The Bucket List

It is interesting, isn’t it, that a person comes to this earth as a tiny helpless human being; just one minuscule somebody joining the billions of people who live here now and who have lived here before…and yet she is aware from very early on that she is a one-of-a-kind, unique individual who is a separate, stand-alone “Me” And then she spends the rest of her life trying to figure out just who that “Me” really is.  

We each seem to carry an exclusive agenda and we discover as time goes by that we have miraculously been given talents or abilities to engage that very distinctive agenda.

Truman G. Madsen in his book Eternal Man refers to this quote that rings true to me:

What did the Master recommend? – These strange sentences about “becoming as a little child”? …Maybe he was saying that a child has swift, untinctured affinity and response to his own burning deeps. He is exemplary not, as if so often said, in vulnerable readiness to believe others’ voices, but in soul-unity that prevents disbelief of his own. He has a whole, happy, healthy relationship with the core of creativity and spirituality which is his glory-laden spirit.

I sat in a restaurant the other day and observed the individuals at the tables around me. I could see a table of fire fighters intent on their meal, and at another table sat several young mothers with more children than I could count, due to the fact that some were under the table and some were getting straws and some were asleep in strollers.  In the corner an elderly man read a book next to a table of teenagers each texting on their individual iPhones. It occurred to me more than ever before as I studied the scene and then the individuals in it, that we all really do have a unique purpose, our own reason for living; even if we naturally gravitate toward groups of individuals with similar agendas.

These thoughts came as an aftermath of me thinking that perhaps; just perhaps it’s time to create a bucket list.  I pulled a journal from the bookcase with lots of blank pages that I had purchased a few years ago. Flipping through it I saw that it remained a book of blank pages so I opened it to the first page, picked up a pencil and wrote “Bucket List”.  Ok, decision number one…perhaps I shouldn’t write in pencil! Too easily erased.  So I put down the pencil and reached for a pen; still not the commitment I wish to make….I reached instead for the black Sharpie and wrote darkly over the penciled letters…

BUCKET LIST

It is a different list than I would have made as a child, or as a teenager, a young woman or even as a mother. Things are different now from this vantage point. My goal now is to accomplish everything that would make me look back at life and say…I understand now who I am.  

I’m amazed because I’m not feeling the need to scrawl onto the list statements like…”Explore an unknown land” or “become this” or “succeed at that” but it’s more like an awareness of what Rusty Rustenbach pondered, “Day-by-day as we listen, He’s calling into being facets of our design, character, and destiny that were previously absent or missing. He’s calling you into being all and everything He had in mind before you were even born.”  And with that in mind it seems that I can easily list those things that still feel lacking, things that I can actually do. I'm intrigued by the fact that it's less about me and more about what I still have left to do for others.

.

I create a thoughtful list and then I count. There are 16. Doesn’t seem like much and yet I’m overwhelmed with the task at hand. I do perceive however, that there is a central important purpose.

In a talk many years ago Thomas S. Monson said:

Robert Woodruff, an executive in a former generation, traversed America with a message which he delivered to civic and business groups. The outline was simple, the message brief:

• The five most important words are these: I am proud of you.
• The four most important words are these: What is your opinion?
• The three most important words are these: If you please.
• The two most important words are these: Thank you.

 To Mr. Woodruff’s list I would add, “The single most important word is love.”

When I realize that the activating key to each of these 16 things is love, I see it also as a unifying thread connecting them and I must use my talents, (that still need development) to give of that love and accomplish each goal. 

I think of the story of the orphan who would throw notes over the orphanage wall with the handwritten words “Whoever finds this…I love you.”  I'm reminded again that the need to give love is as powerful as the need to be loved.  And that only by tackling my bucket list using my talents and abilities with love being the base purpose will I become more like the person God designed me to be and more closely fulfill my earthly agenda.

But…even so, it’s an overwhelming list and truth be told a little disappointing in its lack of grandness.  But then I'm reminded of that Mother Teresa saying…what was it? I look it up:

And then this old story (a favorite that bears repeating) about the starfish, attributed to Loren Eisley:

I awoke early, as I often did, just before sunrise to walk by the ocean's edge and greet the new day. As I moved through the misty dawn, I focused on a faint, far away motion. I saw a youth, bending and reaching and flailing arms, dancing on the beach, no doubt in celebration of the perfect day soon to begin.

As I approached, I sadly realized that the youth was not dancing to the bay, but rather bending to sift through the debris left by the night's tide, stopping now and then to pick up a starfish and then standing, to heave it back into the sea. I asked the youth the purpose of the effort. "The tide has washed the starfish onto the beach and they cannot return to the sea by themselves," the youth replied. "When the sun rises, they will die, unless I throw them back to the sea."

As the youth explained, I surveyed the vast expanse of beach, stretching in both directions beyond my sight. Starfish littered the shore in numbers beyond calculation. The hopelessness of the youth's plan became clear to me and I countered, "But there are more starfish on this beach than you can ever save before the sun is up. Surely you cannot expect to make a difference."

The youth paused briefly to consider my words, bent to pick up a starfish and threw it as far as possible. Turning to me he simply said, "I made a difference to that one." 

This final bucket list, this last stage of my earth’s agenda will not be a grand adventure or determine just how much fun I can have but I feel a sense of freedom in hoping to find joy in accomplishing some things that only I can do using my own unique talents in the hope of discovering more about me, sharing my love and making a difference even if it's just to one. And I'm comfortable with that agenda.

“Faith is the bucket of power lowered by the rope of prayer into the well of God’s abundance. What we bring up depends upon what we let down. We have every encouragement to use a big bucket.” 

- Virginia Whitman

My Topsy-Turvy World

When Astronaut Don Lind was asked if it was uncomfortable going into space upside down, he explained that in space you always feel right side up and stationary. The earth turns below you. If somebody’s head is pointing toward your feet, he is the one who is upside down. At lift-off, the earth simply rotates to a position above your head."

When Dale died so suddenly that cold January day, my stable and comfortable world reeled out of alignment. Even though it appeared like I was right side up and stationary, in truth nothing was right. My world and everything in it was suddenly launched into a topsy-turvy atmosphere that often changed position. I felt the disorientation of being alone, it seemed akin to floating around in outer space without a true sense of direction. That recognition of the sudden yet automatic maneuvering from being "We" to just being "Me".

There is an old Swedish proverb that says “Shared joy is double joy – shared sorrow is half sorrow”.

The reverse of that statement is magnified way beyond what I could have imagined.

Not only did I lose Dale but I also lost our home and moved to a new place in a new town. I became aware of just how significant the two words “We're home” are and how often those words are taken for granted. With "We" being a powerfully important reference and "home" being a place, regardless of the location, we had always shared.

I miss saying "We're Home!"! I still miss Dale and I miss being able to say not only “We’re home” but other common things like “We are going here or there” or “We did this or that” or “We are just sitting here doing nothing at all!”

To all who are fortunate enough to still be able to refer to yourselves as “we” please consider Arlene Dahl’s advice to, “Take each other for better or worse but never for granted”. Today, I find myself feeling more alone than ever, unable to distract myself from the turbulence of it for some reason. 

I feel myself beginning to spin hopelessly out of control and then I hear the words of Thomas S. Monson saying: ”When the seas of life are stormy, a wise mariner seeks a port of peace. The family, as we have traditionally known it, is such a refuge of safety."

And I glance at my magnet board and my sorrowful eye catches the text I received just the other day that came from my 6 year old grandson. I had printed it out and attached it to the board. It says simply... I love you Grandma.

And there it was; I loved it when it came in but even more so today because that unseen power - not unlike what a grateful astronaut upon returning to earth would call gravity - became an anchoring, that put me back on my feet, standing upright, a meaningful reason for carrying on. An embracing and stabilizing reminder of "Me" being an important part of a "We"...my family here on earth.

Open Quote

My sister texted me yesterday and in the conversation she said she was a quoter. I wondered for just an instant before a second text came through with a goofy faced emoji telling me that spell check had changed "quilter" to "quoter".  I laughed and then typed back. Yes! You are a "quilter" and actually, if truth be told… I suppose that I am the one who is a “quoter”!

For I do love quotes.  From Winnie the Pooh:

“If there is ever a tomorrow that we are not together, there is one thing you should always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is: even if we’re apart, I will always be with you in the heart.”

To Shakespeare:

“Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt"

I love to hear what intelligent people have to say. From Albert Einstein:

“Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding”

To Mahatma Gandi:

“Prayer is the key of the morning and the bolt of the evening”

And the brilliance of these intelligent people is not only thinking such things but writing them down for us to read.

I am exceedingly grateful to them as I enjoy reading their words; taking them into my mind and then swirling them around to mingle with my own thoughts.

I’m appreciative of people who gain wisdom and then share it even if like Anne Frank (a young girl who with her family in 1940, was trapped in Amsterdam by the German occupation of the Netherlands and as persecutions of the Jewish population increased in July 1942, the family went into hiding in some concealed rooms behind a bookcase in the building where her father worked and who from then until the family's arrest by the Gestapo in August 1944,  kept a diary she had received as a birthday present, and wrote in it regularly) wonders....

“Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Not only because I've never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.”

And then she goes on to pen thoughts like:

“The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely, or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only there does one feel that all is as it should be.”

and...

"The final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands".

Following their arrest, the Franks were transported to concentration camps. In October or November 1944, Anne and her sister were transferred to a concentration camp where they died (probably of typhus) a few months later. Anne's father, the only survivor of the family, returned to Amsterdam after the war to find that her diary had been saved by one of the helpers and his efforts led to its publication (now translated into approximately 60 languages).

I know from my own experiences, although nothing compared to Anne's, that life isn’t always easy.

But in my own tough times I can read Ralph Waldo Emerson's words that make me contemplate:

“Bad times have a scientific value; these are the occasions that a good learner would not miss.”

And as if he reads my mind that is wrestling with concerns today as I think "OK, What do I do next? and "How can I do it alone?" I find further encouragement in his words:

“Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen.”

So yes, I am a quoter.  I am fed by words of wisdom. I am nourished by the lyrics of verse and songs; I am strengthened by the experiences of those who think deeply and write things like:

"Have faith in your journey. Everything had to happen exactly as it did to get you where you’re going next!” – Mandy Hale.

And on a day, like today when I feel the pangs of aloneness more sharply than usual I am strengthened when I read this thought-provoking quote:

"You will one day stand aside and look at your difficult times, and you will realize that He was always there beside you." - Thomas S. Monson

So, as my sister uses her needle and thread to stitch beautiful quilts (since she truly is a quilter) which bring her peace to make and joy to share, I realize that I am indeed a quoter.  I find meaningful thoughts that I can weave together - bringing me a sense of peace that I can then share with others in a hope that they will feel the joy as well.  It's a good realization.

And that, I suppose, should be a Closed Quote...for now.

I Read the News Today, Oh Boy.

There is a Beatles song that begins “I read the news today, oh boy”.

I did the same thing…I watched the news this morning, oh boy. It’s frightful, almost paralyzing in the horrendous and daily atrocities that plague the lives of those living almost everywhere in our battered world today.

I’m feeling depressed and useless in my ability to help. Fearful of what is to come - I begin to panic. I need peace! And then I think of my dad, a soldier at the age of 20. In the midst of war, a whole world at war. He was in a foxhole on enemy ground. His army buddies had also dug their own personal safety foxholes in the mud to hold their position and keep from being strafed by enemy fire. They had to stay there in those muddy, miserable holes holding the position for long, long hours that stretched into days. The soldiers who couldn’t stand it any longer climbed out only to be taken down by enemy fire.  Realizing he would literally go crazy if he didn’t do something about it, Dad started to think of home. The comfortable chair in the living room, the radio, the pictures on the wall...and he pulled out his hatchet and his knife, took off his helmet and with these makeshift sculpting tools he began to create "Home" as he had dreamed about it.   The chair, the radio and even the framed painting on the wall began to take shape and then he sat back in his chair made of mud and throughout his weary body and distressed mind he felt…peace.

He had created a peaceful place right in the middle of a war so that he could go on, so that he could survive and fight the fight that would bring peace to the world and his family.

At this point I realize the TV is still on and piercing through my thoughts - taunting my nerves. I'm suddenly aware that I need to finish breakfast and get on with my day regardless of my anxiety. I spoon some strawberry jam onto my toast. And in an instant that taste of strawberries opens a window in my mind to a memory of half a century ago…..

It takes a while for the morning sun to spread its glowing fingers of light throughout the thick forest of Island Park. I lay in my soft little bed under a fluffy patchwork quilt. My room is high in the loft under the rough-hewn timber eaves.

 I’ve spent every summer of my young life in this tiny log cabin. Over my head I watch the sunbeams dance in the air. They are enticing me to follow their golden path. But not until the chickadee sitting outside my window calls to me do I push off the blanket and silently slip out of bed. I tiptoe gingerly across the wooden floor with my bare feet. Watch out for splinters!  I rest my elbows on the pine log railing and gaze down over the cozy scene. My nose catches the heady scent of cold ashes. It comes from the firebox of the sturdy stone fireplace that dominates the room below. The logs that crackled with warm firelight last night are just a memory now. The Columbine and Bluebells from yesterday’s stroll in the forest fall limply over the edge of the polished copper mug on the mantel. I glimpse those sparkling sunbeams streaming through the picture window and dancing across the buckskin sofa. Then I watch as the big hand on the faithful cuckoo clock dutifully pushes the minutes around. It reaches the “12" and out pops the little bird merrily singing, “Cuckoo, Cuckoo.” Seven times.  Listening closely I hear the only human sound; the soft, rhythmic, comforting snores that I know to be my Dad’s.

Ever so carefully I cautiously descend each rung of the ladder. I sneak across the polished pine floor making hushed pitter-pat noises with my bare feet.  At the door I slip on my Keds.  I slowly twist the dimpled metal doorknob and pull. “Creeek”.   Shhhh. I slip out and close the door silently behind me.

 I take a luxuriously deep breath filling my lungs and soul with fresh mountain air. It is aromatic with pine pitch and a hint of the rich high mountain soil that lies thickly carpeted with pine needles.  Little droplets of morning dew sparkle on the steps and on the leaves of the wild strawberries. I step down and pick a bright red berry wearing a little green leaf cap. I pull off its cap and pop the fragrant delicacy into my mouth. It is soft and ripe. I push it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue and feel the bumpy texture of the tiny seeds for just an instant before the berry melts into decadent nectar. I pick a handful of berries and sit on a big round rock in the warm sunshine. I meekly thank Heavenly Father for the food and nibble on another heavenly bite.

In just a moment, that peaceful memory floods my mind and restores a sense of personal peace in the midst of the world’s unrest. And...I will survive, to fight the fight of my own personal battles and I will be able to stay calm.

I remember when Dale and I were at the apex of our almost frenetic lives trying to keep up with business, family and civic and church responsibilities we came up with a list of things we could do when we had a half hour, fifteen minutes, 10 minutes, 5 minutes or just one minute that would bring us peace in our crazy paced world.  It was very useful.  Without having to think about what to do…if we found ourselves with that amount of time, (or desperately needing it) we would look at the list, instantly pull an idea for the amount of time we had and voila….peace. A bit like rebooting an overloaded computer, or iPhone.

I agree with James Carroll who penned, “There are times when we stop. We sit still…we listen and breezes from a whole other world begin to whisper.”

Victor is Mine

It has been a hard week, health wise, but I have felt compelled to stay at my desk and work on a project that has occupied my free time for many years now.  I have always had a deep love and respect for my ancestors and I have spent hours and hours researching and discovering their stories. Five and Six generations and even further on some lines. I am now putting them all together in a book for my sons and grandchildren.  It is a formidable task that will take time and my undivided attention to finish.  But, oh dear, I’m so tired and with feeling the way that I do it will take courage and patience to see it through.  And with that thought I seem to remember something Victor Hugo once said. Where is that?  I have to look for it but then there it is…

“Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.” – Victor Hugo

With that comforting and uplifting thought I save my work, close out my computer and head to bed. Before sleep overtakes me -  my mind happily goes to an autumn day long ago when I stepped through the doors of an old book store with the intent of finding the perfect Anniversary gift for Dale.  It had to be perfect. The delightfully dusty store was filled with shelf after shelf, row after row of cherished tomes written by brilliant minds - a veritable candy shop for a book loving person like me.  As I meandered down the rows I made my way to the classics section and gently ran my hand across the leather spines.  Surely I can find…just the right…and there it was!  A 20 volume set in all of its burgundy colored splendor. The complete works of Victor Hugo! 

Dale’s reaction when opening the gift was just what I had hoped it would be! Victor Hugo had been his favorite author for the better part of his life. He first discovered Victor Hugo in High School and then his appreciation deepened in Paris where as a young missionary he read many of Hugo’s epics in French. (Better than the translations he declared).

Victor Hugo stole my heart and climbed to the top of my favorite authors list when I read Les Miserable. The basis of his massive collection of works always seems to be that of God, love, hope, perseverance and doing good regardless of circumstances.   We saw the stage play Les Miserable several times and I bought and played the piano renditions of the songs each time I needed comfort or strength or at Dale's request.. “Bring Him Home” was one of his favorites.

You can imagine our delight when on one of our trips to Paris we were able to take a tour of the home of Victor Hugo. It was in admiration of his genius that we walked through the rooms and by the desk where he penned Les Mis.

With these memories I fall asleep in peace - making a mental note to find  the books in the morning.

This morning I pull open the glass sliding door of my big black book case and there they are. All of the burgundy volumes, so aged that the spines have turned a bit pinkish at the edges. I pull one out at random and notice a book mark, Dale’s book mark.  Halfway through the “Toilers of the Sea”. I begin to read the marked page and then close the book and hold it to my heart.

I’m feeling better this morning after a good night’s sleep. Much stronger somehow to work again on this labor intensive gift to my children and grandchildren. I sit back down to my computer and feeling blessed, I’m reminded of another statement by Victor Hugo…

"The mind is enriched by 

what it receives, the heart by 

what it gives."

The Man of My Dreams

I awoke the other morning, just like I have each and every morning but this time as I sat up and looked back at the empty side of the bed I had the unmistakable, albeit weird, combination of sadness and joy as I realized I had been dreaming about Dale. I couldn’t bring up the details but I knew it was a dream about him. He has been the man of my dreams for most of my life.  I first dreamed of him when I was three and recognized him 15 years later when he took me in his arms and we danced for the very first time in this life.

But the other morning, he was only a dream again. I would have to get up and go on through my day without him…again. A routine I am becoming accustomed to in an agitated sort of way. I wondered if now, after all of these days and weeks and months and now years since he died that perhaps my day-to-day existence now might be a bit boring to him when he must be seeing and doing and experiencing such wonderful things on the other side. A forlorn tear dropped from my eye.

Later that morning I happened upon a quote by President Gordon B. Hinckley about his beloved wife, he said:

“As I held her hand and saw mortal life drain from her fingers, I confess I was overcome. Before I married her, she had been the girl of my dreams. … She was my dear companion for more than two-thirds of a century, my equal before the Lord, really my superior. And now in my old age, she has again become the girl of my dreams. To lose one’s much-loved partner with whom one has long walked through sunshine and shadow is absolutely devastating,” he said. “There is a consuming loneliness which increases in intensity. It painfully gnaws at one’s very soul. But in the quiet of the night a silent whisper is heard that says, ‘All is well. All is well.’ And that voice from out of the unknown brings peace, and certainty, and unwavering assurance that death is not the end, that life goes on, with work to do and victories to be gained. That voice quietly, even unheard with mortal ears, brings the assurance that, as surely as there has been separation, there will be a joyful reuniting.”

Such comfort that gave to me.

As I climbed back into bed that night, well…I know you shouldn’t ask the Lord for a sign but just then I sighed and said out loud, “Dale, can you give me a sign? Something that tells me that you are still here for me?” 

By the afternoon of the next day I was thinking how silly and even a bit presumptuous it was that I had asked for a sign when suddenly a text blinged in on my cell phone from my son who lives thousands of miles away.  He texted, simply, “A Quick message from Dad"...

The next day as my sister and I ran errands together we decided to drop by a charming little shop in the village and as we meandered through the French décor that reminded me so much of Dale a song started to play. It seemed that I was able to listen to each word as the melody filled the room….I recognized it as the Mamas and Papas song, “Dream a Little Dream of Me”

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper I love you

Birds singing in the sycamore tree

Dream a little dream of me

Say night-ie night and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

Stars fading but I linger on, dear

Still craving your kiss

I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear

Just saying this

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me.

I whispered to my sister, “I think Dale has just given me another sign!”

 

“I know he has!” she said, “The last song they were playing in here was “I’m Gonna Make this Place Your Home” and I had the strong sensation that he is up there making a home for you in that place”

So he not only gave me a sign, he gave me several! Signs that tell me that the love we shared here on earth is still a vitally important and real connection now.

That evening I was sending out a few emails and my program told me that I was nearing storage capacity and needed to start deleting some things. So I thought I’d go back through some of the older Emails to delete them and clear up some space. The first thing that came up was an Email I had sent to Dale on Aug. 15, 2009 at 11:09 pm.  He was doing a lot of traveling for business and I had come upon an old old song by Dean Martin that spoke of dreams and also the words that mean so much more to me now…”It’s my heart you own so I will wait alone."

Then I remembered the dream I had when I was in my early forties. In my dream I had died and I saw a white spiral staircase and a man dressed in white was descending. As he came closer and closer I recognized him and I felt such happiness as he stopped, held onto the railing and it was Dale who said “It’s me!”  I knew we were together again.

And so an amazing blitz of signs from the man of my dreams coming over the course of several days this week, telling me that I don’t ever have to worry again if he is still here for me. I make note of each one here so that I can remember them if at any time should I once again think hmmmm…are you still here? I’ll be able to read this.

I kissed his photo just like I do each and every night, climbed into bed and switched off the light. “Sweet Dreams” I say to myself contentedly. .

The Whole World is a series of miracles

It was Hans Christian Andersen who said that “The whole world is a series of miracles but we’re so used to them we call them ordinary things.”

I find myself surrounded by ordinary things. But aren’t those the very things that make us thrive? These extraordinary ordinary things that are our daily miracles?

“Just living is not enough” said the butterfly “One must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower."

How incredible that those miraculous things are there for the taking!

And if you think of it… it also seems to be quite an ordinary thing, this going to sleep each night and waking up each morning, we do it 365 times a year and yet isn’t it quite a miracle to get a new start that often? A fresh chance to conquer a new problem or whittle away on an old one.  A chance to make better choices; a chance to say I love you to the ones you care for the most.

Early on in our marriage Dale and I purchased a large gold framed copy of a painting that touched our soulful hearts through the power of its ordinary things. It was never “home” until that painting was hung in each new house along our life’s journey.  Imagine our joy when meandering through the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City one morning we entered a room and there on the wall, was the painting.  “OUR” painting.  Gigantic in size (the original painting itself is 9 feet wide and over 6 ½ feet tall and it is encompassed by an ornate gold frame making it even more massive) and gigantic in power, we sat on the bench in front of it, he put his arm around my shoulders and I scooched over and nestled into that safe embrace and absorbed the peace of the ordinary things both in the painting and in his hug.  

The painting was created in oil on canvas by the brilliant artist, George Inness.  We learned that day that as an ardent abolitionist, Inness tried to enlist in a Massachusetts regiment during the Civil War. Although he failed the physical examination, he organized rallies and frequently gave speeches to drum up donations and volunteers and as the war was ending he created this masterpiece that he called Peace and Plenty (1865) to give hope to a war torn nation by illustrating farmers peacefully producing fields of ordinary wheat under a burst of ordinary sunlight representing the miracle of "plenty" that could once again be the nation’s norm.  Dale and I felt the miracle of those ordinary things; I feel it even now as I look at the painting after all these years. And amazingly, the artist's depiction of these miracles has bolstered the hopes of millions for well over a century.

Last week I made the decision to make joy a daily choice and today I see that paying attention to the phenomena that are in ordinary things is a good way of doing that. I am constantly reminded by newsflashes that bling in on my cell phone of all the trauma and angst that surround us today adding to my own daily fears and frustrations but this observance and acknowledgement of the power of the ordinary gives me strength and a balance, I dare say even a solid base of peace and hope, an elevation in the thoughts and dreams of an ordinary person living an ordinary life.