Puzzle Number One: Remind me to tell you the tale of the scalloped potatoes.

This comment showed up on my page on Facebook.  I have no idea what it means.  I posted it on August 21, 2015.  Friends want to know, I want to know.  When faced with a serious issue like this I have no choice except to write.  To invent, to create if nothing else a good reason as to why I posed such a statement.  One of my friends is already expecting the story on Sunday when I go to her house for high tea on Sunday.  Note to self, you better get busy and write something.

The obvious to me is possibly I was cooking and a disaster happened with the scalloped potatoes.  Mine are probably not the best in the world but they are good enough for the man as the first time I placed them in front of him he exclaimed he liked my scalloped potatoes better than his mom’s.  High praise, indeed.  However, I am thinking on this particular occasion, a slight variation occurred of the “scalloped potatoes better than his mom’s.” 

 

What could I have possibly done? Potatoes, did I forget them?  Highly unlikely due to the name “scalloped potatoes”.  Cheese, I doubt it.  Onions? Possibly, a new twist on the old standby, a different cheese or cheeses? A different approach to the cooking, baking of the dish? As I sit here writing I am wondering how much time should I devote to figure out what I did right or wrong with the scalloped potatoes. 

I decide to check to see if I had written a blog about it so I searched through old documents according to the probable dates around August 15, 2015.  No, I did not find any blogs or stories written about the scalloped potatoes but I did find out my blog has been going off and on since early 2014.  I also found an interesting bit of writing which I will share with this blog simply because like the statement, “Remind me to tell you the tale of the scalloped potatoes.” I have no idea where it came from in my mind or where I was heading with it. I have read through “Nearly There” which keeps my head shaking, what was this story about.  Perhaps if I pull it out and gaze at it numerous times, I will figure it, work on it and finished it.  Perhaps a reader will have a couple of ideas. Just another of life’s little mysteries.

Puzzle Number Two:  Nearly There

            Walking was an effort, one more step, one more lifting of the foot, placing it on the earth.  She was doing it, moving closer and closer to her goal, a tree that seemed to be loaded down with fruit on the side of a grassy hill.  The grass had already turned brown, waiting for the autumn winds to come with the rain before the winter snows covered the hillside.  She was closer, she could envision the softness of the fruit, the juice running down her throat, moistening her parched throat that could no longer send out noises of pain, sorrow and longing.  Her lips were cracked, streaks of tears long gone held their place on her sun scorched face. Her face had once been fair. Beauty was no longer a priority.  She was alive, she was breathing and now there was hope.

            She could live another day on hope.  She gauged ten more steps to be under the branches of the still green tree. The fruit hung heavy, silhouetted by the sun sinking behind the branches, stems, leaves of the hope of her continuing existence.  The angle of the sun allowed no shade, no shadow from the tree to fall to cool her pathway to the tree.  Her tree, it was her tree.  Simply because she had found it. No trails lead to it.  No one had passed here before her, neither man or animal.  The tree was simply waiting, holding onto its fruit until she could reach it.

            Step, step, one more painful step on feet swollen in shoes nearly worn through.  Shoes that somehow had lasted every minute, every hour through what had seemed like days to her mind.  So very tired. So very thirsty.  Nothing mattered except moving towards the tree, her salvation. I can stop here, I can rest after the fruit and I can sleep.  She shivered, barely wrapped in her torn clothing, arms bared, with deep scratches or cuts that could not bleed because she had nothing to give.

            She had closed her eyes in concentration making the final steps to the boundary of the waiting tree until the side of her face scrape the bark of the tree’s trunk causing new wounds, new hurts but with it came the relief of being there, no more steps.  She drifted away from the new pain in her mind as she stood there, leaning against the solid comfort of another living being, who would give her what she needed. With her arms wrapping around the trunk she fell to her knees in gratitude not caring of more scratches or scrapes on her arms, not caring of the further ripping of the cloth about her body.

            She slept maybe minutes before she somehow shook herself awake from the grip of a slumber. If she had stayed asleep, she would have remained until her flesh melted from her tired bones to mingle with the dirt until she moved further down into the ground to nourish the roots of the grass and the tree.   But before that, the insects would have their day of feasting on the wisp that was her shell of a body. She did not want to give up, she did not want to stop here to linger in the roots where worms traveling through cool earth left their burrows. 

            She moved her body, the shell that housed her spirit.  The spirit somehow lingered giving her the ability for the slight movement of her arms that turned her away from the embrace that she held around the tree.  Her back seemed to mold itself tight against the trunk of this symbol of life for her, she felt more complete somehow with the spirit of the tree reaching out to mingle with the faint light that flickered in her.  She felt at home, strengthen somehow without yet eating the fruit that hung before her eyes as she tilted her head up letting the back of it rest on the tree’s trunk that retained some of the warmth of the day. It was so close, tantalizing, waiting, the fragrance of the sweet fruit teased her tortured dry nostrils, urging a dry mouth to conjure up moisture that she did not have.  She willed her arms to push, she whispered in her mind to send signals to legs that were numb, “Get up, salvation is near.”

“Nearly There” ends at this point.  As for this gem of start of a story, I just am at a lost. What was in my mind?  I will keep echoing the question until my thoughts are pulled off center to dwell on something else.  I feel as I were surrounded by a great growth of vegetation about my feet, vines twisting pulling me off balance to fall flat on my back to realize, I just don’t know where I am going except for this moment and the story “Nearly there” might just have to wait until I am nearly there, reaching out with my hand to grasp a memory in order to say something brilliant and puzzling again.

So as my days go by, I am surrounded by mysteries, small confusions, little revelations, and surprisingly great peace.  I still don’t know whether the scalloped potatoes were brilliant or just a disaster.  Maybe my husband, the man will know.

Butterfly Suicide and Other Things

Butterfly Suicide and Other Things

The man and I did a road trip to celebrate our 36^th wedding anniversary this week. (July 9^th, 2018 to July 11^th, 2018).  It was a reenactment of sorts of his trip to a conference in February to Sunriver, Oregon. Because I had not been able to accompany him through the cold and snow during February, I felt it was my duty to have him retrace his journey with me alongside him during the sunshine of summer. I want to see where he had been, hear his story of travel. Though I don’t like being really cold anymore or being really hot but I was willing to brave the heat in my air conditioned car to see the path he had taken earlier in the year. 

My husband had in February looked carefully at the weather conditions to finally settle on taking Hwy 22 from Salem to Bend in order to hopefully avoid some of the ice and snow of the high altitudes of the Cascade Mountains in our winter. He avoided Hwy 20 from the coast to Bend due to worry about the snow that had already been coming down as a blanket on the highway. Hwy 22 was his best bet. It worked.  He made it there and back.

July, as we travel from our home on the coast we were greeted with beautiful sunshine here and there trying to make it through the clouds. The sunshine never quite made it, we huddled in our light jackets through the coast range, along I-5 to Salem, up Hwy 22 to nearly Detroit, Oregon before the sun finally broke through and I could turn off the heater in the car. I liked it. Being bundled up in my jacket, adjusting the heat without the sun burning down on my legs was my happy idea of a road trip.  

Sunshine, warmth and good companionship, what more could you ask for? We hadn’t traveled far when we started seeing butterflies everywhere. I wince each time we plowed through a cloud with our car on the highway.  Even slowing down did not help as the butterflies were mad with their intention to mate, loaded with pheromones, smashing into the windshield, or the grill of the front of the car with unintentional butterfly suicide along the highway we were traveling on. I kept crying out, No, no, no, but the butterflies continue their dance in the sunshine, heat radiating from the pavement of the road to warm their delicate bodies. It was a reminder of the beauty and fragility of nature.  

We were able to stop by a lake where we use the facilities, no paper available adding to the fun.  I was reminded of my trip to Japan with my sister and how we always carried tissue in our pockets, a purse or jacket or the Japanese friends would reach into their purses to hand out a tissue whenever the need presented itself.  Back to the lake, there was a lovely breeze which was kicking up waves on the shoreline, tall older Ponderosa pine trees providing shade.  I talked briefly to a young man resting in a hammock while waiting for my man.  It was very peaceful, beautiful, and relaxing at the perfect temperature. I kept looking for the butterflies but the breeze coming off of the shore of the lake probably had sent them sailing into unseen meadows where the sun could warm their frantic dancing.  If we hadn’t been on a time limit to reach our Bed and Breakfast lodging we might have stayed longer gazing at the water instead we loaded up in the car and headed back on the road.

We stopped again at a rest area, no facilities.  My husband headed to the bushes, mindful of ticks, etc. so he avoided brushing against the various plants along a footpath.  I amused myself with photographing butterflies resting on the pavement of the rest area.  Finally, I thought to myself a few sensible individuals with a good chance of perpetuating the species.  They were pretty with their wings opening and closing in the heat of the morning.  On my video, I was able to capture only glimpses of the bright orange color of the wings. Beauty resting.

I am thankful for being granted moments of great beauty.  My heart aches for the countless butterflies that we drove through but it is such a part of life, living and being.  Somehow, I felt just a bit better when we drove off, knowing that there was countless places where the butterfly suicide was not happening but an unfolding of wings, a joining of bodies creating hope for the next moment in the future.  It might be all we have.

Two Socks Wandering the Streets

Two Socks Wandering the Streets

Or the case of the two black socks wandering the blocks.  For the past couple of weeks, I have been doing a random sock study which was imposed upon me by chance.  First, I saw a lost black sock laying on the pavement of one of the streets where I walked.  As I rounded the corner, down the sidewalk to the next block, its mate was sitting in the grass looking just as lost as the first one. They are nice socks, thick black with fuzzy tops which embrace the ankles.  I left the first one I saw resting quietly on the damp road, the thought coming to my mind that a child had lost their sock by taking it off to run barefoot in the grass but looking at the sock it seems to better fit an adult’s foot.  When I walked the next block, I found the mate waiting, gathering moisture from the air.  Two identical socks, lost without an owner living in the street. How lonesome must they be without each other to keep themselves company in the hours passing in the day and night.  

I am reminded of Robert Frost’s poem,” The Road Not Taken”, when I think of these two socks.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,”

My uncared for black socks are certainly diverged from one another.  I think about picking them up, putting them in the wash and wearing them whenever the mood suits me but they remain on the street waiting, continually getting damp, perhaps partially drying to be picked up by a wandering dog as it walks or runs down the street before moving to a different spot on a different block.  I can see a dog owner, telling a beloved pet to drop it, adding the moisture of a slobbery tongue and mouth to the dew of the night.

I am easily amused, my mother-in-law has commented on it numerous times.  I have a quirky sense of humor and the oddest things just seem to set me off until the man, my husband has to remind me when I am convulsing with laughter. ”Don’t hurt yourself”. This is probably why I find the socks migrating around on the streets so interesting and amusing.  I find myself looking around the corner willing the little bits of fabric to be somewhat along my path.

My mind races when I walk, sometimes with philosophical questions other times with mundane thoughts about a new recipe for dinner.  The man is resigned to beans.  I cook them nearly every week, he is lucky that I haven’t thought of the socks as road kill and bought them home to put them in the kettle for flavor.   Hard to digest? Probably. I know his limitations and someone else’s dirty socks is high on the list. 

I could write a short story about the mysterious socks.  See how they have metamorphosed from lost to mysterious? Hero or heroine? Night or day? Future or past or a blend of each?

The dogs were definitely on her scent and closing, stumbling to her knees, she drew off one of her socks to throw it several feet away.  It landed with an audible thud.  Not surprising with the amount of water that was in it.   Looking with what light was left in the sky, she jumped from where she had been several feet away to a large rain puddle wishing the whole time that she had a creek to walk in or at least more rain to wash all traces of her passing.  She continued her hopping from puddle to puddle leaving the one black sock sitting alone on the pavement.  Finding that the other sock was not helping she stopped pulled it off with frozen fingers and threw as far from her as she could.  She would miss them, the fuzziness, the warmth and just the comfort of having dry socks, she would miss them.  She continued hopping and stepping into the rain puddles without a backward glance.  The baying of dogs hovered in the air.

In all probability, the black fuzzy socks fell out of someone’s backpack on their way home from school.  Unless they were attached to the socks, I doubt that they were missed.  Except in the laundry where all socks disappear.  Mysteries, each day is a mystery to me.  Actually, more like miracles.  I am constantly amazed at me, just me.  I go to sleep, I wake up, I eat and do things.  Amazing.  The black socks on the street are not amazing.  They are just two socks wandering the streets but then I am just wandering the streets as well and I still can’t read the signs for I don’t know where I am going.  But it will be amazing.

French Toast without Syrup

French Toast without Syrup

I am sixty-four years old.  I shouldn’t be surprised but it has given me a reason to examine my lifestyle. I have had hopes to have myself in the state akin to the carnations still in bloom on my dining room table after these three weeks--long lasting, still looking good with some flexibility in my stems.

I am doing my stretching more frequently.  The other day I was greeted by my toes much quicker than previous tries. My knuckles resting on the floor I concentrated on holding the position while straightening my legs. I am working on holding the posture longer each time that I attempted it.  So far I have not passed out for which I am thankful as I sometimes stop in the hallway at work on my breaks and work on my stretching.  I would be very embarrassed for a co-worker to find me laying down on the job.  That is why I don’t do the exercises in the hallway by the defibrillator which sits in its box on the wall.  Yep, it would be very embarrassing to explain to everyone that it was a case of head rush and not a heart attack.

The man, my husband has stopped making cookies.  He loves cookies, I love cookies.  Cookies are my sugar downfall.  Before I thought about giving up most of the sugar in my life, I would mention to the man that I would like some cookies.   I would eagerly await the finished product which was generally peanut butter or his fabulous chocolate chip cookies and eat about six or eight fresh out of the oven.  It has been over a month since we have had freshly baked cookies in our house.  I have even told my favorite cookie vendor at the local Farmers’ Market that I have given them up though I still pick up a loaf of his honey wheat bread now and then.  We all have our vices.  The sugar (honey) in this case is still there but it is a lot less than the cookies that I love. 

Among the changes is just keeping up with the regular habits that I have.  I am a walker, I love to walk. I am particularly fond of heading out the door in the early morning in order to catch the birds chattering, trilling, and whistling their various calls through the air.  Often, I work on my affirmations while traipsing around and around the little track at the grade school close to my house. Because I walk so early I walk close to home just in case the hot cup of tea I drank is ready to come out.  One can never tell.

My husband and I have a wonderful relationship, I cook, I do the banking, handling the money from the pennies to the dollars, pay bills, organize vacations (lodging, air travel and whatever else is needed). Meanwhile, he cleans.  Just yesterday, he was busy in the kitchen, loading his dishwasher, sweeping and rubbing down the floor with his cleaning rag.  Me? I was busy sitting at the table.  I was reading and staying out of his way.  That is my main job.  I get out of the house while he vacuums, sometimes I am in the kitchen to help him by bringing him more dishes that he might have overlooked.  But for the most part, I make myself scarce. 

The other day, he mentioned that some clothes that I had taken off of the wooden clothes rack were still in the living room.  I giggled with some embarrassment, guilt and let him know that I would deal with them later.  Now for later, I removed a few strays from the wooden rack, threw the rest of the partially folded clothes into the wicket basket and headed for the bedroom.  I smoothed out the bed a little more and dumped the clothes onto the bed with a promise to myself to put them away.  Promises often go awry.

Bedtime. As I was in the bathroom, brushing and flossing my teeth, my husband put his head in the door and said, “Some clothing monster has thrown up on your bed.”

Ah, I knew in the back of the clutter which is my brain that I had forgotten something.  The man had gone into the bedroom to fetch the book we are reading to discover clothes covering the bed.  “Oops,” I replied.  Sighing he left, book in hand.

With the silence hovering outside the bathroom, I knew that he was patiently folding t-shirts, matching socks, and carefully putting it all in the dresser drawer.  Often, I wonder if he just suffers in silence, how much he minds taking care of his little wife who often doesn’t worry about getting the laundry put away, doesn’t bother to sweep the floor, and has no idea how to run the vacuum cleaner. 

I wonder about my self-worth as I really don’t seem to do much about the house.  Oh, but let’s not forget that I work a forty hour week sometimes coming home totally exhausted and thankful for all of the cooking that I or my husband did on the weekend. It is how we survive.

So I am not going to worry the things I don’t do.  I do thank the man for all that he does for me, for us and our life together. Having been together for nearly thirty-six years, my husband is good at reading my mind.  I was busy walking outside, leaving the house before he was awake on a Sunday morning. I came home to freshly made French toast.  I had thought about the toast while walking, wishing I had mentioned how nice it would be to have some with our fresh bread and fresh farm eggs.  But in the back of my mind I thought how is that going to work, no sugar, remember.  No lovely strawberry jam, blueberry or blackberry just to name a few of my favorites. However, I found out that French toast without syrup was glorious with the fresh bread.

Sometimes we just need to find the sweetness in life despite what we have given up.

  

Time for Writing Letters

Time for Writing Letters

I was out shopping—not with the greatness of spirit in the enterprise but more as an obligation as I had been talking to a little boutique owner about what she might have in her shop to suit me.  I was looking for a certain shade of green in a new sweater. My hopes were high.  So after grocery shopping with the man, eating a sumptuous lunch (freshly made sushi made just to order for me), freshly baked bread from one of the vendor at the farmers market, tasty Bing cherries and fresh picked strawberries; I was willing to head out.

But first about the sushi, really, it is who you know. Or perhaps, it is the perfect alignment of the planets, stars and some god or goddess who is bored looking down at the right moment waiting for something to do. I was simply looking at the sushi at the market and was asked if they could make something special for me if I could not find what I wanted. So after a bit of discussion, a decision was made. I was told to come back in ten minutes. The result.  It was probably the best sushi that I have ever eaten with the exception of some that I had in Japan.  It was proving to be a great day.

Back at home after finishing up my green tea I watched briefly my husband weeding in the yard.  I let him know that I was heading out to the boutique.  I live in a small town so parking about a quarter mile away from the shops I enjoyed the breeze coming off of the ocean while I walked to my destination of beautiful clothes, soft to the touch, lovely to look at and hopefully, something to take home.  I tried several blouses, one sweater which was the wrong shade of green to finally settled on a pair of black leggings with a soft skirt attached. Saying farewell to the wonderful staff at the store I started to amble towards my car.  I didn’t make it far.

I stopped in another small boutique of odd and ends, cards, ornaments, lotions, etc. to look at the various greeting cards which they had on display.  I picked out several only to place them back before leaving the store.  Why? I don’t like spending money on cards which are quickly tossed after someone received it.  Cards are fun, beautiful and thoughtful but it is like throwing your money away.  I still send them, I like getting them but today I was not interested in mindless frivolities or so I thought as I walked back to my car.

I should write some letters, carefully written out since so many of my family are getting old and reading someone’s poor penmanship is not necessary a good thing.  Finding a young person with good eyes is even worse since learning cursive writing in school has not been taught for years, I rather not frustrate and torture my elderly family members with the duty of looking for a handwriting interpreter.  I have a good hand in cursive if I just remember to slow down. Getting myself to work at a speed of 33 ½ rpm versus 45 rpm or 78 rpm is not too difficult (here I am dating myself, some of you will remember records and phonographs). 

After all, I stopped to gaze at clouds in rain puddles after a storm, I prefer walking outside without earplugs in my ears in order to hear the chatter, trills, and longing calls of birds early in the morning. I enjoy the silence of my house in the morning without the negative blaring of the television news, reality TV and other brain drain events.

I still write letters though not as often as I should.  After all, how many of us rush to the post to check on whether or not we will have received something other than a bill.  Even my bills come on line as I am practicing green measures when I can.  I have a policy: pay the bill when it appears in my email.  Before I used to line the letters up, put a date on them waiting until I could send a check out for payment.  Checks, I use them rarely.  Donations to the church, paying for our acupuncture treatments as he doesn’t bill insurance or take credit cards.

So what is a letter? Why should I write one? How do I begin?  For me, it is a note telling snatches of my life to another human being just to let them know I still exist.  I have one sister who is partially deaf.  I don’t call on the phone as it would be a disaster with my soft speaking voice combined with her hearing loss.  I write.  I pick up the paper, sometimes a card; search for a pen and just start telling her bits and pieces.  She writes to me. She tells me of her life unfolding in her home that I don’t even remember visiting except for the hot homemade cinnamon raisin bread thick with butter. I haven’t see her since I was a child, I was probably, possibly 15 years old.  Today, I am 64 years old.  I have written to her yearly at least 3 times a year.  She used to send birthday cards. 

It is getting close to another time for me to write to her, perhaps I will start my letter tomorrow when I have more to say after all, she only gets a few letters a year from me.  When you think of it that way, tomorrow has already started.  It is time for writing letters.

Flashes of Color

Flashes of Color 

I have a routine. In the morning when I get up, I push the curtain aside in the bathroom and gaze out the window. Looking into the sky, past the fences, the rooftops, I look to see what kind of weather I might be facing when I walk out the door.  Lately, the multi-colored climbing rose with yellow-orange blooms has been gazing back with its beauty. Regally satisfied, the roses sit on the branches, content to have their blossoms revealed at last. I have to look past the red rhododendron which has flowers at eye level to see the rose and beyond the rose to judge whatever might be happening in the sky. Not an easy task with the flowers that vie for attention.

As a rule, the sky is cloudy, overcast or sometimes entirely hidden by the fog that has formed and drifted in hiding the flowers, the world beyond my window. Fat drops of water linger on the rhododendron bush leaves until too heavy the water streams toward the ground.

However, yesterday morning, I was greeted by a rainbow in the western sky above the ocean. Excited, I ran through the living room with my naked body chilling in the air—looking for my camera, searching for my purse where my phone should be.  Opportunity was calling.  I tried taking pictures through the window of the bathroom, frustrated by the screen blocking the view, I hurried into the front bedroom and without regard for my neighbors’ sensibilities, I pulled up the blinds, standing naked with camera in hand I snapped several pictures before deciding to chance getting dressed to scurry out the front door.

The man was still sleeping, it was Saturday morning after all.  With complete disregard for his opportunity to sleep in for I was up, after all, awake, and heading out the door; I yelled to him “Get up, get dressed and get out here.”

Later on, I would realize the earliest of the hour when I and the dutiful husband came back in from viewing the wonder of a double rainbow in the sky.  It was just after five thirty in the morning. The day continued with showers, clouds highlighted by the sun and a chill in the air.  The rainbow was a memory, its flashes of color hidden again.

Maybe all memories are flashes of color. I know that many of my memories have been washed off the canvas, painted over with only a dash of crimson, cerulean blue, or true black showing through.  I can’t say that I want the ones that I remember hanging in a gallery waiting for a viewing. Why? How personal are they? Or do I think that they just are not too interesting?  Definitely not titillating.  How exciting do I want them to be? I am just not paparazzi material nor do I wish to be.

 

I like living in the quiet. The man likes living in the quiet alongside of me.  The only drama that we generally experience is when we are on stage performing as actors on a community theater stage.  What bits of drama we experienced currently is on the world stage.  I tried not buy a ticket.  It is a difficult thing to do until something reminds me living a life is on a stage.

As I get older, my body is shoving out subtle hints that this stage I am playing on seems very real indeed until I am encouraged to self-heal, to gather myself out of the imaginary hole that I have allow myself to fall into.  Perhaps, what I really need to do is to gather the flashes of color place them back on the palette, mix them to begin painting my naked body with possibilities. I want to run out into the world to glow, to dance, growing in joy because the canvas is still here so I am going to color mine.

The Great Constancy in Life

The Great Constancy in Life

Lately, I have found that many things occur over and over without any input or output from whatever I think I might be doing.  In some ways it is very comforting.  I don’t have to do anything, things just happen.  The sun comes up and goes down without my thoughts, gosh, I forgot to make a sunrise, drat, sunset time again.  Where is my mind today?

Looking on a smaller scale, there is the daily ritual of the spider in the bathtub.  Every morning as we start getting ready for work either myself or the man, my husband goes in the bathroom to start the water for the tub.   We have a small jar, a small cardboard piece of paper that we keep in the bathroom.  It is our spider jar.  As the days have grown shorter, our equipment has been in use every morning when we discover our spider sitting or racing about the tub in a frantic state of bewilderment.

My husband’s comment this morning as I greeted him at the door with jar, cardboard and spider was the same as always, “Is this our spider?”  My reply, “Yes.”  Without another word, he took everything away and headed out the door, down the driveway of our house to deposit the spider somewhere out there.

Constancy. This creature is part of the great constancy in my life.  Somehow, every day, I imagine its mind saying, “Here we go again.”

It has been months since I started this latest addition to my blog.  Where have I been? What thoughts have crawled or leaped through my mind and really does it matter.   Christmas is nearly here in just a few more weeks.  I am happy that our Christmas tree is finally up as I was hit with a nasty cold which managed to bring with it a horrid cough that made me happy for codeine to keep me resting for three nights.  I have spent a whole week of resting at home, missing doing things I love to do, like walking outside in the beautiful weather that we have been having, cooking Christmas goodies to share at work, and just enjoying whatever comes along.  I really don’t like being sick, it cuts into my social life.

But getting back to the great constancy in my life, my random thoughts just don’t seem to be quite as random as you might think.   Months ago, I asked a local artist to make some felted hats for my son and his girlfriend.  I didn’t think about it much knowing that she make contact with me after my request was finished.  Until this week, I didn’t think about the hats because I have great trust in having things come to me at the right time after setting things in motion.  I had after all, talked to the artist, gave her my phone number, address then I went my merry way.

On Thursday, I thought about the hats, I had told my husband that I wanted an outing because I was finally on the mend.  I had called a local bookstore checking for various books for Christmas, they had them, I told the woman on the other end of the line to expect me on Friday for dinner while I picked up my books.  I texted a friend, asked her to meet us for dinner.  My plans were complete so I took a nap.

Things just go nicely for me, we arrived at the bookstore/restaurant and were greeted by Kate who said “I have a nice table on reserve for you.” I hadn’t given my name nor had I asked for reservation but the universe as always had everything neatly in hand.  Caller ID is great.  It was a table for two, we let her know that we would be three for dinner and quickly we were given another nice table.  We were in luck, a band that we knew would be playing in the small, intimate space.  My husband sat down and I went to reassure the bookstore that I was there and would like to pay for dinner plus my other purchases all at the same time, wandered a bit, added to my pile, headed back to the table to rejoin my husband while we waited for my friend.

Well, it was a lovely night, my friend showed up, dinner was tasty, and the band was marvelous.  Making it perfect was my artist of wonderful hats arriving for dinner as well.  She had lost my phone number but had the hats at home.  She gave us the opportunity to come to her house the next morning and pick up the hats.  Remember my idle thoughts about the artist, the hats, perhaps it was a glimpse into the future, a moment allowing me to know that I would be seeing her or was it my thoughts bringing her to me?  There is an old saying, “Be careful what you wish for.”

 

As I look back at my nasty cold, I am aware that after my husband who had surgery over a month ago came home from his visit with the doctor stating that he had been released from all restrictions.  I felt a release, a knowing that now I could be sick, have it over and get well before our son arrives for Christmas.  It makes me wonder, did I give myself permission to grab whatever was in the office of coughing, nose blowing just feeling icky co-workers.  Well, it was a stupid idea.  Just because everyone else is doing it, it does not mean that I need to do it.

 

Once again, it seems to me that there is definitely a constancy in my life which revolves around my thoughts.  My thoughts bring both bad and good things to whatever reality I believe that I am experiencing. With this at the front of my mind, I am determined to work harder on the little, restless thoughts wandering through my mind perhaps corralling a few if necessary. I know that my heart, soul and mind seem to expand with music.  Music is great for rounding up various idle thoughts, it brings me to a place where I can center myself, enjoy the brilliancy of the divine light before releasing it outward.  

 

Perhaps, that is what I needed, a reminder of how carefully I can maneuver myself into a situation.  So what is the plan? Where is the strategy for allowing creative, constructive, divine thoughts to grow? It is near Christmas time, a time for miracles. This year, I allow myself the miracle of being. For being brings the constancy of life in every moment.  Merry Christmas to those who celebrate this day. To myself, I will open my heart to all possibilities, to all beliefs for that is the joy of being.