Stopping the Clock

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.  William Faulkner                                                         

Whether you work from home or are retired, if you’re like me, you probably find days melt into each other without any break in your daily routine. When I still worked in an office environment, there was a clear divide with my Saturdays and Sundays sacrosanct set apart from the daily, humdrum tasks of the Monday through Friday week.

Time for a change: Will, my significant other, and I decide to take action. No more of this! Taking a pencil, we draw a large “X” through one day of every week for the next several months. This would be our special “take a break” day. No doctor’s appointments or grocery shopping or weed pulling would take precedence of our time out.

We float out ideas—a movie, special, long lunches at those places we never seem to find time to try, window shopping with no clear mission of buying anything unless we feel like it, long walks on the beach and even driving out for an ice cream cone—lots of good stuff that never seems to happen since as John Lennon said so well, “life happens while we’re busy making plans.”

Eliminating reminders of time: No more time to wait; we’re serious about this now. Ready, set, action. One of our ideas is to schedule a day without time—no knowledge of clocks, that is, as William Faulkner suggests. Get up when we wake up, eat when we’re hungry, and let the day unfold as it will. Then, we begin to think of what we’ll need to eliminate from our lives to make time stand still.

Let’s see: no TV, no computer. Mask the clocks, put the watches in a drawer. Okay, we’re all set. No, wait a minute. No cell phone, either. No house phone. It, too, gives us the time. Oops, don’t forget the microwave or the stove.

“Well,” Will reasons, “We can always drive down to the end of our island, walk on that part of the beach where we always find some sea glass. There’s no clocks there.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, “we’ll have to mask the clock in the car the night before.”

We realize that clocks are just about everywhere and very hard to escape. Still, we’re going to do it. Soon! We just need to find time to eliminate all signs of time. Fortunately, we’re feeling pretty confident we’ve identified all the possible spoilers of our plan.

We go out into the garden to ponder and think just when we should give this experiment a try. It’s a sunny May afternoon and we realize we still can’t escape a clock. There sits our sundial blabbing the time….

We giggle and realize what’s most important is not the presence of the clocks in our lives, but how we choose to live within our own time. As Golda Meir said so succinctly, “We must govern the clock, not be governed by it.”

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.”

                                                                                      

 

The Second Time Around

To read a book for the first time is to make an acquaintance with a new friend; to read it for a second time is to meet
an old one. ~Chinese Saying

I'm still a loyal Survivor fan despite the fact the TV format remains much the same with every year’s watching. For me, it’s a little like rereading a book—I learn something new with each read. That analogy between Survivor and books got me thinking. If I had to live on a deserted island for a year, what book would sustain me for that time?

I thought first of the Bible, but suppose that was already part of the survival kit, what else would I take? Multiple titles kept popping into my head.

For this, I definitely needed the input of some fellow avid readers. Here are some of their selections:

Linda, our Island librarian, answered with the quick certitude you would expect from someone lucky enough to spend her working life surrounded by books. The book she would take: Timeline by Michael Crichton. Linda says, “His story illustrates how quantum theory could make time travel possible and sweeps you into the mystery and adventure of the story, while Crichton makes 14^th century daily life come alive.”

Ginger, my firstborn, wasn’t quite as able to narrow her choices down, so she finally claimed two: Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver which she say has so many levels to it that I’m sure I’ve missed some.” Her second pick: a compilation of Maya Angelou’ s writings. “Her melodic voice as I read helps me stay calm and at the same time keeps my brain working. That I would definitely need if I were in a deserted place!”

Mary, a book devotee and regular at our St. Francis Book Group, didn't hesitate. Her quick answer: And the Ladies of the Club, by Helen Santmyer. The story tells the story of two 18 year-olds who belong to a book club and their friendship through happy and difficult times that span 60 yearsthrough their lifetimes. It’s one of those books, Mary adds, that you hate to see end. She also says the author took 35 years to write the book and was in her 80’s when she completed the task!

Alicemarie, leader of my Florida book group, says, “One book??? I may not make it through the year!” But forced to choose, she picked Kitchen Table Wisdom, by Rachel Naomi Rement, M.D., personal stories the author collected while working with people with life-threatening illness. “These stories—some humorous, others gut-wrenching—all provide food for deeper and more expansive thinking about my own life.”—something she would have lots of time to do while on her solitary sojourn.

Gary, a psychologist and one-time restaurateur, thought first and foremost about what it would be like to live on an undisturbed island. Armed with an insatiable curiosity and Exotica, by Alfred B. Graf, he would use his time wisely by learning more about his tropical habitat. “Exotica is the botanist’s bible and will help me identify all the flora on the island.”

Kim, a member of my writing group, also thought bringing a book possibly found on Amazon with a title like, “How to Survive on a Deserted Island,” would be the most sensible. Then again, she decided, it would make for dull bedtime reading. “My poetry books are what I read over and over again.” Any would do, she adds, but the ones she most often opens are The Oxford Book of Short Poems edited by James Michie and P. J. Kavanaugh or Best Remembered Poems, edited by Martin Gardner.

One of the perks in writing this posting was the chance to learn about a few books I haven’t yet read. Still, I’m not any closer to choosing the single book that would be a part of my survival kit.

Send me your suggestions as I need more help! I’ll do a follow up on the topic and promise by then, to stop wavering and come to a conclusion of my own…

Life: One Stitch at a Time

"Take your needle, my child, and work at your pattern; it will come out a rose by and by. Life is like that - one stitch at a time taken patiently and the pattern will come out out all right like the embroidery."
~ Oliver Wendall Holmes

One of the nicest aspects of sewing, for me, is the way it frees up my mind to muse while still feeling productive. It’s also a great way to “watch” TV! Cross stitch is one of those sewing crafts I love to do. Recently, a friend asked me how I could sit for hours making little X’s on a blank cloth. “There’s more to it than simply making X’s,” I said. “Why, you can learn a lot of what you need to live well just by reading the common cross stitch directions.”

Here’s my version of life seen through the directions for successful cross stitching:

1. Read all the instructions before beginning. Take time to plan before you start anything – whether you’re considering buying a home, changing your job, or even choosing a new insurance policy, check out the fine print. Know as much as you can before making your decision.

2. Bind or tape the edges to prevent fraying. Make sure your emotional edges are bound by the love and support of your family and friends. Then if life threatens to overcome you, you won’t fall apart. Build up your binding by showing your love for others; at the same time, you can be the tape for theirs as well.

3. Sort and label the thread with the corresponding color and symbol. Just like cross stitch, sometimes our life choices get confused. Sometimes, two choices, like the colors of thread seem to blend into each other, creating the illusion that there is little or no difference. Put aside the colors of your choices until another day when fresh light helps you see the fine shades of each.

4. Find the center of the design. Find your center, your core. Get to know who you really are. Turn off your cell phone, take a walk by yourself, learn to meditate. Most importantly, have some time in solitude and quiet so you can get to know your inner self. The you’ll be able to create something beautiful.

5. When your thread becomes twisted, let your needle hang free and allow the yarn to resume its natural state. When life feels too complicated or your anxiety level threatens to ruin your life tapestry, let the pressures go. Come to a stop and let your mind rest. It won’t solve any problems, but your ability to cope will improve.

6. Cross all stitches in the same way. Be consistent in your outlook. Treat others fairly as you wish to be treated so the pattern of your life will be smooth and even.

7. Count and recount as you go. Review your life on a regular basis.. It’s always easier to change course when you do so. While John Lennon says in a song, “life is what happens when you’re busy making plans,” reviewing your direction as it’s happening offers some ability to adjust your trajectory.
8. Small errors in counting do not change the look of the design and shouldn't be given a second thought. Be kind to yourself and don’t judge yourself or others too harshly. We all make mistakes and small errors will not mar the overall pattern of life.

9. Large errors should be carefully taken out without damaging the thread and then restitched. When you make a large misstep, don’t despair. Consider how the damage can be corrected then fix it as best you can. Handled carefully, the problems of life can be managed and the beauty of your life’s design preserved even stronger when patched well.

10. More than enough material is included, provided instructions are carefully followed. This last rule is so important! Eat right, sleep enough, and follow the nine preceding rules. Recognize that you have been given one body to last a lifetime and your psyche has a lot to do with how that body prospers. If you don’t waste your life’s material, hopefully, it should last as long as needed.
Yes, I muse, while I stitch the last rose in a basket of roses, cross stitch offers us a metaphor for all we need to enjoy life plus we are left with gifts we can pass on to others. And besides, it sure beats actually watching TV!

Remembering 9/11

As the tenth anniversary approached, I found myself trying to avoid thinking about that day in 2001. I stopped watching TV several days ago, but this morning I realized I couldn’t simply tune out by not watching. For that day and its anniversaries, however many years pass, will always be sharp and clear in my memory. Many of the tributes say “Never Forget,” but that admonishment is not really needed.

Each of us will always remember in vivid detail where we were and how we were feeling that sunny September morning with all its wonderful promise. I was staying at my daughter, Ginger’s house in North Carolina to care for the children while she was at a business conference in Maryland. My husband, Will, had just returned from walking the kids to the bus stop.

I remember feeling a wonderful sense of the whole day stretched out ahead of the two of us. I took my second cup of coffee into the living room to slowly sip it and watch the “Today” show. When Katie Couric announced a plane had crashed into one of the Towers, I initially believed it was a tragic accident.

But when the second plane hit, I knew. A wave of cold washed over me, taking me back in time to a November day when my neighbor ran from her upstairs apartment shouting that John F. Kennedy had been shot. I held nineteen-month-old Ginger tightly and hurried inside. I felt the same fear and panic then as when I watched the terrible tragedy on 9/11.

And so, I turn on the TV to be a witness for those who died that day, as well as for those who loved them. The empty space in their lives will never be filled, but remembering and sharing that with those who care can help. Throughout it all, the thread of all the brave and unselfish giving throughout that day and the days following weaves a ray of hope. I cry, too.

    We will never forget, but we will go on.

Flowers of Winter

God gave us memories that we might have roses in December.  ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922

 

Every December, as Christmas approaches and the end of the year draws near, for me, is a time of reflection, a looking back. Generally, this contemplative time begins after the shopping and mailing of packages is completed. But this year, my annual life review threatened to sabotage the necessary tasks that come with the holiday.  Daydreaming replaced concentrated, organized gift selection!

I blame the change on my neighbor, Harry, a consummate gardener whose talents we enjoy all summer from our front deck. The day before Thanksgiving, he brought over brought over an armful of roses from his still flowering garden. We were enjoying a wonderfully warm fall, even eating lunch in the sunny protected corner of our porch. "Hard to believe they're still growing," he said.

"Yes," I answered. "Hard to believe, but wonderful, too." I clipped the stems and placed the bouquet in a green vase on my dining room table. In the next few weeks, I passed by the roses a lot. Each time I did, I thought how comforting it was to see them bloom this time of year.

As the temperature dipped and we moved further into December, Harry's bouquet brought to mind Barrie's wonderful quote and my thoughts turned to how increasingly important the role memory takes as we get older. Not that I'm done making memories—not by a long shot, I hope! After all, I'm only seventy now. I still cling to the autumn years of my life, with their wonderful lingering warmth from my summer season.

I like to think the winter of my life is still far from away, but based on how rapidly my life has gone thus far, I know the approaching winter of my life is much closer than I want to believe. Sometimes, I wonder about what it will be like once my winter fully arrives.

We visit a senior center once a month to do a program entitled, "Remember When." These seniors (older than I am, of course!) are firmly entrenched definitely in the winter of their lives. They prefer sharing their memories, memories evoked by old the movies, events, and songs of their summer years, mostly the forties and fifties, rather than their later years. I learn from them that the days ahead can also be filled with joy and laughter, but most of all, bolstered by the memories that keep us warm.

Here's a few nonscientific things I've come to believe about how memory works as we get older:

• Memory is fluid and dynamic, ever changing. Each memory takes on a different hue, tone, and meaning when we view it from a distance created by time.
• Memory is a way of holding onto the things we love. It tells us who we are in our innermost self, and is tied to things we never want to lose. As a result, it only a natural evolution that we find it holds so much a larger part in our lives as we age.
• Memory is the book we write in the silence of our hearts. And like writers, we can discover the freedom to alter our history and tell it a little more like we wanted it to be. Have you ever noticed how the fish in any fisherman's tale gets larger with each telling?
• Memories, like the proverbial fine wine, improve with age. And as we get older, we gradually may become the only one who is the memory keeper of our family. An awesome, but joyful thing to contemplate!
• Memory is selective. As Austin O'Malley notes, "Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food. Nora Ephron speaks of this in her new book, "I Remember Nothing." Have you ever searched your mind for details of some neamingul event in your life and come up blank, yet you can remember an incident that would appear to have no significance whatsoever in the broad schematic of life?
• Memory, like the sea glass we find on the beach, holds fragments that we treasure without reason. Or as Cesare Pavese (The Burning Brand) says so well, "We do not remember days; we remember moments."
• Memory of our childhood remains imprinted in our memory bank for all of our lives. Sometimes, I ask myself why I remember all the details of my elementary school yet scarcely remember the hallways of the college I attended when I was forty years old?
• Memory of bad moments come mostly in the middle of the night. Have you had any of those moments when what you failed to do or did haunt you?

Bob Hope always finished his performances with a song called, "Thanks for the memories." Yet, memories are the flowers of our winter and it would be a very cold time without them. And like the roses of winter, they keep us warm. They're what we're made of and what we're left with.

Strawberry Moments Forever

"… the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls· bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory" -Marcel Proust,  "The Remembrance of Things Past"

Do you have a smell that reminds you of special memories? Perhaps the redolent smell of your childhood Sunday dinners? Or popcorn at Saturday matinees? Does a particular aroma take you back where you can see the scene as vividly as if you were right there now?

Proust's words speak volumes to me because throughout my life, the distinctive perfume of fresh strawberries has prevailed as my memory prompter. Perhaps it can even serve as a metaphor for much of my life. This love affair began in my childhood and I write about this in one of my past blog entries, "A World Without Childhood?"

Since that early experience, strawberries have continued as the framework of my most treasured moments.

Consider our honeymoon, for example. The year was 1962 and segregation was still an issue. Neither Will nor I had ever seen signs "for whites only" before, and the sight of so many appalled us. A truck loaded with cartons of berries pulled in behind us on a Chesapeake Bay ferry boat. Two black men got out of the truck and stood in the hot May sunshine. They couldn't go inside where it was cool since the boat wasn't large enough to have an extra space for what then was referred to as "for coloreds only." I spoke to them and said, "It must be nice to drive a truck with such a lovely cargo." They smiled back and tipped their hats.

When we returned to our car, one of the men handed us two quarts of berries. We thanked them profusely and thought about them as we continued on our way. That night, in a modest motel, I poured the lush, red fruit into the tiny sink to wash them and we ate our fill in bed before turning out the light. So, forever they will represent passion and love, along with a little sadness, too, at how badly people can treat other people by considering them as less worthy.

The following years went quickly for us—perhaps because our four daughters were born within the first five years of our marriage. When our youngest was four, we began taking them to a nearby farm to pick strawberries every June. My mother-in-law, Lib, would often join us and then come home to help clean and hull the berries.

After I washed the scarlet stains off the kids' faces and fingers and tucked them into bed, I'd come back to the kitchen to make pie crusts, usually twelve in all. As I kneaded and rolled, I could hear Will and his mother on our jalousie porch, a soft, gentle sound while I reveled in my solitude and the tactile feel of the dough.

Years later, in California, I picked huge, almost meatball size fruit on a California hill with my second daughter, Cindy, and three granddaughters. And as Yogi Berra says, it was "déjà vu all over again." That evening, however, I was the person hulling the berries while Cindy scrubbed away the ruby hue of the fruit that just couldn't wait another day to be eaten.

Now our family is grown and scattered from the East to the West Coast, but this succulent fruit continues to bring additional memories. Last week, we escorted our youngest daughter down a sandy beach on her wedding day in Santa Cruz, California. A joyous week for all of us with, you guessed it, more strawberries. As I hulled them, I inhaled deeply, drinking in one more strawberry moment while I listened to the chatter of gathered family. And as I did so, I thought how blessed I am to have this thread through my life and look forward to seeing what else this succulent fruit will bring in the future.

So, tell me, do you also have a special scent that takes you back in time? If so, drink it in and find yourself right there in that special place, that special moment. If not, consider creating memory markers by using your sense of smell during future happy moments—perhaps the smell of perfume you put on or notice on a loved one some New Year's Eve, or the sweet distinctive fragrance of the ocean after a storm.