Author Archives: Deborah Hutti

How Could I Not

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How could I not write about it.  It has been on my mind since it happened.

June 12th, 2016 –  forty-nine people lost their lives.  Fifty-three individuals were injured, are certainly still injured.  Hundreds of parents, spouses, children, and family members are still distraught, in shock, mourning, grappling with loss and change. Thousands of friends and acquaintances are reaching out, hoping that they can in some small ways be helpful.  And I, along with the rest of the United States, am wondering what is my role. . . what should I do.

And like the rest of the world, I agonize over this type of senseless violence.  Orlando, Brussels, Paris, Boston, and now I add Istanbul – and these are just the ones that readily come to mind – not all of them.  Gun violence, and bomb violence, and terrorism, and death and more death. It just seems endless.

In this particular area, I feel like I am falling into a great, giant abyss – tumbling downward, with nothing to latch onto to help me stop.  It just seems so far beyond my control, I have no tangible, workable, magical solutions to offer.  I believe myself to be a learned person with the desire to end the violence, and the willingness to put in the effort to do so, but I have no clue as to what I can do –  that will be effective.

As is an American tradition, there are folks out in the big world who are suggesting that we more emphatically implement the old policies, or create new and improved policies, or throw out all existing policies and start again. I watched the federally elected in our country hold a sit-in as they fought to figure out what to do.  I have heard calls for more, as well as for less, gun legislation, for more, as well as for less, immigration policy, for more conservative as well as more liberal solutions.

My heart is fine with any of those choices.  Whatever works best, just do it.  I don’t care how we approach this issue; I just want it solved to the best of our ability.  I want a solution that reduces violence and injury and death.  I am for every solution that does and against anything that does not.

My head, however, is telling me that there might not be a solution.  My head is telling me that while we solve the criminal challenges that are in front of us, there are new groups that are part of the evil empire that are waiting in the wings with more giant, terrible acts.  My head hurts just thinking about the absolute quandary that exists.  Who are these people and how do we abate the evil that they create?

Over this year’s July 4th holiday, which this year in the Midwest can only be described as time off to watch it rain like no other, I had the opportunity to watch a documentary on the history of the United States – the American Revolution, the Westward Expansion, the Civil War, and on and on and on, all the way to present time.

I think I learned something interesting, something that may be able to shed some light for me as I tumble down in that dark abyss.  What I learned may not be the great solution to this problem.  And what I learned isn’t some extraordinary AHA type moment. It is small and rather inconsequential, but for me it was a bit powerful.  I am not sure if it will be helpful to anyone else other than me, but I am willing to share it none-the-less.  It is something universal and something that I hadn’t thought about in quite some time – and certainly not to the extent that I have pondered about it right now.  It is positive and it is a great fallback position to consider when everything else is failing.

We Americans . . . we are a resilient bunch.

Centuries ago, folks fought and gave their lives for independence.  Whatever truths we held to be self-evident, they came with a price.  Great people, good people died.  Innocent people, unsuspecting people died.

Centuries ago, the United States fought the United States, not for independence, but for unity, and human rights, and people died.  In fact, more people died in the Civil War than any other US moment in time. It was a time of great loss with battle after battle after battle.

Before my time, folks fought in World War I, World War II, and the Korean War.  My experience includes the Vietnam War and everything that has transpired since, including September 11th – a day of infamy for me. Whether a war or a random act of violence, people have died.

Yet our country survives.

We are an amazing and stunningly resilient bunch. We could close up shop, give up, and become a lawless, crime-ridden society. Some countries have.  We could stop our quest for goodness and justice, and opt for something with less effort.  We could choose to walk on the wrong side.

But, we don’t.

We carry on.  We battle each other on who should be in charge of our country.  We fight over which solution has the most potential – even if all of the solutions are on the weak side.  We are emphatic about our teams and dig in when considering compromising with each other.  We chastise each other’s philosophies and spend too much time and money duking out who is best fit to lead.

And it finally has dawned on me that there is something that I should be doing, that is expected of me, that does help when facing tragedies like Orlando, a daily part for me.  Though that circumstance occurred miles and miles away from me and I lost no relative, friend, or acquaintance, it is imperative for me to carry-on, to support the idea of a shared American identity, to remain faithful to the elimination of evil at all turns, and to dedicate my time and energy to those issues, ideas, and paths that generate the growth of all that is good, even if I am just sitting in the bleachers seats, watching the action from far, far away.

Resiliency is my heritage.  It is what has preceded me, what needs to follow me, and as an American, what is expected of me.

And America, count me in!

July 4th IBK

July 4th, 2016 Fireworks

Magic Journeys

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She asked me if I would like to play tea with such an earnest voice, I had to just say yes. I watched her run quickly to the next room and carefully removed the teapot from the shelf.  Once back in the kitchen, she climbed up to the sink and filled it with water.  My instructions were to sit on the floor.  In her mind – and then in  my mind – the room transformed into some other unknown place where she and I were drinking lemon flavored tea and eating biscuits (which looked suspiciously like water and jelly beans).  But to us – at that time – it was truly tea and biscuits.

Several hours later, after she and I had left that moment, and after she had left my home, I  took off for my daily run.  Tennis shoes – check.  Hair tie – check.  IPod and headphones – check, check.  My body was ready to go, but my mind was telling me that I was tired, that I didn’t have time, that the weather wasn’t the greatest, that I should just forget it and call it a day.  I was ready to turn around, give up on the exercise idea, head back into my house for a little “R & R” or maybe a lot of “R & R”.

Mindlessly, I flipped on my music and began listening to the Sherman Brothers tell me about a magical world . . . the world between awake and asleep, between real and pretend. Magic Journeys.   I watched a bird skim the sky overhead and fly beyond the treeline.  Slowly but steadily,  I was again transformed to another time and another place.  This time, however, it wasn’t sitting in a castle drinking tea and eating biscuits.

With my imagination at work – I began to picture myself as a quick and speedy.  I could see myself many moons prior, running as if nothing could stop me.  The more the music played, the more I imagined myself, not being tired, or unmotivated, but having that trail-blazing, never say stop exercising attitude.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that my mind was rewriting the moment.  I spent the next hour running what I thought was like the wind!  Not because I was, for I assure you that my speed right now is generally the same – somewhere between slow and slower, but it felt different.  And I finished.  And I smiled.

I have spend a great deal of time thinking about those two moments.  The focus, however, isn’t on the tea party or the run, rather it is on my imagination.

As a child, I recall using my imagination all of the time.  Cardboard boxes became castles.  The backyard soccer game became the Women’s World Cup.  I was Peggy Fleming when I put on ice-skates, and Carole King when I played the piano.  I directed orchestras, danced on American Bandstand, flew, had the best presidential acceptance speech, and walked down those fashion runways like a pro.

Children use imagination all the time.  The world encourages it.  But somewhere within my childhood, I packed up that imagination and headed for adulthood.

I admit that it might look crazy-funny for me to sit in a cardboard box, with my soccer ball, ice-skates, piano, baton, ballet shoes, wings, type-written speech, and platform shoes  – all day long.  And I am thankful that adulthood has taught me that I need to be a little more realistic that my five-year old self.

I suppose what I am trying to learn is which parts of imagination are behind me and which parts are still in front of me. Mark Twain tells me that I can’t depend on my eyes when my imagination is out of focus.  And Albert Einstein tells me that imagination is more important than knowledge.  For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire work, stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution; and strictly speaking, it is a real factor in scientific research.

For the remainder of 2016, I am going to dust off my imagination.  I am going to look at it like one of the most versatile tools in my box and use it every change I get.  My approach isn’t going to be via the tea party model (however, I am not ruling anything out), but more towards the running/transformation model.

I want to look more at what can be than what is.  I want to see the potential rather than seeing the status.  I want to practice imagining all that can be – in all facets of my life – just to see what might happen.  I want to learn more about what happens when imagination is let loose.  What happens when I just unleash it and give it a go at all turns. I want to wonder more about everything, just to see the results.

I have no idea where this idea may take me.  I can only imagine.

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A recent imagination moment.

 

What We Need

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Everyone needs help.  There isn’t one of us alive who – at some time in our lives – won’t rely on help from others.

Clearly, we need help in our youth.  Baby to eighteen is a time when most humans need loving care and support from a variety of individuals starting with parents and ending nowhere in sight.  Caregivers, teachers, neighbors, friends, extended family members – There are just too many individuals to mention, and yes, it does take a village – or as I often call it a boatload of folks all rowing in the same direction – to help one person reach the average and usual milestone of adulthood – which often times stretches well beyond eighteen.

We need help during the middle of our lives.  The help we receive is much different than the diaper-changing, hand-holding, tuck-me-in / keep-me-safe assistance we received in our youth.  Often times, we need that gentle push behind us, telling us that our next steps are okay.

We need to know that there is a safety net – strong and wide – even though we have no intention of using it, hopefully.  We need comfort when we make mistakes.  We need to be reminded to laugh when we want to cry, and to cry when we think we can’t.  We need to know that the village is still there, that it hasn’t left us, but is instead standing with us like a herd of elephants at the ready.

During the end of our lives, from what I can see, we need a substantial amount of help, too.  I have watched far too many parents, aunts, uncles, friends and acquaintances reach a different life milestone, the one that is way beyond that middle part, further to what is that end part.  When facing the end, we need help with almost everything, again.

It seems like we actually need more than the village and the herd.  The needs become so great that it isn’t the number of individuals in the village that matters or the size of the elephants in the herd, rather a combination between the two plus time.  We need the village and herd to offer buckets of time and more buckets of time.  And as the journey of life becomes more and more complicated, we need them to double those time buckets again and again.

Caregiving – at any stage – youth, middle, end – isn’t easy.  We all know that it requires skill, patience, attentiveness, and mental acuity that keeps us one step ahead of the people for whom we offer care.  It also takes great models.

It has been my great fortune to have witnessed some of the best – a friend who cared for her dying brother, offering up nearly a year of her life for his care . . . a brother who opened up his home to my father for months. . . my parents who opened up their home (which was my home, too, at the time) to nearly every relative – young and old – who needed anything for any length of time.

I have watched friends adopt children with disabilities, relatives foster teenagers who lack family and guidance, acquaintances move from their homes and devote portions, and sometimes all, of their lives to the care for those in poverty-striken countries.  One of my cousins just recently and reluctantly detailed his work with a local homeless shelter.  He is out caring for those who can not care for themselves a couple miles from his home.  Impressive.

After a couple of years pondering this particular issue  – I am on the slow but sure train –  I have learned that throughout the time that we are caring for the needs of others, we actually are in need ourselves.  Though our needs as caregivers are quite different from the needs of those requiring the care, we still have needs.

We need time to refresh.  This need is perhaps the most common and the most apparent.  Ask any individual caring for the 0-18 set.  After hours, weeks, months of meeting the needs of youth, even the best of caregivers needs break time, recess for adults, a pause moment.  If this time comes with a little solitude – all the better!  Sometimes it only takes a few seconds, sometimes longer to refresh, but we need to refresh.

Call it a coffee break or a vacation.  Whatever it is called, I am a strong advocate for allowing folks who are going above and beyond in their offering of  service to others . . . time.  I am all for a national holiday that celebrates the efforts of those who so selflessly attend to the needs of others.  Call is Bravo Day – and let everyone helping others rest.  It is such a lovely idea, but of course, impossible to do, because we know that caregiving actually has no holiday.  So much for refreshing!!

We also need some type of confirmation that what we are doing is worthy.  Confirmation is different from refreshing.  All of us can provide confirmation.  That confirmation can emanate from the person receiving the care, from the rest of the village members who are also assisting, or from those who are simply watching from the sidelines.  Regardless of source, we need to know that we are of benefit, that we help, that we make a difference.

Even if we are humble, private or modest, we still need affirmation of our efforts.  That affirmation can be as small as a pat on the back, a wink of the eye, a card in the mail, or an utterance of two very powerful words that can never be used enough.  We need it.

So, thank you.

Thank you to every single person who is doing anything to help anyone else.  Thank you for being great parents.  Thank you for being great friends.  Thank you for taking care of someone who is in need.  Thank you for being part of the village and a member of the herd.  Thanks from the bottom of my heart. Please know that I need you.  We need you.  The world needs you.

Flowers

A Moment of Refresh – Missouri Botanical Garden April 2016

 

 

 

The Fine Wine Dine

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I can’t explain why.  I really can’t.  All I can say is that the evening stood out.  It was a first among equals night. It was one of those moments . . . a moment that as it happens everyone knows that it is destined to become a memory.

Ten of us had gathered.  All of us were friends.  Each of us had a strong connection to one or more of us. Yet none of us were childhood friends with all of us.  Our interests were diverse – nature, health, the spirit, the spirits, enterprise, numbers, learning, teaching – with a lot of some and a little of others.   We met at twilight – the time of magic between daylight and darkness on a cool crisp mid-winter evening.

Those hosting had planned and prepared and welcomed the rest upon arrival.  Though all of us had seen each other over the past couple of months, our greetings were as if we had not. Handshakes, hugs, kisses, pats-on-the-back, smiles – it was a tete-a-tete for ten that started the evening out perfectly. Again, I can’t explain why, but from the moment our feet crossed the threshold of the door, the aura of the making of a memory began.

Our intent was simple – food and wine and conversation followed by more food and more wine and more conversation.  The emphasis here should be, in particular, on the conversation about the wine, of which there was a great deal, for nine of us were learning from the one of us who was a master in that area.

For this year’s fine wine dine, the table setting included numerous wine glasses which to me looked like birds on a wire – straight, dainty, orderly and whimsical.  In addition, each setting included two black goblets, mysterious in both color and shape.  The first four wine flights to be served at the table had been pre-poured.  So all was ready.

However, like most gatherings, our first moments were spent in the kitchen.  We stood, and mingled, and chatted.  We listened and learned about recent trials and tribulations that occurred in our lives.  We watched as those cooking finalized the meal with brief finishing touches.  We were served our first wine flight coupled with a much appreciated antipasto.  Most importantly, we were pausing our busy lives for something beyond the ordinary. Worked stopped.  Fun ensued.

As we moved out of the kitchen, we soon learned much more about the mysterious black goblets.  Regardless of our viticulture ability – (me, a mere novice) – we were to identify each of the goblet’s contents without the ability to see it.  A better name for this portion of the evening might be the fine blind wine dine, a puzzling, curious challenge that had nine of us laughing on edge.

And laughter kept coming, from beginning to end.  We laughed at our ability or inability as hopeful wine connoisseurs.  We laughed at ourselves, at each other, at our futures, at our days gone by, at everything and anything.  At times, we laughed until we cried. We just laughed.  For hours.  For fun.  With friends.

Hours later, as we all departed, we seemed reluctant to cross over that threshold and head in the opposite direction.  If I had thought about my thoughts at that time, I probably was thinking about my luck – to be with a group of friends for a moment of fun on that mid-winter’s night.

I can’t explain why.  I really can’t, but I am going to try.

Like everyone else, there are twenty-four hours in my day and seven days in my week.  Of those twenty-four hours and seven days, the moments that I can recall are few and far between.  I remember the spectacular – the weddings, the graduations, the holidays, the birthdays, the anniversaries.  I remember the somber – the deaths, the funerals, the illnesses.  Most of my memories revolve around my family who are the individuals with whom I share hours upon hours upon hours of my time.   My mother, God rest her soul, has been gone for many years; yet, I can still hear her calling my name from the days of my childhood.

And somewhere in those memories now sits something a little bit different . . . unusual . . . unique.  It doesn’t involve the spectacular or the somber or my family.  It isn’t something of tradition or tragedy.  It isn’t marked by a date on the calendar or tied to a sibling, an aunt, an uncle or my parents.

It is a moment in my life that I spent with friends, good friends, doing something rather ordinary in an extraordinary way – eating, drinking, laughing, talking – personified.  The exact stories we told and why we laughed . . . I am not sure of it now.  I think it was all funny, but . . . then . . . it could have been the wine speaking.

What I am a little more sure about is the value of good friends.  I may not know my wines (to even the basest level of knowing the difference between red or white wine when placed in a black goblet), but I do know that friends are treasures beyond words.

Lesson learned. Enough said.

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The Mysterious Black Goblets

Don’t Hurry Life

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August by birth, Gus in life, my grandfather was an interesting man.  He was only alive and in my life for what seems to me now as a brief pause, a short stay;  but that time period was definitely a most impactful one.

He often described his childhood/boyhood as a time of hardship, a time of great challenge, where he had to use both his brain and his braun to make it through each and every day.  With jobs before and after school, and school not the focused priority that is seen in students and parents of today, I listened to his stories and imagined the life of a youth with more responsibilities than I could ever imagine.

Conversely, he described his manhood as nothing shy of glorious, as a time of great adventure, still using his brain and braun to make it through each and every day, but in a different more creative, fun-filled, devil-may-care way.  I listened intently as he regaled stories of danger, pride, cleverness, handwork, risk, and exciting uncertainty in a world of change. He was fetching in looks and ingenious in nature. And he was unusual . . . in ways difficult to pinpoint, best described by me as a grandfather of many mysteries.  He seemed to often times walk the fence and teeter between that which was pure and good and that which was in a more gray area.

His unwritten biography of today contains a plethora of stories detailing escapades with individuals from shady backgrounds, from moments of both average and dangerous shenanigans, from times of walking on the ethical border and times of not. There were moments told when he escaped death, found fortunes, relied on lopsided handshake agreements, bet against the house and lost, and settled a variety of scores.  With decades having passed since his death, and even more decades having passed since the origin of the most exciting of adventures, I find it difficult to decipher between the actual truth and the fond folklore nature of the memories we share about Grandpa Gus.

Throughout all these cloudy, misty, and foggy memories that now make up the ever-so-exciting version of his life story, however, there is one that is crystal clear for me. It was a quick moment that he and I shared with little fanfare at the time. There was no particular detailed or dramatic buildup before it and very little following. It was a granddad/granddaughter moment that happened on a sunny autumn day following a quiet, uneventful visit between the two of us. I never expected to create a memory at that time, but . . . we did.

From his hospital bed near the end of his time with me, he leaned towards me and told me firmly, “Don’t hurry life, Debbie.”

At that time, I was starting my own adventures and was clearly in a rush to be whoever I was going to be and do whatever I was going to do.  I must have been on a visible mission to get to wherever I was going as quickly as possible, as it was so very obvious to him.  I wanted to work, to play, to find love, raise a family, create my own fortune, and figure out how to walk my own ethical line. I wanted shenanigans and escapades, and excitement and crazy-funny moments  that would eventually create folklore for me.

I had stopped by to see him as I was coming and going from one activity to another.  He, on the other hand, was unable to come and go any longer.  His movements were limited to those of a man reaching the end of his time  – a man who knew he had reached that moment – a man who was no longer rushing, but rather waiting.

And he told me firmly, “Don’t hurry life, Debbie.”

I often think of that moment, the time he uttered such a short and simple phrase – that left me with oh-so-very-much to consider.

Am I always in a hurry?  Do I stop and appreciate the ‘now’ as much as I should?  What life pace is the best?  Who determines the speed and how is it determined? Is there something intrinsically better about the slow over the quick?  And for goodness sakes, how in the heck do I slow life down?

It wasn’t until recently that I think – and I am still not sure, just sayin’ – that I understand a little about what he was trying to tell me.  It is not that I haven’t pondered those words over and over and over for a very long time.  I have.  It is more that I have finally reached a point in my life that they make much more sense to me.

From his hospital bed near the end of his time with me, I held his hand and he mine. His was dark and wrinkled, mine not so.  His grasp was faint and slight, mine not so. I looked at face and he gazed at me with tears wallowing in his eyes. His life was near its end . . . in the home stretch, and I knew he wanted so much to tell me that I needed to enjoy every moment I possibly could throughout my life, that I needed to work to be all that I could be while appreciating everything that would occur in my story, and that I needed to stop and smell the flowers along the way for each step of life is more fabulous than the last.  Finally, he needed to know that I understood him perfectly and permanently.

And in a whispery voice that signaled both age and wisdom, in a barely audible tone, he told me firmly, “Don’t hurry life, Debbie.”

And I understand.

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The Flowers Along The Way

 

 

 

 

 

A Poem As Lovely As a Tree

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I have never met a tree that I did not like.  In fact, there is something about them that takes my breadth away.  The budding in Spring, the flowering in Summer, the color bursts of Fall, and their barren branches throughout all of Winter – all stages amaze me.  Simple, complicated, tall, small, evergreen, deciduous, alive, dead – I like them all.

Though I do not live in the heart of a forest, I am fortunate to have a south facing bedroom window that overlooks the woods.  Every morning and night, I take a peek at the trees – just to see what is happening.   Yet, the time spent double-checking those trees twice a day for 30+ years still hasn’t helped me with my general tree knowledge.  I have no idea what type of trees are out there – perhaps oak, or maybe maple, possibly walnut.  I’m just not sure. Dendrology isn’t my forte.

I know much simpler details. I know they have grown.  I know there are young ones and old ones.  I know their noise, and I know their quiet.   I just like them, all.

Growing up in suburbia America, my family had their fair share of trees.  There was the token large tree in the front yard, the evergreen trees that lined the house, and the three or four trees strategically planted in the back yard for shade.  As a child, I absolutely abused those back yard trees – climbing, building, hacking, pushing, breaking.  I did everything to those trees, but appreciate them.

Now, I do.

I enjoy the quiet they bring – not in terms of sound, but in terms of life.  There is something about walking through snow covered trees in the middle of winter – alone.  It is more than quiet.  It is calm and peaceful – two sensations that are normally difficult to achieve simultaneously but easy for me to find with winter trees. They offer no words of wisdom.  They speak only metaphorically. But for some reason their calm and peaceful quiet always provides a crazy-fun adventure.

I enjoy how they depict time – their uncanny ability to show me the circle of life in just a short twelve months.  With trees, I am reminded each year of how life moves from green to brown to bare to rebirth – a microcosm of the human lifespan.  From them, I am reminded that time is more than hours, days, weeks.  Time = seasons.  Not sure why I like this thought: I just do.

I enjoy what I have learned about anticipation. I anxiously await the blooming of the Bradford Pear trees that ring my college campus in Spring, and the show of color in the back yard woods each Fall, and even the gloomy bark-only look of those same trees in Winter.  I believe I enjoy the time of anticipation nearly as much as the time of arrival.

I know that in my wonderings about trees that I have certainly learned a little.  I have learned that there is beauty and majesty in most everything, that the world right outside my back window is utterly amazing, that the simplest of objects can cause the most complex of thoughts, that I clearly have way too much time on my hands, and am thankful that I do.

Happy New Year

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A Very Decorated Tree at the Missouri Botanical Garden

Never Disappointed

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Without a doubt she has been one of the funniest women that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.  She was my mother’s best friend for decades, and I can recall with affection the numerous crazy-funny moments that led to nothing but sheer laughter and joy while in the presence of the fabulous Mrs. K.

With wispy hair, a petite frame, and sparkling eyes, it has always been easy for me to see why my mother developed such a tight friendship with this charming, humorous, spontaneous, unique individual.

I began thinking about Mrs. K recently – oddly enough after hearing a very negative remark about humanity. Humanity in general, unfortunately, and all of humanity, whitewashed all together.  I don’t remember the exact phrasing (and am secretly glad that I don’t), but the main theory was those who put their faith in the goodness of others will always be disappointed.

Hmmm.

My mind drifted away from the negative humanity comments and back to the stories of two young girls growing up in a big city. Isabelle and Jean (my mother and Mrs. K respectively) – as regaled in story after story from my mom, finding their fair share of trouble, making their fair share of mistakes, having their fair share of close calls, and lamenting & repenting over their youthful sins.   And living for another day.

Though I enjoyed each and every tale told by my mom about her time with her best friend, and I equally enjoyed each adventure that I shared as a young daughter in the mix – having similar escapades with the two of them, it wasn’t the stories, the adventures and/or the escapades that sharpened my admiration for Mrs. K.

…………

I feel very differently about humanity.  I have rarely – if ever – been truly disappointed when putting my faith in the goodness of others.  In fact, I will step out on a limb here and state that I have never been disappointed.  Just never – not to the point that I remember it in any way.  It could be that I block such negativity out of my conscience thought. Perhaps I only see that which is good, great, and positive in the world.  And if I do, it seems to work for me, so I might continue that process.  Or it could be that I haven’t lived long enough to experience the flip side of humanity.  Perhaps the future will bring something completely different.  I hope not, but it could happen.  Or perhaps the world is truly a great place to live and those who see it differently need to come up to speed with reality.

I can say that I find it quite inappropriate to ever anticipate disappointment when placing faith in the goodness of others.  I believe that it is imperative for me to have faith, to trust others, and to expect the best.  It is important for me to be reliable, to be trustworthy, and to offer my best at all times.  From past practice,  I do know that I will receive both what I expect and what I give.

Which brings me back to Mrs. K.

Though my mother routinely detailed the major moments of fun and laughter that trailed through their time together as life long friends, she also quietly and assuredly discussed something more.  Mrs. K had a sibling who required more care and more effort than most family members.  Often times in their youth, this sibling would tag along, making a trio out of the duo.  According to my mother, never once did Mrs. K voice any complaints or in any way be critical of the situation that required one sibling to help with another.  Mrs. K was asked to step up to the plate and help, and she did.  Mrs. K’s sibling had faith in her sister, and wasn’t disappointed.  For life.

Mrs. K is the goodness that I see in humanity, over and over and over.  And over.

I plan on continuing to look for the best that humanity can bring and to drift off and think of people like Mrs. K when faced with those who are less complimentary about this world of ours.

The Earth is a Beautiful Place

The Earth is a Beautiful Place

The Untold Stories of the Word of the Year

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“Challenge.  It’s my word for 2015,” she said.

At that moment, for reasons I cannot explain, we knew that the conversation to follow would be memorable.  It was just clear that the four of us had moved from frivolous, fun, no-direction chatter to a much higher, sequential, magical plane.  We were about to discuss life and its importance. And from my vantage point, we weren’t disappointed with what followed.

Her plan was to select one word.  Just one word.  She would use that one word as a guide, a beacon for her journey from January until December.  She offered no additional rules, and asked if we wanted to participate.  Just choose one word and keep a steadfast focus on that word until the end of the year.  We all nodded in agreement.

In less than one week, my three friends had landed on their words: Challenge . . . Change . . . Zen, all intriguing, inspiring, daring, complex choices. But, within the same week,  I was still in some type of holding pattern.  Wordless.

Along with starting off 2015 searching for the right word, it just happened that I had been reading some very interesting writing.  A blog, familiar to me in the year past, was detailing circumstances in countries beyond my experiences.  The topics varied from post to post with what I identified as a golden thread of humanity holding it all together.  I would see the photos and read the words, and quickly my mind was blurring with thoughts.

Suddenly, I had a plethora of potential 2015 word possibilities: free, help, center, food, happy, others, world, poverty, irony, give, get, lost, woman.  The more I read, the more words floated to the top.  Now, my problem was no longer a lack of words; it was finding and selecting the right word from the crowded list.

Hmmm . . . what to do . . . .

Though my friend provided no particular rules, by default there seems to be a couple.  First, the one word that I choose must fit all occasions.  It must be able to balance between moments of distinct joy and happiness as well as moments of considerable pain and sadness.  The word must be able to lead me to new adventures, remind me of the difference between good and evil, give me an anchor when I need it, and allow me to laugh, love, and learn throughout an entire year.  It should be bold, blessed, and at times, comical . . . humorous . . . fun.   It should have an intent.

Even with knowledge and consideration of such rules, the days of 2015 began to pass in rapid succession without me finalizing my pick.  I truly was headed towards a million choices and not the selection of one, floundering in a pile of words, until . . . today.

In an odd moment early this morning, I found my word.  I happened to be walking through a snow-covered field at 7:45am.  It was a quiet moment.  The snow had settled, the morning had no wind, and the hour was too early for any traffic. The sun was peeking over a ridge of barren trees and a lonely bird swooned overhead.  It was a picturesque moment, an outdoor winter splendor.

A Crazy-Funny Winter Moment

A Crazy-Funny Winter Moment

Regardless of the extent of the beauty before me, my attitude was not following in kind.  My feet were cold, my shoes were wet.  The 6+ inches of snow buried the trail for my walk, and each step felt like I was trudging through cement moments before it solidified. My iPod blared out all the wrong music, but with a temperature below zero, I wasn’t about to remove my gloves to change it.  And the struggle in walking through the mounds of snow was causing me to be what I thought was late for my eventual rendezvous with my family – who were all comfortably inside about two miles away.

In that moment, at that time, just as my frustrations were nearly getting the best of me, it happened.  After nearly fifty days and after some interesting thinking on my part, I found that one word that I could hang my hat on for the rest of 2015.  As a matter of course, the one word is actually two, but its essence fits the bill.

So for 2015, I am going with crazy-funny.

For good or for bad, I have a tendency towards the serious side of things.  No doubt, I often see the world as having many challenges and problems.  And I know, deep in my heart,  that I must do all I can to help solve and resolve issues that press at all humans.  I must focus on the greater good at all times, lending all of my talents and treasures to such. It is easy to know that I all should do so.  But it is difficult to follow through with that focus for all of us. –  always.

That’s where my word crazy-funny works for me.

As I seek the greater good, I can see that it is important to laugh – laugh at myself, at life, at the crazy-funny situations that happen each moment.  This morning, I had chosen to walk to my destination through that snow-covered field.  I should have known that the entire experience was going to be nothing more than a crazy-funny circumstance and have expected nothing more.

Once I started to laugh at the strange pickle I was in, (wading through piles of snow with an attitude that was creating a huge weight around my neck), my trek became my pleasure.  It was a classic crazy-funny moment.  It just depended on how I looked at it.  Seeing it as crazy-funny made it so.  Still the same amount of snow, still the same distance, still the same challenges with walking, but it was all different because of the way I interpreted it.

I am hoping that my word choice will allow me  – and force me – to look at my 2015 with a truly different vision. Here’s hoping that I can hold onto the crazy-funny year ahead of me!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nature and History

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The view was nothing shy of spectacular.  And it was certainly not what I had expected to see.  I stood quietly with my companions for what can be described as more than awhile – with only the steady clicks of our cameras interrupting the silence.

The day was ending with evening approaching much more quickly than any of us desired.  Soon our tour would be over, and the six of us would be headed back from whence we came.  Thankfully, from beginning to end, the weather had kindly cooperated, offering us a smattering of sunshine, wind, clouds, and rain.  Eighty degrees and balmy would have been ideal, but autumn is a season of surprise when it comes to outdoor conditions, and we were prepared.

In the last of the moments, I still had not come to terms with the landscape surrounding me.  The cliffs were more than beautiful; the water calmly lapping their edge.  A lone bird was swirling back and forth, seeming to have no particular destination.  And it was quiet . . . so quiet.

I thought I was going to see something quite different.  In fact, I was most positive that the experience was going to be one hundred and eight degrees away from what the experience actually was.  Part of my quiet was due to my inability to quickly move from my past expectation to my current reality.

I knew that to visit this site meant that I would be stepping on ground where many – too many to count – had died before me.  I just didn’t know what to expect.  World War II started and ended well before I was born with every subsequent generation since June 6th, 1944 having chronicled the horrific battles that transpired on and near Omaha Beach.  All six of us had studied the history well in preparation.  But, it absolutely did not prepare me.

I saw magnificent colors in the water swells.  I saw green, moss-covered cliffs with auburn, crimson, and turquoise hues.  I saw a blue and white-painted sky with moments of gray pushing towards shore.  I saw serenity, peace,and calm.  I saw majesty.

I listened as our most reverent tour guide spoke about lost lives on Omaha Beach.  He mentioned those who scaled the cliffs in twenty minutes and survived both the climb as well as enemy fire. And he mentioned those who did not survive.  He described the men who exited their boats and headed towards sure-death on the beach.  He described the deafening sounds of that day, as all sorts of explosives were launched from sea to shore and shore to sea.  The more he spoke, the more I realized that all the ground around me – as well as the tiny piece beneath my feet – held the memory of the death of many.  My heart ached – and still does ache – for all of those who died in pursuit of freedom for others including me.

Yet, when I looked out towards the horizon, I saw beauty.  In fact, the nearby rock formations were mesmerizing.  Likewise were the sandy shores and the surrounding vegetation. Here and there were tiny cottages, some vacant, some inhabited, all that clearly had stunning views of the Omaha Beach of today.  There were many memorials to those who had fallen in service to their country seventy years earlier, all of which were impeccably landscaped and maintained.  A scenic coastline, serpentine road cut through the hillside, bringing visitors like me to see and experience the history of the area.

I must admit that I still have not come to terms in any way with Omaha Beach’s unbelievable beauty juxtaposed with the reality of the heightened degree of suffering and death that occurred in the same place.

Perhaps the generations that follow me will offer greater clarity and understanding of how we, as humans, can come to some understanding of the balance between nature and history.  I know for me it is something that I will ponder for much time to come.

The Cliffs of Omaha Beach

The Cliffs of Omaha Beach

39 Years

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It was October in Paris, and he asked me if I wanted to take a walk.  It is a question that he has asked me many times in the past, and it is one that I never tire of answering.  With an enthusiastic yes, I grabbed all necessities – including camera – and stepped out onto the street with him.  It was cold and raining, but right away, I knew that I was on another lifetime adventure.  We had no map and no agenda.  We were just out . . . in the city . . . walking . . . to anywhere.

From early morning to late evening, we walked throughout the city – browsing, touring, chatting, pondering, eating, and drinking.  We saw both the glorious and the ordinary – with both sides of that spectrum equally as interesting.  Our feet led us through the inside of famous and not-so-famous museums, through elaborate and not-so elaborate churches, down prominent and nondescript boulevards, and towards both landmarks and unknown hidden gems.

Heading for home at the end of the day, we took a right turn and found ourselves in what can only be described as a park of plenty.  I saw remarkable gardens and teenagers – dressed in preppy school uniforms – playing pick-up games of basketball.  At the edge of a large fountain, which state side we would call a pond, I saw a line of children using sticks to push small sailboats across the water while their parents relaxed nearby reading books.

In the middle of the park I witnessed two men, both dressed in “Jimmy Fallon – I love my tight” pants, playing tennis as if their lives depended on the outcome.  Fifty yards away, I saw an additional ten men, pairing off for friendly yet seemingly fierce chess matches.  And fifty yards from that point, I saw an endless stream of mothers with strollers, infants, and toddlers playing on some of the most extraordinary playground equipment I have ever seen.

But what caught our attention  – as if gardens, tennis, chess, basketball, sailing, reading, and the merry-go-round wasn’t enough – was actually tucked away near the edge of the park. Initially, we were drawn to a bench – more importantly a vacant bench.  We had journeyed for several hours, several miles – all by foot, and as we closed in on the bench, the idea of sitting became more and more appealing.

Had we not sat down, we would not have noticed the rest of the story.

For directly in front of us were two of the most interesting teams of people, playing one of the most interesting games, for what looked like was an interesting mix of both pride as well as a few, no doubt lucrative, side bets.  All of the members on both teams were seemingly old enough to be my parents, with only one of the approximately twenty team members being female.

In the middle of Luxembourg Gardens, these two teams were sparing and jarring over a very competitive game of Boules.  They would toss balls, run to the side of the court, measure the proximity of balls thrown to the stationary ring, and shout out words in their language that needed no translation to be understood in mine.

There were players with their own polishing rags and players wearing specialized shoes and players using pocket play-books to strategize with each other.  The most interesting feature, however, was something that I just had never seen in a park – or anywhere outdoors for that matter. It made me chuckle; it still makes me chuckle.   For sitting just outside the rectangular, rocky playing field was a sturdy, silver, shiny coatrack.

A coatrack. A coatrack.

The day was chilly and wet, but no one was wearing a coat. They were all carefully hanging from the court-side coatrack.   Crazy-funny at its best.

Moments – or an eternity later – we continued our walk.

Like many moments over the past 39 years, neither one of us said a word about what we had just witnessed.  In a relationship, there are many times when words are really pointless.  A look, a smile, a frown, a glance, a wink can convey an entire conversation. Words just lack the power, the ability, the nuances.

I am not sure when we learned the art of not speaking. I am quite sure it wasn’t in our first decade. I do know that as our early years passed, our security in our ability to speak without words has grown.

And in that moment in the park, as we watched twenty people shout and skirmish over a game played by grown-ups tossing balls on a pebble-laden court, with a random coatrack in the background, i knew that I was experiencing a day for the ages.  It is a memory that needs no words, that is memorable, in fact, because of the lack of language – which to me – is nothing shy of awesome.

Soon thereafter, we walked in silence for quite awhile – beyond the Boules courts, the tennis courts, and the chess courts.  I snapped a few more photos, we laughed at the young boy who accidentally fell into the pond chasing his boat, and noticed that the boys in the school uniforms had left for greener pastures.

We, too, did the same, with the silent hope that we will experience more such moments.

The coat rack :-)

The coat rack 🙂

Though I don't know the rules, the game was beautiful.

Though I don’t know the rules, the game was beautiful.