchen counter before I flipped on the light by my desk and sat down to my computer and there it was the blank white page and that accursed blinking cursor. My hands paused over the keys and….I decided I needed to have dinner….so I did, then I decided I needed to dust so I did…then I looked for and found the rowing photo and I connected once again to that brave and angry little girl and now my fingers are typing and the words are spilling onto the page.  It may be a feeble attempt but I am back.  I’ve taken the first step in the solution of this particular mystery and I’ll keep working at it.  Perhaps tomorrow I can draw?

I apologize for the lapse in getting the autobiography assignments out.  Here’s the next one.  Please don’t stop.  No one can tell your story the way you can tell it!  And if you do get stuck, look deep into yourself, you may actually have the solutions to your mystery and when you also realize that God, our loving Father in Heaven has your rowboat safely in tow, everything is possible.  Let’s do this!

Writing Assignment #8

A Childhood Experience that Helped to Define Me

For good or bad the experiences we had in our early youth continue to play a huge role in who we are today.

Give a detailed description in first person story form of a childhood experience (before you were 10 years old) that helped define who you are today. This can be anything, good or bad and it really doesn't have to be ONE defining thing, it is your Story so write about more than one if you feel like it.  If you had to come to terms with this experience in your later years (or still as a child) share that wisdom.  It will help someone down the road!

Write it up, print it out, put it in a binder labeled "My Story".

Give me a Sign ~ and Writing Assignment #7

It was last October, the leaves that had turned to crimson and gold and orange were drying to a dull brown and wafting down from the trees.  I walked across the parking lot and felt the dead leaves crunch under my footsteps.

"Why do things have to die?" I wondered. 
"Why must something so beautiful be taken away?"
"Why is it getting dark so early now?"
" Why am I still here when Dale is gone?"
"Why? Why? WHY?"  I was miserable and wallowing in it.

But I had a gift to buy so I continued on in to the ginormous hobby/home décor store.  I was assaulted by the bright lights and the row after row of Halloween and autumn décor. I tried to pull out a cart but it was stuck into the one before it, I pulled and struggled and yanked until it finally came free with a loud crashing sound that made everyone stop and stare. Miserable, that was me.

I plopped my purse into the child's seat portion of the cart and pushed it along with one wheel wobbling. Down one aisle and then the next.  I didn't feel like decorating for Halloween, I didn't even feel like bringing out all my autumn leaf swags and pumpkins and autumn delights that lay stored in a closet at home. When was the last time I hadn't festooned the mantel and table and front door with these wonderful nods to the season?  40 years? But there was no reason to do it now. No one would be waiting for me when I got back home, no one was there to take joy in the artistic arrangements. Why bother? I was content to wallow in self pity it seemed.

I pushed the cart looking for what?  Oh yes, a gift.  I meandered over to an area that had little signs to put on the wall or on a shelf...they all talked about the fun of being "Together" etc. etc. etc.  I was more miserable than ever.

And then my iPhone blinged with a text from my brother who lives a thousand miles away. It said simply...." R U Ok?"

I sighed and texted back.  "No I'm not OK and I'm pretty sure I never will be again"

Not only was I alone and missed Dale with a deep hearted pain that I had never known before his death, I was struggling with selling my big home and maintaining it and working 10 hours a day and afraid of the unknown future.  How could I possibly be ok!  I didn't have a clue where I was going from here and most frustrating is that I didn't have control over it.

We texted back and forth, he gave me encouragement and empathy as he was dealing with his own big unknowns and I texted " I just wish Dale could tell me what to do!"

And then I saw it, a little sign, about 9 inches square, propped up on a shelf behind a flower arrangement.  It read just the way Dale would have said it.  I stopped in my tracks and snapped a picture of it and sent it with my text to my brother. We were both silent for a full minute.  It read...

"I don't want to spoil the ending for you....but
everything is going to be OK"

I started to cry.  Happy tears this time.

"I'm going to be ok" I texted.  And he answered "Good, me too"  And we signed off with happy face icons.

I have come upon little signs in shops and stores the last year and a half that have given me moments of inspiration, answers and insights that have guided me along this path I'm on.  As I flip through the photos on my cell phone, here are the ones that seemed to be there for me just when I needed them....

Until you spread your wings,
you will have no idea how far you can fly



There is always, always, always,
something to be thankful for.



Today I will choose JOY



Faith Makes things possible…not easy



Truth is more valuable if it takes you a few years to find it



Choose happiness



Nobody can go back to start a new beginning but anyone can start today to make a new ending



Life does not have to be perfect to be wonderful



To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under Heaven



Hope is the beautiful place between the way things are

and the way things are yet to be



Welcome the unexpected in life – Learn to bend with grace – let yourself grow – be humble – and never forget to look for the beauty that changes can bring.



HOPE – A joyful anticipation of something good



When you love what you have –
you have everything that you need



Be Your self – Everyone else is taken



Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass.
It’s about learning to dance in the rain



Paris is always a good idea



You’re pretty much my very most favorite of all time in the history of forever and eternity



To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under Heaven



If you stumble….make it part of the dance

 

Each day is a new blessing



Enjoy the Ride



GO CONFIDENTLY IN THE DIRECTION OF YOUR DREAMS



A True Love Story Never Ends



<>><><><<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><<><><><><<><>

ASSIGNMENT 6

 A TEENAGE EXPERIENCE THAT CHANGED YOU

Give a detailed description and explanation of a teen-age experience that changed you or helps to define you to this day.  The experience has to have been before you graduated from High School though.  Anything from age 13 to about 17.  Or if you have one that was at age 11 or 12 that's fine too.  Once again, you can talk about anything!  And it doesn't have to be the ONE defining thing, just one that comes to mind.
And of course you can write about more than on if you feel like it.  AND remember, as we go along, if you happen to think of something that fits into an older assignment please write it up and add it to your book at anytime.  That's the beauty of not numbering the pages and having a three ring binder as we go along; you can just add another page any time you like it.

KEEP CALM AND... that's all, just keep calm

It started in the 4th grade. So very long ago and yet I remember it as if it were yesterday. The details are etched in my mind.

The two story red brick school house had been built two generation before I first entered the massive double doors. The ceilings in our little classroom were easily 12 feet tall perhaps higher. The windows neared that height and had white blinds that the teacher would adjust with a large wooden pole with a hook on the end.  

Each season our teacher would scotch tape our artistic creations to the windows for the outside world to see; our paper autumn leaves, our intricate snowflakes, and most certainly our lacy edged hearts for Valentine’s Day. The lights above hung down from poles in the ceiling to a more appropriate height and were white glass.  The chalk boards on the wall were black with the alphabet marching across the top in perfect form.  

The portrait of George Washington hung prominently in the center of the wall above the chalkboard, in an oval frame that was allowed to tilt out a bit at the top from the wall so that he was looking down on us from his great height.

  

The desks were of the type that are considered antique now.  Five perfect rows with five perfect desks on each row.  The desks were attached to sleigh-like runners which were attached to the floor; the back of one seat formed the desk of the one behind it and so on down the row. Dark wood with ornate black metal sides.  The desk itself had an indentation for a pencil and a cut out hole for an ink bottle - although some brilliant person had invented the ballpoint pen so we would not be using the ink wells but ironically we were not allowed to use the ballpoint pens either; just pencils that we would sharpen at the community sharpener at the back of the room.

I had two 4th grade teachers.  First, Mrs. Birch, a distant relative and also the school principal - a true gem to be sure, kind and gentle and inspiring. She read to us from “Little House on the Prairie” and I listened with fascination, she always stopped at a cliff hanger so that we were eager to have her pick it up again the next day.  For Show and Tell one day I brought my collection of Indian arrowheads that I had found while climbing among the rocks by the shores near our cabin home each summer.  I had them in an envelope in my pocket.  During recess I entered into the duel jump ropes of double-dutch and the envelope fell to the ground and I quickly retrieved it and tucked it back into my pocket. During Sharing Time I told about the arrowheads made of obsidian and opened my envelope to reveal a handful of broken rocks.  I blinked very hard to hold back the tears and then to make matters worse, no one believed that they had actually been real Indian arrowheads…no one but dear Mrs. Birch.  

While Mrs. Birch performed her principal duties, each day, Mrs. Hazley took her place. Mrs. Hazley was fat and frumpy and she had a mole on her chin with a single long hair in the middle of it. She had black hair streaked with gray and she was grumpy…that’s right, frumpy AND grumpy.  She didn’t read to us, we had to read to ourselves in total silence so as not to disturb her. 

The first week of class and during reading time, a boy started a note that was passed secretly from one desk to the other and to the other and then reaching me, I read it to myself…”When the clock strikes 2 – drop your pencils!”  and I passed it on.

There were a few nervous giggles from girls and lots of clock watching as Mrs. Hazley sat at her desk. Was she asleep?  Possibly.  

At the stroke of 2 every pencil in the class dropped to the floor followed by triumphant laughter.

Mrs. Hazley’s chair legs screeched as she pushed back and stood up.  She leaned on her desk and narrowed her eyes looking at each one of us.  

“Who started this?” She demanded waving her ruler.  

Dead silence. 

“I’ll ask this just one more time…WHO STARTED THIS?”   

A boy, the instigator, slowly raised his hand to face level. 

"Come here” she bellowed and he did. 

“Hold out your hand!” she demanded and he did. She raised her ruler and WHACK!!  He didn’t cry, he just lowered his hand and walked back to his seat, turned and glared right back at her until his eyes couldn’t carry her angry stare any longer and he lowered his head to see the welt growing on his hand. 

She carried that ruler the rest of the year and swore if anyone dropped their pencil they would get the same punishment.  She walked up and down the aisles as we wrote and I held my pencil so tightly that the beautiful cursive I’d learned in 3^rd grade became strained and ugly…which it remains to this day.

The school caught on fire that year.  As we stood out in the play yard well away from danger we could see the smoke rise and the firefighters running in and out and around.  I realized how much I loved that old school, Mrs. Hazley and all and didn’t want to lose it.  Remarkably, only the girls’ bathroom was damaged and the only fatality was the goldfish that lived in a bowl in that bathroom.  We were able to return inside and continue our day, the smoke smell lingered for weeks in the rooms and on our coats that were hanging in the cloakrooms.

Many years later I decided to take a calligraphy class to see if I could improve my terrible penmanship.  I loved the artistic curls and swirls of the letters, they were enticing and beautiful to see. The first day of class we were taught to write a simple lower case "a".  Our instruction was to do page after page of them.  Acclimating to a metal pen and dipping the tip into the ink bottle was the first challenge.  Hmmm kind of how it would have been in elementary school if we'd been allowed to use pens with ink wells in those darling wooden desks I mused.  

But then, oh how I struggled!  The beautiful lines and swerves just didn't flow from my pen onto the paper.  Over and over and over again I wrote "a" "a" "a" but nothing looked right, in fact it was wrong, so very wrong that the teacher came by and said "Oh my!"  A kindly assessment of my failure I thought.  

He said "Your problem is obvious, you're holding your pen to tight!  You're not going to drop it for heaven's sake, relax, lighten up and let the letters flow"

So I thought I'd give it a try.  I put the pen down, I took a deep breath, I relaxed my shoulders, relaxed my whole body, relaxed my mind. I picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink and holding it lightly in my hand I gently touched the paper with a gentle curving motion to my hand, the way my high school choir director moved his directing hands to elicit soft flowing stanzas of dreamlike songs from his choir. I drew the curves of the letter ever so calmly and there it was, on a practice sheet filled with cross outs and pathetically tight attempts... a beautiful, peaceful, perfect "a".  And then page after page of them, and then on to the "b"s and then the "c"s and I was mastering the art of "calm".  It was a beautiful thing.

Emotional chaos hit like a horrific storm when Dale's funeral was over, the loved ones went home to mourn their loss and recoup their own personal lives, the well wishers moved on and the beautiful flowers began to wilt.  Like harboring an internal ongoing tornado or vibration I prayed and prayed for calm. I awoke one morning with a start, had I actually been asleep!  That was new...but I was aware that I had been dreaming of a time when I was in Odense, Denmark walking along a beautiful river when an elegant white swan with outstretched angel-like wings silently came into sight and glided onto the water, gracefully adjusted her wings in the manner of a prima ballerina and sat calmly on the water.  I was entranced when I saw it and felt a great calm in the memory of the experience. That day I painted this swan and I have had a copy of it on my desk ever since. It calms me, it's an icon that reminds me that in every situation if I adjust to a calm inner self, I can move through any storm.

I remember reading a quote by Rudy Giuliani:  "Whenever you get into a jam, whenever you get into a crisis or an emergency, become the calmest person in the room and you'll be able to figure your way out of it.'

I also remember my kind old grandfather teaching me as a little girl that if I wanted to ride the darling tan and cream colored pony in his pasture that I needed to hold some oats in my open hand and be calm and confident and it would come to me, if I was fearful it would back off.  

So it appears that for many years I have been learning that with calm I can create beauty, with calm I can overcome my fears and frustrations, with calm I relax into the arms of the Savior who will never let me go and with that calm I will be able to reach my goals regardless of the trials or bumps in the road that seem to crop up daily. Oh the power of Calm!

 

WRITING ASSIGNMENT #6

SCHOOL DAYS - KINDERGARTEN THROUGH 6TH GRADE

Here are a few sample questions, but feel free to just start at Kindergarten and work you way through to 6^th grade using your memories as your guide.

Do you remember your first day of school?

Who took you?

What did you wear?

What did you do?

How did you feel?

What were the names of the schools that you attended

How did you get to school?

How far was it from home?

What time did  it start, end?

Can you describe your classrooms, your desk, your pencils and paper etc

Any special school friends?

Any problems?

How did you handle or solve those problems?

What was your playground like?

What games did you play?  Were you good at them?

What were your teachers names?

Give your impression of them, and a description from your point of view at the time

TO this day, do you remember something they taught and said that had an influence on you?