Merry Christmas to all

With Christmas but a few days away, I want to send my wishes that your Christmas will be filled with love and peace. Our condo is decorated simply this year and while many of our decorations are from our early years together, we do have some more recent arrivals. My favorite is is a  humble little tree sent to us by our oldest daughter, Ginger. When we were here for our first Christmas, she asked me if we would have a tree. I said, "No." That just didn't sit well with her. And so, a few days later, our tree arrived. It fits in quite nicely with all the "old" decorations we've accumulated over the years.

Over the years, we've all kinds of trees---tall spindly ones, short chubby ones. Will always went out and picked out the tree. Often, one or more of our daughters would go with him. Whoever braved the cold to do so always would claim "their tree was the best ever." We'd all gather around and decorate together, at least until they grew far into their teens. I confess my favorite part was tinsel, something that we don't see nowadays. Not sure why. Will would repeat his directions every year: "drape the tinsel, don't throw it or drop it on the branches."

Looking back on my childhood, I am amazed about how my parents created the magical feel they did especially knowing how stretched their budget was after WWII. When we went to bed at night as little children, there was no sign of Christmas. We believed Santa brought everything on his sleigh.

In the morning, we'd awaken to a tree centered on a large platform. Trains chugged around it. Our gifts snuggled at one end and our stockings were stuffed with candy, always a tangerine, and sometimes a bit of coal, too. Often our stocking held a note that led us to another part of the house where we'd find ice skates, a new sled, and once, for my sister, a bicycle.

My dad sometimes fell asleep in his chair while my mother made our Christmas dinner. Now I know why! For some reason, I never shared my appreciation with them. I wish I could now. Somehow, though, I think they know...

Taking a Leap of Faith

It’s hard to hold onto hope sometimes, to continue to believe life is good when we see so much evidence to the contrary. War, unemployment, violence, and even the lack of common civility can wear us out. Yet this is the time in which we live so it’s important to look forward and not get dragged down by all the bad news we read on the Internet and see on the TV.

 Personally, I’ve always thought myself as an optimist, the possessor of the proverbial half full glass rather than the half empty, but I still sometimes find it hard to be upbeat. And with my winter goal of sending out query letters to literary agents, my usual cheerful view somehow became lost despite the warm Florida sun. Each polite rejection form letter seemed like another weight on my mood and I couldn’t wrap my psyche around enough positive energy to even write a blog entry. Instead, I resorted to sitting in the sun, scribbling some attempts at writing poetry and a mystery, and reading lots of novels.

My mood shift began when I chose a different route through downtown Fort Pierce and saw an amazing sculpture. A man high up on a diving board stood poised to dive into a tree filled with roses.

For the rest of the day I reflected on the significance of this lovely and intriguing piece of art. Such an optimistic image, I thought. Imagine viewing a lovely sight of flowers waiting for you while knowing those beautiful blooms would also hold thorns that might pierce your joy.

The figure is an average sort, a little thick in the waist, perhaps past his prime—an older man and one who wouldn’t jump as a younger person would. No, this man would definitely think before he takes a plunge.

Later, I research the sculpture and discover it’s entitled, “A Leap of Faith,” by a local artist, Pat Cochran. Commissioned in 2009, the statue illustrates the small quaint town’s determination to look forward with optimism rather than surrender to the downturned economy. It’s their symbol for taking a leap of faith by continuing to support the arts and add culture to the downtown and riverfront areas. 

As I reflect about what it means to take a leap of faith, I realize it’s something we face often in our daily lives—both big and small decisions require us to do so. Writing and sharing our  thoughts with others involves taking a leap of faith, a trust that requires moving out of our comfort zone. We sit down at the keyboard or take a pencil in hand and believe the words will come. We write our synopsis and query letter and send it off with hope that just maybe this time, this will be the one that clicks. 

Like the man on the diving board, looking out at all the beautiful albeit possibly hurtful outcomes, without taking that risk, we remain trapped looking at all the possibilities in our lives. The man stands on the edge, but somehow, I have no doubt that he intends to “take the plunge.” And like him, taking that leap of faith doesn’t mean jumping blindly; we, too, must recognize our choices will entail some lovely flowers, but possibly some painful outcomes as well.     

Here’s a few things that you might find helpful when you consider taking a leap of faith:

1.     Listen to your inner voice.

2.     Believe in yourself and your choices.

3.     Seek people who support you.

4.     Face your fears.

5.     Trust you will learn, whatever the outcome.

Most of all, stay upbeat and when in doubt, repeat the encouraging words of John Burroughs, “Leap and the net will appear.”

                                                                                      

 

Imagination Migration

"He who has imagination without learning has wings but no feet." Joseph Joubert

Learning usually does enhance our imagination. But sometimes the reality new knowledge brings can leave us with feeling we've lost a little wonder. Has that ever happened to you?

 Before you say no, think Easter Bunny, Santa Claus. While we usually associate these experiences with childhood, losses like that can happen at any age.

Recently, I learned the Monarch butterflies that leave our Island before the winter sets in do not fly all the way to Mexico. That discovery was a bit like losing Santa Claus all over again. My friend, Stu, explained, "It's several generations later that get there." 

My first reaction, disappointment. My second, questions: How did I live this long and never learn this fact? Was it because I never really wanted to know? Or was it because I chose to embrace the mythic concept that this very small fragile being could fly all those miles?

Although, this is my second post that mentions the Monarch butterfly, I'm not usually that absorbed with nature. I have no pets, and unlike my grandson, Joe, who could remain glued to the Animal Planet channel in his younger years, I never watch those shows. For me, I guess the fascination with what I thought was the true Monarch story was the tenacity and bravery the small creature exhibited.

There's definitely an allure to winged creatures—consider angels, Superman, birds, in addition to butterflies—soaring high on a mission. They spark our imagination as we envision them far above us.

I reflect again on what I've learned about the Monarch and how it takes several generations to reach their destination, and the succeeding generations it takes to return to our Island in the spring. And I find I can relate the promise their migration holds to that of our human story.

Like these butterflies, we hold the promise of our future with the knowledge our children and our children's children will accomplish what we first set to do. Yet, our role is key, too, for without us beginning the journey, that could not happen. I now view the Monarch's odyssey in a new light and appreciation. It, too, can ignite the imagination of our own migration.

Thanks, Stu! 

Seashore Seasons of Life

The choices we make influence so much of our lives, choices like the places we choose to be and live. Living by the sea on an island was one of those choices that created so much of that influence for me. When I look back on my life, I can't help but compare it to the seasons of the seashore.


In the spring of my life, the seashore served as a backdrop for my yearnings, especially my dreams of romantic love. In that time, there were so many false starts - kisses without substance on a moonlit beach - made all the more lonely because the nights were so beautiful. Then the promises of the sea became mine. I met my soul mate and the promises whispered by the waves became a reality.

That was the spring of my life.


Summer came with a bright and blazing intensity - my childbearing years. Days replaced starlit nights in importance. And sunny days were filled with sand buckets, snacks, and suntan lotion to protect tender skin. Vigilance was the keyword during the summer season of my life as I watched the little ones skitter on the beach, much like little sandpipers. Later, bobbing in the surf. Then later, I played the watchful waiting game while they visited places with names like the Tide, the Ketch, the Shell - places with sea-like names, but completely alien from my beloved sea.

That was the summer of my life.


Now I'm in the autumn of my ocean watching. This season is calm, still warm kissed by the remembered intensity of the summer sun. Relaxed now, I watch my grands hurl themselves toward the incoming tide, calm because I know the children of my summer are in their summers - secure in their own lives and loves. I am tranquil and filled with peace in the fall season as I clasp the hand of my spring season lover, my companion in three seashore seasons.



I find I want to hold this season more than I have ever wanted to hold any other season in my life. This September song grows more poignant, more precious than any other, for the sun-warmed sea still holds a strong whisper of summer, and the remembrance of the everlasting promise of spring.

This is the autumn of my life.



I do not know what lies ahead of me as I push away the thought of the approaching winter of my life. I do know God has been good to me through these three seasons. Perhaps the best has been saved for last. I will find out if I get to spend my winter by the sea. In any case, I realize life has its cycle, and whatever comes, life will continue, and future generations will carry at least a small piece of me through their seashore seasons.