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Winter Gift

It was bitter cold many days this February, colder than it’s been in many years. With many layers of clothing and a relatively warm house, I didn’t suffer too much for which I’m grateful. But prolonged cold does something to the psyche (at least mine). The dreary weather, the gloomy news reports, and the challenges always present in families left me struggling to feel hope.

One afternoon, I returned home feeling tired and discouraged. I got out of the car, put the windshield wipers up so they wouldn’t freeze to the window, and walked toward the front door. Scanning the sidewalk, as is my habit, I looked and found nature had left a gift on the front porch. I took a quick breath and thanked God. It wasn’t a bird, or even a small animal. It wasn’t a pretty feather, a smooth nut, or a colorful rock. But it was no less a delight to me.

It was fragile, but in tact. I bent to pick it up hoping it would not break apart. It was a beautiful brown cup made from 12 tulip poplar seeds on a 3-inch stem. A perfect tulip shape. We don’t have a tulip poplar tree in our yard which made this little gift brought by the wind even more precious. It cheered me to think of more colorful tulips to come, but that day, a brown one served just fine.

Thank you to all who make this writing space
a place of safety, support, and beauty.

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Decades

Earlier this month, I had what younger friends called “a milestone” birthday. As far as I knew, there were no plans for celebration other than the usual dinner and a movie (at home) with my husband. I was surprised when opening my front door to a “heart attack!” and humbled by the kind words left on my door.

That was followed by a Zoom call from my 5 children including a delivery of cake, flowers, and acai bowls for breakfast. My husband wrote a poem that rhymed for me, and my son and granddaughter also wrote poems for me. Who could ask for more? It turned out to be a very happy day for this septuagenarian.

Seven decades is a lot to process. As I was looking back and thinking about decades, I came up with this:

  • 1st decade childhood – Starting
  • 2nd decade teens – Surprising
  • 3rd decade twenties – Seeking
  • 4th decade thirties – Struggling
  • 5th decade forties – Striving
  • 6th decade fifties – Succeeding
  • 7th decade sixties – Synthesizing
  • 8th decade seventies – Savoring

I’m not committing to this list yet, but it does give a framework for some of my life experiences. For now, I think I like this season of savoring.

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A Lesson from Chopin

On Saturday evening, I attended an all-Chopin recital at George Mason University performed by Brian Ganz. Mr. Ganz has set a lifetime goal of performing every work composed by Chopin. He considers Chopin to be one of the great storytellers in music and gave background and commentary on the pieces he played. It was an amazing evening. Afterward, I wondered how his arms didn’t fall off with how technically difficult the program was. Ganz called Chopin the “Romantic Revolutionary.” Much of the program was familiar to me and I enjoyed the fresh interpretation of those pieces. New to me, were the Mazurkas which have their roots in the folk music of Eastern Europe. I didn’t know that Chopin wrote more Mazurkas that any other form (He wrote 60 of them!) I especially loved the Ballade No. 1 which you can listen to here and learned that it was also Chopin’s favorite of the pieces he composed.

Chopin left his beloved Poland as a young man and was, unfortunately, never able to return. He felt deep sadness, longing, and yearning for his homeland. His music reflects the love he had for his country, both in patriotic ways and in culturally responsive ways. The pain and grief he felt was transformed into his artistic expression. He was able to create beauty from his broken heart. I loved Chopin before, but after this program, I love him even more.

Mr. Ganz made a comment that has stuck with me. I am paraphrasing, but he said something to the effect that Chopin got it right when he chose music, his art, rather than violence to express his hurt and sadness. His beloved Poland was at war with Russia and there was much unrest throughout Europe. He channeled these feelings into creating some of the most beautiful music ever written.

I worry about the problem of guns, unrest, and division in our country and wonder if we could take a lesson from Chopin and instead of violence, choose beauty. I have to hope we can.

Thank you to all who make this writing space
a place of safety, support, and beauty.

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Thoughts after Funerals

In the past two weeks, I have attended the funerals of two women. One was 92 when she passed, the other 94. In both cases family members said, “She was ready.” Both women had full lives from the stories that were shared. But the common thread in these funerals was that these women loved people. They valued friendship. They helped people stay in touch with one another. Your age didn’t matter. They showed interest in the lives of others and cared for others. As I reflected, I wonder how I might show others that same kind of friendship.

Roberta made friends wherever she went. I remember she always greeted me as if I were just the person she wanted to see. I always felt good, even lifted up, after interactions with Roberta. She loved to eat at Chick-fil-A and went there most Thursdays with her daughters or friends. The Thursday after her death our local Chick-fil-A baked 92 chocolate chip cookies and gave them out for free to honor Roberta. Her cheerful kindness had an impact wherever she was.

Sometimes, I wonder if we are losing the value of friendship. Are we lulled into using technology to give us the illusion of connection? We have become a very self-centered society, but today, I’m reminded that there are people, like Roberta, who carry on with living in friendly ways that bless others. In the ordinary daily-ness of their lives, they stop to greet you, look you in the eye with love, and ask, “How are you, dear?”

“There are three things that grow more precious with age; old wood to burn, old books to read, and old friends to enjoy.” — Henry Ford

Thank you to all who make this writing space
a place of safety, support, and beauty.
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Stumpy

If you live near Washington, DC, the arrival of the Cherry Blossoms around the Jefferson Memorial and Tidal Basin is big news. Everyone always wants to get in on predicting when the peak bloom will be, how to see them without the crowds (pretty much impossible), and when the light is best for photography. Now, as the trees are aging, there is the question of which trees will be preserved and which trees will be cut down and replaced. A short history of the cherry trees can be found here.

One little tree, affectionately named Stumpy, is due to be cut down and replaced. Like many other people, this has brought up a lot of feelings in me. Stumpy is still doing his best. Stumpy bloomed. Can’t we wait one more year? Even the Library of Congress dedicated a poem by Ada Limon (U.S. Poet Laureate) to Stumpy. It’s called “Instructions for Not Giving Up.” Please take a moment to read this powerful poem here. It’s one I’ll return to again and again. Perhaps our fascination with Stumpy reflects our own feelings about the courage it takes to keep going even when we feel worn out and broken.

This morning, as I sat with my son discussing the many pressures, challenges, and difficulties of life along with the humble joy of his first grader’s slideshow about llamas, it was talk of Stumpy that brought tears. “I feel like Stumpy,” he said with tears rolling down his cheeks. Tears from life’s hardness and its tender moments. Stumpy, reminding us to keep trying, that there is beauty. Stumpy, also reminding us that there are seasons of hardship, of loss, of grief. Hope runs through it reminding us that, as Ada Limon wrote, we’ll take all of it.

Stumpy, March 2024. Photo credit: Melissa Green Exploring Virginia Facebook Group
Thank you to all who make this writing space
a place of safety, support, and beauty.
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Why I Continue

On my way home from my piano lesson today, I felt so happy, encouraged, and grateful. You see, last spring I asked a friend who is involved in local music educators activities if she might know a teacher who accepts adult students. She answered quickly, “I know the perfect teacher for you.” She took the time to help me connect with this teacher who has become such a bright light in my life. It was love at first lesson and at every lesson since.

I smiled as I thought of the many times I get asked why I still “need” to take piano lessons. The assumption is that I don’t need any help. After all, I started my piano journey nearly 59 years ago. I know how to read the notes–the dots and lines on the page hold meaning for me. I’ve learned quite a bit of piano literature. I have experience accompanying soloists and choirs. So, why would I want lessons?

I’m going to try to articulate a few reasons why:

  1. I believe in the magic that can happen when a student-teacher match is right. My current match with this teacher is definitely magic.
  2. I know the technique that I still need to learn and master to be able to play the music I want to play. In other words, I know what is still hard for me.
  3. At my first lesson, I learned one small thing about rotating my forearm that opened a new world to me when it comes to trills. (Think about how understanding a vocabulary word opens a whole text to the reader.)
  4. A teacher can introduce me to music I may never have found on my own. Already, I’m in love with literature that I had never heard before. (Just like matching books with readers, my teacher matches music to me.)
  5. Read here about the effort-driven rewards cycle. Working with our hands helps the brain.
  6. I know that practicing the piano puts me in a state of FLOW. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi wrote about this in his book, FINDING FLOW.

In other words, playing piano is my happy place.

Thank you to all who make this writing space
a place of safety, support, and beauty.
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Five Words to Join the Party

For Leigh Anne and all who celebrate words:

I know a few days have passed since Leigh Anne hosted her Word Buffet party, but I still wanted to join in. It’s so fun and so hard to select words to bring, but here’s my offering.

harbinger – Sometimes used in a negative context, I love all the hopeful ways this word can be used. The things that trigger the hope of good things to come are the harbingers I love.

spuddle – This 17th century word was introduced to me through social media and I love it as it describes so much of how it feels to work in our fast-paced world: “Spuddle: a useful verb from the 17th Century that means to work feebly or ineffectively, because your mind is elsewhere or you haven’t quite woken up yet. It can also mean: “To be extremely busy whilst achieving absolutely nothing”. Spuddle is for the days when I start too many things and can’t seem to finish anything.

glimmer – I love the word glimmer when I think of how the tiniest light can pierce darkness. We are blessed by glimmers – glimmers of gratitude, glimmers of progress, glimmers of change, glimmers of hope.

breath – The first and last sound of our human lives. The taking of an intentional breath can push the reset button for so many things. I love all I learned about breath from my yoga teacher.

periwinkle – This word is fun to say; the flower is fun to see; the shade of purple-blue so unique. I learned that it also symbolizes friendship from this website:

“The most cited depictions of periwinkles are associated with pleasant emotional states or the experience of nostalgia.  One story that stands out is from the works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau who looked upon the periwinkle as meaning “fidelity in friendship”, “warm memories” and “remembrance of things past”.

Thank you Leigh Anne for this writing idea and so many that flow from you.

Thank you to all who make this writing space
a place of safety, support, and beauty.
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Yellow

As I drove to and from work today, I noticed all the fresh new color and got to thinking how children often ask you what your favorite color is. The older I get, the harder this question becomes. Now, I really couldn’t say what my favorite color is. Each shade of green delights me; the pinks, purples, and whites are so dear; the backdrop of blue sky can be arresting; the bright yellow King Alfred daffodils is stunning. Add the effect of low, gray clouds softening it all with gentle rain and such a delicious smell. The spectrum broadens to include so much more than hue.

Coincidentally, a friend posted these words of Polly Castor (whose blog you can find here). I enjoyed her expression of yellow. Today, let’s go with yellow.

“Once the forsythia comes shouting out through its chorus of little trumpets, the rest of spring barrels in quickly with leaves and blooms in tow. No wonder these cadmium heralds are so welcome, clamoring noisily against the bare sticks and branches, crashing loudly against the blue sky, making a Swedish flag of the world. Next in the parade will proceed warm days, unfolding growth, and flourishing joy. Alleluia.”

I love the music of those words and add my own Alleluia.

Getty Images/iStockphoto
Thank you to all who make this writing space
a place of safety, support, and beauty.
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A Turn

If you know me, you know I am a sensitive person. I feel things deeply and strongly. Many days that makes life hard for me. Over the last 40 years, I have worked hard to manage the part of me that tends toward depression and sadness. The doctor called it different names over the years–endogenous depression, pervasive depressive disorder, and more recently, dysthymia. If you look those up, you’ll see that it’s no fun.

I no longer feel as much guilt about it as I used to, but there are days when I can really relate to the shriveled apple forgotten in the fruit bowl, or the bruised banana, better for making bread than eating. Today was one of those days. I just couldn’t “grateful” my way out of the funk, or get up enough energy to enjoy the bright beautiful sunshine. It was a lovely spring day, and I pretty much missed it.

Until…I headed to the store to get what we needed (including a cookie).

As the daylight was fading, the sky changed to many shades of pink, pink with a warm yellow tinge. I stopped at the traffic light where a tulip magnolia was in full bloom. This tree shouted spring. I noticed an elderly lady had stopped with her walker. She was gazing up into the purple, pink, and white blooms taking a picture. She seemed to take a long time with her frail arms stretched up into the blossoms. Since she had her walker near, I hoped that she would stay steady on her feet.

Just the sight of this small woman taking the time to pause at such beauty reminded me that life is good. My depressive day turned toward the light after all.

Photo: CREATIV STUDIO HEINEMANN/GETTY IMAGES
Thank you to all who make this writing space
a place of safety, support, and beauty.
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Outside

Over the past year I have been trying to gather and write stories from my childhood. I found that the more I remembered, the more I realized that most of my significant memories are of being outside. I’m so grateful to have grown up in a time when play was mostly unsupervised. It was unhurried time. There was plenty of time to explore at the creek or in the woods or to swing on the swingset.

I wrote last week (here) about my grandson falling into the creek. Let me say a little more about that. Three of my grandchildren were walking with me down to the neighborhood park that has a stream flowing through it (Bear Branch Stream which feeds into larger tributaries of the Potomac River). It’s a short walk from my house, but I always feel transported to another time when we reach the park.

It had rained a lot the day before and the ground was muddy, but the sun was out so we went. Maggie asked if she and Johnny could run across the bridge. I knew the stroller wouldn’t go well in the mud, so I said they could go. I stayed with Molly at the swings. It made me so happy to watch them tear off across the bridge and down the path on the other side of the creek. It’s a good path that I know well. I could see Maggie’s long hair flowing behind her as she ran through the trees. Her pink coat made it easy to see where they were.

Molly is at the age where she would be happy to be pushed in a swing for hours. I pushed and pushed. I had my back turned away from the creek for just a few moments. Then I heard, “Grandmaaaaaaa! Johnny’s fell in the creek!” As they ran back from the woods, Johnny had taken a wide turn and slipped off the footbridge. By the time I saw them, he had climbed up the bank and looked afraid that he might be in trouble. He stood still and said nothing. I laughed and assured him he was fine. It was just an “Oops!” I was actually happy for him to have the experience of freedom, even freedom to fall with no harm done.

I guess that’s my wish for all children–to be able to play outside, to experience the natural world, to fall and get up, to get wet sometimes and not be afraid. To look up and notice the bare branches against a winter sky. To smell pine and feel rejuvenated. To hear the Carolina Wren’s sweet song and the chirp of a cardinal. Perhaps then, they will believe that the world is more good than bad.