I Do Desire What I Have

Day 8. Still sick. After a visit with the wonderful but snotty nosed grandson two weeks ago, we have been going down the viral hill. Each morning since last Friday, I have been enthusiastic that today will be the day that I feel much better. After coughing and blowing my nose for the next two hours, I am exhausted, and not optimistic. It's only a cold, for goodness sake!! I should be able to fight thru it. So on a few warm days, I have taken my usual walk, only to end up in bed asleep in the middle of the afternoon. On the cold days, I don't even bother to walk to the mailbox.
Joe must have played 1000 Sudoku games. I stick to Solitaire. We started a jigsaw puzzle, but runny noses hinder the closeup work leaning over the table. We've monitored the march to Dow 20000, and sadly, the latest terrorist activities. We have quarantined ourselves from the rest of our wonderful neighbors. No need for them to get this bug. At least we got the benefit of the sweet snotty kisses that brought us down. Our neighbors would have no such "colds with benefits."
I am beginning to get a little cabin fever. I am missing our evenings together (without all the coughing, snoring, nose blowing, can't breathe, can't sleep hours) . I suppose I could go on and on. But really, I won't.

Instead of grumbling, I have spent some of my "down time" reflecting on and acting on small things as Christmas approaches. I not only made a picture Christmas card, but wrote individual notes to each recipient. I haven't even gotten around to Christmas cards for many years, much less had the presence of mind to write a personal note. I hope my friends and family enjoyed them half as much as I enjoyed thinking about them and wishing them well.

I spent about a day and a half making two photo books; one for each of the grandchildren. It was pure pleasure to revisit all the fun we had with each of them over the past year, and so I had one each made for us, too. It was so much fun that I plan to make one each year that recounts our visits and special times. I couldn't have been more excited to send them, except to get their precious feedback.

 I've done a little "experimental" cooking, with varying degrees of success.
I've done more house cleaning and decorating than I have done in years. I've taken more pictures, I've listened to lots of new music (see below) and even done a little painting.

And best of all, even when feeling crummy, I have watched the sky and the water, in all their subtle and glorious iterations.

I am lucky to have the time I have now; lucky to have the friends and family I have. If I am honest about it, I am lucky even to be sick in the most beautiful place in the world. I saw a little sign in a shop recently that said "If you are lucky enough to live on the water, you are lucky enough." Amen. Merry Christmas to me.

ONLY DESIRE WHAT YOU HAVE (K Rusby)

 https://soundcloud.com/purerecords/05-only-desire-what-you-have

I was not born a Queen or King, 

I have no house nor anything, 

In comfort none can equal me,

I'm what they all would die to be. 

  

CHORUS: Walk in the sun stay in the light, 

And when we're done we'll take flight, 

Only desire what you have, 

Only desire what you have. 

My altar is the breath of life, 

For wisdom grace and love I strive, 

While evil games the greedy play,

 There's only nature I obey. 

 Chorus

 I'll have no check upon my glass, 

Let the hours of joy and laughter pass, 

Let night into the morning fold, 

Let a whole new day of life take hold. 

 Chorus 

I'll journey on I'll sing and dance,

 And the greedy ones can make their stance, 

With pockets for souls they'll never fill, 

With happy heart I'm smiling still.

 

What Difference DOES a Rain Make?

WILD GEESE

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
In the family of things.

by MARY OLIVER 

Hurricane Matthew was here. Days stretching into weeks of predictions told us he was coming. And then he wasn't. Then he might be bad, then maybe not too bad. By the time the storm actually began to impact us, all bets were off. They just didn't know exactly what was going to happen, and they pretty much said so. 

Our preparations changed with every weather forecast. But mostly the planning was simple- stay or go.

The wind was pretty strong, and the water did breach the sea wall. My newly planted garden was partly washed out and into the yard, along with boards of all lengths from docks all around. Joe and I spent the days following Matthew's departure hunting baby plants like they were Easter eggs hidden here and there all over the yard. What we rescued were washed, re-potted, and heeled in for the winter. Apart from a day or two without power, we had no problems, and some fun times with neighbors during the lull. Friends from around the country asked if we were OK. It seems the news to the outside world was scary bad. Oh.... but then we found out where the real catastrophe was. Rain- not wind or storm surge- flooded into inland creeks and rivers and overwhelmed the little towns strung along their routes. A month later, businesses are still closed, debris piles of sheet rock, mattresses, furniture line the streets, waiting for pickup. The cleanup continues.

Meanwhile, my friends in Georgia prayed for any drops that could be blown their way. The drought continues there - now rated "extreme". What turns the storm finally took were away from inland Georgia. Only the dry windy ghost of Matthew blew against already withered leaves.

I've been thinking about this a lot- how little we were affected, how much more others suffered, how much others could have used some of that rain. Because of sadness or guilt or distraction, it has been difficult to get my mind around it.

While I've been thinking about this, I've noticed something else, too. The beach is as beautiful this fall as I've ever seen it. The soil in my washed out rock garden is now replenished, and rocks replaced. We'll wait to plant until spring, but we'll be ready when spring comes. Even where the cleanup is not finished, life is slowly getting back to normal. Pretty soon even there, the folks that lived thru it will tell the tales, but others won't be quite able to  imagine the water as high as they say it was.

From closeup, too much rain, too windy rain, too little rain generate hardships of many kinds. But looking from "high in the clean blue air", the globe is quietly readjusting. People step out of their distress to rebuild their lives, water recedes, rain finally comes again. Like the promise of the rainbow, the wild geese call "announcing your place in the family of things." In the midst of tragedy, sorrow, and disarray, it is something of a comfort to remember.

Labor Day

It's Monday. It's Labor Day. And it's my birthday. It happens like this often (although I haven't actually done the math to see how many times in the last 64 years). I have very keen memories about Labor Day during my childhood. Those days represented the close of summer, the return to school, the end of the luxury of unscheduled hours.
Specifically, I remember one summer that had been a very good, independent one. I was on the advanced swim team that practiced from 8-10 am and then again from 2-3pm. Yes, hard to get up and ride my bike to the pool. Hard to do all that swimming that I was not particularly good at. But the camaraderie around the swimming pool life was very comfortable, and the freedom of a full day at the pool was exhilarating. The last day of that pool season was Monday, Labor Day. My birthday. I just didn't want that summer to end, so I remember the day, the last hours, the final minutes where some kids tried to be the last in the pool. It was hard to give it up, so I hung on to every moment. From then on, the summer was the swimming pool, and I did whatever it took to assure it. The end of summer was a sad day for me, and one that I tried to stretch out as long as I could to soak up every drop. That made my birthday bittersweet. It was a little happy, and a little sad. But it was memorable because of that tug of war.
It is funny how that kind of feeling carries over even now. I just had a glorious weekend at one of my favorite spots with favorite folks.(http://www.buildsxsemagazine.com/2016/08/saultopaul-documentary-film-john-henry-summerour/) The weather was perfect, the conversation lively, the scenery spectacular. It was a blissful escape. But as time came to leave, I felt that old tug of war in me again. So I walked up to the labyrinth and paced off those last moments to seal them in; each step a twinge of pleasure and pain.

There's nothing remarkable or new in this realization. Many have written eloquently on the subject.

We never taste a perfect joy; our happiest successes are mixed with sadness. Pierre Corneille

The word 'happiness' would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. Carl Jung

 But the older I get, the more I realize it is those bittersweet moments that linger longer in my memory. Put them to music, and you'll never forget.

San Diego Serenade

Never saw the morning till I stayed up all night
Never saw the sunshine till I turned out the light
Never saw my home town till I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody till I needed the song

Never saw the white line till I was leavin' you behind
Never knew I needed you till I was caught up in a bind
And I never spoke I love you till I cursed you in vain
Never felt my heart strings until I nearly went insane

Never saw the East coast until I moved to the West
I never saw the moonlight till it shone off your breast
And I never saw your heart till someone tried to steal it away
Never saw your tears till they rolled down your face

I never saw the morning till I stayed up all night
Never saw the sunshine till you turned out the light
Never saw my home town till I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody till I needed the song

Songwriters

TOM WAITS

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3yeEvMEy1s

A New History

The charm of history and its enigmatic lesson consist in the fact that, from age to age, nothing changes and yet everything is completely different.

Aldous Huxley

I met with the Mayor this morning. Wow, that sounds weird. Certainly doesn't sound like iconoclastic little old me. But I made a good plan, put on my best behavior, even considered wearing my best clothes. (Sorry, I couldn't quite go that far.)

Since my first visit to Beaufort many years ago, I have been enchanted by what is now known as "America's Coolest Small Town". It is an old sea port, established in 1709, and beautifully preserved in keeping with it's historic origins. It's Front Street waterfront is as charming as it is mesmerizing. There are always gorgeous yachts and sailboats; always people coming and going.

It's a town full of salty tales of pirates, shipwrecks, rum running and lighthouses. For me, it was love at first sight, and that infatuation has now grown into a budding relationship.

So......back to the mayor....
Two years ago, we toured Beaufort's recommended spots to become better acquainted with our new home town. Among those spots most recommended was The Old Burying Grounds- the original cemetery for the town.
This sacred ground is laid out under a glorious canopy of Live Oak and Red Cedar. It is a place of quiet ease, shaded from the strong summer sun and cold winter winds. It is a place of rest, for the dead and the living. But maintenance here has been somewhat spotty over recent years, and it looked as though it were begging me to step in and lend a horticultural hand. I presented a simple maintenance schedule to the mayor along with my commitment to get started on the work. I think we have a deal. It will also employ a large assemblage of loyal Beaufort volunteers who love this place as much as I do.

The ages have seen many heroic and historic figures interred here, and some whose stories tug at our heartstrings. Among these are military officers from both sides in the Revolutionary War, Civil War, War of 1812. Included in the stories here are husband and wife separated when he was lost at sea. She remarried, he returned, and they lived out their days with her faithful to her second marriage until death did put them back together again in the grave. Probably the most popular and sweetest memorial is of the girl in the Rum barrel. Her death occurred on the return voyage from England. Her father had promised her mother he would bring her home, so he did, in a Rum cask. http://historicbeaufort.com/burygnd1.htm

I am looking forward to getting back to a big job that involves plants, but in a way that is completely different. It feels like I am stepping in to befriend those grand oaks. But I will also be stepping into history to find my new place in the world. There's plenty to learn and maybe some to teach. I am putting my arms out to these new kindred spirits and we are going to walk hand in hand into the past towards the future. We will breathe life into those stories of the dead and into the roots of their guardians, and make the Old Burying Grounds a wonderful place to visit with them. Come spend an afternoon with us.

A mere compilation of facts presents only the skeleton of History; we do but little for her if we cannot invest her with life, clothe her in the habiliments of her day, and enable her to call forth the sympathies of succeeding generations. ~Hannah Farnham Lee, The Huguenots in France and America

The Right Thing

Today is our anniversary. Our 22nd anniversary. Never in a million years did I think I would find such solid contentment. I could take those million years to list all the tiny, big, accidental, sweet, purposeful moments you've shared with me to make me feel this way. (Maybe there are a few things I have done that added a smile or two?) Working hard and together, we have ended up just where we wanted to be. Most days now, I have that "pinch me" feeling of overwhelming satisfaction.

But here's the thing: the world is keeping me from celebrating. This morning, I can find no middle ground between this lovely warm commemoration and the brutal, shocking, grizzly events that seem to have no rhyme or reason. I am pacing around feeling only frustration, agitation, discouragement- sentiments that squeeze too hard. 

My struggle brought me somehow to this poem- one of my favorites for years. I was never sure I understood it's implications fully, but today, I rush to embrace that spoken conviction. Finally, with the right man, I want to "sit still...while the "self destructive shake the common wall". 

Do me a favor. At least for today, whatever else happens, let's be grateful for what we have, and hold each other close. Seems like that has to be the right thing.

 

The Right Thing

Let others probe the mystery if they can.
Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will-
The right thing happens to the happy man.
 
The bird flies out, the bird flies back again;
The hill becomes the valley, and is still;
Let others delve that mystery if they can.

God bless the roots!-Body and soul are one!
The small become the great, the great the small;
The right thing happens to the happy man.

Child of the dark, he can out leap the sun,
His being single, and that being all:
The right thing happens to the happy man.

Or he sits still, a solid figure when
The self-destructive shake the common wall;
Takes to himself what mystery he can,

And, praising change as the slow night comes on,
Wills what he would, surrendering his will
Till mystery is no more: No more he can.
The right thing happens to the happy man. 

Theodore Roethke

The Owner is Leaving this House (after the poem)

The Owner is Leaving this House

The owner is leaving this house

the slow way, giving it time

to get used to her absence.

She moves a painting, a table,

(a small one), not so much

that the house would notice-

though the guest feels a draft

and notices a window uncovered.

A coffee pot's missing, the top

left library bookshelf is empty.

The bright rooms aren't dimmed,

really, but dusted, as the pollen outside

slightly powders late April-

drifts over wisteria

on its way out.

This house must be suspicious

at least of a season changing,

Of something going on .

Elizabeth Seydel Morgan

               That was the second truck load from the third trip back to Georgia. Four or five months later, and we're still only halfway there. We've had a good long time to get used to the idea of moving. We call it downsizing, consolidating, living our dream. But we measure it plate by plate, glass by glass, book by book, box by heavy box.

In addition to packing our things, we've been organizing, folding and cushioning the memories of our years there. We designed and built the house to suit the life we had constructed in the country.  

It was the best of the old and new; an homage to what was practical and graceful about turn of the century farm house style with an eye towards modern ease and simplicity.  

It was bringing the outside in to view by bringing an old beveled glass door or two back to life. 

It was crowning the classic triangular dormer with the seldom sold colored glass window of that same vintage. We picked each piece of molding, each door knob, door, light fixture, window, cabinet, counter top, tub, tile with intent to treasure the past while looking forward to the benefits of the present.       The treasure was the thing, and the process of finding the thing, and fitting the thing into our lives.

 

Now with a final glance down the hall or twist of a knob, we will move on to another's homemade home. We'll make a few modifications there. We'll figure a way to make it fit. The furniture, that is. 

But she's right. "...Something is going on". Of all the things we've decided to build or dismantle, it is beginning not to matter so much. Our age- our aged focus- has changed. We can give and take on the filtered furniture. Fewer pieces mean more grand baby toys. Fewer collected electric fans mean less shelf dusting. Managed space now belongs to small shared sentimental items, large baby paraphernalia and family themes.

I am pretty sure by now our house is more than suspicious. But we are hoping that the new owners will be reassuringly gentle when it comes to doorknobs and molding. Maybe they could also be obsessively detailed about the plant material enveloping the acres, or fall in love with the rock formations in the pine woods. Figure a way to make it fit. If they need it, I could tell them such stories.

On the Waterfront (for Susan)

 

“In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: 

it goes on.” Robert Frost 

It's been a while since I sat down to the keyboard. Funny thing. I have much more time now than I used to. But the minutes and hours and days between pressing work have been unsettling. I now can catch my breath, but have had to completely stop to recover my words.

Retirement is not relaxation. It is a process that is hard work. So much of who we are revolves around what we do. When that stops, it leaves an anxious, vacuous, ghostly quiet, full of questions I could no longer answer easily, and lists from down deeper that needed making. So I've been letting those waves catch up to me; wash over me; push and pull me along as I find my footing. 

I missed the plants. 

I was sure the plants missed me.

I had learned to read time in the 

tips of buds, 

swelling from one day to the next,

in the phases of the moon across the weeks and months,  

in the changes of light and colors across the seasons.

Lucky for me I landed at the water.

"For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), 

it's always our self we find in the sea."

- E.E. Cummings

Slowly I am finding my way back.  It's all here to be rediscovered and reincorporated. Moments are measured by the swell and ebb of the waves, or an unbroken shell on the beach. Hours are metered by the building clouds, lowering sky, that final shaft of sunlight, the cool calm colors of clearing. 

  

The moon is still here waxing and waning across the days and weeks. The sun still calculates the angles and degrees of the seasons.  

The natural world holds me captive, and continually captivated by the details.

The questions are all inside. The answers are there, too. My lifeline has always been my sweet, ocean going fisherman of a husband, who is ecstatic with our relocation.  I have found buoyancy in the smiles of my grandchildren. They, too, help me refocus on the horizon, with changes, small, smaller, and huge.  

 

While I float a bit to find my bearings, I am right where I need to be. Stroke, breathe, stroke. I'm almost there.

“The best way out is always through.”
― Robert Frost