Johnstone Journal

Unwrapping the Gift

2012-01-09T06:01:00.000-08:00

On a January morning during rush hour in the Washington, D.C. Metro station, a non-descript young man wearing jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and baseball cap positioned himself beside a trashcan, opened his violin case, and began to play.

Over the course of an hour, close to 2,000 people passed by him. Only seven stopped to listen before hurrying on; 27 dropped money in his open case, totaling about $32. Only one person recognized him.

The street performer playing in the metro station that morning was Joshua Bell, one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing a priceless violin handcrafted in 1713 by Antonio Stradivari.

It was a social experiment arranged by The Washington Post to see if we perceive beauty in commonplace environments at inconvenient and even inappropriate times. And if so, do we stop to appreciate it?

A hidden camera captured the steady march of an indifferent human parade. There was no applause and no acknowledgement; just the awkward silence after his music stopped.

So what did the experiment teach us? That if we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made, how many other things are we missing as we rush through life? The world unwraps itself to us again and again. Do we pause to accept the gift? Do we invite beauty to transcend?

Murmuration

2012-01-03T06:04:00.000-08:00

Is there a word in the English language lovelier than murmuration? It’s one of nature's most phenomenal sights: the incredibly beautiful group behavior of thousands of starlings swishing and swooping together like one living, breathing entity. Why do starlings gather in these odd flash mobs?

The mesmerizing act is typically seen at the beginning of winter, right before dusk, as the birds look for a place to roost for the night. It’s actually a survival function. Numbers build up slowly near the roost, and by late afternoon there is a huge swirling, living cloud. Essentially, it's an epic battle to determine who in the flock survives, and who's a target for predators. It’s all about safety in numbers — none want to be on the outside and none want to be first to land. Each bird tries to copy the bird next to it exactly, which results in a stunning rippling effect with uncanny coordination that biologists don’t yet understand.

Survival can be a gloriously beautiful thing. And starlings may be the most visible example of the beauty that can happen when we work together.

Flypaper

2011-12-30T08:48:00.000-08:00

“If you take a book with you on a journey, an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in the place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it… yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed page better than anything else.” ~Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

Lives Left Behind

2011-12-03T12:24:00.000-08:00

When the Willard Psychiatric Center in New York closed in 1995 after operating for 126 years as a state mental hospital, 400 suitcases were discovered in the attic. This luggage had belonged to men and women who were involuntarily admitted to the facility and, as the presence of the suitcases suggests, never left.

Opening the steamer trunks, cardboard boxes, and suitcases of people who lived 75 to 100 years ago revealed lives that hospitalization interrupted, and in many cases ended. The contents included letters, photographs, diaries, books, clothing, and religious items. There was evidence of careers: nurses’ collars, an army uniform, needlework, and photography equipment. The suitcases speak to their owners’ aspirations, accomplishments, and community connections, as well as to their loss and isolation.

An exhibit was created that sheds light on the history of mental health care in America through a series of these very personal images and stories, which tell of the many things that brought people there: poverty, displacement, physical illness, loss of loved ones, and guilt, and the many ways in which the psychiatric system failed those arbitrarily swept up in it.

The exhibit haunts me still. They were human beings not so different from me. “That could've happened to me,” I kept thinking. And that’s the point. What a fine line there is between mental anguish and mental illness. Stripped of their choice, voice, and freedom, we’re left with the contents of their suitcases to learn of their humanity and the lives they left behind.

Snowdust

2011-11-12T11:02:00.000-08:00

There is something magical about the first snowfall of the year.

Autumn Bliss

2011-10-26T11:07:00.000-07:00

"Every leaf speaks bliss to me,

Fluttering from the Autumn tree."

~Emily Bronte

Commas Save Lives

2011-09-24T07:55:00.000-07:00

Today is National Punctuation Day, and I’m prepared to spend a good portion of it promoting why this day deserves more attention! Each year I create a blog post and plan an activity to celebrate this special day.
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Here’s an example of the immense responsibility and vital role of our lowly comma in direct address situations.
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Yes, commas can save lives!
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For those who agree that standards of punctuation in our world are abysmal, please share what you'll do to mark this great day. Give punctuation the respect it deserves. Share your bad signage! Spread the word! Save the world!

No. 973

2011-09-17T06:51:00.000-07:00

In 1902, the first T. rex was unearthed on a Montana hillside. It took over three years of digging to get the skeleton out of the ground. It was shipped to the New York Museum amid much ado at a time when dinosaur bones were like Egyptian mummies—mysteries that dazzled both the public and scientists. And no one had ever seen anything like this.

The scientists at the New York Museum registered the bones with the number 973. Then they put the pieces together and officially named the huge beast Tyrannosaurus rex, the Tyrant King. It went on display in the American Museum of Natural History in 1906. The crowds lined up for blocks. What no one knew then was that the skeleton was incomplete.

Decades later, a young researcher found the errant bone in a museum cabinet and recognized the identification number. The rib bone was returned to the skeleton of the first T. rex, who is now complete at last.

I’ve recently unearthed a piece of myself that I hadn’t been aware of—my own No. 973, if you will. A friend opened up a “cabinet” for me, and I was surprised to find a missing piece of myself there. It fell into place easily and fit so well; it seems I should have noticed its absence long ago or, at least, toiled to dig it up.

No crowds lined up to see, and there was no publicity. No charged air of anticipation greeted this newly found “piece.” But I feel more "me." Complete? No, but certainly a work in progress.

Lake Michigan Reflections

2011-08-06T09:44:00.000-07:00

"The sky broke like an egg into full sunset

and the water caught fire."

~Pamela Hansford Johnson

Forgettery

2011-06-30T05:34:00.000-07:00

A friend shared an intriguing insight with me recently about how growth, creativity, and learning are directly tied to our ability to forget. When our minds are cluttered with ready-made assumptions, they block the questions that lead to new ideas and new ways of thinking. Forgetting what we know—at the appropriate time—can open the door to new insight.

An example was given of an exercise that involves making paper airplanes. A line is drawn at the back of a room, and participants are given sheets of paper and five minutes to make as many airplanes as they can to fly past the line. The one with the most across the line is the winner.

The most common approach, of course, is to fold the sheets into conventional paper-airplane shapes. With the only criterion that it must “fly” past the line, however, the winning design is almost always paper that has been crumpled into a ball.

While some are limited by what they think a paper airplane should look like, others conveniently “forget” that and are open to more creative thinking.

It got me pondering… What conventional wisdom am I relying on? What would happen if I forgot the obvious answers that spring to mind, and searched for new ones? What assumptions can I let go of? Can I grow and succeed by forgetting? Wait, what was the question?

Just Add Water

2011-06-01T09:35:00.000-07:00

I’ve been doing a tremendous amount of business writing lately and have run into the proverbial “writer’s block” more than once over the last few weeks. Sometimes I need that good pivotal idea or a turn of phrase, and sometimes I just need a mental reset button to still the commotion in my mind and shake it loose so something fresh can fall out.

I remember hearing that prolific screenwriter Aaron Sorkin takes up to eight showers a day to help jump-start his writing. If things aren’t going well on the writing front, he gets into the shower, then into different clothes and tries again. It gives him a burst of energy and focus that helps him get down to the task at hand.

Curious, I tried this last week and it worked! A quick, convenient, effective do-over to get me writing again. And that started me thinking… Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could choose a do-over at any time and in any area of our life simply by taking a shower? How nice it would be to have that option. Just add water!

Trillium Magic

2011-05-28T10:04:00.000-07:00

May is one of the most beautiful times of the year in Michigan. And one of its most glorious signs of spring is Trillium Season. From the moment the first one is spotted on the forest floor, I hold my breath, anticipating the incredible transformation of landscape over the next few days.

Before the trees are even fully leafed out, the woods seem to explode with a spectacular carpet of trillium. They blossom in unison, called out of winter-sleep in the earth, and are left alone to flourish, a protected wildflower that is illegal to pick or uproot.

It’s the profusion of these wild members of the orchid family that takes my breath away. Even the name—trillium—is so lovely, I don’t even need to see the flowers. My sense of wonder is restored by magic in May.

The Smell of Spring

2011-04-11T07:07:00.001-07:00

The Art of Coping

2011-03-23T11:18:00.000-07:00

In 1941, over 100,000 men, women and children of Japanese ancestry living on the West Coast were forced from their homes into camps located in desolate inland areas of the United States after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Their crime? They looked like the enemy.

Bringing only what they could carry, the detainees made the bleak camps ‘home’ by gathering scrap materials to build furniture and tools and, later, for remarkable arts and crafts. In the worst possible circumstances, the response of this quietly courageous people was to rise above it and create truly beautiful things.

What makes this story so incredible is that there were few professional artists in the camps. Most of the detainees had not created arts or crafts before their internment—and they never would again. Upon release, they went back to being fishermen, doctors, shop-owners, and farmers.

The explosion of creativity that resulted during this dark chapter in American history is now called the art of gaman, a Japanese word that means to bear the seemingly unbearable with dignity and patience. In January of this year, the Smithsonian American Art Museum hosted an exhibition honoring both art and artists called The Art of Gaman.

It makes me wonder: Does the ability to create beautiful things exist in all of us? What do I have inside of me? Is my response to adverse and painful conditions to cope with courage and creativity? That’s a question worth pondering.

Totem

2011-01-20T07:14:00.000-08:00

On a sober-gray and inhospitable Fall day in Indiana almost a decade ago, I met a plant I’d never seen before. Upon hearing its name, I found out I’d never even heard of it… the Oak Leaf Hydrangea.

I was intrigued by the enormous blossoms and the foliage shaped like the red and white oak leaves in my hometown in Michigan. Rustic, wild, more like shrubbery than flowers, I loved it immediately. And I decided right then and there, standing on a stranger’s porch, that I would one day live in a house with an Oak Leaf Hydrangea.

Fast-forward…

Last Fall, my husband and I were house-shopping. We found a house that was perfect for us; it was, in fact, everything we were looking for, and we bought it. While moving in, I took a stroll around the property. There, clustered together on the side of the house, stood not one but four large and regal Oak Leaf Hydrangea bushes covered in blooms. Like curious neighbors, they clustered in their botanical excess outside my new office window, vying for a peek at the pale bipeds moving into this house they adorned.

A plant-knowledgeable friend estimated from their size that they were about 10 years old. So while I was standing in Indiana determined to one day live in a house with an Oak Leaf Hydrangea, someone in Michigan was planting several outside a house I would one day call home. That’s synchronicity at its best. And it tells me I’m right where I need to be.

Saturday's Cancelled

2011-01-15T10:58:00.000-08:00

She’s wearing her prettiest clothes this morning, the kind of white excess only Nature can pull off.

What is it about snowstorms that excites me so? Is it because they so effectively interrupt my routine? Is it because they unexpectedly release me from my commitments and expectations? Maybe it’s because they temporarily excuse me from my schedule. This isn’t something I have to explain to anyone; there seems to be universal understanding and sharing of this justification.

As the snow lays down an extra layer of silence, soundproofing my world, I walk happily around my house, freed by Nature from demands that await me in more moderate weather. My heart is joyful in a forced respite in a small town on the shore of Lake Michigan in January… the gift of snowflakes.

Heartsong

2011-01-13T08:40:00.000-08:00

"If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come."

~Chinese Proverb

Sideways Spines

2010-12-14T08:35:00.000-08:00

I admit to idling away hours in bookstores and libraries as often as I can. I eagerly ride the spines of books, seeking the enchanted scent of promise, until a book—at once a portal and a destination—calls my name and invites me in. I inhale the experience, reading with omnivorous hunger, everything hanging on the next word. I’ve always been a serious reader, but until I reached adulthood I didn’t know anyone else who read like that. It qualifies as an occupation for me.

A longtime pet peeve of mine is the way book titles are printed horizontally on book spines, but stored vertically. Having to tilt my head to read book-spine titles sideways on the shelves invariably results in a crick in my neck. This raises some questions that bear consideration: Is there a connection between serious reading and spinal health? Is that sideways spinal alignment a kind of reader’s occupational hazard? I do know that while I’m enjoying leisurely time in bookstores and libraries, I can always discern a serious reader from an accidental browser by the crick in her neck.

Hidden Story

2010-12-04T07:28:00.000-08:00

"I prefer winter... when you feel the bone

structure of the landscape - the loneliness
of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something
waits beneath it; the whole story doesn't
show." ~ Andrew Wyeth

Monday Satori

2010-11-29T08:07:00.000-08:00

I felt like I was in a grueling Olympics of Patience this morning trying to get my nine-year-old out the door to school. Intensely focused with a mind of his own and living life at his own unique pace, some days prodding my slowpoke into action can be an agonizing experience. I’m often running to and fro in a flat-out rush while Corban dawdles. Once he’s focused on something, distracting or redirecting him is an exercise that, if not futile, at the very least requires a considerable investment of time and energy. Straightforward negotiation doesn’t work, and I’ve learned that the more I hurry, the worse it gets.

While Corban may be oblivious to my frustration, he’s very aware of precisely what he wants and when he wants it. He knows what brings him pleasure and happiness, as well as what comforts and soothes him, and he also has a very clear idea of how he wants to get it, regardless of the time. After I complained to a friend this morning, she told me her son has the opposite problem: it seems he cares so much about making other people happy, she worries he won’t assert himself to learn how to make himself happy.

Wham! I was shocked into truthfulness, and I saw my son in a new light. Corban is becoming all I’d ever wanted. What more could I ask for?

Adieu

2010-11-19T07:28:00.000-08:00

The house is now empty. There has been a whirlwind of activity within these walls over the past seven days, and although everyone has now departed and is heading back to lives put on 'pause', I keenly feel the weight of accumulated human presence left in their wake. In this early hour, I wander through impossibly and profoundly silent rooms, realizing again how meager my world would be without family and friends. They stand as proof that I'm blessed.

Undercover

2010-11-10T06:26:00.000-08:00

"Lights out!" For years, that was my cue to pull out the big, old, heavy flashlight filled with Ray-o-vac batteries from under my bed. Up past my bedtime, sneaking in a few more pages, huddled under the covers with my flashlight and my Nancy Drew books, everything was more exciting.

These were the good old days when a great book meant you stayed up all night secretly reading, knowing perfectly well that your tomorrow would be totally out of whack.

Do children do this anymore? If more did, maybe the state of readers in our schools and world wouldn't be so "in the dark." As parents and teachers who love to read, we need to share that enthusiasm for books with our students and children, remembering that what we make them love and desire is so much more important than what we make them learn.

Our sons' and daughters' childhoods are so short. Let's fill them with flashlight-worthy books and flashlights!

Gone With The Wind

2010-11-01T09:46:00.000-07:00

For three days our lakeshore was bullied by 50 mile-per-hour winds, all storm and no lull. Distracted by the pandemonium at the water's edge, I somehow missed the trees shedding the last of their bright autumnal cloaks. And just like that, the leaves are gone... Here I stand catching my breath and gathering my bearings.

Noun or Verb?

2010-10-19T07:37:00.000-07:00

Jules Léotard was a French trapeze artist. His revolutionary performances—performed without a safety net—were so inspiring to George Leybourne that in 1867 he wrote a song about Léotard: "The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze."

But Jules' more famous legacy is the one-piece exercise wear that now bears his name. Originally designed to allow for flexible, unrestricted movement on the trapeze, Léotard is, quite literally, a man who became a noun. And he hardly stands alone. Behind some of our most common words stand real-life namesakes. Where would be without Louis Braille, Etienne Silhouette, Joseph Guillotine, and the Earl of Sandwich?

What would I have to popularize or become known for to become a noun? To have a name that is so closely tied to something that it becomes interchangeable? Will "pulling a Peggy" ever be used beyond the scope of my own family to indicate my penchant for practical jokes? Will "Johnstone Scale" ever become a mainstream way to measure enthusiasm? I find it a little under-whelming to become a noun with the ever-present risk of genericide (think kleenex, bandaid, and google).

I prefer to lend my name to verbification—the act of activating a noun. Today, I will choose a new verb for myself, and it will be fun. Today, I will be a verb.

"I think I am a verb." ~Buckminster Fuller

1,000 Marbles

2010-10-09T16:43:00.000-07:00

This is one of those lessons that life seems to hand us from time to time. It's helped me to keep a good perspective on my own priorities.

An elderly Ham radio enthusiast tells that when he was 55 years old, he sat down one day, did a little arithmetic, and found the average person lives about 75 years. Multiplying 75 years times 52 weeks, he came up with 3,900, which is the number of Saturdays the average person has in his entire lifetime. At 55 years old, though, he had already lived through over 2,800 Saturdays. He began to think that if he lived to be 75, he only had about 1,000 Saturdays left to enjoy. So he went to a toy store and bought every single marble they had, visiting three toy stores to round up 1,000 marbles. He took them home and put them inside of a large clear container.

Every Saturday he took one marble out and threw it away. By watching the marbles diminish, he focused more on the really important things in life. There is nothing like watching your time here on this earth run out to help get your priorities straight.

One recent Saturday, at 75 years old, he took the very last marble out of the container. He figured if he made it until the next Saturday, he'd been given a little extra time. And the one thing we can all use is a little more time. What did I do with my precious time today? I did some volunteer work this morning, and then I went to a toy store and bought some marbles.

My wish for all you, my friends? May all of your Saturdays be special!

Wordplay

2010-10-07T07:50:00.000-07:00

For those of us who love words, entertainment is everywhere.

After reading Lewis Carroll's "Jabberwocky" earlier this week, I've been on the lookout for examples of portmanteaux (chortle and snowmageddon), malapropisms (historical versus hysterical), colloquialisms (hootenanny), and accidental word coinage (refudiate and misunderestimate).

This morning, with my coffee in hand, it all came together for me in a comic strip. There is perhaps nothing that consistently serves up an abundant helping of wordplay--what The Washington Post calls 'an unraveling coil of malapropism and accidental word coinage'--than "Get Fuzzy," one of my all-time favorite comics.

I've heard it said that you can tell a lot about a person by seeing what makes him laugh. I'm not sure what this says about me, but a day that begins with laughter can't be so bad!

Blue Jays

2010-10-01T11:57:00.000-07:00

There was a group of raucous Blue Jays in the woods behind my house this morning. I was instantly transported to the home of my Aunt Marge and Uncle Erv in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where I spent a lot of time during the summers growing up. The woods behind their house was filled with Blue Jays who trumpeted their quarrelsome cry all summer long, providing a noisy backdrop to all our activities.

I have the strongest and fondest memories of spending time with them in their home on Dartmouth Avenue. So I sat and thought of my cousins, of the pool in their backyard, and of the screened-in porch where we children ate during the summer. I remember the books spilling from shelves in every room, my aunt's zucchini bread, the laughter, and the exotic treasures collected on their travels, especially the Russian nesting dolls. I thought of the Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop down the street, Daiquiri Ice sherbet, and Silly String fights.

When I heard the Blue Jays this morning, it brought all this back in an instant warm rush of nostalgia. Did my aunt and uncle ever imagine they were collecting things and building a life so full and rich that I now long to remember? And did they ever imagine the unlikely role Blue Jays would play in reminding me? Aunt Marge and Uncle Erv are no longer with us, but the Blue Jays bring all this home for me, and I find myself awash in early morning memories.

Sticklers Unite!

2010-09-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

It's National Punctuation Day today. This is a big day on my calendar!

Throughout the year, I collect examples of badly punctuated signage (my favorite is posted below), and read books with pencil in hand to correct punctuation errors in print. Call it my 'zero tolerance approach to punctuation'.

Today, I'm going to celebrate the day by curling up with one of my favorite books, Eats, Shoots & Leaves (see below), a manifesto for those of us punctilious about punctuation. I'm also going to make a point of using my favorite punctuation--the serial comma--boldly, frequently, and without apology as many times as possible today.

For those who agree that standards of punctuation in our world are abysmal, please share what you'll do to mark this great day. Share your bad signage! Spread the word! Sticklers Unite!

Nobody But Myself

2010-09-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

"All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone had tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization that everyone else appears to have been born with: I am nobody but myself."

~ Ralph Ellison

April Magic

2010-05-01T07:54:00.000-07:00

April passed quickly in my world. Today, on the first of May, I feel reflective, wanting to acknowledge this lovely month when Spring bursts forth and I am again allowed to witness the magic in this yearly performance. It's always surprising and inspiring to watch.

One year ago, during this magic month of April, three remarkable and unexpected things happened, and they left a profound mark on me that still has me looking for magic and wonder in the everyday.

Mine That Bird came from nowhere to win the Kentucky Derby against 50 to 1 odds, creating the second-biggest upset in Derby history. He won not by a nose, but by a mile. He came, quite literally, from out of the blue.

Mark "The Bird" Fidrych, the beloved Detroit Tiger pitcher from the 1970s, died of a tragic accident. Only allowed to start a game in 1976 because the starting pitcher was sick, he astounded everyone by throwing seven no-hit innings that game. No one saw it coming. He captured imaginations and entertained with his onfield antics, and overnight became a national celebrity. He went on to win the American Rookie of the Year Award in '76. Every time he pitched in Tiger Stadium, he filled the seats with "Bird Watchers."

Susan Boyle, the unlikely Scottish superstar, delivered a stunning performance on Britain's Got Talent and surprised the world with her tremendous voice and incredible performance of "I Dreamed A Dream" from Les Miserables. From the seventh note, she had the audience and judges flabbergasted and on their feet cheering.

What is it about surprise performances? About someone/thing coming from seemingly nowhere to wow and inspire us? Is it about feeling shaken out of commonplace and mundane experiences by those who take us quickly and unexpectedly to a new level? Is it seeing someone who has truly made a difference and has the passion to share that gift freely with others? Is it seeing those who aspire to so much more than the mundane and ordinary around us?

I love to be surprised. I love the experience of receiving more than I expect. The magic is in the surprise, in the unexpected. It's that catch in the throat, that small intake of air as you realize you're witnessing something truly wonderful, unexpected and rare. That's true of Nature's performance each April, too. How lucky I am to get a front-row seat to that performance each year. Adieu, magic month. And 'Thank You' to two Birds and a Boyle, who in unexpected ways gave me a magical year.

Wet Paint

2010-03-08T16:33:00.000-08:00

"Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can."

~Danny Kaye

The Last Great Race on Earth

2010-03-06T17:19:00.000-08:00

It can't be compared to any other competitive event in the world! A race over 1,000 miles of the roughest, most beautiful terrain Mother Nature has to offer. Add to that subzero temperatures, harsh weather conditions, the distance, as well as the indomitable mushers and dogsled teams, and you have the Iditarod. A race extraordinaire; a race possible only in Alaska.
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Beginning today, March 6, the Iditarod pits man and animal against nature in wild Alaska at her best. Created to coincide with the Iditarod is the Idita-Walk, a physical fitness / walking event. As I hit the halfway mark of the 1,049 required minutes earlier this week, I was thankful for the differences between my walking and the amazing race from Anchorage to Nome.

However, there are similarities between the two events, as well. Both offer the potential for tales of adventure, feelings of accomplishment, and redefining personal limits. And just like each musher goes the distance to accomplish a feat few dare to attempt and establishes a place for himself and his team in the annals of Iditarod lore, I too go the distance through snow and subzero temperatures and find a little bit of hero inside.

Susurrus

2010-02-22T18:19:00.000-08:00

Favorite word of the day: Susurrus

A great onomatopoeia I'm going to use at least once today.

"Of its aerial roof,

arose the chant of their vespers,

Mingling its notes

with the soft susurrus

and sighs of the branches."

~Longelllow

Kindness Class

2010-02-15T06:16:00.000-08:00

The director of a school in Washington has created an inspiring online social innovation. He calls it "Kindness Class." Andy Smallman came up with this ingenious concept after practicing a weekly activity in his school involving random acts of kindness. He thought bringing it online would provide structure for people all over the world to make a difference in a tangible way by considering and practicing kindness.

Each week students in the online course get an assignment. In week one, they do something kind for themselves. In week two, they do something kind for someone they love, and so on. Along the way, participatnts do something kind for a neighbor, provide something wonderful for someone to find, let everyone go ahead of them for a week, and do something kind anonymously.

Andy envisions this as a sort of kindness alliance, which will start ripples of kindness that will be felt in faraway places, touching others and creating even more kind acts. Infecting the world with kindness and optimism sounds like a wonderful goal. And in a world that's becoming more troubled and pessimistic by the day, Kindness Class is an idea whose time has come.

Mrs. Discombobulous

2010-02-03T06:03:00.000-08:00

When I was in Kindergarten, my parents bought me a book called Mrs. Discombobulous. It was not only the greatest title I'd ever seen, but it was filled with delicious words like vixen, virago, tyrant and tartar.

So the word 'discombobulate' is a word it seems like I've always known to refer to someone who is emotionally perplexed and who can't think clearly.

Those who know me know I'm not a great traveler. Discombobulated is how I feel when I travel, especially by airplane. Maybe it's the space limitation, the air quality, and the noise that wear away at me. Maybe it's the whiff of peril I always feel upon takeoff, when an enormous metal machine pretends to have feathers. It could just be the whole airport security protocol travelers are run through today.

Regardless, this picture was taken at the airport in Milwaukee, and I thought it was a smashing acknowledgement to the effect traveling through airports can have on a person. Workers there have given the post-security area, where passengers can lace up their shoes and reassemble their carryons, a new name. How fitting is that?

I'm working on creating my own Recombobulation space for 2010.

No Limit For Better

2010-01-25T06:24:00.000-08:00

Last week's Parade magazine featured an interview with Harrison Ford. And I learned a few things about him that I hadn't known before. For instance, before he made it as an actor, he was a carpenter, and that experience forever influenced his perspective of life.

At one point in the article he says, "When I was a carpenter, I once worked with this Russian lady architect. I would tell her, 'Look, I'm terribly sorry, but I want to change that a half-inch,' and she would say, 'No limit for better.' I think that is a worthy credo. You keep on going until you get it as close to being right as the time and patience of others will allow."

No limit for better. Now that's good advice for a Monday.

Treasure

2009-03-30T18:12:00.001-07:00

It was a reading kind of day at my house. I nibbled at some Henry James, some F. Scott Fitzgerald, and some Elizabeth Barrett Browning poetry. Treasures, all.

Books, books, books!
I had found the secret of a garret room
Piled high with cases in my father's name;
Piled high, packed large, where, creeping in and out
Among the giant fossils of my past,
Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there
At this or that box, pulling through the gap,
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,
The first book first. And how I felt it beat
Under my pillow, in the morning's dark,
An hour before the sun would let me read!
My books! At last, because the time was ripe,
I chanced upon the poets.

~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Training Wheels

2009-03-27T07:40:00.000-07:00

This week, Corban decided he was ready to ride his bike without training wheels. He was actually ready at the end of last summer, but we didn't rush him. There was a sense of security he felt with them attached. But when they came off on Sunday, he was elated. He was ready. With his dad running behind the bike and holding onto the seat, you could see in Corban’s face the moment he acknowledged and embraced the commitment, that point of no return. He dove into this new experience with glee!

I had tears in my eyes. I was so happy for him, so proud of this deliberate step of his. But this is the last of my children I’ll watch give up training wheels. There is a realization that certain things are behind me for good now, and that leaves me a little sad and joyful at the same time. As I contemplated my surprise tears on this occasion, I thought about things in my life I may be holding onto, my own training wheels, things that provide comfort and security like a safety net, allowing me to try things out without ever really committing, caught between the dream of action and fear of failure.

Could I dare to take off my training wheels? Could I do it with as much joy and excitement as Corban had? Passivity makes no demands of me. The world is full of endless possibilities there for the taking. That world is my stage, and I can chose to give the performance of a lifetime or sit in the audience. As I watch my son’s wild and exhilarating bike ride, I recommit to the ride of my life and launch forth gleefully on two wheels.

Heroes

2009-03-25T18:56:00.000-07:00

Poetikat challenged me to compile a list of 25 of my literary heroes, those authors who made me realize the magic and power of literature and words, and who inspired me to write. Here is my list:

Youthful impressions: Beverly Cleary, EB White, Lucy Maud Montgomery, Mary Norton, and Mildred Wirt Benson (Carolyn Keene) awakened my mind's eye and developed my imaginative muscle.

The Conjurers: Madeleine L'Engle, Ray Bradbury, George Orwell, Margaret Atwood, Marion Zimmer Bradley, and CS Lewis introduced me to speculative fiction, alternative worlds, and mythopoeia.

The Bard: William Shakespeare taught me how delicious words can taste.

The Dame: Margaret Mitchell began my love affair with historical fiction.

The Songwriter: Carly Simon's confessional songwriting taught me that music is what feelings sound like.

The Poets: Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson and TS Eliot made me aware of something immense running through me, and forever rearranged the furniture of my heart.

The Naturalist: Henry David Thoreau helped develop my capacity for wonder, self-reliance and simplicity, and continues to send me out to chase the wind.

The Storytellers: Whether exploring the hidden motivations and psychology of human nature, creating unforgettable and rich locations through traditions and folklore, exploring themes of aspiration and lost innocence, or weaving threads of fate, hope and social observation into a literary tapestry, my most influential storytellers have been Karen Blixen (Isak Dinesen), Mary Shelley, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Thomas Hardy, Leo Tolstoy, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I, in turn, offer this challenge to Colonel Brandon at Nature's Diary, Bee at Desk of Bee Drunken, and Carol at The Writer's Porch. Who have been your author influences?

Gratitude

2009-03-24T13:35:00.001-07:00

The man strode toward me this morning—one in a long string of mornings. The energy and purpose in his stride was unmistakable. I felt myself tense. He is our neighborhood connoisseur of woe, the grandfather of one of the children at the bus stop. You can accurately predict the amount or depth of his woes merely by watching him walk toward you. The worse the complaints, the more energetic the walk and the longer the stride.

With little apparent drive and motivation to his life, he does have a mission. He is on a treadmill accumulating misery at every step, and he is intent on savoring and sharing every shred of it. It seems he stores up morsels of morose news to share, delighting in disgorging a mighty torrent of wretchedness that threatens to sweep away everyone/thing in his path in an assault of negative and angry words. He refuses to be diverted—working relentlessly to maintain his wet-blanket mode.

There are so many broken people in the world, infected with dark, brooding clouds over their lives blinding them to the good around them. Negative people not only harm themselves; they harm the world. They cease to make a contribution to it. Instead of helping, they spread gloom and doom everywhere, robbing themselves and others of happiness.

A sure cure for this condition is the Appreciation Diet. Every morning, write down on paper five things you’re happy about and five things you’re grateful for. This helps you focus on the positive things in life. At the end of each day, write down five things you did well that day. This forces you to appreciate your strengths and not to be so hard on yourself.

Thornton Wilder said, “We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” How true! Surely, if negativity cripples the human spirit, appreciation and gratitude give it wings.

Inheritance

2009-03-23T11:02:00.000-07:00

It is not enough to prepare our children for the world;

we must also prepare the world for our children.

~Luis J. Rodriguez

Wilma and Betty, Revisited

2009-03-22T06:46:00.000-07:00

I'm recycling a post from last November in honor of my daughter, Lindsey, who is planning a trip to see her best friend. Separated by distance, they remain close. This picture is of Lindsey and Maria in costumes Lindsey made. Who knew she'd still like to play dress-up in her 20s?!

I had to laugh recently when I heard someone say that the cartoon “The Flintstones” was really promoting Marxism, and that there were ideological messages about the individual’s place in society hidden within the cartoon. That sure wasn’t the message I got from watching “The Flintstones,” a staple in my Saturday morning lineup of cartoons while growing up.

I watched as Fred and Wilma and their neighbors, Barney and Betty, dealt with stone-age suburban problems, work issues, difficult bosses, friendships, crises, out-of-control pets and children, and their primitive versions of modern conveniences. They got caught up in the same things we do today: fads and crazes, celebrity idolization, dreaming of the ‘good life’. They struggled through mistakes and misunderstandings, bad decisions and anger. They laughed and cried, fought and made up with one another, always learning important lessons about life and relationships along the way.

But it was Wilma and Betty I admired most. They were the level-headed ones. They were strong female voices of reason. They served to check and balance the harebrained schemes Barney and Fred dreamt up. Most of all, they were best friends for more than 30 years. My very favorite Flintstone episode was when Wilma and Betty took Judo lessons to protect themselves from a neighborhood prowler. I loved their practical responses to things (most of the time!) and their mutual support. I still think they’re great role models for girls, teaching us the importance and endurance of friendship. It takes a long time to grow an old friend, and every minute is worth it. Yabba-Dabba Do, Lindsey and Maria!

Spring Fever

2009-03-20T10:10:00.000-07:00

"It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want—oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!"

~ Mark Twain

A Mother's Lap

2009-03-19T10:03:00.001-07:00

My seven-year-old is outgrowing some of his books, most of which we’ve had for over 20 years. One last time, I leaf through these wonderful and familiar books, read and loved by all three children. I remember the lovely hours spent with a child on my lap reading. We all acknowledge the power and benefits of reading to our children, but add in the lap component and magic happens. We’re donating some of the books to our local library, but there are some classics I’ll hang onto even when my last chick has left the nest, and Dr. Seuss is among them.

Earlier this month, schools across the country celebrated ‘Cat in the Hat Day’ in honor of Theodor Seuss Geisel, our beloved Dr. Seuss. As a child, he too was introduced to the love of reading and words on his mother’s lap. She read and recited rhymes to him; in fact, he credited her with his ability and desire to create his famous and well-known rhymes.

Brilliant and playful, Dr. Seuss changed the nature of children’s books and helped four generations of children learn to read. His stories march at a rhythmic pace, full of tongue-twisters, word play, inventive vocabulary, and imaginative hybrid beasts. Even after his death in 1991, Dr. Seuss continues to be the best-selling author of children's books in the world. I always enjoyed reading his stories as much as my children loved hearing them. I’ve heard reading his books described as an amusement park for your mouth! Isn’t it nice to know you’re never too old to read a Dr. Seuss book?

And now we’ve come full-circle. As Ted Geisel learned to love words and rhymes on his mother’s lap, I’m hoping to impart similar lessons to my children on my lap. Read-aloud time is always a special experience marked off from ordinary by a parent's lap and a Dr. Seuss book. Corban may be outgrowing some of his books, but with many stories to be told and lessons to be shared, even at seven, he still fits perfectly in my lap.

Idita-Walk

2009-03-18T10:31:00.001-07:00

Along with a few family members, I’ve joined the 832 participants this year in the annual Idita-Walk. Created to coincide with the Iditarod, the 1,049-mile sled dog race between Anchorage and Nome, Alaska, completing the Idita-Walk requires walking 1,049 minutes between February 1 and March 31.

Although I don't have to brave the same harsh conditions as those indomitable sled dogs and their mushers, walking for 1,049 minutes in Michigan in February and early March is not for the fainthearted! In fact, I use ski poles for balance and stability while I log my miles. I can walk about four miles in an hour as I clomp along in my UGGs, the only boots I've ever owned that keep my feet warm.

After a long winter season of exercising indoors, how delicious it feels to pull that cold, fresh Michigan air, straight off the lake, into my lungs. And the walking trail that begins two blocks from my house is sublime. It’s lined with mature oaks, maples, cedars and pines that hold hands over my head to form a canopy; picturesque even in harsh conditions.

I’ll earn this snappy little lapel pin when, this next week, I complete the Idita-Walk. Now I’m off to hit the trail again. Mush!

Winter's End

2009-03-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

Those who know me have heard me lament over the past months about how long our Winter season has been this year. We’ve had snow on the ground since the end of October, survived two bona fide blizzards, and dug out from under 110-plus inches of snow. With another four to six weeks of winter under our collective belts, we’re anxious for Spring in this neck of the woods.

In other parts of the world, and even here in the United States, people measure Spring’s proximity by various means. It is heralded by robins, budding leaves, crocuses and daffodils. However, here in these northern climes alongside Lake Michigan, we know Winter is almost over when we can see the deer wandering around!

Absentee Blogger

2009-03-17T06:39:00.000-07:00

I've been away tending to some work-related projects that, as it turned out, required more of my time and energy than I'd anticipated.

Having brought that area of my life back under relative control, I'm looking forward to getting back to blogging and visiting with my bloggy friends. Give me a few days and I'll catch up with everybody's blogs!

Forgiveness, Part II

2009-02-27T05:26:00.000-08:00

A happy, healthy 22-year-old college student with a loving family, Immaculee Ilibagiza’s life was transformed during 1994 Rwandan genocide when, as EM Forster so aptly put it, “the spirit of evil strode abroad and carried men forward over a new precipice.” She weighed 115 pounds when she went into hiding in a tiny bathroom from those who wanted her dead, those infected with collective madness. And she was one of eight Tutsi women who survived, all starving, in this tiny room. When she left the room 91 days later, she weighed 65 pounds, her family had been brutally murdered, and her country had been destroyed.

Later coming face to face with the killer of her mother and brother, she said to him, “I forgive you.” So often our human response is to punish in return, to rail against the storm without to attempt to quell the storm within. Rather than being crushed by the enemy and remade in his hateful image, she released him, and it released her. Immaculee realized retaliating would only add fuel to a fire that would destroy them both.

After reading things terrible to think about but impossible to forget, I’ve come to the conclusion that forgiveness requires great courage. It’s been said that courage is fear that has said its prayers, but it’s not something you can just grab for in a time of need and expect it to be handy; it has to be something you build a life around. Courage, faith, and love gave this remarkable woman an inner security against which all outside battering was powerless. Her forgiveness was an act of self-healing not tied to this man’s response, but essential for her to move forward with hope, courage and peace.

She immigrated to the United States in 1998, told her story in a book, Left to Tell, in 2006, and now works with the United Nations heading a charity to help children of that tragic genocide. She sets such a wonderful example for us in how to live extraordinarily during horrendous times and how to be truly forgiving. But most impressive to me, she reminded me of our obligation, once over our own hurdles, to help others. What a lesson! Immaculee, I’m in your debt.

“If every man would mend a man, then all the world would be mended.” –Anonymous

Forgiveness, Part I

2009-02-25T08:34:00.000-08:00

Forgiveness is a funny thing. It's a quality most people would like to think they possess, but true forgiveness seems curiously lacking in many—and even in myself on occasion, truth be told. When we've been harmed or wronged, to forgive seems the proper thing, and we think our ability--our willingness--to do this says something about us as a person. But sometimes we become so preoccupied with being wronged that true forgiveness can't happen. Tennyson captured a common attitude toward forgiveness: Forgive! How many will say “forgive” and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer? Truly, words of forgiveness are nothing without truth behind them.

What prompted my contemplations on forgiveness? Two things: A very precious and dear friend of mine has been terribly betrayed by her husband, and has remained both strong and truly forgiving; and I just finished an amazing book about the best and worst of humanity, the undefeatable human spirit in the darkest of times, and the power of forgiveness.

Through both, I'm reminded that forgiveness is not a self-righteous, self-sacrificing gift I bestow upon another, as though I'm generously offering something out of a superior heart. Rather, it's a releasing of wrongs and their attendant feelings in myself. It's as though I'm forever relinquishing my right to hurt someone for hurting me. True forgiveness is an act of self-healing not tied to another's changing, apologizing or acknowledging that they've caused me pain. In fact, it requires no response on their part at all. It's giving up the possibility of a better past, and facing the future with hope, courage, and love. I'm inspired by my best friend's example, as well as by an incredible book, which I'll post about tomorrow.

February Gifts

2009-02-23T14:23:00.001-08:00

We returned home from our out-of-town getaway just in time for my seven-year-old's 110th day at school. Each student was given 110 sunflower seeds to feed the birds. What a wonderful idea! With at least a month left in our Winter here, it reminded me to refill our birdfeeders for our colorful little backyard visitors.

I gave one-hundred and ten presents.
One-hundred and ten, did I say?
I gave one-hundred and ten presents
one cold and wintry day.

I didn't put my name on them
or any other words,
because my presents were sunflower seeds
for the February birds!

--Aileen Fisher

Suitcase in Hand...

2009-02-18T13:33:00.000-08:00

How incredibly thoughtless of me to go traveling out of town without some sort of goodbye to all my bloggy friends! I'll be back on Friday, February 20th. I wish everyone the happiest and healthiest of times until then!

Photo, Marianne McCoy

The Tempest

2009-02-10T16:16:00.001-08:00

Winter is losing its grip. We were gifted today with a blue sky, a bright sun, and 60-degree temperatures. It was so lovely you almost didn’t notice the 50-mile-per-hour winds scouring the landscape. Intense and volatile weather is not unheard of along the shores of Lake Michigan, where the water seems to enhance whatever the weather throws at it. Storms are born over the lake and rush toward us with wild abandon, flinging themselves eastward like supplicants toward Mecca.

The unbroken horizon over the lake is a panoramic canvas for the vast and ever-changing cloud formations. Because the lake and the weather are so interconnected here, when the wind is as high as it is today, so are the waves. Their frenzied assault on the pier and the shore can be heard from a distance, a brutal and exhausting roar. There is storm building even now. The beautifully portentous clouds are bunched and herded by the relentless, strident wind. Darkly dramatic, Nature looks glorious in all her wild raiment. In respect and awe, I reluctantly take shelter.

Inspiration

2009-02-09T15:29:00.000-08:00

On her blog, Joanne recently asked about where we go for inspiration. I didn't even need a moment to think about it. One of my favorite places to be is in used bookstores. It’s about more than just a love of literature. It’s about holding a book someone else has owned, a book someone cared enough about not to throw away. It’s about being in a place that connects generation to generation, culture to culture, and age to age.

Sometimes I’ll crack open a book to see a cache of forgotten keepsakes: an old bookmark, an old letter, a note in the margin, a name on the inside cover. Once I bought a used book simply because there was a loose photograph of a woman inside. I felt an odd but instant kinship with this woman, choosing to believe she was the previous owner of the book. A hotel cocktail napkin fell out of a book once. It had a name and room number on it. Was there a story there?

Even the term, ‘used bookstore’, conjures up for me instant atmosphere: dusty, un-inventoried, and overflowing shelves to the ceiling; creaky floorboards and irregular lighting; controlled chaos; the lovely musty and heady smell of old books; tilting towers of lettered spines. It’s like a treasure hunt, this browsing and searching for idle hours in a place that seems detached from the rest of the world and where the pace is slow motion. You never know exactly what you’ll find, but the longer you stay, the more you’ll leave with.

I know some who feel used bookstores are beneath them. I, on the other hand, love their worn, disheveled, slightly shabby interiors. As I wander down their treasured aisles of out-of-print books and lost knowledge, it seems to me that more life is able to take root and grow there. When I have to leave, it's always reluctantly.

"It was clear that the books owned the shop rather than the other way about. Everywhere they had run wild and taken possession of their habitat breeding and multiplying, and clearly lacking any strong hand to keep them down." — Agatha Christie (1963)

The Art of Living

2009-02-05T06:27:00.000-08:00

“All the art of living lies in a fine mingling

of letting go and holding on.”

Quotation: Havelock Ellis

Painting: Ride, Don McAfee

Einstein's Folly, Part II

2009-02-04T10:39:00.000-08:00

After his expulsion from school, Einstein also had a two-year stint as a first-chair violin playing with the London Symphony Orchestra under Maestro Sir Neville Mariner. Even in this dignified setting, Einstein's antics abounded. He would improvise musical embellishments, often from other songs, into the music he was playing, and he played when he should have been resting. He simply couldn't stick to the score.

Therein lies my fascination with Albert Einstein. This quirky comedian with unruly hair and rumpled clothes couldn't stick to the “score.” While this wouldn't serve him well in an orchestra, I thought it was a smashing tribute to a man whose early life gave little evidence of his sprawling genius or the destiny he would fulfill. Thinking outside the box, being open to new possibilities, and seeing fresh ideas through new eyes served him well, this man who fundamentally changed the way we see our physical world.

He experienced so much, followed his heart and dreams, ignored critics, and retained his sense of humor. What wonderful lessons for us. One of the many wise things Einstein said was, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” I choose to believe he was not speaking solely of things scientific. And so this has become my mantra, as well, as I stray occasionally from my “score” to discover more about myself and life.

Einstein's Folly, Part I

2009-02-03T09:16:00.000-08:00

Albert Einstein. What a brilliant mind. What a complex man. Arguably the most recognized scientist in history, he won a Nobel Peace Prize for physics in 1923. But there was a funny side to this serious man that many are unaware of. We've glimpsed it here and there, like in the famous photo of him sticking out his tongue, which was actually part of his vaudeville act. Vaudeville? Yes, vaudeville!

After being expelled from school in Rotterdam, Germany for classroom pranks involving bats and skunks—which resulted in the injury of seven students—Einstein performed vaudeville in New York under the unlikely moniker “Fuzz Ball,” surely a reference to his wild hair. His outrageous and physical comic act brought him into the company of Harry Houdini, WC Fields and the ventriloquist, Edgar Bergen. Bergen's dummy, Charlie McCarthy, was stolen one evening. In the ensuing investigation it was discovered that Einstein, a kleptomaniac, had collected hundreds of “souvenirs” from his fellow performers, including Bergen's dummy. The response to Einstein's scandal included an offer of treatment from Sigmund Freud, and The New York Post dubbed him the “Comic Kleptomaniac.”

Although his antics and practical jokes were not always well received by others, and compulsive behavior aside, this was a man with a hearty sense of humor. Here was a man who loved to laugh. We can’t, of course, know how much of an impact, if any, Einstein’s sense of humor had on his brilliant mind. But when I look at pictures like these, I’m reminded of Jean Houston’s profound words: “In the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of possibilities.” How much richer we are today for having been shown the possibilities. Thank you, Mr. Einstein.

(Silent) Poetry Reading

2009-02-02T05:02:00.000-08:00

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore—
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

--Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Here are a few other blogs that are participating:

Garden Mother

The Gold Puppy

From the Desk of Bee Drunken
Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes

Reminder

2009-02-01T12:40:00.000-08:00

This is a reminder that Monday, February 2nd is the Fourth Annual Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading. Post your favorite poem (your own or someone else's) on your blog anytime on Monday. Visit Reya's blog for the details.

Castles

2009-01-30T09:36:00.000-08:00

“The shattered wall,
the broken tower
have a story to tell –
from the touchstones of ruins
and ancient texts
we make a pilgrimage.”

–David Day

What is it about castles? The word alone conjures up images and feelings that seize my imagination. Mysterious and immense, they’re full of fragments of history and myth. How lasting, how permanent these structures of stone arches, marble chambers, great halls, secret passageways and dungeons; this realm of kings and queens, maidens and knights, giants and gods, dwarves and faeries, heroes and bards.

The drama of old tales seems close at hand while these structures remain standing, as though the structures themselves strain to share all that went on and all who went before. They seem to hold out a beckoning promise of ancient wonder to me. Still so filled with the past, still so saturated with history and myth, I could almost be transported back to the age of fantasy, romance and myth. I’d step in to find myself in the midst of daily bustling life within those enclosed outer walls. What a lovely dream come true for a girl who never gave up dreaming of a long-past time, real or imagined, when castles and dreams were born of rock and took shape in my heart and imagination.

Illustrations by Alan Lee, concept artist for The Lord of the Rings movies.

A Lost Art

2009-01-29T11:21:00.000-08:00

I was reading a blog the other day of someone who still loves writing hand-written letters. The act of putting pen to paper is considered an art form by some, but it’s a dying art. In our day of Hallmark cards, emails, and texting with short comments punctuated by abbreviations, penmanship and authorship are eroding. It wasn’t so long ago that sending and receiving a handwritten letter was a savored pleasure in life.

Throughout history, handwritten letters have recorded moments big and small, feelings high and low, things mundane, tragic, poetic, romantic. This used to be such an important part of people’s lives. Today these letters are links to the past, echoing of hurts, disappointments, joys, loves, excitements and experiences, pulling us into the writer’s life, if only for a few moments, as we realize they cared enough to put it on the page. They are gifts of the writer’s time and energy.

I’ve had some remarkable letters in my life: A letter my father wrote to his four young children. A flurry of letters between my twin brother and me while he was stationed in Iraq during Operation Desert Storm 18 years ago. A collection of letters my cousin wrote to a French nurse before being shot down over France in 1917 at 30 years of age. I treasure these gift-wrapped memories—powerful and palpable signs of love and life constructed one word at a time—and I reread them often.

I’m inspired to send thoughtful letters in 2009, reaching out to those I care about with handwritten sentiments that share a part of me. Combining solitude with good company, letter writing can allow me to go places while moving nothing but my heart.

Feast of Color

2009-01-28T12:46:00.000-08:00

Except for the dark trunks of trees, there was hardly any color outdoors. I yearned for something to break up the white-and-black bleakness. And then a cardinal, a feast of color and light, alit on a branch.

For the Love of a Child

2009-01-27T10:58:00.000-08:00

Carol at The Writer's Porch has bestowed upon me a gracious and lovely recognition for my "Worry Dolls" post, the Compassion Award. I thank you, Carol, from the bottom of my heart and proudly display this on my sidebar. And I thank Corban, too, who was the subject of this post. For all the challenges he presents, he continues to make it so easy to be a good mom.

Worry Dolls

2009-01-27T05:53:00.000-08:00

Yesterday’s post explained Corban’s recent scare and the curious resultant behavior of circling me. In order to allay his anxiety, soothe his fear, and help him re-find his center of gravity—which, as you can imagine, is more pronounced at bedtime—I did two things. Regarding the first, thank you, Reya, for the wonderful suggestion (see her comment on the “Running in Circles” post). Second, I got him a set of Worry Dolls, which we’re carefully calling Worry People in front of our perceptive and discerning seven-year-old boy.

I don’t remember when I first heard or came into contact with Worry Dolls, or Trouble Dolls, but the whole concept delights me. Originally from in Guatemala, they’re made for children and come in boxes or bags of six. According to folklore, a child can express his worries to a doll and place it under his pillow before going to sleep at night. The doll is thought to worry in the child’s place, thereby permitting him to sleep peacefully. The child is given one worry doll each night and instructed to tell one trouble or fear to the doll. The next morning when the child wakes up, the worry doll is gone from the bed (I’ve got to remember to do this part!), taking that worry with it. To introduce Corban to this whole concept, I read him Trouble Dolls, a wonderful book for children by Jimmy Buffett.

We know, of course, that there’s no magical element involved here, and that this is comparable to many of the myths we have for kids. I believe intention, faith and belief play an important role in a child’s ability to deal with anxiety. And it seems, from a psychological standpoint, using Worry Dolls is quite sound; in point of fact, some hospitals use them with children to relieve anxiety. I thought this would be a good-sense way to help Corban voice his worries and fears and to promote better sleep. We’re on the second night here; two dolls down, four to go. Pleasant dreams, Corban.

Running in Circles

2009-01-26T12:23:00.000-08:00

An image frightened Corban the other day, and he’s not even sure what he saw. Usually very independent and confident, my seven-year-old’s response to this has been an interesting one. He’s been circling me. He’s been running, walking and moving in circles around me while we’re talking, while I’m making dinner, after we eat. He’s outwardly calm; there is no hurry to his movements and motions. He doesn’t look anxious or upset. But something got into his head; something left an imprint.

He isn’t glued to me as though he’s too frightened to step away. It’s as though he’s lost his own center of gravity and is drawn by my apparent gravitational pull. He’s always been a mover, a boy with an abundance of energy spilling over into impatience; a pure intoxication of motion. Nothing has changed there. Now, though, it’s manifesting as this circling thing. I’ve become the hub with this young life revolving around me, trying to calm and comfort himself by wrapping me with this new energy. It was intriguing at first, then worrisome, then annoying (especially while making dinner). Now it’s just interesting.

But just as I have to go to my own sources to keep myself centered and balanced, I must now help Corban re-find his center of gravity. In the world around us, there are a lot of things that can impact a child, leaving him feeling unsettled and unsure, so I know this is not the last time I’ll have to help him through making sense of his world. And even though life often gets better all by itself, I’m going to give Corban a special gift to help him in this so we can return from our foray into this valley of curious behavior. I’ll write about that in my next post.

The Overcoat

2009-01-24T09:23:00.000-08:00

I was inspired yesterday at the blog of my friend, Derrick, whose posts are full of historical signifcance and wonder. It got me thinking about my own love affair with history, which began, oddly enough, with Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind.

So it was, when I was 14 years old, that I found history all wrapped up in a wonderful novel about the American Civil War. I was hooked. Enthralled, I read about places I'd heard about and studied in other, drier contexts. With sudden clarity of mind and heart, I finally grasped that history is not made up merely of facts and events, but of people whose lives and decisions are shaped, impacted, affected by all that happens around them. I was seeing history-in-the-making through the eyes of those to whom it mattered deeply. Because my beloved characters cared deeply, I began to care deeply, as well.

There is a weight and comfort and substance I feel when reading/studying history. What has gone before shapes us all in large and small ways; it is our constant shadow. The significance of history deserves a poem, and so here I share my hands-down favorite.

The Lesson

In the morning when I found History
snoring heavily on the couch,
I took down his overcoat from the rack
and placed its weight over my shoulder blades.
It would protect me on the cold walk
into the village for milk and the paper
and I figured he would not mind,
not after our long conversation the night before.
How unexpected his blustering anger
when I returned covered with icicles,
the way he rummaged through the huge pockets
making sure no major battle or English queen
had fallen out and become lost in the deep snow.

--Billy Collins

An Award For Me?

2009-01-23T08:46:00.000-08:00

Three months ago I started this blog as a personal exercise and shared it with my family. In a short 90 days, it's astounding how many people I've met and friends I've made. One of these, Kat at Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes, has presented me with a "Superior Scribbler Award." I humbly accept this award from her, honored to join the worthy bloggers who've come before.

Daily, I'm intrigued, enlightened and entertained by the creativity and perspectives of others who've crossed my path in this wonderful world of blogging. And I thank them for allowing me to see the world through their eyes, and sometimes giving me a creative well to draw on. In that spirit, I, in turn, pass this award on to a few friends who, through their writing, have told my heart things it knows are true and who have given me a taste for possibilites that aren't found on the everyday menus of life.

Barry @ An Explorer's View of Life -- A wonderful storyteller, handling even heavy subjects with a light hand and an ever-faithful canine at his side.

Joanne @ Whole Latte Life -- Her posts are written to encourage thought and dialogue, but they go so much deeper. I'm shocked into truthfulness for a few minutes each day at her site.

Bee @ From the Desk of Bee Drunken -- A Texan in England, she makes the place she lives the place she loves and shares it generously with us through her thoughtful writing style.

Larkspur @ Garden Mother -- She shares her love of beauty, wrapping even the mundane in inspiration that is a delight to read.

If you choose to accept this award, here are those pesky rules:

Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to Scholastic-Scribe, which explains The Award.
Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we’ll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

The Red Balloon

2009-01-20T08:01:00.000-08:00

I was in the third grade when I saw my first “art” film, a sweet masterpiece of French cinema called “The Red Balloon” (Albert Lamorisse, 1956). Short, simple, and almost wordless, this is the story of a young Parisian boy named Pascal living an ordinary life in the dull gray of postwar France. And then he finds a shiny red balloon tied to a lamppost...

Each time I see this movie (or read the book with my children), I laugh, I cry, and I’m filled again with the impossible joy of being a child. What a beautiful and hopeful lesson this is about believing in dreams and avoiding those who would puncture them. At the end, as the balloons lift Pascal above the gray ordinariness into the air, they seem to ask him, “How high?”

Watching this as an adult, I wonder how many had passed by the balloon tied to the lamppost that day. How many never even looked up, so focused on the dailyness of their lives? I want to live looking up, noticing the balloons around me, grasping at their strings and running wildly after beauty and dreams, sometimes with fear at my back, but always asking “How high?”

"And all the balloons of Paris came down to Pascal, dancing around him, twisting their strings into one strong one and lifting him up into the sky.”

Inspiration

2009-01-19T09:26:00.000-08:00

I was contemplating inspiration this morning when a poem of Longfellow’s nudged my memory. While not my favorite American poet, I’ve always related to Longfellow’s fascination with the sea and find it intriguing the way he used it as a narrative device to explore the nature of creativity and inspiration. Who can’t relate to a tired poet lacking, and thus looking for, inspiration? A broken oar, so useless to the rower, would inspire the poet. Well done, Mr. Longfellow.

The Broken Oar

Once upon Iceland's solitary strand
A poet wandered with his book and pen,
Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen,
Wherewith to close the volume in his hand.
The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand,
The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken,
And from the parting cloud-rack now and then
Flashed the red sunset over sea and land.
Then by the billows at his feet was tossed
A broken oar; and carved thereon he read,
"Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee";
And like a man, who findeth what was lost,
He wrote the words, then lifted up his head,
And flung his useless pen into the sea.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Fireside

2009-01-17T09:06:00.000-08:00

We’re driven inside today by snow and cold. It’s a perfect day for reading and sipping cocoa by the fire. Here’s a wonderful poem by Longfellow that so well reflects my sense of traveling and adventure when I open a good book.

Travels by the Fireside

The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
Points to the misty main,

It drives me in upon myself
And to the fireside gleams,
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,
And still more pleasant dreams,

I read whatever bards have sung
Of lands beyond the sea,
And the bright days when I was young
Come thronging back to me.

In fancy I can hear again
The Alpine torrent's roar,
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,
The sea at Elsinore.

I see the convent's gleaming wall
Rise from its groves of pine,
And towers of old cathedrals tall,
And castles by the Rhine.

I journey on by park and spire,
Beneath centennial trees,
Through fields with poppies all on fire,
And gleams of distant seas.

I fear no more the dust and heat,
No more I feel fatigue,
While journeying with another's feet
O'er many a lengthening league.

Let others traverse sea and land,
And toil through various climes,
I turn the world round with my hand
Reading these poets' rhymes.

From them I learn whatever lies
Beneath each changing zone,
And see, when looking with their eyes,
Better than with mine own.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Dress Rehearsal

2009-01-16T07:14:00.000-08:00

I mentioned in my post on December 12th about Lindsey being among the handful of students at Marymount University selected to submit designs for Michelle Obama's inauguration gown. This was a project initiated by USA Today, and the girls' designs were featured in a two-page spread in that paper on December 31st. The project went through several incarnations at USA Today, including the late-hour addition of judging by Tim Gunn of “Project Runway” (who I personally think of as the Simon Cowell of fashion, but I digress).

Since her newspaper “debut” in December, the story has been picked up by MSNBC and a number of regional/local newspapers, including The Indianapolis Star and The Grand Rapids Press. She completed an internship in London (England) this last summer, and has been invited to participate in another in Malawi (Africa) this summer. She's found the river and is saying yes to its flow!

There is no question we're proud of Lindsey. We've been her faithful audience for years and years, enjoying this child full of passion and enthusiasm who is following her dreams and finding the art in the everyday. She's found a way all her own to make the world a more beautiful place.

Lindsey is third from the right. If you want to follow her story, here's her blog.

Interview

2009-01-14T05:20:00.000-08:00

I always enjoy getting to know other bloggers: idiosyncrasies, little things that make them tick, hopes, dreams. What better way to learn about others in Blogdom than by interviewing them?! My friend, Kat, over at Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes has interviewed me. To follow are my responses to her questions:

What made you decide to start a blog?

I can't remember a time when I didn't love to write things down. I’ve kept journals for years, but there were actually two reasons I started a blog. In September of this last year I was going through Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way again, and I set a goal to write something thoughtful each day. My blog posts, incidentally, are a pretty fair representation of my journaling.

My problem has never been putting words to paper; my issue has been sharing it with others, actually letting people read what I've written (a throwback to a mean-spirited grade-school teacher). Facing my “monster,” I decided to brave it and post my thoughts on a blog as a daily exercise. Initially, it was only going to be for me; then I expanded that to family, which was my second reason for starting it. Spread all over the country, this has become a way of staying connected with my far-flung family and of re-tying the threads that time and distance keep trying to unravel.

What began as an exercise soon took on a life of its own as I've met friends in Blogdom—those who have similar passions and interests, as well as those I don't have as much in common with but who intrigue and enlighten me daily with their viewpoints and perceptions of the world.

What is your fondest memory of when your kids were growing up?

My three children are each eight years apart. (I know! What was I thinking?!) Lindsey was in high school before Corban was born. Because of that age span, it's hard to choose one favorite memory that incorporates all three of them. Of all the places we've gone, things we've seen, adventures we've enjoyed, and family time we’ve shared, there is one thing I've enjoyed with all of them—read-aloud time.

This has been a constant in our family from the beginning, an undercurrent, a continuous cadence. As a young mom, armed with Jim Trelease's Read Aloud Handbook, I set out to pass on my love of books, reading, and words to my children. This might seem a tame choice to an observer. After all, there are no fireworks to report; no ribbons, parades, applause. There is only that soft and lovely time spent close to my children imparting a love of books. My fondest memory? It’s when my children are with me, all at ease on a down comforter of well-being, opening a book together.

If money/time/political situations were no object, where in the world would you like to travel?

Eighteenth-century Scotland. What? No time travel allowed? Oh, sorry. I'm not much of a traveler. I detest tourist-crowded places and the commercial sameness that seems to infect so many places today.

Having said that, I’d love to visit Scotland and Ireland. I not only have genealogical roots there, but enjoy immensely novels and historical fiction set in these locales. The history, lore, castles and myths all intrigue me. They seem the perfect destination for someone, like me, who is drawn to wild, remote places of extraordinary beauty.

If Fahrenheit 451 were a reality and you could only save one book, what would it be?

This is a cruel question to ask a serious reader! Only one book? I can't do it. I gave this a lot of thought, and I just can't do it. Like in Fahrenheit 451, my air vents are big enough for at least three books, so here are the three I would risk saving:

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare – Reading Shakespeare aloud, giving voice to his words, is, as Frank McCourt so well put it, “like having jewels in my mouth.” I would save this book for the sheer beauty and expression of language.

The American Heritage Dictionary – Ever the optimist, we’d need a plan to rebuild from a book ban of that magnitude. With a dictionary in hand, we'd have a sure source of words, meanings, definitions, pronunciations—all things we'd need to turn people back into readers and writers. Before we can have readers and writers, though, we need thinkers. And for people to use their minds in this way, they’d first have to stock them. This would be my re-stocking tool of choice.

Bible – Unlike the downriver vagabonds in Fahrenheit 451, I could not memorize this book, so I would risk hiding and saving it. It includes so many of the things I enjoy—poetry, history, genealogy, wise quotations, prophecy—and I can read it over and over and always get something more out of it. But mostly I’d choose it because it has a power to show people who they are, what they've become, and what they can be (a true mirror, which fans of F-451 will understand).

If you could be any age, which age would it be and why?

I can easily identify certain times in my life when I made point-of-no-return decisions that closed some doors while opening others. What would be different in my life today if I could relive those moments and choose differently?

Although worthy of contemplation, I don't want to go back and have to repeat anything, and I certainly can't go back to remake decisions without irreparably altering my present, which I would never want to do. I love my life and adore my family. Over the last two years, some pieces of my life have come together in interesting ways, resulting in a happier and more complete me; more content and appreciative. It’s taken years to accomplish what Thoreau calls ‘making a whole of the parts’. I’ll stay, hopefully with more wisdom and grace, right here at 47.

Would you like me to interview you?

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."

2. I will respond by e-mailing you five questions (I get to pick the questions).

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

I will post a list of those who have agreed to an interview so everyone can follow along.

Encore!

2009-01-13T06:40:00.000-08:00

We're currently in the midst of our second blizzard of the season. This picture was taken of our shoreline along Lake Michigan. The snow fences are erected each Fall in a vain attempt to keep the beach sand in place.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,

And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end...

...And when his hours are numbered, and the world

Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art

To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,

Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,

The frolic architecture of the snow.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Storyteller

2009-01-12T09:22:00.000-08:00

Garrison Keillor is one of my favorite storytellers. I've been a huge fan for years and years. As author and host of “A Prairie Home Companion,” his national live broadcasts gave me a taste of the old-style radio variety show my grandma used to talk about. Listening to Keillor, I understand now why people, once upon a time before television, gathered around their radios to be entertained.

When I couldn't get enough of him on NPR, I bought the recordings of his stories. I needed more frequent installments of his 'News From Lake Wobegon' than he was providing. His stories of Lake Wobegon, Minnesota were full of small incident, ever about family—the Bunsens, the Tolleruds and the Tollefsons—and always moderated with passion. I followed their sagas faithfully. My favorite stories were 'Tomato Butt', 'Ronnie and the Winnebago', and 'Thanksgiving'.

Garrison Keillor is also an author and, although I've tried to read his books, something gets lost in the translation from audio to print. It's a rare book I prefer to hear on tape or CD, but Mr. Keillor's books fit this bill. His stories need his distinctive voice. He brings life to old places and makes them lovely to pass through.

One more spring in Minnesota,
To come upon Lake Wobegon.
Old town, I smell the coffee,
If I could see you one more time.

That long, long time is always on my mind,
I'm just a stranger with memories of days of long ago.
Could it have been forty years since then?
What happened to us? I'd like to know.

That yard, that tree—you climbed it once with me;
We talked of cities we'd live in someday.
I left, old friend, and now I'm back again.
Please say you missed me since I went away.

One more time, this dance together,
Just you and I, now don't be shy.
This time, I know I'll hear the music,
If you would hold me one more time.

--Garrison Keillor

Bookmarks Galore!

2009-01-09T14:21:00.000-08:00

I have a special friend who trades books back and forth with me. She's an elderly woman of remarkable character except for one thing... She marks her place in a book with used envelopes. Although that's certainly better than bending the page corners over, I always tell her it makes me wince. She just laughs; she knows I'm a bookmark snob. I collect them, all kinds. Some are whimsical, some gloriously beautiful, some cultural, some creative, and some--like the ones from my children--heartbreakingly special. I keep them all in a little drawer in my desk, which is where I was poking around just a bit ago.

Today I started yet another book, bringing my current reading stack to five. With another book on the way (see Surprise Twist post), I had to dip into my bookmark reserve. Looking through them was a trip down memory lane. The one in this picture was given to me by my wonderful Aunt Cecelia, who loves to read as much as I do. I'm using this one to mark my place in "Sophie's Choice," a book I'm re-reading after 20 years. It's one of those special, haunting stories that stays with the reader long after the last page is turned. This wonderful bookmark will mark my place in a story that 20 years ago marked my heart.

Surprise Twist

2009-01-09T13:09:00.000-08:00

Who doesn't love a good suprise? I was informed this afternoon that I was December's contest winner at MyBookList. I wrote several book reviews for them last month on their site, and it seems I was chosen to receive a signed book called "Jack with a Twist," by Brenda Janowitz.

I know nothing about this story or author, but I almost never turn a book down, especially when it's been pressed into my hands as a reward for something! It's also a book I probably would not have purchased on my own. Yet, that's how I've stumbled across many wonderful gems in my reading years; I've found them left in my path unexpectedly or they were sent as a gift based on the giver's taste in literary fare. What a nice thing it is to be surprised by a good read. I'll keep my fingers crossed and all of you posted!

Dove Song

2009-01-08T06:46:00.000-08:00

I heard a dove sing or say
His homely tale this very day;
His voice was buried among the trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze;
He did not cease, but cooed and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed;
He sang of love with quiet blending,
Slow to begin and never ending;
Of serious faith and inward glee;
That was the song—the song for me!

--William Wordsworth

Wanderlust

2009-01-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

Wanderlust isn’t nipping at my heels most days, and I’m not a great traveler, but I’ve been sensing this desire for a little adventure. It started with this picture of a gypsy caravan. It reminded me of that children’s book by Kenneth Grahame, “Wind in the Willows,” where Toad takes to the road in just such a caravan. I have no destination in mind, which is, I think, the fun part. It’s about climbing in and, as Toad says, seeing what there is to see. Where have your wanderings led you lately?

‘O, pooh! Boating!' interrupted the Toad, in great disgust. ‘Silly boyish amusement. I've given that up long ago. Sheer waste of time, that's what it is. It makes me downright sorry to see you fellows, who ought to know better, spending all your energies in that aimless manner. No, I've discovered the real thing, the only genuine occupation for a life time. I propose to devote the remainder of mine to it, and can only regret the wasted years that lie behind me, squandered in trivialities. Come with me, dear Ratty, just as far as the stable-yard, and you shall see what you shall see!'

He led the way to the stable-yard accordingly, the Rat following with a most mistrustful expression; and there, drawn out of the coach house into the open, they saw a gypsy caravan, shining with newness, painted a canary-yellow picked out with green, and red wheels.

Wind in the Willows--The Open Road, Kenneth Grahame

Artwork by Tre Zieman

Sit a Spell

2009-01-06T10:16:00.000-08:00

I had a great conversation a few days ago, and I’ve been pondering it ever since. In our busy lives and world, people communicate through electronic exchanges of texts and emails, but it seems many have forgotten how to receive. Ours is an age of chattering, not listening. I look around and see people just trading monologues, with mouths open and ears closed. Maybe we've gotten so busy we just don’t have time for a long chat anymore. Is the art of good conversation dying?

We know conversation is central to our relationships. It involves discussing things of consequence, thoughtful listening, honest exchanges. It can enlarge our understanding and sweeten our imagination. It engages the mind and the heart, and can leave both participants satisfied and even enlightened afterwards.

There are those with whom I have ambling, relaxed conversations, and there are those with whom I communicate in staccato-like bursts of energy, packing so much into so little time. Good communication can be as stimulating as a cup of full-octane coffee to me (and just as hard to sleep after!). But mostly, I love the fact that good conversations start in one place and move us on to other fabulous places we would never go on our own. How lovely is that? Care to sit a spell?

Maxfield Parrish

2009-01-05T07:21:00.000-08:00

I bought a wall calendar years and years ago that featured Maxfield Parrish's images, and I fell in love. There is something about his use of light, brilliant color and detail that gives his images magical luminosity. He had a unique process of creating the glowing, almost three-dimensional feel of his oil paintings, which need to be seen in person to really be appreciated.

Painting until about 1960 (six years before he died), Parrish left behind a prolific body of work. His distinctive and original style helped shape the Golden Age of Illustration. His work even resulted in new art terms. Fans of Parrish's work will recognize the phrase "Parrish blue,” as well as references to his famous mountainous
“Parrishscapes.”

Through the years, spending a few minutes with his images has served to refill my creative well, spark my imagination, and fire my inspiration. It's hard for me to describe exactly what Parrish's art does for and to me. His colors caress. His images tug at my senses and leave me with something that feels like yearning. When I look at them, I cannot put a name to what they make me wish for. With his fantastical settings—some even featuring literary characters—it's like looking through a window to another world. Maxfield Parrish has become my master of make-believe. And in his images, lullabies linger for me in that special place between asleep and awake where dreams are born.

Today's Lesson

2009-01-02T06:37:00.000-08:00

Yesterday is history;

Tomorrow is a mystery;

Today is a gift;

That is why we call it the present.

These words have been attributed to many people--including Joan Rivers!--but it seems Eleanor Roosevelt can be thanked for originally coining them. While watching "Kung Fu Panda" recently with Corban, I heard them again. What a terrific lesson for young and old(er) about valuing each and every day.

My Toolkit

2009-01-01T19:06:00.000-08:00

At the turn of each year, with the balance of 365 days stretching before me and when all things seem possible, I review some of the tools in my life that have helped keep me organized and on track. I was thinking this morning of favorites in my online toolbox for 2009, and I came up with this list of six:

Visual Thesaurus is an online thesaurus and dictionary that uses an interactive map. It’s a great tool for those who, like me, think visually. They even add (drum roll, please!) a Word of the Day!

OneLook Dictionary is an amazing compilation of 973 dictionaries. It’s a one-stop shop for your word-search needs. It even offers reverse and wildcard searches on words.

Time & Chaos is a supremely easy and effective time management software. There is a free downloadable trial version for anyone who wants to check it out.

LibraryThing is an online tool for cataloguing your books, and it allows you to share your titles with others.

MyBookList is an online reading journal for library patrons. Check with your local library to see if they offer this. It’s free, and it has replaced my handwritten book journal, which lists all the books I’ve read, along with short notes on what the book was about and if I would recommend it to others.

Simpleology is a free online multimedia course and workshop designed to teach people to set and reach goals. There are great tools to plan and organize your day, as well as terrific desktop features that I continue to use long after I’ve completed the course.

My definition of a timesaving online tool is something that doesn’t take me long, but takes me far. These six things have had a positive impact on my life and productivity, and I share them with you in that spirit, looking forward to a wonderful and productive year.

Please feel free to share what’s in your toolkit for 2009!

The Velveteen Rabbit

2008-12-31T10:50:00.000-08:00

There are a few children's books in our house that have a permanent home on the “big people” shelves. This is one of them. A wonderful story about a velveteen rabbit and a boy, this is a profound and touching book for all adults who understand the challenge of becoming and staying “real.” As 2008 comes to an end, I thank my trifecta--Lindsey, Ethan, and Corban--for continuing to keep me real.

From The Velveteen Rabbit:

"What is Real?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled. "The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

10-Letter Word

2008-12-30T08:57:00.000-08:00

A 10-letter word for a smart way to pass the time? Crosswords! They’re a daily habit for me. I’m downright obsessed with them, and I’m not alone. They’ve been the most popular word puzzle in history for almost 100 years. Today in America, they are in almost every newspaper and over 40 million people solve them daily, some of them in ink! I never graduated beyond a pencil with a strong eraser, one that’s up to the job of allowing me to make revisions along the way as I’ve gotten more information or seen something in a different light. (Come to think of it, there are some parallels there to how I live my life, but that’s another blog post subject!)

I have some books of crossword puzzles, but I can’t say no to the daily crosswords in the newspaper. It’s probably my imagination, but it seems to me that they start off manageably on Monday and progressively get harder during the week, culminating in Sunday’s mindbender, which often ends up as a group effort in our family, effectively debunking the idea that crossword puzzles are a solitary endeavor.

The invention of the crossword puzzle is highly underrated, in my opinion. The benefits are many: they enrich our vocabulary and sharpen our minds; they keep our brains flexible and healthy with daily bursts of sustained cognitive effort; and they lead us into so many areas of life, culture and history. After six days of hard eight-letter words, I’m considering taking Tuesdays off from my word puzzles as a day of rest. Oh, look! Today’s crossword theme is ‘Bookends’! Maybe I’ll begin my day off next Tuesday…

(This image is actually a painting by Darren Maurer)

A Child's Prayer

2008-12-29T08:04:00.000-08:00

Is there anything more endearing than listening to a young child pray? There is so much beauty in their honesty and innocence. They utter words of unselfconscious truth, so ready to articulate what is on their minds and in their hearts. Corban trusts that his prayers are as important to God as they are to him. The subject matter reflects high points of concern or excitement in his day: well wishes for the frog we caught and released; a fervent wish that our old cat, Maddie, live just one more year; and, on the evening this picture was taken, a request to be brave enough to try new foods.

I know people who are so eloquent when they pray out loud. Their sentences are beautifully constructed of lofty words rising like incense to heaven. As impressive as that may be, I’m much more touched listening to my seven-year-old pray, discussing his special thoughts and wishes—sometimes common, sometimes comical, always touching—with God in hope and in trust. What a privilege it is to witness how the earnest and sincere feelings from his heart are translated into the simple beauty of words, resulting in an offering of energy, passion and feeling. It’s a good reminder to me that if my prayers are to mean anything to God, they must first mean something to me. Amen.

The Astronomer

2008-12-26T08:23:00.000-08:00

Thursday was a special day for my dad, who is a serious astronomy buff. In his honor, I'm sharing my very favorite poem about astronomy and the stars.

The Old Astronomer to His Pupil

Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, I would know him when we meet.
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet.
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet.
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles!

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light,
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

---Sarah Williams

Stargazing

2008-12-26T08:18:00.000-08:00

I remember visiting my grandparents in Kansas when I was young. Nighttime in that rural part of the state defined darkness, and I’d get lost in the infinite wilderness of the heavens overhead. It was like staring up into something that had no top; it was like staring into infinity. When I was a little older, I’d crawl out onto the roof through my brothers’ bedroom window to watch the night sky fill with stars.

Today it’s harder to find an area dark enough to really see the stars in the night sky. There is so much polluting artificial light that deprives us of that intimate relationship with the nighttime sky. I worry that my children, instead of wishing on a star, will just wish they could see a star. How sad this makes me. The night sky and stars have always been such a powerful source of inspiration, reflection, discovery, and jaw-dropping wonder. What will be lost to us without this celestial muse?

I'm not a very talented stargazer, but I can locate a few constellations: Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, the North Star—what WD Wetherell calls a celestial lighthouse set in an immense and lonely sea. I can find the great winter hunter, Orion, by looking for his belt. But mostly, I just like to lose myself in the inconceivable dimension overhead. Just a few hours ago, I was standing in my driveway in the dark during a brief clearing between storms, gazing up at the stars. And this morning, awe and inspiration linger, filling my heart, left over from last night. There is hope.

The Big Lake

2008-12-24T12:38:00.000-08:00

There is such beauty in this area along The Big Lake. It calls you outside—in the summer to the beaches, piers, walking/bike paths, and in the winter to skiing, sledding, skating, and the impossible brightness of the sun on the snow. I maintain that you don't have to enjoy winter to appreciate the fresh and wonderful things nature does here when it gets cold and all the tourists go home.

There is deep, new snow everywhere. Lake Michigan is a formidable snow machine for our small town. In fact, with over 65 inches of snow in this month of December alone, it's getting to the point of needing Old Testament terms to describe it! The snow is calling me now, waiting for me, so I'm heading outside into my world remade white.

Snow in the Air

Snow in the air

long before the first flakes

started their long fall

from the heavens.

Snow in the feel, the smell,

the texture of the air,

feeling the falling barometer,

the shift in the weather.

Falling lightly at first, while

I stood at the sink,

mesmerized, watching

their dance downward…

…Accumulating white,

flake by flake

on the ground, the cars,

still quiet snow, light and airy

a film of white, cell by cell

cleaning the world

in white.

---Raymond A. Foss

Miss Rumphius

2008-12-23T08:49:00.000-08:00

You passed along here, perchance, a fortnight ago, and the hillside was comparatively barren, but now you come and these glorious redeemers appear to have flashed out here all at once. Who planted the seeds of lupines in the barren soil? Who watereth the lupines in the fields? ---Thoreau

I was inspired by Sizzie's blog post this morning about making a difference in the world. It reminded me of a beautiful book I read to my children when they were young, Miss Rumphius. As a girl, Alice Rumphius shares with her grandfather her hopes and dreams. He tells her there is something else she must do: “You must do something to make the world more beautiful.” Alice does not know what that could be, but as the story unfolds she has a wonderful idea that involves planting lupine seeds.

Whether small acts of kindness, a personal project, or being part of a larger, coordinated effort of community or civic volunteering, we should never underestimate the small differences we can make. Over time these can add up to big differences of lasting impact. And it all begins with a giving attitude in our daily lives. It's a wonderful lesson for all of us. I wanted my children not only to learn, but to see in action, the truth that a life without cause is a life without effect.

Tag! You're It!

2008-12-21T20:01:00.000-08:00

My friend, Sydney, tagged me yesterday. I have to list five things I do to stay mentally healthy. This is something I’ve been working on lately, so the timing was great for this exercise. Here goes…

Journal Writing—I write longhand three pages in my notebook every morning. This is my brain drain. It empties my head of all the drama and petty, inconsequential stuff that can latch on like Velcro. Very often, seeds from this “compost pile” of writing will take root and you’ll see the result in my blog posts. For me, writing rights things.

Walking—I’m a solitary walker. It’s only one of several forms of exercise I do regularly, but it’s the one I like the most, and also the one I don’t think of as exercise. That’s not why I walk. I walk to experience silence and solitude, to reorder my thoughts and emotions, to recharge, to feel my connection to a much bigger picture, to immerse myself in nature, to regain my perspective.

Volunteering—This, perhaps more than anything else, helps me stay mentally sound. We all know there is more happiness in giving than in receiving, and this is something that consistently takes the focus off me, which ironically enough, helps improve my focus in my life. I have several things that are very special to me, for which I’ve consistently volunteered my time for 20 years now. Sometimes I have 15 hours a month, and sometimes I can carve out 70 hours a month. Regardless, I get far more back than I give.

Reading—This is so much a part of my daily life that it feels a little lame mentioning it here, but I try to incorporate into my daily reading uplifting and positive subject matter. This includes autobiographies of people I admire, essays by naturalists, spiritual content. Filling my head with positive things right before bed helps me to sleep better. I’ve heard it said that you are the same person today that you’ll be in five years except for two things: the people you meet and the books you read. I try to choose this category of reading carefully.

My Appreciation Diet—I have been doing this exercise daily for about three years, and it has made a world of difference in my mental outlook. Every morning, I write down on paper five things I’m happy about and five things I’m grateful for. This is harder than it sounds, but the key is that it helps me to focus on the positive things in my life. At the end of each day, I write down five things I did well that day. This is the hardest one for me, but it forces me to lighten up on myself, to cut myself some slack, and to appreciate my strengths and successes.

If I’m not mentally healthy, it feels like I'm driving with my brakes on. So these are the five things that help keep my life running smoothly and in peace, not in pieces.

Imprint in the Sand

2008-12-21T06:55:00.000-08:00

This post is a reprint from October. I'm cheating this morning with this so I can prepare a second post for later today.

Corban brought home a book from school that had intriguing designs in sand made by living creatures. This one caught my eye. I loved the simplicity and symmetry, and I wondered what could have left such a mark. Turning the page revealed the gruesome truth…a spider! There are few things I hate more than spiders. How could it be that a hairy and horrible creature left behind this magnificent impression in his dance across the sand? We can be sure it was incidental. He was probably just resting, unaware of the imprint he was making and what the sand would look like when he trekked on.

As I studied the picture, it occurred to me that we too leave our marks and impressions on our world. We may never know the impact we have had or the scope of our influence. But as I dance across the sands of my life, I am more mindful of the imprints I make. It may not be any more enduring than this arachnid’s mark in sand, but for that moment in time it’s my hope that someone looks at an imprint I left behind and sees the world as a more beautiful place.

Snow Play

2008-12-20T05:52:00.000-08:00

With 14 inches of new snow on the ground from our last storm, guess what we're going to do today? That's right! We're going sledding! After yesterday's chore of digging out, today we're going to play in the sparkling, white snow. Is there anything more fun than experiencing sledding through the eyes of a seven-year-old?

Sledding

Cold and bright, winter light,
Bundle up with all your might;
Cheery faces, noses red,
Is it time to get the sled?
Down the slope, swooping low,
Watch out, people, down below!
Like a skier, like a bird,
Only swishing silence heard.
Many times we sled the hill,
Many a whoop and many a spill…

…Winter wonders, sweet delights,
Snowy days and frost-filled nights;
Memories are made of this,
Childhood times of snowy bliss.
---Joanna M. Phillips

Sled on Snow, Ivanova Maria

Whatcha Reading?

2008-12-19T06:42:00.000-08:00

Today is a snow day, so we're in for the duration of the storm. My very favorite thing to do on snow days is to read. I have a stack of books at hand... I'll be finishing A Passage to India today. Whatcha reading?

Please pop in and let me know what you're reading!

The Art of Walking

2008-12-18T06:14:00.000-08:00

Winter Silence, Leonid Afremov

I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks—who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering. —Thoreau

It struck me when reading Thoreau recently that most of the naturalists and great nature poets were also great walkers, that walking was, in fact, part of their creative path, pivotal to their writing. Thoreau, Frost, Roethke, Emerson, Coleridge, Wordsworth—all prodigious walkers. Whether searching for meaning in life, exploring the relationship between man and nature, or as a compositional device, walking had a central role in their lives. I suppose that really doesn’t surprise me. To walk in a place over time is to know it, and yourself, intimately.

I’m a solitary walker; I like to walk alone, and there are some days when any excuse will do for a good walk. We all know that walking is good for us. It’s been said that for every mile we walk, we extend our life by 21 minutes. Walking grounds me. It is physically and mentally refreshing. I explore my feelings, clear my head, review my priorities, order my day, and settle my thoughts. Just think—all these benefits can be ours, free, when we walk. I know people who pay good money for that kind of therapy!

Open Sesame!

2008-12-17T12:01:00.000-08:00

In our local library, a child can have his own library card when he can write his name. Corban has had his card for almost three years now. When he got it I explained to him that the little green and white plastic card was a ticket to anywhere and everywhere, and that there were unlimited worlds to visit and explore. It’s an astonishing privilege, being able to borrow books to take you anywhere you want to go.

We’ve progressed from picture books to chapter books to, now, periodicals and non-fiction. Books open doors, whole new worlds. Where have we gone? We’ve traveled to Egypt to see the pyramids; we’ve traveled across the ocean in a giant hollow peach; we’ve traveled to the Old West with Omri, an Indian named Little Bear and a cowboy named Boone; we’ve lived a whole winter with Sam Gribley and a Falcon named Frightful in a hollow tree; we’ve been to the moon in Jack and Annie’s magic tree house, and we’ve hunted the woods of the Ozark Mountains with Billy and his coonhound pups. What an awesome treasure there for the taking! But I have to go now… Corban is calling me; we’re leaving for Antarctica in five minutes.

White Lion

2008-12-16T07:39:00.000-08:00

Winter came in like a lion this year. Our magnolia tree loves to reach out and collect the snow on its open palms. It’s put me in mind of Robert Frost.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
--Robert Frost

Cat's Cradle

2008-12-15T12:15:00.000-08:00

The string game of Cat’s Cradle has always intrigued me. An astonishing number and variety of unrelated cultures play this intricate game of manipulating string or yarn between the fingers of two people. It takes precision, concentration and dexterity to pull it off. One miscalculation and the entire thing collapses into a heap of tangles and knots.

I'd like to think I can run my days and my life like a well-oiled machine, but I daily feel this tangle of invisible threads: household chores, school commitments, errands, obligations and work. Accomplishing all of these things sometimes leaves me feeling as though I’ve pulled off a complicated string trick. Sometimes I miscalculate or order my day improperly, and it feels like I’m left with an unproductive mess.

There is solace in knowing that I’m more than the sum of my errands and commitments. My success as a mom, for instance, doesn’t depend on keeping all the strings straight and ordered all the time. I don’t have to do it perfectly each and every time. Sometimes, by choice or by happenstance, my “cat’s cradle” falls into a hopeless jumble of knots. Dinner didn’t get started because Corban and I got lost together in a read-aloud book about mice riding motorcycles (we’ll order pizza). Or, the grocery shopping didn’t get done on a school snow day, but we made snowmen and forts in the snow. Or, laundry didn’t get folded, but we built a Mars space station out of Lego blocks.

These unplanned diversions pay their dividends in the form of closeness and spontaneous fun. These are the things that matter. These are where memories are made. And these are what remind me that my life is perfect, even when it’s “knot.”

All Things Nancy

2008-12-14T08:30:00.000-08:00

Of all the books I read when I was young, my favorites were the Nancy Drew mysteries. Even today, when I see or hear something related to Nancy Drew, I feel a spontaneous flush of pleasure that instantly transports me back. In her roadster with chums Bess and George, Nancy roamed near and far of River Heights, solving mysteries and outsmarting the bad guys. I read Trixie Belden and Cherry Ames as well, so why was this particular series so favored? It's hard to say for sure. Without a doubt, Nancy is a strong female role model: feminine and courageous, determined and confident, independent with a tremendous sense of responsibility.

Today, these books have distinctive yellow spines, but my original collection was of the older blue--what I call denim--bindings. No matter the color, I had a preoccupation with all things Nancy, the girl sleuth who transformed a series of mysteries into a cultural icon and became the most popular girls’ book series in publishing history.

I recently read some information about the woman who wrote many of these books under the nom de plume Carolyn Keene. Mildred Wirt was a ghostwriter who wrote 23 Nancy Drew mysteries on an Underwood typewriter in her Cleveland kitchen for $100 a book (Yikes!) over a 23-year period. First debuting almost 80 years ago, hundreds of millions of books have been sold. Mildred died six years ago at 96. As her curtain came down, I wonder if she realized her part in shaping the reading appetites of more than one generation of girls the world over. I’m sure I was not the only one to cut my literary teeth on these stories, which proved to be a real milestone for me. These books, more than any other, became the corner I turned from being just a kid who liked to read to something very different and much more. I began to build my literary canon with Nancy Drew. I put my eyes to the page 38 years ago and still haven’t looked up.

Just Desserts

2008-12-13T16:29:00.000-08:00

Who doesn’t love ice cream? It became one of my major food groups while visiting Aunt Marge and Uncle Erv in Ann Arbor over a few summer vacations from school. A Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop a few blocks away became a sort of summer school, an education of the cold and creamy kind, in my youth. Cousin Debbie, Lisa and I biked there often, sometimes more than once a day. Chocolate Mint Chip, Blue Moon, Chocolate Cherry, Daiquiri Ice…we tried them all. Thus began a lifelong love affair with ice cream.

Ice cream, good at any time of the year, takes on special properties in the summer, especially when served in a cone. It’s a happy food; it’s also a comfort food. There is nothing I’ve found that an ice cream cone can’t fix or make better. It’s especially effective as stress therapy. Is it any coincidence that ‘stressed’ spelled backwards is ‘desserts’? I don’t think so!

Is there an ice cream gene that predisposes one to enjoy it immensely? Is it hardwired into our brains at birth or first exposure? Is it in our blood? It should be apparent from this picture that I’ve passed whatever it is on to my children. Poor things.

Shall We Dance?

2008-12-12T07:38:00.000-08:00

Lindsey called from college yesterday to share some exciting news. USA Today called Marymount University, the only accredited fashion design program in the Washington, DC area, asking them to submit designs for Michelle Obama's inauguration gown. The illustration professor at Marymount called a handful of students to participate, and Lindsey was one of them! The submitted designs will be featured in USA Today, and one will be chosen as the First Lady's gown. Now that's what I call some portfolio muscle! I'll be posting Lindsey's design here when she sends it to me. Stay tuned!

Repose

2008-12-11T12:29:00.000-08:00

Repose, Dan Foster

I received this card a few years ago in December from an old friend in lieu of a holiday greeting. I loved the image so much that I kept the card, and today I post it as a reminder to myself and to my children...

Our world loads us down with more problems and information than we can hold. Our distractions abound. Our lives are full of demands, commitments, obligations and responsibilities. In addition, there are endless opportunities, as well as worries about the future. These things can submerge us. In our confused, busy and sometimes scary world, we can learn a lesson from nature—the importance of repose. Ovid recognized this; he said, “Take repose; a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop.” My antidote to overwhelm is to take a walk, breathe quietly, be still inside, and see the peace and beauty in nature. It's immediately apparent that as we struggle to make sense of things, life looks on in repose. What does this teach us? To make sure of the more important things. To give more than we get. To appreciate the gift of today and the promise of tomorrow.