Peace, Love and a little Rock n' Roll

I recently heard a story that I have pondered all day.  Alfred Bernhard Nobel, was a chemist, engineer and inventor. He held 355 patents the most famous being for dynamite. In 1888, Alfred’s brother, Ludvig, passed away. A French newspaper erroneously published an obituary, saying that Alfred had died.  The obituary stated, Le marchant de la mort est mort (The merchant of death is dead) and then went on to say, “Dr. Alfred Nobel, who became rich by finding way to kill more people faster than ever before, died yesterday.” Upon reading this, Alfred became very concerned that this would be the legacy that he left the world. Fortunately, Mr. Nobel had the gift of time to change this legacy… and his will. Upon his death, his vast fortune went to fund what we now are familiar with as the Nobel Prizes, the most famous being the Nobel Peace Prize.

Today, the Nobel Peace Prize was given to three women who have “rendered the greatest service to the cause of international fraternity…in the establishment and furtherance of peace congresses.” Three women who have sought to bring peace to their war torn countries.

Women are the world’s peacemakers. On this day of international peace and in this season of “peace on earth, good will to men,” I found myself reminiscing of a warm Christmas night in Tempe, Arizona. My Girl Scout troop had gone caroling. We had just learned a new song at school, which we all loved, “Let there be Peace on Earth and Let it Begin with Me.”  We wanted to sing it at every house we visited. Ironically, a war was raging, students were protesting at ASU where my Mom worked and my scout leader had a son serving in Vietnam. Somehow, though, it seemed like if we sang that song loud enough and with enough fervor, our little band of green bereted junior scouts could change the world. Somehow, it seemed that when we crossed our arms and grasped hands at the end of our meetings and made a wish that our collective will power could change things….and maybe we did. But, mostly what I remember from that night is that “peace begins with me.” That is why several years ago, I wrote this quote in the front of my journal. Thich Nhat Hanh, one of the greatest voices for peace in our day reminds us:

Our capacity to make peace with another person and with the world depends very much on our capacity to make peace with ourselves. If we are at war with our family or our society there is probably a war going on inside us also, so the most basic work for peace is to return to ourselves and create harmony, among the elements within us-our feelings, our perceptions and our mental states. When we have peace within, dialogue with others is possible.

During this season of rush, rush and so many demands, it helps to stop sometime during the day and find that place of peace within, that place where there is “harmony among the elements.” then we can go out and like the brave women honored in Oslo, we can be peacemakers in the world.

Each morning, I awaken to the sound of a flock of Canadian geese flying directly over my house, as they make their way from the cornfield on my east to the wetlands in the west. And in the evening, I watch as another flock returns to bed down for the night. This will go on for a month or so and then they will move further south for the winter. For me, the sound of geese honking is a signal to begin to “gather in.”  The screened windows are now shut, soup is once again on the menu and a fire burns in my kitchen fireplace. As the years move forward, “harvest time” seems more personal, it is something that is happening not only in my neighborhood, but also in my soul. It is a gathering time.

Even though my nest is hardly empty, I feel the change in the air as my own flock has headed south and east and to the mountains, flying over my house now, on the way to beds of their own. Fall leaves me with a happy feeling, a comfortable feeling, a nostalgic feeling and an unsettled feeling, all captured in the mournful sound of the geese. Journal in hand and wrapped in a comforter, I am beginning to once again ponder the lessons I have learned from motherhood, gathering, preserving and storing them away. (Another of life’s paradoxes, when you finally start to get the hang of what you are doing…everyone moves out!)

What began as a list of the top ten things I learned in my career as mother, has now been reduced to one or two lessons on love, that I hope will sustain me, not only through the remaining fall season of my life, but well into its winter. In the eternal law of the harvest, we reap what we sow and as mothers all we can do is sow seeds of love. Every changed diaper, every load of laundry, every fixed meal is love made visible. Every struggle, every heartbreak, every loss expands our own hearts so they can hold more.

 At this season of Thanksgiving,  it is not the austerity of the our Puritan ancestors, but the overflowing abundance of the ancient Greek cornucopia that speaks to my soul.  Like the horn broken from the nourishing goat, Amalthea, that became a source of unending nourishment and bounty, the cornucopia became a symbol of peace, abundance and a foster mother’s love. It is an emblem of all I hold dear in my own life. As I pull my comforter tighter around myself and the geese make one final pass over my house, my heart and hearth are overflowing.

Having my son, Andy, riding shotgun through life with me has provided many lessons that I might not otherwise have learned, one of these has been that joy often comes in small packages. Right now, we are in our “York Peppermint Patty” stage. Whenever we go to the store, Andy wants a “York,” in his words, “it makes me happy.” Sometimes, we even make a special trip for one peppermint patty (and a Coke Zero)! One piece of candy will make his day, a chocolate that ironically comes in a package of “one.” I have learned that a trip to the grocery store is as much of an excursion for Andy as a trip to San Fran is for me. An hour on the swing is like an amusement park and a new song on ITunes can put a smile on his face as much as an entire concert.  I am a “slow learner,” but with Andy by my side as my teacher, I am coming to understand that joy is found in the many small moments throughout the day that simply have to be acknowledged and appreciated. I am learning to capture the magic of the scent of a single rose, the  flutter of a butterfly, the small hand of a grandchild,  the burning red of my neighbor’s maple trees and a single poem that captures the wisdom of an entire book. Fortunately for me, we move at a slightly slower pace around here. In twenty seven years, I have never been able to get across the concept of “hurry” to Andy…it simply does not compute in his mind….and generally speaking, I am a happier person because of it!

What is your Peppermint Patty delight of the day? Please share!

We are a “people of the word.” In our culture, women like to decorate their homes with words; words such as FAITH, BELIEVE, SIMPLIFY or in my case RELAX are displayed prominently around our homes. Cut from wood, stuck to walls with vinyl and cross-stitched by those with more patience, they are subtle reminders of values we hold dear. There is one word, though, that is often maligned and frequently misunderstood that you mostly likely will not find being sold at Mormon Handicraft, but if I was proficient with a jigsaw, I think I would make one for my mantle. The word is DOUBT. Like the alloy added to gold to give it strength, doubt must be added to faith to make it strong enough to withstand the wear and tear of mortal life.

 This month, many of the dear women in my life, mothers, sisters and daughters will share a message as they visit in each other’s homes. They will remind each other and themselves not to doubt and how by being valiant and courageous they can protect their children from these challenging times. And, I am afraid in the back of their minds they may think of those who have “doubted” and “not kept with precision certain covenants.” Perhaps, there will even be some pain as they reflect on this perceived lack of courage. So, for this reason, I will share my love of a word, a word often kept outside of conversations, a word often left on the fringe of discussions of belief, but yet a word deeply experienced by any seeker of truth.

 Paul Tillich, considered by many to be the greatest theologian of the twentieth century, would often remind us that doubt is not the opposite of faith, but it is an element of faith. Doubt is part of all religions and all religious thinkers were doubters. To understand doubt we must first understand faith. I love this definition by Wilfred Smith:

Faith is a quality of human living. At its best it has taken the form of serenity and courage and loyalty and service: a quiet confidence and joy which enable one to feel at home in the universe, and to find meaning in the world and in one’s own life, a meaning that is profound and ultimate, and is stable no matter what may happen to oneself at the level of  immediate event. Men and women of this kind of faith face catastrophe and confusion, affluence and sorrow, unperturbed; face opportunity with conviction and drive; and face others with cheerful charity.

The opposite of this kind of faith is not doubt but nihilism or the belief that life is without meaning, purpose or value.

 As summer wanes, I find myself spending more and more time outdoors, clinging to the blossoms in my garden, soaking in their beauty, taking a few minutes each day to smell the roses and simply sitting and enjoying the fruits of this year’s gardening season. I remain aware that in a few weeks, a cold snap will in one day kill almost every plant. I will then have to pull out the dead, rake, turn over the soil and cover it with compost while the cold of winter moves me indoors. Yet, through those cold dark months, the tulip bulbs, that last year had one bloom, will divide and multiply to put forth a show in spring-double what it was last year. My roses will be taller and more prolific and my canna lilies will eventually fill the entire space under my windows. As Jesus taught, “I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” I don’t know if that makes it easier or not. Winter brings growth to my garden, nighttime restores a tired body and “the dark night of the soul” has expanded and renewed my spirit.

So I guess, technically I am a “Mommy Blogger” even though I can‘t remember when the last time, if ever, my children called me Mommy.  It has always been Mooom, with the emphasis on dragging out the O’s. So as a “Mommy Blogger,” occasionally I must use this forum to write about my wonderful children and the cute—and amazing things they accomplish.  This blog is about my boys, Zac and Trevor, and the life lesson that they taught me this week.

To make a long story short, short enough to blog…We had a broken pipe on the main water line to the cabin. Over the summer, a pond had formed in the front yard which had to be dealt with by someone. In our hectic and crazy lives, this meant the someone was the boys. As this wasn’t the first time this happened, Zac, Karsten and Trev enthusiastically headed to the cabin armed with bulldozers, shovels and a blowtorch  for a little Tonka time. (Time passes) After digging up the pipe and putting in a new one, there continued to be a small, sometime large leak, in the pipe that could not be sealed. More soldering, more pipe, more fittings, more frustration. In between working full-time and in Trevor’s case, two jobs and school, the boys kept going back, trying new things and every time the water was turned on—still leaking. Eventually, we called “the professionals” –Ha Ha—they didn’t know what to do except bill us! Grandma and Grandpa came to stay at the cabin, rubber tubing from an old bike and metal clamps held the pipe long enough for them to vacation a few days, but certainly not for a long winters nap. Each night, I watched the news, “please don’t let it freeze in the mountains yet!” As Zac told Grandpa, “Now it has become personal!”

Meanwhile, down here in the valley I would talk to Zac and sense his frustration as nothing seemed to be able to fix the problem. One day, near tears, I said to Steve,” I just don’t know what we are going to do about the pipe.” He said, “Colleen, some problems in life are just very hard to solve, Zac knows what he is doing, he will figure it out.” So, once again Zac and Trevor grabbed my VISA card and went to conquer. But this time they spent time with the professionals at Standard Plumbing explaining the problem. This led Zac to learning some new, very high heat 1400 degree, welding skills. This led to Trevor masterminding the fittings, this led to many, many more hours in the hole, surrounded my mirrors so they could see all angles of the pipe at all times, this led to a lot of YouTube time learning how to “braise”—not the kind you do to a steak. Anyway, it led to the phone call. I knew from the first “Hi, Mom—that the problem had been solved—the joy in Zac’s voice, the relief, the sense of accomplishment after nearly a month of trying everything, there was total happiness on the other end of the line.

So why am I blogging this rather mundane story? Because, I just keep thinking that in my own life I have several of my own “leaking pipes” that I am tempted to simply give up on. I woke up this morning with Steve’s voice ringing in my ears, “Colleen, some problems in life are just very hard to solve, you can do it.” I woke up with a little more resolve that I would face them and hang in there to the end. I woke up with a reminder that perseverance can pay off.  And I woke up with a smile on my face—thinking, hey Zac has friends at Standard Plumbing, maybe I will finally get my leaking toilet fixed (the one the last plumber gave up on!)

A few months ago, I dropped my camera. Fortunately, the camera was still working but the lens did not focus as sharply as it had before. Taking pictures lost its fun, as I would post and notice that everything was blurry around the edges. Anyone as nearsighted as I am knows the unsettled feeling of not being able to see the world clearly. I still remember the day in fifth grade that I got glasses; the interesting thing about not seeing is that with no frame of reference you have no idea that you can’t see. Driving home from the eye doctor with those new multi-colored glamour frames was both unsettling and eye-opening. The world suddenly looked clearer, brighter and sharper (even though I looked nerdier). My most reoccurring dream/nightmare has revolved around not being able to find my glasses or needing to put my contacts in and not having the time or solution to get them in before I am forced to leave the house! (And, my second is dropping my camera again—remember the strap!)

Perhaps, this is why I find it unsettling when other areas of my life have been blurred around the edges or when I feel like I cannot bring complicated concepts into focus. Recently, I have replaced the lens on my camera and photography has once again become joyful. I have also found new lenses to help me bring into focus many of the deep questions that I have pondered for so long. I am finding peace and joy as I enter the second phase of what Carl Jung popularized as the two halves of life. While the first is dedicated to security, success and certainty the second is “more magical, less predictable, more autonomous, less controllable, more varied, less simple, more infinite, less knowable, more wonderfully troubling than we could imagined being able to tolerate when we were young.”—James Hollis

 It is a paradox that while I now have to search the house for “readers” to see the words in my scriptures and other great books—when I do begin to read they are so much more in focus and clear. I am seeing with clarity a prodigal God and learning to love wastefully, relish useless beauty and appreciate the simple pleasures of a bike ride or cup of coffee with a neighbor. I am often embarrassed by our license plate, a hand-me-down from Steve, as I drive around town, half the time too “SCATTERED” to remember where I am headed, but in the quiet of my office and heart it conveys exactly how I feel —

Since it is my birthday, I might as well do what all bloggers do best and write about me, me me! This is really a continuation of my “anniversary blog” which was also all about me, me, me and my thoughts on how I have changed. Today’s blog is about how much I have stayed the same!

A few weeks ago, at the cabin I grabbed some macramé jute and began to tie knots and make a bracelet. Like any good crocheting grandma, I can do it with my eyes closed. You see I came of age in a macramé world. Maybe, it has something to do with the fact that during a time of my life when so much was unraveling, I felt comfort in being able to tie those knots and hold my world together. I would macramé belts. I made wall hangings. I could whip out a pot sling faster than most people can say philodendron (well maybe not). Tying knots was in my soul. …as was a plethora of other creative endeavors. Not only could I macramé—I could decoupage, I could sew, I could make mosaics and I could pour out a lovely set of sand candles to light my bohemian bedroom. My hours were spent creating….creating a world I had some control over. I don’t know when I stopped. I don’t know why I stopped. But somewhere a long the way my world became less of my own creation and more of one thrust upon me. Oh, I digress, it is so easy to do when one is talking about me, me me!

 My little macramé bracelet got me to thinking about those things that are so engraved on our souls, so much a part of our being that while they may be temporarily buried under the cares of life, they are always waiting to reveal themselves, once again, as our truly authentic, genuine, individual selves. There is something freeing about turning fifty, whoops fifty-one, that allows you to slough off the phony facades and dead layers of expectation. And, what I have found you are left with is, basically what you started with, the wide-eyed, the ‘world is my canvas,’ Junior High you ….only much wiser and with better hair.

While the years have changed me, deep down the years have also sheltered me and let me remain the same especially, when it comes to the things I love. My love of books, my love of social justice (I was trick or treating for Unicef long before I went to the halls of the United Nations), my love of cats and sports cars (o.k. don’t laugh unless you are willing to post 8^th grade pictures of yourself on the world wide web), my love of the mountains, my love of family, my love of  dancing, my love of writing, my love for my sisters, my love of the truth, my love of swimming, my love of church, my love of hot Arizona nights (that one is burned into my soul),  my love of chocolate and bar-be-ques, my love of the Beatles and Carol King, my tolerance for diversity, my desire to make the world a better place, my insistence on kindness and integrity and the value I put on hard work, —they were all there at McKemy Junior high dressed in a halter top  and bell bottom pants.  In this ever changing, expanding world it is comforting to know that some parts of me, are just me, me, me… always have been and always will be. I think I will go tie a knot.

What parts of the junior high you, you, you are lying right below the surface of your life?

When I was eleven, my cousin Cindy took us to the drive-in to see the movie Willard, a bright and cheery movie about rats overtaking the world. Up to this point, I had avoided horror movies at all costs. My mind had no images of Linda Blair’s spinning head in The Exorcist, or shower stabbings from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. I had no mental pictures of flocks of birds dive-bombing our house. (Although there was that one unfortunate incident where the student council of Hudson elementary showed The Blob as an after school movie, complete with little red and white boxes of popcorn. I could never look at Jello without shuddering again). But then came Willard, and for years after visions of rat-infested neighborhoods would creep into my dreams. I would run from the room when the “Dialing for Dollars” movie on Sunday afternoon would show the re-run. Even Michael Jackson could not convince me of the emotional attachment one might have to a rat, with his academy awarding winning performance of Ben, the scarier sequel to Willard.  Into adulthood, I have mostly managed to keep my mind riveted on “sunshine, lollipops and raindrops” as I have carefully made my movie selections.  That is until last weekend, when I once again had the experience of seeing another “horror” movie, a movie that disturbed my sleep, a movie that has me looking over my shoulder into my past, a movie that left a pit in my stomach—Steve and I went and saw The Help.

After reading and loving the book, I couldn’t wait to see how it would be portrayed. I had fallen in love with the tenacity of the character, “Skeeter.” She has given me the courage to speak out against some of my own generation’s prejudices. The movie was cast perfectly. I mean who doesn’t love Sissy Spaceck or Emma Stone. The vintage dresses and earrings made we want to run home and put on some bright red lipstick. And the southern cooking, you could almost taste the fried chicken. Plus every “southern” movie always causes a pang of homesickness for my own very southern Nana. I loved it…. I loved it that is until that one scary, horrible scene!  The scene where “Celia Foote”….poor, misunderstood Celia Foote is left standing on the porch while all the ladies quickly hide under the table pretending not to be home. Like a rat climbing up my leg, I wanted to shake it off and scream…instead I just shuddered.

 My friend Kimme said it best…”The Help is high school on steroids.” Maybe life at times is high school on steroids.  The Help is more than a story about racial prejudice; it is a story about human life and human foibles and speaks to what it means to be kind, no matter what our circumstances. It shows how important it is to acknowledge each other, to reach out to each other, to say “I am sorry I made a mistake,” to help each other when we are down and most importantly, to open our circles and hearts to include those who may be different. And for me, at the center of the entire movie was Celia Foote—poor misunderstood Celia Foote.

  As many may have not seen the movie, I will say no more …but to acknowledge that one scene on the porch. I can remember when I have been left standing on the porch, pie in hand.  More horribly, I can acknowledge the times I have been one of the ladies hiding under the table…caving to the peer pressure around me to exclude someone from the group. Fortunately, every generation has their Atticus Finch to remind us once again how important it is to be kind. A beautiful movie is helping us to remember this summer. Hopefully, this time I won’t forget….. and next time I feel peer pressure to judge or be unkind, I will jump up, run to the door and say, “Celia, welcome, we are so happy to see you.” You know it is rather paradoxical how appropriate the Michael Jackson song is to this movie!

Again…. I loved it—thank you Nate Berkus and Kathryn Stockett