Garden Plots

Gardens have flowers and vegetables and things that we want to thrive there.  And gardens have weeds of unknown origin that meander with strategy to complicate their extrication and enhance their strength.  Weeds thrive despite our aversion to them and our efforts to eradicate them.  Often, it seems the weeds are more robust, showing up early and easily, while the good things -- the blossoms we desire, the fruit we'll tend and harvest -- make us struggle and wait for their bounty.

I read a story recently about a man in the 1940/s who created a scenario ( a prank, really) that exposed embedded racism and displayed its error and hypocrisy.  Reports of his "experiment" brought kudos from newspaper editors, those fighting segregation, and those who suffered from it.  And one fellow said to this man, "It will take one hundred years to see the good you've done, but you'll see the evil real soon."  So true: along with the congratulations came repercussions of a sinister sort.

Abraham was given a promise that he would be a great blessing to this world, and God would greatly increase his numbers. (Genesis.  You can begin at chapter 12, but take a good look at chapter 17, 1-8). This promise would be fulfilled in the future: there would be generations, and nations, that came from this man's covenant with God.  But, Abraham wasn't gonna see it. He was going to be struggling, and moving like a vagabond without a country, and facing enemies and spiteful women and dishonest men, and die before his descendants outnumbered the stars in the sky. It would take decades, even centuries, before the good in that promise was fulfilled...but the evil came about real soon.

Get a good thing started, and its likely you'll face opposition.  Those who are opposing you might think they've got the good idea, and you are the rotten apple ready to spoil their pie! Suggest a change (for the better, in your estimation), and those happy with the status quo will take offense.  Your idea may eventually make things better, but it may take one hundred years.  And there you are, struggling with the weeds that choke the blossoms.

Though cliche, it is true that people want to be a part of something bigger than themselves. Joining the big thing after its been successful is an easy choice: initiating that "thing" when it is still small takes courage, conviction, and patience.  Oh, and really good friends, who keep their hope in you despite your faltering steps and occasional whining.

Keep breathing, keep moving, keep on.  The "evil" -- the nay-sayers and joy-takers -- may show up real soon, but if there's good to be had, it's worth the effort.

Just be sure your motives are sincere...more on that later.

Timing is Everything

My parents belonged to a Bridge club when I was growing up.   (SIDEBAR: I will continue to capitalize the word Bridge so you don't think my parents were part of some structural engineering society or an Erector Set fan club.)  Once a month, six couples would dress much nicer than office casual (men in sport coats, women in more-than-work but less-than-gala wear) and meet to play the card game "Bridge."

I know absolutely NOTHING about Bridge, except that Omar Sharif was apparently a competitive pro at it and there's a heckuva candy mix named for the game. 

Anyway, my father became renown for telling great jokes, usually ones that strung out like a full skein of yarn.  He had told my mom a great story and she said "Oh, you just have to tell it at the next bridge club!"  The next card night came around, hosted somewhere other than our house.  Everyone had fun, some delicious new dessert recipe from Better Homes and Gardens magazine was enjoyed, the large-urn coffee pot was drained, and everyone left for home.  On the way, my mother looked incredulously at my father and said "You didn't tell your joke!  Why not?"

His answer? "The timing wasn't right."

A great joke that would have drawn attention and gotten everyone laughing.  Who wouldn't want that? But Dad had the sensitivity to recognize that particular gathering wasn't the right time for his story. Perhaps  another story had gotten everyone talking that night, and the mood and the conversation headed in another direction.  Maybe Dad had never really gotten the floor, and there's an art to first deserving, then holding, everyone's attention.  Whatever the reason, he made the right choice.  And on another Bridge club night, he played out that joke, and people recalled the telling for years. (By the way, don't ask me which joke it was: he had so many, and it most likely bent today's politically correct rules.)

Timing.  It can be everything.  So can content, and delivery style.  But the best content can be lost if the timing isn't calculated just so.

Recently, I've made many new acquaintances and have begun new friendships As the new kid, I get some attention...but not wholly all of it.  I've learned in my double-nickel life-span that people really are most interested in themselves.  I'm not shaming all of humankind, just making an observation that has empirical evidence.  In a conversation, it is more likely that you think about what you can contribute next, rather than listen carefully to what another person says.  If you are the one explaining, or relating, or pontificating, understand that your experience may be germane to the topic, but the teased out details, well, not so much.  Remember: the other person is beginning to think about what they can say in relation to your words.  Usually, your details are captivating only to you.

Sorry, this is true. UNLESS...
...the timing is right.

There are times when the minutiae of your escapade may capture the imaginations of others, and they are eager for you to go on! Go on!  Be sensitive: while you are certainly the most interesting person in your shorts to you, it would do you good to find out what's interesting about everyone else.  Don't be disappointed when new colleagues are more concerned about their weekend plans or where they are going for lunch than they are about what you used to do in your old job.  Let them take you to a new deli, and when they ASK you about your life, share a little and inquire a lot. Pretty soon, they'll get to know you.  And you'll get to know them.

My husband does a good job of this.  He knows his workmates backgrounds, their heritage, their hobbies, and a bit about their family life.  I'm sure they also know quite a bit about him, too, but he has taken the time to inquire and to listen.  His newness in his job does not qualify him as The Most Interesting Man in that office (although, he is certainly very interesting!).  There are lots of interesting people everywhere. With eager ears and careful words, we can develop a world where stories are told and retold to develop an ever-widening web of friendships 

Making Do

My mother once brought me some new kitchen towels.  Now, a gift like that can rankle a daughter.  It's a bit like rearranging the kitchen cupboards so things are "more efficient." Yeah, I see you grinning.  You now what I mean.

But I reacted to this gift with puzzlement, not offense. "What is this for?" I wondered.  She really wasn't one to bring gifts at every visit, which was fine.  And it wasn't my birthday, nor was it Christmas.

"Because," she said, "sometimes, all you need is new kitchen towels."  The implication was that there was a lot of power in fresh kitchen towels.  She was right. The faded rags we were using to dry hands and dishes got relegated to the laundry room rag shelf, and the new cloths gave the kitchen a bit of pizzazz. I was surprised, not only by the effect of such a simple change, but by my mother's attitude.

This was the woman who taught us all to "make do." She made many of the clothes I wore in elementary school, as well as her own garments (she was a very talented seamstress). She could feed a hungry family of six on a shoestring budget, and our diet was varied and healthy.  She could work magic with leftovers, created hand-made ornaments to give to teachers and friends, and was generally frugal.  I was carrying on the tradition; I thought that being able to see through a dishrag was a point of pride, not shame!  And, if I could still wear things I'd owned for 10 years, well, that STILL is a point of pride (or a sign that those stretched out clothes need to be replaced, but I just don't accept that).

Mom also began to encourage replacing other belongings.  "Oh, just get a new one," she said of this or that.  Not big stuff, but, you know, kitchen towels!    Her circumstances had changed, and her perspective had definitely changed since I'd lived with her and four other humans.  She was comfortably retired.  She was not wealthy, but living in a home that was paid for, and with enough financial cushion for foreign travel. And, apparently, she no longer felt it necessary to "make do."

But, she wasn't extravagant.  What she showed me is that sometimes, it is the little things that can lift us, and we don't need to over-do it to brighten our corner of the world.

I still take pride in making do.  At the time of this writing, I've spent two-and-a-half months living like I'm camping.  My temporary residence is much more comfortable than a tent, but I've only got the clothing I could fit into one suitcase (one very full suitcase).  I'm  pleased that the weather remains as it was at the end of June. I cook in a kitchenette only slightly larger than the one in our r.v., and all of the music and papers I'm accumulating in new jobs are being filed in a paper bag. We wisely brought along our PRINTER (SUCH a smart decision) and a file box of important papers.  The summation of our lives could be contained in the back of our Grand Cherokee.

For the entirety of our marriage, we've "made do" with the couch my husband bought when he graduated college more than 35 years ago, the K-Mart shelves that bow recklessly, the bath towels that show signs of laundry mishaps. I'm glad we don't whine about what we don't have: we've been blessed with a lot, and the depression-era babies who became our parents taught us to strategize and minimize. (Mostly.  I must confess that when it comes to musical instruments, we have a "go-for-broke" attitude!)

But, when we move into the new house, I think I'll get some new bath towels.  Don't need kitchen towels: the ones I have aren't yet thin enough to read through.

Charming Autumn

Our current residence -- a lovely Airbnb in Redwood City with wonderful hosts -- is about one block from a local high school.  As I write this at 4:30 p.m. on a weekday, I occasionally hear the shrill chirp of a coach's whistle.  There are short, single bursts.  There are repetitive, Morse-code toots. There is a kind of double-chirp call, short LOOOONG, with an uplift at the end.   I'm sure each song has its specific meaning, and the brood being directed by these signals knows how to respond to each one.

I don't mind the noise.  We've currently got a bid prepared to buy a house that backs up to an elementary school, and I realize I would be delighted by the clatter and chatter of kids walking to and from school, or playing on the grounds at recess.

My own children are grown.  Both have begun their second decade since attending elementary school. ("Holy Jenkies!")  Perhaps that is why I am reflective when I hear these extra-curricular noises. I have no anxiety about how my son and daughter are going to get through their scholastic years because those years are through!  We all survived, and can look back with fondness.  Mostly fondness.

But autumn -- and especially the start of school -- has always had a charm for me. Is it because my birthday is during this season?  I read somewhere that people have an affinity for the season in which they were born.  I'll have to ask my son if he looks forward to the dead of winter.  Or is it because I was raised in a hemisphere where autumn was a fresh start season: new school year, new classmates and teachers, new chapters in life? Despite the coming on of winter, with the dying away of leaves and daylight, the arrival of the autumnal equinox brings an invigorating clarity to the air.  The humidity of summer -- suffered in almost every quarter of our country in some measure -- is blown clear by crisp breezes.  The sun may heat up the day, but the quality of that heat is more therapeutic than debilitating.  Though we will tire of them eventually, the sweaters we shake loose from their hidden recesses are like new clothes, and we don them with enthusiasm.

I suspect that here in the Bay Area of California, I may come to feel that autumn is perpetual.Winter may feel like a Midwest November that has no end.  Pumpkins on the stoop won't be buried by the dispatch from the snow-blower, they'll just shrivel as the days go by.  I'm grateful that winter will not bring snow that begins as enchanting precipitation and ends as suffocating burden, although I confess I might miss it.

But until I experience that, I am glad for the coach's peeps, and the drum line's rehearsal thrum, and the occasional shout or shriek from kids meandering home from school.  The light is changing, and it seems to offer promise.

THE CUSP OF AUTUMN

is a border with summer

that is jagged

and fickle;

an uncharted river

that meanders through

hot days

and cool nights,

brilliant sunsets

and cloudy morns. 

You can follow it,

and map its course as you go,

but it is unpredictable.

You turn, and there:

the gloomy charcoal sky,

the brilliant flaming treetop,

the scent of burning leaves,

resurrect a memory

without explicit place or time.

It  teases; an ethereal spirit

has been conjured

to make you

recollect that you

have a recollection at all.

There is no specific year,

there is no specific place,

there is no specific vision

that begins a trail to follow

to clear remembrance.

You only sense

that the abacus of your days

begins its calculations 

with autumn.

Fleeting Fame Bonus

This is how it is with fame

This is how it is with fame:

One minute, you’re on stage

receiving accolades and praises,

the next minute, you’re driving

in your daughter’s used car

with the hole in the exhaust

through the Burger King,

wearing your concert gown

with the corsage still pinned on.

You wonder just what kind of quality

you’ll get at this late hour,

but it’s burger and fries (especially

the fries) that you want,

and after the laudations of a satisfied

public, you think you deserve it.

At home, your jammies

are nothing special:

a t-shirt you got in Jamaica,

and some worn pajama bottoms,

the matching top of which

you can no longer find.

But you found your way along

the keyboard tonight, and you

made an impression on the guest

celebrity who was your partner

for the evening.

But your home is ordinary,

and your bedclothes are humble,

and tomorrow you’ll no longer

be justifying late-night French fries

just because you could do something

at one required instant that not many

others can do.  Tomorrow

will be leftovers.

Fleeting Fame

If you've ever taken a bow, or accepted an award, or even just received a compliment, then you've tasted fame. Artist and cultural prophet Andy Warhol said (in 1968): "in the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes." I can't say I've ever been world famous, but I have been in the spotlight a few times and actually have received applause for something I've done.  My 15 minutes are slowly ticking off, at least in this lifetime: I've probably got about four minutes left.

But what does notoriety earn for anyone (besides notoriety)?  Perhaps fortune does follow fame, but there are  rich people who are relatively unknown, and famous people who've either squandered their wealth, or earn a working man's wage despite their celebrity.

You might be notorious for infamous reasons, achieving some modicum of celebrity because you have become a bad example for all to avoid and warn about: "See, Billy?  You don't want to turn out like THAT!"  Depending on the severity and distastefulness of the deed, this may be a fame you relish.  But I don't recommend seeking it.

You may earn kudos and "attaboys" for endeavors that are worthy, good and true...and entirely volunteer.  There are plaques hanging on walls in appreciation for lots of unpaid work.  Important, and worthy of a public thank you, but coming without any compensation, other than a fist bump of gratitude.

You may receive lots of heart-felt praise and ovation for something deserving it.  Your name may be in bold print somewhere, or on a marquee, or whispered by admirers and, by golly, you did work hard, and you spent time, and EARNED those few seconds of fame.

And it is all fleeting.  Not without merit, just fleeting.

An employee being celebrated for his longevity at a company and, in particular, his perfect attendance for forty-plus years (ye gads!) was heard to make this comment: "Put your hand in a bucket of water.  Now pull it out.  The hole you leave behind is how much you'll be missed."

This is not sad; it is truth in perspective.  And it prompts us to understand that what we do today, whether ruling the roost or simply layin' the eggs, may or may not have any impact on tomorrow.  But it DOES have impact today, and no matter how ordinary, it is worth doing well TODAY.

I recently left positions where I was publicly visible and publicly acknowledged for what I did.  What I did (performing music) brought me great pleasure; not only to play, but to associate with wonderful people who participated and directed this music-making. There was shared heartache when I announced that I was leaving and, consequently, a bit of fuss.

But now, new things are happening in the places I've left.  Fresh ideas, fresh perspectives, perhaps better things.  I am now in a place where I'm unknown and unproven: it's humbling.  Like most of you, I'm trying to make my mark in this world and, in some sense, leave a legacy. But there's always new people coming along to take up the cause or introduce a new one.  It is a bit of a struggle for me, but I'm convincing myself there's great value in the ordinary things that we do each day, regardless of the applause that will not be offered.

In this world of Instagram and YouTube posting, 15 minutes of world-wide fame isn't necessarily out of the question; but we owe it to ourselves and those who are coming behind us to recognize the worth of our unexceptional, ordinary offerings.

ORDINARY CHILDREN

Children of ours,

how we do go on and on,

layering “specialness” on you

like coats of paint covering

interior walls with each new fashion.

We want for you a special life,

and all the nagging and provoking,

is to motivate you

to be special forever.

But it is a life most ordinary

that you will likely live.

Small circles of friends and colleagues

will nod at your triumphs

and overlook your mistakes.

Extraordinary deeds –

            and the extraordinary reactions due them –

will most likely not be yours to experience.

The accomplishments you most cherish

will be remembered by few:

others hold memories of their own,

and have no need to recollect yours.

The achievements that generate personal pride

may get an admiring comment or two,

but personal pride is not a trait

that most will appreciate.

Perhaps we are misguided,

and it is that ordinary life

for which we should prepare you:

ordinary job, ordinary spouse,

ordinary income, ordinary house.

The places you’ll go may not be so far,

and it may be small, insignificant steps

that take you away from us

and on to a new life of your own.

But down this ordinary path,

make each typical step extraordinary

and you will find that we were right:

You are special.

Liturgy of Living

When things change, especially drastically, the unmooring from the routine you know can be quite discomfiting. Changes that occur because of something foreboding or threatening -- such as rescheduling your life because you need medical care, or because you've lost your job -- need no explanation for their disruption.  The future looks hazy at best, with the potential outcome pretty bleak: of course you're going to feel uncomfortable.  (Sorry to be such a downer, right outta the chute.)

But changes we choose -- new job, new home, new venue -- while exciting, can also be upsetting. An inducement of the recent topsy-turvy undulation of our lives at mid-life was a "what-the-heck" attitude that we redefined as courage.  It propelled us to uproot and take flight and all of those other euphemisms to  "just do it."  So we just did it, and while we don't rue that decision, it has lost some of its charm. Sometimes, we're pretty mopey.

That mopiness comes from the fatigue to keep up our enthusiasm.  Perhaps adventure is best set upon when you've got something staid and secure to return to.  A beautiful song by Marta Keen Thompson, "Homeward Bound," captures this sentiment beautifully (check out the full lyrics online.  The song even has its own Facebook page!).  One line is "When adventure's lost its meaning, I'll be homeward bound in time."  The refrain is:

"Bind me not to the pasture, chain me not to the plow. 

 Set me free to find my calling, and I'll return to you somehow."

Vacations are great, and travel has always instigated wistful wanderlust in both my husband and me.  Now that we've wandered far from home (with no home to return to), our adventuresome spirit is waning a bit. While we don't want to slip back into being mundane, there is sanity and sanctity in familiar routine: a liturgy of living, I suppose.  Our challenge is to find what the new routine will be; the current one, with its loose ends, is not one we want to continue!  I will add that being together establishes a grounded stake to which we can tether those loose ends that flap in the breeze. That is a blessing.

What we all need is "purpose."  Nothing will deplete your energy more than lacking one.  It is a struggle to deem even ordinary tasks and pursuits as meriting the moniker of  "purpose."  But I think it's possible, which is why I pursue this writing thing, and look for ways I can excel in  everyday details.

SOCKS

I take great pride

in matching my husband’s black socks

just so.

Though uniform in color,

their ridges are a garden-variety

of narrow and wide,

variants that don’t mix well

in a fabric bouquet.

The size is consistent:

all long-stemmed and broad-leaved.

But there is gold on some toes,

a pollen polka-dot

that pairs only with similarly flecked.

Mixing won’t match,

and matching is essential.