BE

I was driving Belle to the vet this morning, enjoying the Christmas lights in and around all the houses, blazing away on a dark, dank morning. Where did the year go? Christmas, again?

Contemplating this morning's Advent word, be, I began to list all the things we people are – have been in the period of one year – are expected to be.

Be a wife. Be a mother. Be a good citizen. Be an advocator. Be a friend. Be a caregiver. Be a churchgoer. Be a leader. Be a doer. Be a thinker. Be the best that you can be. The whole world seems to call out for us to be someone who meets its needs.

And we, also, put the pressure on ourselves. Be loving, be kind, be organized, be true to yourself, be patient, or a zillion other things.

And simply being may not honestly be enough.

You know that I believe in practicing mindfulness as much as possible and in staying present deep in the moment. With practice, I've become more and more immersed in the subtle nuances of life – tragic or comic – via full involvement and being simply myself, a child of God. Awareness brings happiness even during hard times.

Be who you are! Have a wonderful day! Taste the nuances of flavor in the coffee. Make a breakfast plate that looks as yummy as it smells. Go from there! Stay in touch with your own being – anger, fear, moments of sheer joy.

I'll join you remotely – a rather modern term – for I truly believe that we are all connected. Together we can accomplish the amazing; digging down to the very core of who we were meant to be individually and collectively.

#adventword #be #bealightintheworld

Side-by-Side With the One in Sandals

Very early on, I learned to pray in the closet; that is, in secret. I've also realized, through the years, the value of praying in public, on my knees, from a book, along with thousands of others in the nation praying the same prayer at nearly the same time.

But when the praying gets personal and the going gets tough you can find me in the garden and alone. Talking to my Shepherd who never forgets that I am only a lamb.

I was also taught to do good deeds secretly. Then, the Girl Scouts gave me a badge for the telling/admitting of those secrets. What's up with that?

I landed, in the here and now, fighting for causes, awarding scholarships, doing my damnedest to make a difference – having once given my profession and family all of my time, ingenuity, and wherewithal. 

I am still the adults' and grandchildren's advocate. I am a friend/protector to our many rescue animals. I work for a few charities.

But the best things I do, my favorite things, find me alone with my private personal projects in the way that pleases me the most. I think of these as times spent walking by the Sea of Galilee, side-by-side with the One in sandals.

Who Do I Think I Am?

Did you know that I let my membership to Ancestry lapse and spent over a year working on DISPROVING my genealogical trees?

Nobody on earth has that kind of back-history. Every medieval country in Europe? Every royal family? Going back to the Roman Empire? And the House of David? Saints and Knights Templars? Semi-mythological Irish kings? In direct lineage? Grandmothers and Grandfathers? Rubbish!

Saints? Yes, research showed, clergy married during those times. Everyone had children, regardless.

And the Irish King DID, as far as history knows or fabulists can tell, marry Zedekiah's "Daughter of God's House."

Romans? Iffy, in my estimation, but I couldn't disprove Valentinian l. 

Why then, was it so difficult to pinpoint Grandmother's modern-day sister? Oh, she was adopted. Now you tell me. 

Where is my patriotic ancestral Chickahominy grandfather? Oh, not grandfather, but grandmother, the records show. And the Mayflower? Yes. Definitely a correlation between that native American and the boatloads of pilgrims landing in Virginia around the same time. And that co-author of the Mayflower Compact? Well documented.

Why can I only find the limbs of the tree that I suspect have been tampered with by strangers?  I am missing so much.

Spelling you say? The way the Scots named their children, you tell me? The way my own ancient family tended to have the YOUNGEST son inherit the manse?

What about the Jacobite twins? No need to prove that one. The Clan of Stuart of Butte proved it for me. From Masonic and other records. It took them a solid year to do so. I am legitimate. 

At first I thought that the Ancestry site must have been infected with misinformation due to so many thousands of edits. Then I believed that I had not been careful enough myself, although many of my long-gone relatives had told me practically the same things when I was a child. I was more than a little mystified and disgruntled by my lack of ability to find my mistakes.

I had joined Ancestry because my memory of the stories told by Grandmothers, and great-aunts and uncles, and old seafaring distant relatives was beginning to fade. Where was that shoebox of evidence I had played with as a child? Where was the proof – besides the mangled and misleading scraps of evidence found on Ancestry and transferred to every other genealogy site the internet has to offer as THE GOSPEL TRUTH?

This month, I'm giving myself a Birthday present. I'm going to rejoin Ancestry and have my DNA tested. Maybe I'll get a HUGE SURPRISE and have to begin again. Maybe I AM who I think I AM NOT. On the other hand, who the hell do I think I am?

If Life Were a Photoshoot

Remember last year?

We had five newborn kittens at Petty Gulf and it was Granny Camp week. Jack had got the idea of our having a Florida Gator Porch and we had ordered furniture online - it was in the garage that Monday morning.

There were a canvas tailgating table, and four chairs, a cooler, a beanbag chair and some beach towels and rugs. Kittens could play on it, sleep in it, and scratch it. All the while, we ate there, lounged there, enjoyed our summertime together.

Jack had a good idea about what to do with the porch furniture and enlisted Tom's help. What harm could they do? Out onto the patio with the extra (but matching) pieces! He arranged the outdoor room into kind of a sitting area. "Now Granny, you can have more ladies over than before. AND you can also show them the Gator porch!" His work was done.

Bare Gator Porch waiting Tom's touch!

That's where Tom came in. He arranged potted plants, pillows, a big round rug, hanging ferns, and duck decoys. When he was done, the patio was amazing.

We all got busy with the Gator porch, which we left in use until after football season. Same again! Jack arranged the furniture with our help. But not until we had played all afternoon with the hose on the porch, "...scrubbing it down, Granny."

Tom put the finishing touches on. Gator cups, towels, a rug, a doormat, a lamp, a radio. The lamp and the radio are still there. I overwintered them.

Granny Camp went super fast this year! We worked a little in the newly-designed  and cat-proof plant stand that we thought up last fall. A way to have flowers and plants seen "from in the house" and "on the porch" without Belle and the Fab Five dining on ferns and throwing up aloe and begonias. A great use of Squirrel's cage!

One afternoon midweek, we were casually talking over grilled cheese and tomato soup. I was saying how hard it is sleeping in my big bedroom with lights from TV, internet modem, remote control security, and the flood light next door.

Jack thought of Uncle Steve. "In Jacksonville, Granny."

Steven has a downstairs gaming/television/office-type room with a guest bed in it. "But you, Granny, would have a BEDROOM with television, computers, iPads, Kindles, kitty beds, a litter box bathroom, and a big closet." Tom grinned, "YOU COULD SLEEP SOMEWHERE ELSE, GRANNY!"

We immediately cleaned our plates and headed for the other side of the house. We had already decided that if Ian ever spent the night, he could sleep in Tom and Jack's bed (the Red Room) because it's a twin. They always sleep in the guest room (the Blue Room) anyway. I could have it otherwise, they suggested.

When Ian came with them, I could (huge grins, now) sleep with them or (diabolical smiles) suffer in our new office. With a bed in it! Queensize! If only the two of them came, problem solved. I would sleep in the small bed with the sailboats on the headboard, children's artwork on every wall, and lots of memories of when Pops was a boy like them. My favorite room in the house!

So, I've been casually moving things around. The Blue Room is the perfect room for sleeping. No electronics, no television, no radio, a bed placed properly for the chi to flow, a Feng Shui delight! Not to mention an almost never slept on mattress.

Today I worked on our office. Jack decided beforehand where everything should go. Tom suggested the finishing touches. They don't realize they do it.

If life were a photoshoot, Jack would be in charge of the big picture - he sees the final results in his mind and tells his brother his ideas. Once they agree (sometimes they don't) Tom is the one who makes the idea sing.

If life were a photoshoot, Jack would find the beach, or choose the food, or contract with the rock star. Tom would act as stylist. The perfect beach furnishings and colors, the most delicious looking plate of mouthwatering food, the unforgettable singer with the perfect hair, avant-garde  clothes, and a makeup job to die for!

We nearly have an office this afternoon. We only need a few things. I'm already feeling relaxed about it, sitting here writing to you. This is by far the coziest this big green bedroom has every been. I've washed the cat throws and there are kittens sleeping in three little beds.

The light is very different slanting through the open blinds behind the half-raised paper accordion shades. Electronics are proudly beaming now, as if they own the place. The room is the same and yet so different - modern and comfortable - thanks to a couple of almost-nine-year-olds!

I think what we need are soft, flannel body pillows to stretch across the headboard for lounging; and, yes, a popcorn maker for sure. Could this be the same room where we once served tea and crumpets amid the bookshelves and lace curtains?

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme

First day of August, turn, turn, turn. Grandmother F was not concerned with such, but Grandmother W had a feel for the changing of the seasons, the days shortening, the small patch of corn ready to harvest, the figs bursting with flavor, the little peach tree laden with fruit.

All Food Photography shown on this post?  From Google Images!

She learned it from her own grandmother who learned it from hers, although Scotland and the harvest festival had been left far behind, even then.

Today is Lughnasadh: fresh baked bread, fruity wine, flounder, and hushpuppies served on that faded green tablecloth made of the Buchanan Ancient tartan. She had other (six) clans with livelier choices for holidays. Who knew how she thought?

Buchanan Ancient, for celebrations of all kinds. (From Electric Scotland)

Grandmother realized that she was celebrating a rather pagan holiday, but she thought it worked both ways. The Celts borrowed the feast from others, more ancient than themselves, and gave it up to Christianity, when the time was right, when it began to be called the Bread Mass, or Feast. The Feast of the Assumption and the opening day of the Scarborough Fair, she knew, were only weeks away. What's not to celebrate?

Here is a beautiful performance of the Simon and Garfunkel masterpiece: Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Picky Over Belle

A Facebook quiz I took recently said my biggest fault was I'm too picky. I guess my mild, undiagnosed case of OCD comes clear even in my posts. (Grin)


You tell me! I took Belle to her spa-day at 8AM. We were greeted with smiles all around. I left her for a callback, but had an appointment nearby. By the time I left home, she was still there. I began to worry.


The call came shortly thereafter, but I was in the pedi chair and didn't listen to the message. It was 1:05. SO, already worried as to the delay, I headed to pick her up straightaway.


The message had said that they were unable to give her service and to come and get her. I'm glad I never heard it until after I arrived at Bannerman Pet Care. It isn't good to drive angry. At the time of the telephone call, Belle had BEEN THERE FOR FIVE HOURS.


I have a message in place for Dr. T to call me. Don't give me an appointment knowing that no Vet will be in the house. You know that Belle sometimes gets anesthesia when being handled by the technicians rather than Dr. T herself. Don't tell me two emergencies came up after the dear old cat had been SITTING THERE FOR FIVE HOURS.


Lack of communication, lack of organization, lack of caring. Belle has had a late lunch and is napping. The technicians didn't even bother to clip her toenails. I'll give her a hygiene clip and her summer hair trimming myself. At least, I'll try. After I'm done being overly picky! And over-protective of Belle!


(Portrait, entitled Belle in Oils, by Tallahassee artist Debby Westerman.)

The Sunday Chicken

One piece is missing. It's on the burner.

My Emile Henry ceramic Flame cookware lives on a rather tall (plant stand) and skinny set of shelves, one piece per shelf. I can cook with it in the oven or on the burner surface. It's my most valued cooking tool of all times.

To start, buy a small Springer brand chicken, the least large available. If you need to cook more, in order to have plenty, two are way tastier than one large bird.

You will also benefit from a serving of the new Campbell's broth for the Keurig. I like it for cooking far better than any broth I've tried other than my own homemade stock. You won't need as much salt, however, and your own favorite tried-and-true liquids will work as well.

I cleaned my 3.3 pound yellow free range chicken, reminiscent of Aunt Inez's yard birds. I placed the chicken in the middle of the roaster and spaced the livers (I got more than my share in this package), gizzard, and neck around it.

I threw in a roughly chopped Vidalia onion as well as a bulb of local garlic, all of the small cloves yet to be peeled. Also, I sprinkled ample chopped dried basil, oregano, and rosemary from my garden-wall herb garden. A few pinches of dried and shredded Thai pepper. Yes! You remember that Tom and Jack harvest herbs and peppers all summer long! That is about as local as one can get! I ground fresh pepper and sea salt slivers gingerly over everything.

Note: Money saver. We used the empty store brand bottles, below, to store our crop - simply printed Home Grown on the fronts with magic marker.

With the poultry and root veggies (Sigh. I didn't have a carrot!) in their places, I poured some of the broth, to which I had added a teaspoon or so of butter, over all.  Actually, I used more than I needed and proceeded to boil it down a little before I put the lid on the dish. There's a way to do everything.

The burner is on the lowest setting. The aroma is beginning to fill the house. Chicken cooked in Flame cookware is so much tastier than when using a crock pot; a flavorful and tender dish.

I know crockpots produce dishes that are relished by many families and are more nutritional than some other options; however, it's my firm belief that diners, in general, have forgotten (what with the advent of fast food, pre-flavored poultry parts ready for the oven, that constant taste of the grilling and charring of chicken breasts, and delicatessen overcooking) how a roasted chicken is supposed to taste.

Had this been pork or beef, even lamb, I would have seasoned amply and stashed the whole dish overnight in the refrigerator to let the flavors meld before cooking. I would have needed more time, this morning, in order to return the food to room temperature, but the taste would have been outstanding.

I don't mess with poultry. Out of the package and into the pot is my best advice for the iffy, germ-morphing kitchen of today.

Later: my bird is in a good place, having self-braised on stovetop for over an hour, to go into the oven for a quick browning. Oven is on 400. When the skin is crisp, I'll check for the doneness of the dish. It usually depends on the size of the bird, the time on the burner, the amount of the broth, and other factors. Yes. I am saying that one can never tell. I can always finish the dish off stove top, but I've never had to do it.

Common sense calls for me to brown the chicken first and then simmer slowly with the lid on. But no. I want the skin to get crispy and stay crispy. I don't usually cook according to Hoyle.

1 PM:  My Sunday Chicken is resting now. My plan was to chop it up as soon as it was cool.  I wanted to make a summer Thai dish in which pre-roasted breast meat may be used,yam top gait tian,a coconut chicken salad. I also wanted chicken sandwiches with pickles. I don't think so. Maybe later in the week according to the amount left over. Sunday Chicken is what's for supper!

P.S. I am trying hard not to drip the juices from these amazing chicken livers that I am munching into my electronics. Otherwise, life is grand!

  

Red and Yellow, Black and White

Red and yellow, black and white, all are precious in His sight. 

Boxing is probably no longer considered a politically or socially correct sport for a grey-haired lady of a certain age to admit that she once enjoyed. Too much like the gladiators fighting to the death while the Empress, in her royal box, cheered them on. A violent world, enjoyed, in modern times, by the cigar smoking gamblers and the down and out, the rich and the famous. 

My father-in-law had been a boxer in the Army and for some time after WW ll. We (our family) watched the matches on television, attended the olympic tryouts the year they were held in Jacksonville, and supported the local boxing profession whose cause was getting and keeping wayward teens off the streets. 

After several years of watching, something amazing happened. I no longer saw black or white or Mexican or Cuban or English speakers or Spanish speakers. I only saw boxers. Red or yellow, black or white, after ten rounds, I couldn't tell you anything about them except to recite their fight statistics.

And just like that, would that we could become colorblind and deaf to language barriers and care only for the scorecard, written in BIG BOLD LETTERS, "We have a tie decision. All are equally precious."

Thinking of Teak

I was thinking of teak because I was googling "how best to remove paw prints from oiled wood." Turns out, it's just like getting those drink-glass circles and food stains out. The finest of steel wool dipped in teak oil.

I've not ever used steel wool on my teakwood. I simply dust with a damp cloth and apply oil. I guess there's always a first time. It needs to be done with a gentle, gentle touch. Daunting.

An example of outdoor teak furniture. I don't have any, myself. 

As soon as the orange crop is in, I'll dry the peel from the juiced fruit and make sachet bags. Cats don't like the smell of oranges. I'll hang them under the lamp shades. But wait. The house is full of teak and cats. Cats gotta go somewhere.

When I was a child in Temple Terrace (Tampa) in the '40's, our furniture was teak mixed with rattan bentwood sofas and chairs. Most of the teak was built-in. Breakfast nook, Murphy beds in guest rooms that doubled as library and screened porch, ironing board, bookshelves, kitchen island.

Remembering Temple Terrace in the '40's. 

Mosquito netting hung over my parents teak bed that sat in the middle of the room. The dressers were built-in around the walls as were several chairs and tables. My own little crib also had netting. It was white in a room full of bentwood easy chairs with footstools - with a built-in clothes cabinet and child-sized Murphy bed.

Murphy bed in a nursery. From crib to bed.

I remember that the room had windows on two sides with white organdy curtains. The only place in the house that wasn't palm motif.

A chair like this, in the nursery, looked huge to a small child.

My Dad sold everything after the divorce. He travelled the world. He mined diamonds in South Africa. He settled in Honolulu in the late '40's, renting a house halfway between Waikiki Beach and Diamond Head, from a Chinese landlord who lived in San Francisco, and settled down to life with Bee (1st stepmother) and much later with Kathie (2nd). You know. That neighborhood on the golf course.

...much like the wardrobes in the Honolulu house. 

When I visited, I was delighted to find a house full of teak to compliment a long low home where the living room front-pocket-wall rolled back - opening out to the liane and bringing the outside in. The bentwood had become simple rattan, but the palm motif was in evidence. Some of the tables were elaborately carved in the Asian manner, but most of the furniture (would be called retro, now) was simple Danish modern.

...similar to the simple bentwood on the lanai in Honolulu.

Teak Murphy bed - like the one in Hawaii.

From the time he moved to Hawaii until the day he paid the city of Honolulu the fees to take the electric wires down so that he could move it to the harbor, my Dad built a yacht, the Honey Bee. It was all teak inside and pegged, no nails. The furniture, of course, was built-in. He and Kathie lived there, using a friend's lagoon for mooring. I don't believe that Kathie ever lived with my Dad on land, although he kept the lease on the house until he died.

Not an exact replica, but (thanks to Google) you get it. Imagine red, white, and blue cushions.

The decks were teak as were the outside furnishings. Many canvas cushions. No palm motif, but a nautical themed teak sofa graced the deck of the Honey Bee. The ship would sleep fifteen with no problem. Imagine the sound of the lapping of the water. The smell of teak oil.

Meanwhile, I grew up and got married. Furnished my first living room with Danish teak furniture. Used hand-me-downs in the rest of the house. 1960's style featured lots of slim wood, simple lines, cushions of stripes, chairs to match, and pegged-in coffee tables. By that time, I thought furniture was supposed to be made of teak. 

Mine was the blue stripe. Just like these. 

Our second house had less teak only because of Mother - her furniture came with her - big easy chair, cloth couches, gooseneck rocker. After fifteen years, the teak furniture (except the coffee table) was given to a young couple who loved it.  I did have a teak stereo center, though. And a study lined with teak book shelves. I can remember how well it all went together. At least Mother was not into mahogany.

Imagine the smell of teak oil and books in the study. 

Those were the days of breezeways with teak picnic tables and a rattan swing hanging from the ceiling. Hippie furniture. Lots of poetry written at that table. Lots of books read in that suspended "chair."


I don't believe I ever mentioned taste in furniture before my second marriage, but when the time was right, off to the "teak store" we went. I couldn't believe my eyes. A huge warehouse, filled to the brim with teak and rosewood.

Although, it took several years to find the very pieces that we were looking for, we eventually did. First a bedroom suit, mirrors, a dining table; later end and coffee tables, leather cushioned bentwood teak and reclining chairs, leather on a teak-framed sofa.  After Wayne died I packed up the teak and headed to Tallahassee with it. All but the pegged-in coffee table. I left it there, a veteran of two marriages.

Dining table art, signed by the artist; I am on my second set of chairs. 

Now labeled "vintage" - catalog photo of my coffee table with end tables not shown.

So here I am googling teak and cat paw prints. Most of the articles spoke of retro teak furniture. I don't know what that means. (grin) Nothing retro here. (Sigh.) This is my genuine, original collection! Except for my Tallahassee pieces - a foyer table, again signed by the artist, a guest room bed, high back dining room chairs, and the bookshelf of my dreams.

Bookshelf of my dreams!

 Tomorrow, I have to stop writing about teak and start cleaning it. One perk of having the cataracts was that the little things I could not see did not bother me. Not at all. Now I'm anxious to clean and polish everything. I had a friend once who sold all of her furniture and bought new.  "Teak," she moaned, "is way too much trouble to keep up." I don't know. She didn't mind polishing the silverware.

(Thank you Google Images. I have taken full advantage of your generosity in this piece.)

Running My Own Rescue Operation

Photo doesn't show A-line roof or upper shelving.

I just saw a piece about St. Frances Wildlife Rescue on the local news. Each of the women who would not even look at my squirrel cage were featured. The cameras scanned both the inside and the outside of the facility.

I'll say it one more time. Squirrel's cage would have been perfect inside, as it was built to lend itself to shelving and compartmentalization. So much nicer than the little cages the rehabilitators were using.

Never mind. I have shelved the cage (the doors are on either end and you can step through them) and made a wire greenhouse for my rescue plants. The whole thing rolls for easy watering/misting. Porch-loving pets cannot bother the plants and, in winter, houseplant types thrive without even a sheet thrown over. Thank the a-line metal roof that holds the heat!

Surprised? Rescue plants? Yes. I only buy plants that are close to dying and are discounted to give away to whomever will dispose of them at the end. I had saved dozens of plants in the house but, with the coming of the kittens, I gave them to a friend with a sunny south-facing porch.

I also saw the cages that St. Frances was using out of doors. They wouldn't even consider mine - ten times better - rolling and open, it would have been a perfect home for hurt birds. Squirrel did not have shelves, after all. She had limbs!

Never mind. I care about the hurt and ill wildlife as well as the next person, but I'm not going to give St. Frances any donation money. The cage I offered cost a pretty penny to have built and is as good today as it was on day one.

And, notwithstanding the value of cypress wood and chicken wire,  I have my own rescue (not wild but domestic) safe house going on over here. Plants and animals. Doing my part.

Squirrel Mathews 2006-2015

Squirrel was the first. I've had Belle so long, I forget that she was a victim of divorce - homeless. Don't forget dozens of plants, inside the new porch enclosure and, later, outside in the secluded garden. Then, there are the Fab Five. Who knows what next week might bring?

Belle

The Fab Five

It Could Become a Jesus Movement

(https://millennialpastor.net/2016/04/14/why-nothing-seems-to-get-people-back-to-church-the-issue-at-the-core-of-decline/)

Here (above) is an interesting blog post. I agree. Sometimes I feel as if I'm the only person left who does not go to church because "it feels like family" or that it is my "social outlet."

Don't get me wrong. I love the people of Holy Comforter. They are good, caring, close-knit, and wonderful to know. But I don't go to church to meet and greet. I go only to reconnect with the words of Jesus. I try to live by the words printed in red. I go to affirm that calling and that alone. Worship, if you love the word as I do. I go to worship.

This is why you often find me, hymns softly rushing over the patio, in what I like to call my secluded garden on a Sunday morning - or any other day I choose. There I can read, and ponder, and pray, and try to hear that voice of so long ago. "Put that down. Follow me."

Holy Eucharist, you argue? No. I don't attend especially for that rite. Jesus said it plainly. "When you are gathered in My name." In remembrance of Him. When I am gathered, with others, in His name.  Not necessary, alone on the patio. Not required.

She isn't faithful to her own church, you say? It's true I wander here and there. I chose Episcopalianism because of the famous "three-legged-stool" approach to dogma and because, deep in my heart, I have an affinity for the idea of a line of Bishops that travels directly back to the days of the early church (who's early history dismays and disappoints me, nevertheless).

My love of visiting other churches isn't in order to make new friends, or to find a new place where I might fit in better, or anything else you might be thinking. I've always been interested in church buildings, the feelings they evoke to the passerby, their histories, and the ways in which their congregations worship.

It lifts me up to think that every Sunday in different buildings with crosses, scattered across the world, prayers are being offered - in different words, in different ways, in different languages. And as the world turns, that they never stop all day.

God is busy listening/knowing on Sunday mornings.  He hears the voices in the cathedrals, the prayers of the people of the little white churches - the small voices coming from the secluded gardens, kitchen tables, everywhere.

Perhaps the dwindling population of churchgoers should go back to church, as I did last Sunday. Churches need money to operate. Churches need pledges. Churches have agendas, worthwhile missions, building funds, plans for expansion. Churches have obligations. They owe money. They need parishioners.

But perhaps, also, the church needs to rethink what exactly its role is. I don't believe that the commandment to "love your neighbor" is a call to love only your friends, in church, on Sunday and strangers through the missions of the organization. I believe we are meant to go out and live the missions to which we have personally been called. Or try.

I know what my mission is and I live it, as best I can, every day. It was God-given and is not connected to any church, pew, choir, or Bible study group. As they say, "It's between Jesus and me." Sometimes He smiles on my efforts. Sometimes, Jesus weeps.

During the days of the Jesus People (back then we called them Jesus Freaks) churches around the country were full of longhaired, gentle, kind, music-loving, God-fearing parishioners. That's what the presiding Bishop is talking about in many of his messages. We need to go backwards now. Live as Jesus lived. Simply, but with great passion for the work we've been commanded to go about doing. Whether or not the pews are ever again full on Sunday.

And so I invite you to read the post, at the beginning of my comments, as I've suggested. I have read a dozen different bloggers lately who are all saying the same thing. It could, indeed, become a Jesus movement.

Monday, Monday. Can't Trust That Day.

Monday, Monday and I cannot catch a break even when Tax Day is delayed. 

I'm always on the bitter edge. Not my fault, but I won't try to explain that to you. Boring. So this morning, I read the email from the CPA and got going.

I had already woken to a cat throwing up, so I applied my newly-learned carpet cleaning technique to said spots. (ice water, vinegar, rub it, blot it, baking powder, let dry, vacuum)

Meh. My scanner had decided not to work today. At all. Maybe ever again. Never mind the hundreds of "fun" genealogical documents and pictures I scan to email every day. Never mind that it was working fine yesterday.

So, I took a picture of said document signature and emailed that. I put the real signed document into an envelope and addressed it. I shoved my Treasury offerings into more envelopes and sealed them up for their long journey to NC. I reached for stamps.

Meanwhile, with five kittens "helping" who might have "played" the stamps to the floor and under the desk, I find none. But no. Caroline Mathews is out of stamps. How the usually organized have fallen.

So off to Publix. I checked some things out while the store was quiet. I read some labels. I bought some twofers. Some peanut butter pretzels. And out the door! No. Back into the store! I had forgotten the stamps.

There is a mailbox in the Publix parking lot, but I don't trust it. Every piece of my mail (four in one month) that has been misplaced by the USPS I have first thrown into that box. I drove on by it and headed home. At the stoplight, I stamped my envelopes. I came into the neighborhood and where was the standing mailbox? Gone!

The place to which they moved the mailbox makes a good bit of sense. It's safer for traffic. It's quicker. It works for me. But it's in a new spot, so will the pickup actually take place? Today? On time for Tax Day?

Monday, Monday, can't trust that day...

Every other day, Every other day of the week is fine, yeah,

But whenever Monday comes, but whenever Monday comes

You can find me cryin' all the time. 

Happy Tax Day! 

P.S. I miss The Mamas and The Papas, don't you?

I Sing Because I'm Happy...I Know HE Watches Me

Today, a day of reconciliation with (and a stepping out of) the past and of coming back, once again, to my place on the pew. It neither looked nor sounded like a church in crisis and, in fact, may only be moving forward in a way that we don't understand. Step by step, Jesus leading the way.

"I sing because I'm happy." Surprised. Delighted. For, into the pew, there stepped Corey. And Billie. And Tom. And Jack. "Begin again. All of you. There is nothing in the past but the past."

And we prayed. And we sang. And we pushed the cobwebs out of our minds where they no longer belong.

The boys, who are now following the words with genuine reading skills, enjoyed their beloved after-service cookies and punch. Corey lit candles for his Dad and for (his mentor, father-figure, and friend) Bob, whom we lost this week. Billie received the Gift of Bread - that welcome that made me a lover of Holy Comforter on my first visit. I breathed and soaked up the goodness of the morning.

"I sing because I'm free." What was I thinking?  I confessed my pettiness then and there and left it smoldering in the pew. Later, I made conversation with people whom I had been avoiding (for small reasons) for some time. I put it all behind me, praying to be a way better person going forward. "For his eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me."

After the service, I continued to free myself from my inner dilemma. Why am I looking, searching for new volunteer opportunities and causes? "Can't you see?" I asked myself. "Your old cause IS your cause." That's when I walked up to the sign-up table in the Narthex and re-upped at the Food Pantry. "For I was hungry...."

My comeuppance came right then. It was heaven-sent and beautiful. I reached for a pen and began to write my name all over the Saturdays in May. But, when I looked down, I saw that I had written in red ink. "...and ye fed me." Yes. I smiled. My cause has not changed. Nor my calling: To try to live by the words written in the red ink.

On the other hand, inadvertently picking up the red inked pen seemed a warning - loud and clear. The red seemed to be visible all over the Narthex. It reflected in the glass. Like Hester Prynne, wearer of the (also red) A in the Scarlet Letter,  I had not known the weight until it was lifted. I laid my doubts down beside my consternation. Free at last.

For His Eye is on the Sparrow and I know He watches me. 

On Poetry as Sketch and Sketching as Poetry and Life as Something Altogether Different

I'm deeply into it now. I have the titles in my head for the remainder of the poetry chapbook (World's Colliding) and many of the sketches underway. I go down, down, down into the poetry. Then I come up and away with the sketching. The object of the poetry, of course, you understand. The chapbook title tells all. But the artwork?

It's not difficult to illustrate a booklet like this with pencil drawings. The hard part is to turn the intentionally simple pieces of art into a kind of poetry in their own right. And not in any form of sketch/verse that might gently coordinate with the words, but in such a way as to push, push, push against them until you can read the intention freestanding, without the poetry itself. The sketches must live to serve a separate and distinct purpose; yet, to remain, in themselves, those same worlds colliding.

I've chosen a little leather book with a clasp, unlined, and a larger leather notebook with lines so softly printed that they would never interfere but only give the sketches a sense of forcefully dropping down on the page in spite of them. I'll probably end up with something in between. Poetry, handwritten. Illustrations in pencil, also.

I have this feeling that few, if anyone but me, will get it - the reasoning;  and because it's been heart-wrenching to write on this theme having faced the fact that my life has been entirely composed of those same worlds at odds with one another, there's another project going on over here to break the tension.

 I've been going through (finally) my photographs of Tallahassee churches. Now, that I can see to drive again (post-cataract) and colors are once more vibrant and true, I want to finish that lovely picture book along with dialog. Not the histories of the churches, per se, but the feelings the buildings actually impart. Just like the chapbook. Poetry handwritten on every page.

I've always had a struggle with writing. Not that it's difficult for me. It isn't. It's the most natural thing I do. Not that I don't think in haiku and waken on beautiful mornings with poetry falling out of my head. It's just that I hate to be tied to the computer (in the past, typewriter) wasting the joys of what I call "real life."

That dilemma has eased up in the last year or so while people I know (or know of, or love) in my age group are falling off the earth at lightning speed. Warp speed. And so, in the essence of time, I now compromise.

My interest in food preparation - shopping for and preparing;  that love of time spent in the secret garden with music pouring onto the patio: the curling up and enjoying a good book; many lovely, tiny naps that spit me back out into the world in time for wine and cheese on lingering Florida evenings; these remarkable kittens and their blood-pressure-lowering abilities;  and my delightful newly-merged modern family are first priority.

Poetry and photography and art are not (never have been) my only passions. At this time of my life, they have become what I do for a hobby. That decision is a replay of one that I made long ago. To live in the real world not the world of my mind. I would have missed so much living otherwise.

Gentleman Callers: Vintage WWII.

It's been a remarkable week for the Gentlemen Callers. Vintage WWII. Of course.

Sunday in the grocery store: Old gentleman peering into my grocery cart.

Looked like a war baby - about my age. Bald in khaki slacks and (you know I love this) topsiders. Much like the GC who was senile in Fresh Market a few years back. Remember him?

"Whoa, young lady. Wait up. Can't you see I've been following you?"

The "Where the hell do they keep the coconut milk?" question, was followed by my speedy comeback. "What are you going to do with coconut milk?"

Then, a brief synopsis of a dish often eaten as a child that his dad had brought the recipe back from the Pacific front. And that he has finally found said recipe among his late wife's things. "Been looking for it for three years."

The brief interchange and a few smiles led to a fountain Coke and a few Oreos (out of his cart) enjoyed in the little lunch area there at Publix Deli.

Monday at the plant store: Old gentleman peering into my cart full of roses.

Very trim, with a cane, plenty of grey hair, bermuda shorts and a gardening hat. Arms full of rose fertilizer. Sixty-ish. Maybe seventy. Very erect posture - could have been an Army brat during the '40's

"You like the knockout rose?' Before I could answer, "How big will those grow?" Pointing to the ones inside my buggy. My mouth opened to tell him,  but "...got a place alongside the garage that nothing will grow in. If you drive down North Ride and you see a garage with wilting roses, stop in. I'm headed home to fertilize 'em right now."  

Just now at Pet Smart: Old gentleman peering into my cart.

Older than me or the other two GC's. Probably fought in WWII or barely missed the cut. He's going into the store (jeans and a T-shirt) and I'm coming out (jeans and a T-shirt).

"Do you need any help, Missus?" Assessing the probable heaviness of my load. "How many of those cats do you have, anyway?" We speak of several things. Belle, the FabFive, his two terriers (black and tan), his beloved hound. The thunder rumbled, and the rain started to spit on us.

He gave me the most magnificent grin and said, "We are getting wet. Is this the place in the relationship that I write my telephone number on your hand?" He didn't. He wrote it on an old Home Depot receipt that he pulled out of his pocket. And so it goes.