Peace, Love and a little Rock n' Roll

A few weeks ago, as I walked around Jessica’s yard taking pictures of her flowers, I made the comment, “I wish my camera could capture the scents.” She said, “You will just have to do it with your writing Mom!”  I have been thinking of that ever since.

Stepping out of the car and breathing in the warm air, heavy with the scents of blooming Southern flowers, I was transported to another time and place. Suddenly, a rush of memories surrounded me. The feeling was so overwhelming that I had to try and regain my bearings. As I moved through the yard, from plant to plant, I found myself inhaling recollections of people and places buried deep in my past.  Science tells us that our olfactory nerves are connected to the part of the brain associated with memory.  The sense of smell is the first thing lost in Alzheimer’s disease. Even though I can’t remember why I walked out into the kitchen half the time, on this afternoon, in my daughter’s beautiful yard, I was remembering so much more.

The waxy green leaves and white rose-like flowers of the gardenia bush instantly took me back to my childhood home. My mom was dressed in her nicest Sunday dress, her hair freshly ratted, teased and poofed up high. She had on red stiletto shoes with pointy toes that, even as a child, I wondered how her toes fit inside. Her lipstick matched the shoes. My Dad was still dressed in his work clothes, a dark suit and tie, a closely cut crew cut and black, horned rimmed glasses. There were cuff links on his white shirt. Instructions were given to the babysitter and goodnights were said. As my mother bent to kiss me goodbye, the scent of Jungle Gardenia perfume-her favorite, lingered behind, wrapping me securely in her love. All was right in the world at that moment. My parents loved each other and loved me and tomorrow when I woke up there would be little paper umbrellas or coconut shaped glasses, souvenirs from their evening out on the town, for me to play with. It was all there, in one whiff, 45 years later.

Moving to the back fence, I found the Star Jasmine, filling the entire neighborhood with its smell and then transporting me to my bedroom floor where my Kiddles Dolls surrounded me. These small two-inch dolls were the rage among the first grade girls in the 1960’s. Kiddles in lockets, Kiddles in pop bottles and my favorite Kiddles in perfume jars. The blooming Jasmine smell reminded me of their smell and of  a time when I was “big” and life was “Liddle.” There were no problems too big to deal with and laying my Kiddles side by side on the floor, everything was in order and organized in my small bedroom world.

A few days later, I cut several branches of purple lilacs. Again, I was home. This time it was in the backyard. Right behind the swing set, that my parents had so patiently put together from the hundreds of pieces in the box from Sears and Roebuck, were the lilacs.  A large hedge of bushy green divided my world from all the other neighbors. These were the same leaves that my mom used to teach me to “whistle through a leaf.” The big leaves made a deep, base sound. The tiny leaves a high pitch. Learning to pump a swing and stretch my legs towards the sky, I would inhale their fragrance and in my childhood mind ponder Heaven. I wondered, if I could just swing high enough, would I be able to touch it. Both of my grandparents had recently passed away and swinging high, I would feel like, maybe I could somehow get closer to them, just like the picture in my Little Golden Book of the Angel Child. It was all so simple. Heaven was near then and seemed a little nearer once again, as I drew in one last deep breath of the fresh cut lilacs.

Warm memories of happy times all wrapped up in the soft velvety leaves of a single flower. What gift-wrapping the universe uses to store small packages of love. On another morning, tears were close to the surface; homesickness had set in for easier times when there were more answers than questions. Stepping outside my bedroom door, I leaned over and put my nose into a single, blooming pink rose. For a moment, bypassing every logical pathway, security once again swept over me-all was at peace in my universe-but only for an instant, only long enough to remind me that somewhere, long ago and maybe far away was a home. Many, many times since, I have tried to recreate that sacred experience, captured in that single rose. I only now have the faint recollection of the morning and the message, but its memory has always been enough to calm me and remind me, just like a whiff of Jungle Gardenia perfume, that I am loved and home is only a breath away!

I just read an article in a magazine entitled Making Your Home a General Store.  I smiled as I thought of my own experience with home as store—complete with grocery store shelving, enough Joy dish liquid and honey to last until I die and a year’s supply of rodents. My experience convinced me to leave the grocery business to Safeway and to take Moses’ advice on not gathering more Manna than one can consume at one time,  lest it “breed worms and stink.” The article reminded me of the many other “Making your Home a (Fill in the Blank)” advice I have heard over the years.

In my job as full-time homemaker and mother, I have been instructed to make my Home a Place of Learning—I was told I needed to have homework and art centers, book-filled shelves and filters on the internet. (After the gusto of September faded and the new Magic Markers dried out, we were pretty much back to sitting on the couch, watching Idol and doing math homework during commercials.) I attended a seminar where I learned to cook all my meals for the month in one day: grating cheese and putting it in baggies, chopping all the veggies, making mixes etc. I could make my Home a Stouffers Frozen Food Factory—I never even attempted that. Home as Temple just never really caught on amid the skateboards, skis and frogs that came with raising four boys. We did attempt a few Home as Day Spa events with the girls—but pedicures in the bathtub just don’t quite compare with the ones given by my South Asian friends. Another speaker I heard referred to Home as a Launching Pad—for the day’s activities. She instructed us to have everything neatly organized in the mud room with lockers. Each child would simply grab their backpack, neatly typed notes to teachers, lunch money and be on their way. We have had a lot of aborted take-offs around here! I have read advice to make your home a missionary training center, a travel agency and a quilt shop! Hell (o), a recent episode of Doomsday Preppers showed how to turn your swimming pool into a fish hatchery and your basement into a nuclear bomb shelter! There is just so much insanity that should be taking place within the four walls we call “Home!”

(All of my children gathering to research a relevant topic–like Charlie Bit Me!)

Personally, I guess what has worked for me and my “less than entrepreneurial spirit” is home as refuge—Making home a refuge from the demands of life. Even without the McGruff Safety House sticker on the window, I see my home as a safe place. It is a place that you can run down the hall half-naked, because your pants are still in the dryer; a place you can curl up on the couch and throw up in a garbage can when you don’t feel well. It is a place to have a good cry when something terrible happens—the cry that makes your face all red and puffy. Home is where you know you will be loved and accepted no matter how badly you screwed up or how rotten your socks smell.  It is a place where you can still lick the bowl and prepare a meal without a food handler’s permit. It is where the dog and the cat share the same dish in a spirit of mutual respect. Home is a place where you can stand in the shower until the water runs cold and then finish the last chapter of a great book while sitting on your bed wrapped in a towel. It is a place for a late night snack with a sibling and an early morning cup of joe with a spouse. Home is where good grades are very important—except when they are not. Home is where you can barbeque a hamburger, swim in the pool sans rainbow trout and leave the end of the world for another day. Home is hearth and family.  Home is where all is safely gathered in—unless of course, you have to dash to the grocery because the family prepper forgot to stock up on Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

Walking home from the physical education building after helping a group of young adults train for Special Olympics, I look up at the sky and ask, “Why?” Why, here at an institute of higher learning, am I physically fit, my mind active and expanding, why do others need to struggle so?

Traveling on a road in Galilee, disciples ask the Master, “Why was this man born blind?”

Exhausted and exhilarated after giving birth to my first son, my eyes fill with tears as I plead for answers. “What’s an anomaly? How does a child get Down Syndrome? What am I supposed to do next? Why him? Why me?”

Passing by the bathroom, I see two brothers, grown men now, their faces covered in shaving cream, laughing; joking; flexing their muscles in front of the mirror. The younger helping the older. Love overcoming all boundaries. I smile. All of my questions have been answered!

I have loved the freedom and constraints offered by 150 words! Here are a couple more from friends.

Carolyn–a dear friend who sits by my side each Sunday sharing her wisdom and smile writes:

My story is one of Joy in the world around me and of faith – mostly faith in other people, and that ultimately good will win. Small town girl escaping to a super university and discovering that there were others with major capabilities, dwarfing mine, and a whole new world to explore. Bolstered with high ideals and strong values, and extremely fortunate to meet a young man with a similar background, I embarked on creating a family and a home for them. To me a home is a refuge, and I’ve also enjoyed offering that on occasion to others. My goal is to be a warm and caring person, one to lift up others and let them know someone cares. I’ve yet to discover my purpose in life, and find myself discouraged at the constraints circumstances seem to have imposed, but I work at being joyful and moving forward in faith.

My sister, Cheryl, always one to take on a new challenge or adventure or meet a new person writes:

I ask the students I tutor, “What is a product?” It’s the answer you get when you multiply. I am a product — of all I have done multiplied by all those whose paths I have crossed. My life goals include meeting everyone and going everywhere. I am who I am partly because of my elementary classmates in Kentucky multiplied by my friend Angela in Arizona. The beauty of a bay in Puerto Rico multiplied by the friends I was with on that cruise formed me. The teenage students on a bus in Wales and amazing past roommates are factors in my life. Divorced parents, Korea, adoption, Tennessee, special needs daughter, creative son, Colorado, coworkers at a clothing store, Mexico, widowed neighbors — the factor list is innumerable. I am a product, and fortunately, a product is bigger than the numbers you started with.

My comment board is open 24/7 if anyone else has the urge to tell their story in 150 words!

“Writing for me, is an act of faith, a hope that I will discover what is meant by truth. I also think of reading as an act of faith, a hope that I will discover something remarkable about ordinary life, about myself. I the writer and the reader discover the same thing, if they have that connection, the act of faith has resulted in an act of magic. To me, that is the mystery and the wonder of both life and fiction–the connection between two individuals who discover in the end that they are more the same than they are different.”—Amy Tan author of “The Joy Luck Club”

Reading my friends “stories” this week has definitely resulted in an act of magic. I hope many more will keep posting their thoughts. It is a scary thing…I have blogged long enough to know that “ butterfly feeling” in the stomach, that begins the moment you push the “Post” button. I applaud everyone’s bravery in sharing a little part of yourself!

My sister, Cathy, has always been at my door for every happy and for every sad event of my life with a flower, a casserole or cleaning supplies. Of course, she put aside her fear and showed up to support my blog. She wrote:

Piece of Me

It started as a thought, I suppose. Definitely a desire of some kind. Then there was me. A little piece of those who came before. Brown eyes and a love of outdoors from Dad. Smooth skin and the joy of reading from Mom. Years pass. There is another thought, another desire, and a piece of me is born. Repeated seven times. A piece of me that loves to a be a mother but does it so much better. A little piece of my sense of humor personified into one who needs laughter to thrive. An obedient heart, working to be a peacemaker, a love of learning, a small measure of athletic ability, a need to talk, a desire to serve the Lord, trying to do my best; tiny pieces of me passed on with my DNA. Seven different pieces of me, magnified by their own uniqueness, that somehow make me complete.

My friend Katy is wise beyond her years and a source of so much inspiration to me on FaceBook—she is also an amazing baker and artist! She wrote:

I don’t know who I am yet. Maybe I never will. At least, not in this life. Maybe in my next, or next. Maybe by then I will be done living in this world, and can settle in the one I am most comfortable in. I can pretty much guarantee it won’t be this one. In that world, there will be obvious beauty in all things, the most intimate of friends to sit on the porch and rock with no matter how far they live, after all, we can get anywhere in the twinkling of an eye. We will sit back and laugh at how hard we made things on ourselves, and wonder how different our lives would have been if we knew then what we know now. Oh, how hindsight is everything, and nothing….yet now, in hindsight, maybe I do know who I am after all.

When I wrote of sharing a cup of coffee with an intimate friend, Ruthanne would certainly fall in this category—had we been alive in during the Salon days of Paris, she would have been by my side as we expounded our thoughts on “how things should be”—who knows maybe we were! Check out her blog at Floating Flair!

I was raised in a closed minded world. I would often run into the walls around my life but was too fearful of the man-god I was taught about to ever break free. When someone I love broke through, I gladly followed. I was introduced to new ideas and opportunities. I learned to accept everyone, but was challenged with the ability to leave regrets behind. I am learning to live in the now, and value a tomorrow. I continue on the quest to find peace with a desire for enough time to achieve it.

Please keep posting—they put a smile on my face and a tear in my eye-Magic!

I was born into the great open spaces of the West, in the Mile High City. I am happiest nestled up against a mountain, wrapped in a blanket, in front of a roaring fire. My imagination can soar to the strangest of places, so I keep myself grounded in the dirt of my garden. I love being surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a large family during the day, yet crave the quiet moments of solitude in the early dawn. My love and my kitchen pots can feed an army, but I find communion in intimate conversations over a simple cup of coffee. I can plow through the heaviest of books, however I often find truth in a four-line poem by Rumi. Through it all, I have discovered a God large enough to fill the universe and my longings and personal enough to be reflected in every person’s heart.

(My friend said I couldn’t do anything in 150 words—but I did, so there! Now is it your turn, I can’t wait to see what everyone comes up with!)

This is a DIY blog for all my readers, so humor me and play along…please.  Because, I can guarantee, even without the help of Reader’s Digest that I am closer to nuts than normal. Anyway, while perusing the March Digest and pondering on its deep and relevant messages about grizzly bear attacks and con men–intersperced with reminders of my impending incontinence, high cholesterol and constipation, I came across a great idea. Readers Digest had previously had a contest where they ask people to tell their story in 150 words. They had over 6000 entries. It is amazing what stories can be told in 150 words, which is basically a paragraph.  These stories were so touching (and can be read here or in your bathroom). Reading them made me want to hear my friends stories–in a paragraph. In this day of Twitter and Facebook posts, I realize that 150 words is an entire novel, but I think it can still be done.

So here is the challenge. Write your story and post it to your blog and then post a link here in the comment section. If you don’t have a blog then just post the whole thing in my comment section or email me a copy or post it to my FaceBook page or send it to Readers Digest. Just Do It!  Do it before Spring arrives….all authors have deadlines. I will post my own in a couple days. This is not a contest, unless it is really, really good then I will send you my last box of Girl Scout cookies. Did I say that 150 words is hardly anything…I know that I have written notes to teachers explaining my kids tardiness that have been longer than that! I can’t wait to hear your story dear readers!

One of the previous owners of my home, confided that she had never walked as far as the back fence in our yard or spent much time outdoors because she had a fear of spiders.  I was surprised, because I love my yard so much, but I was also empathetic, because I share her fear of spiders. And this house has spiders, lots of spiders! Fortunately, I have a very good exterminator and so I rarely ever see one. In fact, about the only place I do see spiders these days are in my dreams; the same dreams that have plagued me since I was a little girl. They are always the same and involve big spiders (usually dropping down my neck), tangled webs blocking my way and someplace that I really need to get to. They still lurk in the dark corners of my soul and lie deep in the cellars of my unconscious.

This dream has reoccurred so many times that it has become pretty self-evident what it is all about. Obviously, something that I fear is blocking the way to where I really need to be. In the same way, my friend was limited in the enjoyment of her home and yard by a fear that many may see as unfounded. But, unless you have had one of those big, hairy creatures drop down on you or reached around a rock and found yourself face to hourglass with a glossy, eight-legged widow even if just in your sleep, we can’t judge each other’s fears.

Ironically, it has been another spider that has helped me to laugh and move on. Living with a house full of skiers and one motorcycle rider has helped me to stare fear in the face as I have folded numerous “No Fear” t-shirts over the years and washed hats and gloves emblazoned with the Spyder ski-wear logo. Folding socks has caused me to ponder what it means to have “no fear” and matching gloves reminds me that Spyders are just an article of clothing.  The most important lesson I have learned from my family is that “perfect love drives out fear.”

Love is the “spider exterminator.” I have watched the love of the slopes drive out the fear of falling. The love of soaring beat the fear of jumping. The love of music cast out the fear of performing. The love of dancing overcome the fear of stepping on toes. The love of art and beauty conquer the fear of being unique. I have seen the love of freedom triumph over the fear of risk. And most importantly, the love of being one’s real self conquer the fear of judgment.

Coffee table books say a lot about a home and the people who live there. They say “We love art“ or “We love to travel” or “We love Marilyn Monroe.” In my case, my books tell my guests, “I love Paris,” “The Beatles are immortal” and “God is a big purple.” (Because I ‘found God’ at the National Air and Space museum watching a movie about the Hubble Telescope. So I bought a book with His picture in it and Steve’s response was “God is a big purple?”)  Coffee table books are never meant to be read—(how depressing of a job would that be?  You pour your whole soul into writing a book that people only look at the pictures-kind of like writing for Playboy magazine I guess). The images however can remain with us forever (speaking of coffee table books, folks). This is the case with the coffee table book I grew up as a child, “The Family of Man.”  Finding it again as an adult, brought back the same feelings of awe that I felt as a young girl.

“The Family of Man” was a photographic exhibit created in 1955 by Edward Steichen and displayed at the Museum of Modern Art. This exhibit featured 508 photographs, by 273 photographers, of people in 68 countries. The theme is “people!”  The poet, Carl Sandburg, explains in the prologue:

People! Flung wide and far, born into toil, struggle, blood and dreams, among lovers, eaters, drinkers, workers, loafers, fighters, players, gambler. Here are ironworkers, bridgemen, musicians, sandhogs, miners, builders of huts and skyscrapers, jungle hunters, landlords and the landless, the loved and the unloved, the lonely and the abandoned, the brutal and the compassionate-one big family hugging close to the ball of Earth for its life and being.

In a different place and time, Carl Sandburg was asked what he thought the ugliest word in the English language was? After thinking for a few minutes, he answered,  “The ugliest word, the ugliest word is ‘exclusive’.” Mr. Sandburg was the brother-in-law of Edward Steichen. The photographs showing the universality of the human experience must have also left a deep impression on him.   I have thought how I might answer a similar question, “What is the most beautiful word in the English language?” Many words come to my mind, Love, Patience, Peace, Tolerance, Hope. Even the word “inclusive” has been a powerful word as I have raised my son, Andy, in a much kinder world than existed during Mr. Sandburg’s lifetime.  However, the word I would choose as my personal most beautiful word is “human.” It is a word that describes each and every one of us, it includes our triumphs and frailties, our strengths and shortcomings and the experience that each and every one of us shares on this big, blue marble. It allows us to soar and to fall, to love and to anger, to pray and to curse, to laugh and to cry. As I have sought for an identity to guide the second half of my life, I have found no better word to describe where I hope to fit in. I am human, a member of the family of man. Fortunately, as a very young girl, my mom left this gentle reminder of this sitting on our coffee table.

**By the way mom, Amazon has the original “Family of Man” book going for 400 dollars-what happened to that book?

I was born into a family of medical professionals. My grandmother was a nurse at the same time that women were being given the right to vote. My mother is a nurse. My father was a microbiologist in the hospital lab. My aunts and even my uncle all carried the Florence Nightingale gene. Family dinners often included a large pot of Chicken Gumbo and stories of severed limbs and infectious diseases.

I loved looking at my dad’s discarded slides through my microscope when I was young, but that is pretty much where my interest in the family profession ended. I believe the healing gene is recessive. Early in my college career, I took a Meyers-Briggs personality test and the resulting printout confirmed my hypotheses with this statement “Don’t go into a caring profession.”  I have had to remind my children of this when they have had broken bones or have an illness that lasts longer than 24 hours. Most of our “sick” days have involved hot chocolate and time on the slopes, instead of soup and time on the couch. It is with this background, that I found my mind wandering when Pastor Mike suggested in a sermon this week that we should make our homes “mini-hospitals” or places of healing for those who may come through our doors.

So how does a person who is “not the caring type” make her home a hospital? In my case, I do what comes more naturally, grab a couple of letters on Microsoft Word and simply make it hospitable. Fortunately, I had already given this some thought in a previous blog where I wrote, The word hospital comes for the Latin word hospus meaning stranger or foreigner. Other similar words are hospitality, hotel, hostel, and hospice. In Medieval times, a hospital was the work of the church to provide a place of shelter for the visitor, the stranger and the infirm. So, two out of three I can handle. I can provide shelter for the visitor and the stranger (the infirm are always welcome too, but my medicine chest consists of Tums and bandaides).

As a matter of fact, this present generation has pretty much found themselves in the “hospitality business.” In the same way my family of origin discussed bodily fluids over a cup of coffee, we discuss tips and out-of-town guests.  So Pastor Mike, what I have been able to do is make my home a “hostel.” And it helps that whenever the pool cover is off, it smells like a Motel 6. I feel very blessed to have a few too many beds, a lot of towels and occasionally an extra toothbrush lying around (I will work on that). I love it when people come to stay. Perhaps, it was telling that growing up, one of my favorite movies was “The Inn of the Sixth Happiness.” Zac said it best when he recently told me that when he started his job at The Inn at Solitude his boss told him. “All you have to do is “be nice” it really isn’t that hard.”  So for the “poor wayfaring man of grief” or the teenager who needs a place to crash or for family passing through-I avoided the “caring” professions, but I will leave the light on and I promise to “be nice.”

(The Inn at Solitude and Rendevous Lodge-where Zac and Trevor practice being hospitable–for a price 😉

My girls gave me one of the best Christmas presents ever this year. It was a compilation of all my blogs in a book. Somehow, you feel more like a real writer when random thoughts are in book form—so in a sense, what they gave me for Christmas, was a vision for a new year and a new dream. As I read it, cover to cover, and watched my life unfold on its pages, it was also a little unsettling (and  revealing) to see the changes that three years brings to a person’s life. Then, yesterday, I picked up the Salt Lake Tribune and saw a column “Fifty Things I Have Learned or Relearned in the Past Year.”  Since midnight was fast approaching, I didn’t give this a great deal of thought, but I did scribble down a few of things that I “learned or relearned” in 2011. Thinking about the past year is a good “stretching exercise” to prepare for the actual work of looking ahead to the goals and ambitions for a New Year. Here is my list….

1. Your heart can’t be softened while the rest of your body remains tight and firm…just go with it!

2. I learned I can make toffee that doesn’t break your teeth.

3. Make new friends, but keep the old…one is silver and the others gold!

4. Throwing a pot is a thousand times harder than I ever imagined…(I am going to find my balance in 2012)

5. Evolution is probably the closest theory we will ever have for a “theory of everything!” People change, families change, societies change and adapt…nothing remains the same and that is how we grow and move forward.

6. What your grandkids have to say at your funeral reveals a lot about how you lived your life and what is really important!

7. The early debates in an election cycle are the best because they are about ideas, the later ones dissolve into character assassination and aren’t worth turning the television on for.

8. Blogging, Facebook, texting, iChat and cellphones are God’s compensation for having your children living all over the country (and frequent flier miles help too!)

9.  We all must succumb to “readers” at some point in our life—just buy lots of them so they are floating everywhere in the house.

10. Self-respect and freedom will always be more important than security.

11.Anticipation is half of the fun; surprises are just not all they are cracked up to be.

12. There are certain things you should not try as a grandma, re-learning the Hustle is not one of them.

13. Sibling relationships are the longest lasting relationship we have in this life, keep them strong.

14, Lunar eclipses and meteor showers are worth losing sleep over.

15. Faith is opening yourself up to possibilities; Hope give us the patience to wait for them to happen and Love is the power that keeps us all sane and moving forward in this life.

16. You are never too old to fall in love…even if you’re a great-grandma!

17. Friends accept you for the person you are, not who you were or who you may become…. Facebook and dogs are good filters to help keep track of this.

18. You don’t have to give birth to children to have them totally worm their ways into your hearts forever