"We had the sky, up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made, or only just happened."
~Mark Twain's, Huckleberry Finn
"We carry within us all the wonders we seek without." ~ Sir Thomas Browne
Summer's end always sets me on a familiar path; tender shoots of late summer grass beneath my feet, sunlight that plays on my face and warms my toes, cool breezes dancing through the trees, fire smoke on the air, and the promise of time to come shared with friends and family. Already well acquainted with autumn's glory, though having grown unaccustomed these last miserably hot months spent indoors; still the question is raised in my mind... am I living a meaningful life? If I am to believe 'to everything there is a season' then why do I always find myself contemplating my failures, rather than applauding my successes?
I, in fact, did plant my garden this summer... only to stand by, feeling incredibly lazy in my helplessness, as the fruits of my labor shriveled in the harshest drought these parts have seen in a long time. (Fail.)
I did weep over my losses, and mourned as long as mourning was acceptable in the normal order of things. (Success?)
I did refrain from smothering embracing my children when my needs exceeded their own. (No wait. I got this one. Suc-cess!... *High fives everyone.* I think.)
I dodid, I occasionally, inflict self-loathing onto my sometimes delicate voracious psyche.
(I suck.)
And I did, in fact, not speak when I should have cried out from the top of a mountain. I may have taken some liberties with this one a bit. Though still true. (Complete and utter failure.)
I suppose one could argue (me) that I did, in theory, succeed at something. I did contemplate my failures, while at the same time basking in my success(es)... that I had, at the very least, truly contemplated my failures. So there's that.
"A time for every purpose under the sun" right? Perhaps the answer, interwoven deep within these failures of mine, is where I will triumph at last. At the moment, I think I may have forgotten what I have failed and or succeeded in to begin with. So the point is moot.
***
To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under the sun.
A time to be born and a time to die;
a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
a time to kill and a time to heal...
a time to weep and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn and a time to dance...
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to lose and a time to seek;
a time to rend and a time to sew;
a time to keep silent and a time to speak;
a time to love and a time to hate;
a time for war and a time for peace.
~ Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 ~
***
A meaningful life?
Ahhh, September!
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass on a
summer day listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float
across the sky, is hardly a waste of time. ~John Lubbock
***
On a good day, a day like any other, a day when searching for and accepting balance into my life is my heart and mind's sole purpose; I suppose that is a day lived in the pursuit of meaning. That is a day when love and wisdom take charge, watching over my successes and correcting my failures. And that is more than 'good enough'. That is a force for good. Though it always helps to be reminded, every once in a while. We learn through repetition, after all. And it all started...
We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from
delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
If we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.
Love costs all we are and will ever be.
Yet it is only love which sets us free.
A Brave and Startling Truth.
It is possible and imperative that we discover
A brave and startling truth.
When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
And without crippling fear
When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonders of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.
~ Dr. Maya Angelou ~
Dr. Maya Angelou will celebrate her 84th birthday
on April 4th, 2012.
A woman of great wisdom, beauty and courage,
she is a most beloved poet and spiritual teacher of
love, family, humanity, hope, peace, and joy;
she who believes...
"One isn't necessarily born with courage, but one is born with potential.
Without courage, we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency.
We can't be kind, true, merciful, generous, or honest."
Her triumphs make me proud,
her beginnings bring tears to my eyes,
but it is the resounding spiritual vibration of her voice
carried through to the center of my being
which stirs my soul.
True poetry in motion.
"We have to cease the polarization and include ourselves.
Around
these parts people know our place as, Barefoot Acres. It’s a little bit o’
land, barely five acres if you count the parts that serve as playground to the
deer, squirrels, birds, and a mess of kids let loose to scout for trails, tramp
through the creek, and swing like the von Trapps from the trees. You won’t find
a nicely manicured lawn or meticulously landscaped trees and shrubs here on our
place. Wildflowers, cedar saplings and the occasional ant hill pop up where the
tractor doesn’t reach, and like I holler back to my husband when he’s called
out of the garage to see what the ruckus is all about, “I swear, that damn rock
wasn’t there yesterday!” It’ll never make the cover of Better Homes and Gardens,
but it is (almost) perfect in our eyes.
When
I was little we moved *a lot*, but Kentucky,
the place where I was born, and more specifically, my grandparent’s small farm
just outside of Bardstown was always home base. I’ve spent the better part of
my grown up years trying to recreate my memories there, like missing puzzle
pieces; solid, steady puzzle pieces that gave me something to hold onto and a
better sense of who I am. I see now I may have grown a little too enthusiastic
in my search, just a little bit.
Our
place here is where family and friends gather around the campfire to play music
and roast hot dogs and marshmallows on cool autumn nights. It’s where the kids
gather in the summertime to catch lightning bugs in the tall grass across the
road, ride ponies and chase chickens. It’s where Matilda and Flopsy bunnies
were paraded around in a stroller and doll pajamas when our daughter was a
little girl, a rat, named Daisy was taken outside for tree-walks on her leash
and our dogs play search and rescue with the kids (not cops and robbers!) in
the woods. We don’t keep a milk cow, pigs or goats, though it has been suggested
we should more than once. We do keep a small garden, which may or may not produce
anything of substance from year to year, depending on whether Little League
season takes over. And we do, occasionally, gather in the pool on a starry
night and lay on our backs searching for constellations and satellites.
The
cousins call it, Barefoot Acres Camp. We call it, Home.
But
what I really want to talk to you about are these boots of mine.
I.
Don’t. Wear. Shoes. (Much) I bought a pair of men's work boots in a thrift
store, roughly ten years ago when we picked up our brood and moved them further
out into the country. Two bucks. They were everything I hated in a shoe; laces
practically to my shins, heavy as bricks (when they’re caked with mud and god
knows what), and ugly as sin. How’s a girl supposed to breathe in shoes like
these? I’m a slip-on, flip flop, sandal kinda girl, when I must wear something.
My brother asked me many years ago when he noticed my footwear, “But what would
you do if you *had* to run from an assailant?” I’d never thought of that
before. I wondered, what possesses a person to dwell on questions that only
raise one’s blood pressure thinking about it. I think now though, if I found
myself in such a predicament, I would probably calmly unlace my boots, hand
them over and tell them, “Hey, I hope they bring you the happiness you’re
searching for.” I might also kick them in the shins first, for good measure.
They are the proverbial shit kickers, after all.
These
boots of mine do serve a purpose, I realized just last week, though I finally see
them now as more of an old friend than as that albatross around my neck. Despite
the fact that I’ve experienced heart palpitations and slight nausea, on more
than one occasion, upon discovering that warm, furry, and somewhat squishy mice
are drawn to that place where the toes go. These boots, in fact, have protected
my beloved digits from frostbite, snake bite, playful Shetland temperaments, old
horse Alzheimer’s, mower blades, hot campfire coals, sticks sharpened into
spears… a la “Lord of the Flies”, errant holes dug in unsuspected places by
unsupervised children, dogs chasing fly balls and Frisbees and cats, shovels
and rakes left blade up in the garden, blood-thirsty tiller’s tines, and poo.
Let us not forget the poo; chicken poo, horse and pony poo, and bunny poo (that's Bunny POO, not Foo Foo). These boots
have seen some poo in their day. They’ve trudged through it, slipped in it, been
practically bathed and baptized in it. When I was little, I wanted to talk to
the animals. What I didn’t know then was how often I would find myself in
lively conversation with their poo.
In
this place, and in the small petting zoo that’s grown up around us here, our
family has fought bravely… in our boots… through some of the more mundane
lessons LIFE has to teach us. Loving a home is hard work. Loving the life it
supports is harder. It’s in our daily feeding chores, the back-breaking work of
barn building, ditch digging, fence erecting... and even in the graves we’ve had to dig for those we’ve
loved that have passed... that these boots, and theirs, have helped us through
the real work ~ of Living.
Last
week we buried another beloved family pet. I thought, as I pulled my boots on and
then slowly laced them up, in the early morning before the frost had
disappeared, just how much I was not looking forward to this part. The hardest
part. The real work. As many times as I have cussed and cried in these boots, I
reminded myself then that I have also laughed and loved, lived and learned in
them. Our journey is a difficult one. If it came too easy, what would be the
point?
These
two dollar boots have taken me farther than I ever thought possible, even when I sometimes
find it slightly hard to breathe in them. Who would have thought I might
actually have been running from myself? I *have* learned many things along my
journey, but one of the simplest lessons I have finally come to accept is,
sometimes it’s easier just to lace ‘em up and get to work. Before you know what
hit you, it’s time again for starry nights and search and rescue. At least,
that’s how it works around these parts... in these boots.
This is the story of Rick and,
his father, Dick Hoyt.
Born without the ability to
move or speak, Rick is the inspiration that has moved his father to run for him for over two decades. Among the
oldest, out of thousands they have competed against, Dick Hoyt has pushed,
pulled and carried his son in over 950 races, 60 marathons… and 6 iron man
competitions (That’s a 2.4 mile swim, carrying his son along with him, a 112
mile bike ride with his son leading the way and a 26.2 mile run, ending only
when they crossed the finish line.)
“I may be disabled, but I live
a very fulfilling life.”
~ Rick Hoyt
Hero, defined by
Merriam-Webster, might lead one to believe in fairy tales.
a: a mythological or legendary
figure
often of divine descent
endowed with great strength or ability
b: an illustrious warrior
c: a man (or woman thank you very much) admired for his/her
achievements
and noble qualities (Okay,
getting warmer.)
d: one who shows great courage
(…warmer still)
I like to think it is the man, woman and child
who show great love, respect and devotion every day for their son and brother. Dick Hoyt is a Hero by most
standards.
He loves his son.
So he runs.
What defines this father as,
Hero, in my heart is this…
I
have yet to meet another human being who *doesn’t* live with worry, a modicum
of regret or feel the steady downward pull of stress in their daily lives. If I
could sit down to a cup of tea or even a warm doughnut, and discuss *The
Journey* with the Dalai Lama himself, I would be most appreciative and humbled. I
am amazed by his culture’s resilient spirit and their chosen path to peace and
tranquility.
I,
however, spent much of my twenties and thirties practicing the shadowy art of
denial. My suffering eased, eventually, thanks to my younger brother’s keen
intuition and love for me, when he suggested way-back-when, that whatever it
was that I had been doing was apparently not working out so well, and that I
might do myself and those around me a giant favor ~ and just do something about it
already. Only, I didn’t quite understand what he was talking about at the time,
because I was standing on the edge of that river, Denial, soaking wet, a deafening noise in my brain and
furious with no one in particular.
Counseling
seemed the answer in my early teens. The right
someone (someone other than those closest to me, and whom I considered the
source of my pain) listened to me for the first time in my young life. I see
now it was on that therapeutic couch, literally speaking, that I first began to
believe in the existence of my own voice.
Then
Life happened. I grew up. I found my voice, but didn’t have a clue how to use
it. Like a child with a new toy, I thought it was mine to covet. And rather
than feel the uncomfortable process
of self-actualization and accept peace into my life, I buried my head deep in the
sand, eyes open for effect, and indulged my fears through self-preservation. Food, and the quest for love became my drugs of
choice. I married my high school sweetheart. We had a baby, then two, then
three. I, and my husband, lived relatively uncomplicated lives (outside of the
pain still brewing inside of me, in the form of anger and resentment) on an
artist’s meager but gloriously consistent salary, with a dog, two cats, a house full of
kids, car payments, and a mortgage.
It
was no Shangri-La, but looking back now, it was ~ Everything I always knew I wanted.
*Big
Sigh*
Remembering
the taste of sand between my teeth, makes me want to eat cake.
Here.
Now. I am forty-three! My three children are immersed in those pivotal stages in
their young lives, where I first entertained low self-esteem and self-deprecating
behavior and attitudes ~ 13, 15 and 18 years old. And There, but for the grace
of God, go they! It seems, one of my more modest life goals, has alwaysbeen to try to live in a
place of peace ~ without the aid of cake. Somewhere in my mid-thirties, (Yep,
it only took me thirty-something years to access that part of my brain, folks.)
I felt, for the first time, the irony of Life itself.
No
longer drowning in the day to day monotony and the illusion of Life itself,
and feeling reasonably confident that my voice would be heard by those closest
to me, I lay my heart out on the table and took a leap of faith that no one
would stomp on it.
And
that is when I woke up.
"A long time on a crooked road."
~ Joe, "Joe Versus the Volcano"
I
awoke to the realization, that “Life is pain. You’ve got to scrape the joy out
of it.” I was no novice, no stranger to pain. No one is. “Aye, there’s the
rub!” (There, my friends, is the irony in Life. It is with little shame, that I
just quoted Rod Kimble and William Shakespeare in practically the same breath!)
Life
IS in the journey! It’s a slow walk, naked, barefooted, and as if that weren’t
enough of a lesson for us, bearing the weight in the struggle of those we love
and those we despise as well, through ten-thousand miles of our own fear-driven
conscience and consciousness. Hallelujah! Pass the gravy!
We
are on one great, life-altering expedition into the unknown the moment our
little hands and feet, and cheek, meet our mother’s breast, our father’s arms;
and if we’re lucky, a warm blanket and a healthy sense of
adventure.
Peace
lies within, like a flower eager to open itself to the sun. It has always been there inside of you. It
flows through the life blood in each and every cell in our bodies, before we
are even aware of the world outside
of us. Its purpose ~ to teach us something profound, something we cannot live and thrive without. To teach us how to love ~ ourselves, and others.
It is
my wish that, *Life is in the journey!* will serve all those who visit, as a
most important and profound reminder, through Laughter, Tears of Awe and Joy,
and through Peace... that there is comfort to be found in this journey we share.
We have only to choose to live
our lives, "...awake and in constant, total amazement!"
~
Alexander Tsiaras’, “Conception
to Birth” is, perhaps, one of the most beautiful and awe-inspiring stories we,
as humans, have to tell. A mathematician by trade, Tsiaras shares his expertise
and his talent for minute detail, with humility, in a lecture given ~ Here.
~ Life is in the journey! ~
Peace My Friends!
“The best
way out is always through.”
~ Robert
Frost
☮It is not my wish to debate in this forum,
when *Life* begins.
It ismy intention to
celebrate *Life* in all stages and all forms,
here in this place among
friends, and with a healthy dose of humility.
